The Line Between

by Tosca Lee

  “How old’s your niece?”

  “Five.”

  He’s quiet a moment before he says, “You’re going back for her, aren’t you?”

  I don’t answer. He stops. I do, too.

  I turn around. “She’s all I’ve got left, Chase.”

  “You ever consider she’s safer where she is?”

  I shake my head. “Jackie isn’t the only one who worked the center in Ames. Magnus himself leaves the compound regularly with his driver and God only knows how many places he goes. Chase, everyone in the Enclave lives in community. Sleeping fifteen, twenty to a barrow. Gathering every morning for service. Sitting at communal tables three times a day! One person. That’s all it would take. One sick person. The disease would tear through there like fire!”

  He studies me in the darkness and then nods, just perceptibly.

  “I take it the locals know about the place.”

  “Of course.” It’s no secret that the Enclave has food, water, and room for more. “The Enclave has guards, but not enough to hold off a mob,” I add, because I know what he’s asking. And I’ve thought about that, too.

  “How do you plan to get in?” he asks as we trudge forward again.

  “I don’t know.”

  It’s something I’ve been thinking about in stolen moments and have yet to figure out.

  Along with how and where we’ll live.

  The one thing I have going for me, assuming I do get Truly out, is the fact that the grid’s down and might be for a long time. If that’s true and the projections about the virus are right, by the time the lights come back on, tons of people will be unaccounted for.

  Including Truly and me.

  Not that I think it’ll make living the life of a fugitive easier. I hadn’t exactly planned on that part.

  I hadn’t planned any of this.

  “Then I guess I’m going with you,” Chase says.

  I glance at him, surprised. “Truly isn’t your problem.”

  “You know, the thing no one tells you about saving the world is that there’s such a letdown afterward. I’m gonna need something to do.”

  “What happened to ice fishing?” I ask between labored breaths.

  “Wynter. It’s common knowledge that one should never ice fish after saving the world.”

  “See, no one tells me anything.”

  “Besides. The fish aren’t going anywhere.”

  And as much as I want to tell Chase he’s already done enough, when it comes to Truly, I’ll never be too proud or stupid to turn away help.

  I glance down at the feet I can’t even feel anymore that somehow continue to step out in front of me.

  “So you’re saying you’re a rowboat.” I give him a small smile.

  “I’m a helicopter, baby.” He grins.

  I give a soft laugh. “Just think, you could’ve been sitting in front of a fireplace in Wyoming right now.”

  “Bored out of my mind.”

  “Oh, you’d be helping some little old lady fix her roof or something.”

  “Nope, not me.”

  “Yeah, you would. Because you’re good.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he murmurs. I cock my head at his tone.

  The clouds drift overhead, the half-moon peeking out enough that I can pick my way through the rows without stabbing the soles of my shoes.

  “Look,” Chase says, pointing to something on the horizon.

  A thin waft of smoke, as though from a fire.

  Or a chimney.

  We make our way to the northern edge of the section and west, to the intersection. I sag when I realize the smoke is still a way off. We stop just long enough to sip water that tastes about as cold as my fingers feel, despite the purported thermal lining of the ski gloves, and we trudge on—another mile, two.

  We’re just turning north when a set of headlights comes rolling down the road with a crunch of gravel. A pickup. But at least it’s not black. Whoever it is, they’re not in any hurry, have no particular destination despite the fact that fuel is scarce. It reminds me of something, that slow pace of someone surveying the area at night.

  No. Patrolling.

  We walk steadily as it comes toward us, squinting against the headlights. There’s no point in running; we’ve already been spotted. Chase steps between me and the truck as it rolls to a stop alongside us.

  By the glow of the dashboard I see the driver pull a mask up over his nose and mouth. The window drops down and a man in a cowboy hat I guess to be in his fifties leans out as a second man studies us from the passenger seat.

  “You folks need help?”

  “We’re looking for a man named Peterson,” Chase says.

  “You got business with him?” the man asks, looking from Chase to me.

  “Only if you know him,” Chase says.

  “We’re part of the outfit,” he says.

  “I’m friends with Kestral,” I say and realize I don’t even know her last name now.

  The man seems to frown. “Don’t know a Kestral,” he says.

  I blink. “But she’s the one who told me to come here!” Was it possible she’d only heard about the place but not stayed there personally? Or was she staying under a new, assumed name? I try to remember her alias in the article, but shock and exhaustion have done their job in effectively shutting down the nonessential functions of my brain.

  “Were you driving a Bronco?”

  “Yes, sir,” Chase says. “We ran out of gas.”

  “You two wouldn’t be responsible for a black truck in the ditch few miles southeast of here, would you?”

  I flick a glance at Chase, can feel him weighing out his answer.

  “I hope they weren’t friends of yours,” Chase says.

  “They weren’t anybody’s friend. Came down from South Dakota and been causing trouble round here since the electricity went off. Either of you sick?”

  “No, sir,” Chase says.

  “Armed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Chase says.

  “If you’ll surrender your weapons, we’ll take you with us.”

  “Where?” I ask as Chase tenses beside me.

  “To meet Mr. Peterson. But most of us call him Noah.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  * * *

  The man who introduces himself as “Mel” pats Chase down, removes his pistol and pocketknife. “You’ll get these back when you leave,” he says, handing them to the second man.

  When Mel pats me down, he asks if there are any more weapons.

  “There’s a second pistol in the duffle,” I say, nodding to the bag on the ground. Chase looks away, unhappy. But I’m banking on this being the safe place Kestral claimed and need to prove I’m nothing like the person wanted on the radio.

  Mel moves over, unzips the bag, and pulls the pistol out.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” he says. “Especially given that you two are all over the news.”

  My skin goes hot and then cold. And I wonder again what I’ve done in bringing us here.

  They lock the guns in a box next to our bags in back. And I don’t need to look at Chase to know that he’s on razor’s edge by now.

  We drive less than a mile to an acreage ringed in with a metal fence maybe nine feet tall. It’s lit at intervals by high, wan lights, which I assume to be solar. The gate opens as Mel presses a button on his visor flap. The man with him has already radioed ahead that they’re bringing in visitors.

  The sight of that fence has a strange effect on me. I note the barbed wire, the trees strategically planted around the perimeter to block both wind and prying eyes. The cluster of buildings hulking in the shadows, including what looks like a shed, a weathered barn, and the requisite Quonset building . . .

  The headlights of a parked truck at the far corner of the section.

  I know guards when I see them. And I wonder if the similarities drew Kestral to this place or were an aversion to overcome. If she’ll be there to greet us . . . if she was
ever here at all.

  The plume of smoke we saw earlier rises from a ranch-style home. The windows looking out over the long front porch glow the color of an orange harvest moon.

  As we roll up the drive, a figure emerges from the front door: dark-skinned, mug in his hand. He’s wearing a high-collared sweater like I imagine a professor would. And though he isn’t wearing a mask, he’s donned a pair of blue latex gloves.

  “Don’t worry about your bags,” Mel says. “I’ll get ’em.” We insist we’re capable of carrying them, but the last thing we can afford is conflict or to appear overly concerned with the duffle as he waves us on.

  “Welcome!” Noah says, as we make our way up the wooden steps to the porch. His short, gray hair curls against his scalp and I guess him to be in his sixties. His smile is warm. Something’s cooking inside, the smell of it wafts through the half-open door. My stomach responds with a lurch and Buddy struggles to get free of his sling, sniffing at the air.

  “Thank you,” Chase says, offering his hand with his name.

  “Chase, nice to meet you.” Noah nods and turns to me. “And you must be . . . Wynter.”

  “Yes,” I say. Because I’m a terrible liar.

  “I wondered if we might expect you. It seems you’re quite the person of interest these days.”

  Before I can form some kind of response—excuse or desperate plea—he turns to Buddy. “And who’s this?” Noah asks, cupping the dog’s head. Buddy responds by licking Noah’s latex-clad palm. “Come, little friend. Bring your humans inside.”

  He leads us into an expansive living room with exposed wooden beams where he takes our coats and hangs them on a rack near the wide arch into the kitchen.

  “Dinner isn’t quite ready,” Noah says. “But that will give us time to chat. I’m very curious about the turn of events that has led you to our doorstep.” Turning to Chase, he says, “Go ahead and let the dog down. He wants to find the cat food in the mudroom.”

  A wood fire is crackling in the fireplace and the warmth burns my frozen cheeks, which are already heating from the panic of wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake in throwing us at the mercy of a stranger.

  Particularly one with patrols and a barbed-wire fence.

  A door claps against its frame somewhere in the back. A few seconds later, a blond figure appears in the doorway.

  “Wynter!”

  She flies toward me, arms outstretched, and grabs me in a tight hug. I wrap my arms around her, flooded with relief and unexpected emotion.

  “Oh, you have no idea how good it is to see you,” she breathes. She smells like shampoo, rainwater, and the burning wood that emanates throughout the entire house. My fingers pin-tingle inside my gloves as I hold on to her for dear life, my cheek numb against her hair.

  “They said they didn’t know you,” I say, bewildered.

  “They don’t know me by that name here. It’s Celeste now. Oh, Wynter. We heard about Jackie. Is it true?”

  “No!” I say, pulling away. “You know me. You know him! You have to know it’s a lie!”

  “Wynter. Of course I know,” she says more gently, her eyes filled with a sadness I’ve never seen in them before. “What I meant was, is it true that Jackie’s dead?”

  I stare at her and she blurs before me. My cheek’s wet and I don’t remember when those tears fell.

  “I don’t know.” And by saying it, I actually dare to hope that it’s not. Until I remember that the story’s everywhere. That there must be a body. And that even if it isn’t hers, I do not expect I will see her alive again.

  I swallow and turn away as Kestral—Celeste—introduces herself to Chase. I hear her say that she’s known me since I was a girl “just this high” as I take in the overstuffed chairs and long leather sofa. The lantern on the coffee table that is the sole source of illumination other than the fireplace.

  Nothing about this place is what I thought it would be even five minutes ago.

  I expected wariness. Tension. An interrogation, even, to judge the extent to which we could be trusted. Whether they would help us at all.

  I’d also expected others. Had assumed, when Kestral mentioned a “safe place,” that it was some kind of halfway house or shelter. But from what I can tell, this is a simple farmhouse where Kestral and Noah live alone.

  Which doesn’t explain Mel and the other man, who have since disappeared with our bags, or the patrol at the end of the section.

  “Beautiful place you have,” Chase says as Noah returns with a tray of mugs.

  “Thank you,” he says, setting it down by the fireplace. “I acquired it twenty-five years ago from a man named Walt Peterson.”

  “Any relation?”

  “None. My given name was Thurley. When I came back from Vietnam in ’sixty-nine, I didn’t have much. Through a series of events I ended up stuck for a while here in Nebraska—only black man for miles around. Walt Peterson, who owned this place, hired me on to help with the harvest. Been here ever since, and after a while folks just started calling me ‘Peterson,’ too.”

  “Welcome home, sir,” I say.

  “Thank you,” he says. “And tonight we have a reunion, it seems.”

  “I told Noah as soon as I heard from you,” Kestral says. “I was so happy.” She turns to Chase. “I don’t know if you can understand, but we were like family.”

  “I might understand something like that,” Chase says quietly.

  “Wynter and Jackie were like my children. Wynter, I can’t believe how much you look like your mother. Sylvia was a beauty. When she died . . .” Her voice catches as her eyes lift to me. “I felt responsible for so much after I left New Earth. The way I encouraged you to stay. The people I unknowingly defrauded of their belongings, their futures, their lives . . .”

  I stare at her, my expression stark. Not prepared to hear this.

  “You didn’t know,” I say, almost brusquely.

  “No. But because of me, people gave up their livelihoods, signed everything they owned over to Magnus. Because of me, your mother . . .” Her lips tremble.

  I look away.

  “Your mother’s cancer,” she says, starting to cry. “If she had been allowed treatment—if she hadn’t refused it because of what we told her was right—she might be alive today! Wynter, I am so sorry!”

  I came here prepared to defend myself. Now all I want to defend myself from is the onslaught of emotions at the regret in her voice. At the memory of losing Mom all over again and the years of guilt that I failed to keep her alive. Especially now, in the wake of Jackie’s death.

  “I feel so responsible for everything that’s happened to you and so many others. Forgive me. Forgive me,” she says, weeping. I reach for her and in an instant, she’s sobbing in my arms.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I whisper. Because to point one finger would require another, pointed at my mother. And my father. And my selfish desire to replace him. And whatever need of Jackie’s that made her want to stay.

  I thought I blamed only one person: Magnus himself. But we were the ones who helped create him.

  I look up to find Noah quietly pouring coffee from an old-fashioned metal pot retrieved from the fireplace coals, an oven mitt on his hand. Chase stands across the room gazing out at the backyard, where solar path lights glow yellow wells in the snow.

  I’m aware of the clock ticking on the mantel. That another day has passed since I expected to arrive in Fort Collins with the samples that could prove to be either shield or weapon.

  “Where are our bags?” I ask, looking at Noah, arm still around a sniffling Kestral.

  “In the guesthouse,” he says, offering me a mug. I see Chase glance at me.

  “But you know I’m wanted for murder and theft.”

  “I know enough of Magnus’s character to doubt the veracity of his claim,” Noah says quietly.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the coffee. “But we have to get to Colorado. And while we appreciate the hospitality, what we r
eally need is fuel.”

  “I doubt Colorado will be far enough to relieve your woes,” Noah says, rising. “Or that you’ll make it past the roadblocks.”

  “We’re not trying to get away,” I say. “We’re trying to make something right.”

  Noah sits in one of the chairs and quietly sets his mug aside. “I have only two rules on my property. The first is safety, which means we’ll retain your firearms and any weapons until you leave.”

  “And the second?” Chase says uneasily.

  “Honesty. You’re welcome to take refuge here. And you can leave anytime you like. But if you want my help, I need to know how you came to be here.”

  “What did he do to you, Wynter?” Kestral whispers.

  I take the coffee and, with a glance at Chase, sit down on the edge of the sofa. “You might want to check on dinner first,” I say. “To make sure it doesn’t burn.”

  • • •

  NOAH LISTENS IN silence as Chase paces near the window.

  But it’s Kestral I’m worried about. The shock of learning about Magnus’s pursuit of serial wives. His willingness to flaunt his own vices. His increasingly shady deals and willingness to put Jaclyn in the danger that led to her death.

  Kestral has her own stories to tell—about ancient seeds illegally acquired from archaeological dig sites, reengineered when they wouldn’t germinate, and sold as genuine articles. That she knew he had ruined Blaine Owen’s career, but that Blaine continued to broker deals for whatever Magnus would pay him, selling his dignity to fuel his drug habit.

  At my request, Mel brings in the duffle. I show them the samples, the web pages and notes on the flash drive, hooked up to Chase’s phone.

  When I finally finish, Noah, silent all this time, stands at last. “How long have you two been on the road?” he asks, looking at me.

  “Since the blackout,” I say.

  “I suggest we get some dinner in you, let you rest a little. We can talk about your fuel situation in the morning.”

  “Sir,” Chase says. “We really need to get on the road. We can’t possibly—”

  “Son,” Noah says, “You won’t make it past those roadblocks without help. You might as well clean up for dinner.” He picks up a walkie-talkie, and a minute later Mel shows up in the kitchen to escort us.