Three

by Kristen Simmons

  In the quiet that followed, my dream returned: Chase as a child, stretched out over the ground, bleeding. A prickle of unease crawled through me. I wished I could read his mind; then maybe I’d know what to say to help him instead of feeling so powerless.

  “He was never going to come with us—that soldier. Whatever his name was.” The words burst from him with enough force to make me jump.

  “You mean Harper.”

  His gaze shot to mine, the question clear.

  My stomach dropped. Had we really never used his name? I’d heard it a hundred times a day in my mind—over and over, like a whip coming down on my back. But Chase and I hadn’t said it out loud once. We hadn’t talked about what had happened in Chicago at all, and I wanted to. We needed to. We couldn’t keep pretending like it never happened.

  He fell back a step.

  “Harper was the soldier,” I said quickly. “The one at the rehab center in Chicago. The one we … you know.”

  Shot.

  His expression changed. His whole posture changed. Became tortured and twisted in a way I hadn’t seen since he’d told me how my mother had died. The reminder was enough to make my stomach hurt.

  “His name was Harper?”

  “I … saw his name badge.” My arms crossed over my chest. I forced them down to my sides.

  Chase retreated toward the house where we’d made camp, and when I pursued he held up a hand. Something close to panic swelled in my chest. The sand beneath my feet seemed to quake.

  “Chase, I—”

  He turned. A forced smile flickered over his face, then went dim. “We need to keep moving. If it rains again today we’ll lose any chance of finding the others.”

  “Wait…”

  “It’s my uncle,” he insisted, as though I’d somehow implied that we should stop tracking the survivors. My shoulders rose.

  “He took me in after my mom and dad were gone,” Chase explained, as if I didn’t know. As if I wasn’t there when his uncle had come to pick him up after the car accident had killed his parents. “He’s the only family I’ve got left, Ember.”

  His words felt like a slap. “What about me?”

  “He’s my uncle,” Chase said again. As if this explained everything.

  “He left you when you were sixteen,” I said. “In a war zone. He taught you to fight and to break into cars and then he left.”

  The words hung between us. Instantly I wished I could take them back. We didn’t even know if his uncle Jesse had been at the safe house, much less if he was still alive. Regardless what he’d done, Chase cared for him, and it did no good to pick apart his memory.

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Chase responded, focusing on the water. “He did what he had to do.”

  A different past returned then: a hill above a gray stone base, sour tendrils of white smoke spiraling to the sky, a gun in my hand.

  I’m a damn good soldier. I did what needed to be done.

  My knuckles were white peaks, nails sharp in my palms. Tucker Morris had said those words right after confessing to my mother’s murder. Chase couldn’t use them; he was nothing like Tucker. He knew not everything could be excused.

  But at the same time, I understood why Chase tried. If he slowed down, every disappointment, every pound of shame, weighed on him like a man in quicksand. And so he never stopped. He barely slept. He pushed on. Like he could keep running forever.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You did what you had to do, too.”

  The air was misting, heavy with the coming dawn, and in the dying starlight I could make out the shadows under his eyes, the damp ring around the collar of his shirt, and his fists, balled in his pockets.

  Tentatively, I reached for his shoulder. Hard muscles flexed beneath my palm a second before he flinched away.

  “We should go,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “We’ve got to get an early start.”

  My hand fell, empty, to my side.

  Come back to me, I wanted to say. But he was the boy in my dream, running away, and as much as I tried to hold him he slipped from my grasp.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s wake the others.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  CHASE was right; rain was coming.

  The night was lit by a straight, pink scar on the horizon, and from it rose a ghost of the sun, muted and pale yellow. The air became palpable, thick to breathe, slick on our skin. Nearly as heavy as Chase’s silence.

  I wished I’d never said the name Harper—that I’d never even seen it on his stupid ID badge. I tried to banish it from my mind, but the harder I tried, the more I could see him. His crisp blue uniform. The high flush in his cheeks. The young soldier who’d nearly joined us in that Chicago rehab hospital before he’d gotten scared. I hated that he’d gotten scared. I hated that he’d blocked our path, and threatened to turn us in, and raised his gun. That he’d made Chase shoot him, because Chase never would have done that if he hadn’t been forced to.

  It was Harper’s own fault he was dead.

  The black tentacles of guilt that had snaked around my chest eased their hold. But in their place, something slippery remained.

  I told myself it wasn’t right to think that way. That despite being a soldier, Harper was flesh and blood, just like us.

  Just like Tucker. Who’d redeemed himself several times over, but who’d still killed my mother.

  I shook my head to clear it. Traveling down that road just made me crazy. This was a war—just as much as the War that had brought it. And if Harper had chosen the right side, he’d still be alive. At least for now.

  I still wasn’t sure where that left Tucker.

  By the time we’d reached the house the others were already stirring and I was glad for the distraction. They packed quickly as there wasn’t much to pack, and with only a few mumbled words we moved out, heading south in the same direction we’d been traveling since we’d seen the tracks three days ago. Time was ticking—we’d told the injured we’d return to the mini-mart with a report within five days. Our return trip would be quicker without the search, but we were still cutting it close.

  Every indentation in the sand was scrutinized. Every piece of trash that floated in the shallows was inspected. One of them would be the sign we needed: a footprint, or a discarded can from someone’s meal. No one wanted to return to the mini-mart with nothing to show. But an hour passed, maybe more, and there was still no evidence of survivors.

  When it was my turn to carry the radio, I kept it in the trash bag over my shoulder so it wouldn’t get wet when the rain finally came. With the responsibility came paranoia; convinced I would miss the call, I checked the box every few minutes, but the red light had yet to flash green.

  It was the smell that reached us first. The breeze had turned in anticipation of the storm, and carried on it a putrid, dead stench.

  “What is that?” Billy finally asked, pulling the sweat-ringed neck of his T-shirt over his nose and mouth.

  No one answered.

  We slowed. Chase, Jack, and Rat took the lead, though Chase was the only one not to draw a gun from the back of his belt. Beside me, Sean put a warning hand on Rebecca’s shoulder, but she ignored him, leaning heavily on her crutches and shuffling onward through the sand.

  Jack gagged. “Fish,” he called. “Dead fish.”

  Billy and I moved up to see, but the closer I got to the front, the more nauseating the stench became. Taking Chase’s cue, I buried my nose in the crook of my elbow, and then stopped short as a sudden breeze swept aside the fog.

  The sand here wasn’t fine and white as it had been, but black, painted by waves of sticky oil during high tide. It pooled in every divot in the ground, gleaming and pearlescent, even without the bright light. Littered all across our path were animals coated in it. Fish, turtles, sea creatures I didn’t recognize. Birds, white feathers tarred and matted, beaks open, eyes blank. Not even the bugs ate them.

  It went on for miles.

  I foug
ht the urge to vomit; the bile in my throat tasted like rotting things. I imagined what it must feel like to choke on oil. How it would slosh in my lungs and coat the walls of my stomach, sleek and poisonous. A warning to turn back shook through me, but all that remained behind us was more death.

  I glanced over to Chase, who stared forward, and I could feel his pity for all these living things lost.

  “Sick,” whispered Billy.

  We stood in reverent shock for only a moment more, and then with a deafening roar of thunder, the sky broke open.

  * * *

  IF there were tracks in the sand they were swept away by the storm, so we moved inland and scoured the brush and trees beside the beach in search of bits of torn clothing, campfire remains, anything to show that someone had passed through. But the raindrops fattened, and it didn’t take long before our clothing was drenched. The clatter drowned out the noise. It wasn’t until Chase was standing before me, pellets of water bouncing off his bare arms, that I noticed he was trying to tell me something.

  “I said Rebecca’s falling behind again,” he repeated as I checked the red blinking light on the radio for the umpteenth time. “Sean’s got to take her back to the mini-mart.”

  He was the only one besides Sean and I that kept tabs on Rebecca. At first the others had given her wide berth, like she was bad luck, but now her presence was starting to wear on them. She wasn’t as mobile as the rest of us, which made her a liability. Most hadn’t even bothered to learn her name.

  I glanced back the way we’d come, sore because he had a point—Rebecca should have stayed back, despite how much I wanted to keep her in my sight. The last time we’d been apart she’d been hurt, and this was the only way I could guarantee her safety. Still, though searching was slow work, her speed was half ours, especially through the brush and knotted roots off the beach. She wasn’t going to be able to keep up much longer.

  When I turned back Chase was gone, having disappeared through the mist. A frown tugged at my mouth; he was clearly worried. Somehow Rebecca had become his responsibility, too.

  Billy was nearby, and I grabbed his sleeve to get his attention.

  “Have you seen Rebecca or Sean?”

  He glanced around impatiently. “They were behind me earlier.”

  The water ran in rivulets from the tips of my hair, and I shoved it back from my face and held a hand up like a visor above my eyes. Only gray surrounded us; the low light made even the trees lose their color.

  I shoved through the underbrush back the way we’d come. The mud puddles deepened in the gaps between the trees and every sloshing step soaked my socks. The beach was to my right; surely Rebecca hadn’t waded through the oil and dead animals. To my left the grass grew tall and thick, and it struck me that any number of things could be living within it.

  Rebecca could be hurt within it.

  “Becca!”

  Sean’s call drifted over the slimy, wet field. Sweeping both hands in front of me to clear the way, I surged forward.

  “Sean! Where are you?” I was glad the rain was still loud. Though we hoped to find survivors, we didn’t know who lurked in the evacuated Red Zone. For the past few days we’d stayed as quiet as possible so we wouldn’t attract unnecessary attention.

  Finally I saw him—head and shoulders above the grass that tickled my neck. He spun frantically, still calling for Rebecca.

  “What happened?” I asked when I reached him.

  “She was right behind me,” he said, a muscle in his jaw bulging. The water matted his darkened hair and streamed down his face.

  We pushed forward ten more feet, then twenty, until the grass gave way suddenly to an open, single-lane street. Rainwater cascaded down thick cracks in the asphalt, and weeds, some as tall as me, grew from the potholes. Boarded-up houses, all with a similar brick front, lined the opposite side.

  Before I could make myself move, Sean had yanked me down into a crouch. Anyone could be hiding in those houses, aiming a shotgun through one of those busted windows. Maybe even one of the survivors we were tracking.

  I searched the windows first, then the spaces between the buildings. Every door was marred by a Statute posting. Even the rain couldn’t peel them from the wood.

  “There!” Sean pointed up the road to where a solitary figure stood on the center yellow line. Before I could stop him he was running, and with one final glance around I followed, eyes trained on the houses for movement. As we neared, the staggering gait became familiar, and two silver crutches came into view.

  Sean didn’t slow as he hauled Rebecca out of the street. A short scream of surprise burst from her throat, and then she was fighting him, falling in a heap in the wet grass. Mud splashed over her clothes and freckled her face.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Sean yelled. “We’ve got to keep off the roads, I told you that.”

  Rebecca pulled herself up into a seated position, legs splayed out before her. She’d lost her crutches in the fall, and where they usually fastened to her forearms were raw, bleeding patches of skin. I bit back a cringe.

  “Afraid I’ll get hit by a car?” She stared at him defiantly, cheeks stained, arms open to the empty street behind us.

  “Yeah, Becca. That’s what I meant.”

  “Stop it,” I said, inserting myself between them. “You never know who’s hiding in places like this. That’s all he’s trying to say.”

  “He’s trying to say I’m a child. That’s all he’s trying—”

  “Maybe if you’d stop acting like—”

  “Sean!” I turned on him, pointing up the road. “Go find the others. We’re right behind you.”

  Sean laced his hands behind his neck, then slammed them down in frustration. “Fine.” A moment later he disappeared through the grass and rain.

  A deep breath to summon patience, and I squatted beside her.

  “Let me see your arms.”

  She kept them locked to her body, gaze still pinned in the direction Sean had taken off. Her lower lip quivered.

  I rubbed at the tightness in my chest. “He’s just worried about you.”

  “He hates me,” she said, so quietly I almost missed it.

  I grabbed her crutches, needing something to busy my hands. Rebecca didn’t have to say it, but I knew she blamed us for her misery. I told myself for the hundredth time that she was better off with us than the FBR, that we wouldn’t cart her around or put her on display to dissuade citizens from corruption. But seeing her sitting in a mud puddle, arms bright with sores, not even attempting to shield her face from the rain, I couldn’t help but doubt myself.

  That didn’t mean I was going to let her quit.

  “Get up,” I told her. “Enough with the pity party.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Get up.”

  She balked, and when I didn’t back down she snatched the crutches from my grasp. Barely a wince came from her lips as she fastened the braces around her forearms.

  “That’s not exactly easy in case you haven’t noticed,” she said.

  I knew it wasn’t. I knew it was killing her and I ached to fix it, but I also knew if she was going to survive out here she couldn’t give up.

  I fought the sympathy eating away at my insides and cocked an eyebrow. “Neither is sneaking out of a locked facility every night to fool around with a guard.”

  Her ice blue gaze widened. “Ember…”

  “You have to go back to the mini-mart.” I shifted. “Sean will take you.…”

  “Ember.” She pointed to the trash bag I’d set on the ground beside us. “The radio!”

  The red light was flashing green—the mouth of the bag had opened when I’d set it down and now the box sent a pale jade reflection onto the black plastic. Instantly, I snatched up the whole package, flooded with the need to answer, but knowing I couldn’t. The rain would ruin the machine.

  “Come on.” I only took a second to weigh the consequences, and then sprinted toward the nearest house wit
h the radio latched tightly to my chest, unwilling to miss this first connection with Tucker’s team. As far as we knew, they were the only ones who could tell the posts what had happened to the safe house.

  Once under the shelter of the stone entranceway, I hurriedly removed the silver box from the bag then set it on the dirty cement. Beads of water gathered on the top of the metal and I tried in vain to wipe them away with my wet shirtsleeve.

  Rebecca arrived, huffing. Unaccustomed to moving that fast with crutches, she bumped into the wall, but held on before falling.

  “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  “Yes.” In theory. I wished one of the others were here; even though Chase had walked me through the steps I’d never actually used a CB radio before.

  “Then answer! Hurry! You’re going to miss it!”

  “Keep a lookout,” I told her.

  I unhooked the black handheld microphone, untangling the coiled cord from around the handle. The light stopped flashing.

  “No.” I made sure the knob was dialed to the frequency we’d agreed to use and pressed the button labeled RECEIVE TRANSMISSION, praying I wasn’t too late.

  “Hello?” I tried. “Are you there? Hello?”

  “What happened?” Rebecca asked.

  “Come on.” I pressed the button to accept the call again. Again. “Please be there.”

  “Take your time, why don’t you,” came the muffled voice of my mother’s killer.

  I sat back on the damp pavement, exhaling in one hard breath. A deep scowl had etched into Rebecca’s face.

  “Well it took you long enough to call.” My throat tightened, as it always did when I spoke to Tucker Morris. “Everything going all right?”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated. “So far so good. Sorry I couldn’t call earlier. Had some trouble getting a connection.”

  There was heaviness in his tone, telling me that something bad had happened. We couldn’t discuss it over the open radio. Even though this was an old frequency the MM didn’t use anymore, it wasn’t secure. They could always be listening.