Wasteland w-1

by Susan Kim

  “About what?” she whispered back.

  Sarah shook her head hopelessly. Then she turned back to the others and made a great show of listening as she laughed and nodded.

  Esther couldn’t understand why her sister bothered. It was apparent the three others had little use for Sarah and even less for Esther. Not that she minded; as far as she could tell, their conversation was worthless, less interesting than the droning of bees. One girl boasted about her recipe for wheat porridge. Another described a tattered bedspread stolen from a recent Gleaning and how it matched her one curtain. And then there were the endless, tedious anecdotes about their men, for all three were partnered.

  When the gossip turned to partnerings, Rhea pointedly leaned close to the other two girls and whispered. After a moment, the three shared a harsh laugh, glancing sideways at Sarah. The older girl acted as if she was in on the joke, smiling and bobbing her head, even though it was clearly at her expense.

  At seventeen, Sarah was an old maid, long past the age of partnering. What made it odd was that she had never attempted to find a partner, despite the fact that over the years, many boys in town had expressed interest in her. Rafe in particular pursued her, to no avail. It seemed as if her sister had been waiting for someone special, Esther thought. But who?

  The girls’ chatter became faint as Esther tuned it out. In its place, she heard someone else’s voice: Caleb’s.

  In her mind’s eye, Esther could see his face, the set of his jawline, the haunted expression in his dark eyes. And although she despised what he had said at the town meeting, she now realized things might not be as simple as she thought. She also remembered how he spoke to her afterward, directly and openly, and how he listened to her, really listened in a way no one ever had before, not even Skar.

  The inane drone of the girls’ voices cut into her thoughts. Esther was jerked back to reality and with it came the realization: She didn’t want to be here anymore. She looked up at the sky, where her friend’s smoke signals had been. The clouds had thickened and grown darker.

  She made up her mind and stood.

  “Esther?”

  She was already across the small parking lot and hoisting her bicycle by the handlebars when her sister grabbed her by the arm.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah whispered. She sounded panicked.

  “I have to get out of here,” said Esther. But her sister refused to let go.

  “Please,” she said in a low voice. “Just a few more hours, until the rain passes. I promise, once we’re in the shed, I’ll keep them away from you. But if you go now, it’ll be over for you. I won’t be able to save you.”

  Esther attempted to shake her off. “It’s never as bad as you say it’s going to be. Shunning’s only for people who are sick or for real criminals.” She had one foot on a pedal and was trying to take off.

  “But that was before. These are Levi’s new rules. And you know there’s no way that Rhea isn’t going to report this. She’s been waiting for the opportunity all day.”

  Esther glanced over at the other girls. They were still sitting where they were, watching her with their mouths open in shock. And it was true that Rhea was staring at her with an appraising look, a faint smile on her face.

  “Please, Esther.” Although she kept her voice down, Sarah couldn’t keep the desperation from her voice. “You’re going to get Shunned. And no one will be able to help you.”

  But Esther had broken free and was pedaling away, as fast as she could. The town was five or six miles away. She would have to hurry before the rain came.

  EIGHT

  “HIT ME,” CALEB SAID.

  He stood in front of a red-haired boy, with one arm extended and relaxed, palm facing out. The boy was a husky fourteen-year-old, stocky and exceptionally strong; he figured it was the reason he was chosen. Eager to prove himself, he tensed up his arm and punched the open hand as hard as he could.

  The boy was surprised and then embarrassed to see what little effect it had. The stranger barely registered the blow. He was about to ask for a second chance, but Caleb had moved on to the next person in line, a sturdy girl with close-set eyes.

  “Hit me,” he said to her.

  Seven townspeople were lined up in the large, echoing room that had once been a bank. They had been excused from their various jobs for this first round of training and now stood in the thick heat and humidity of the November day, their arms by their sides, awaiting instruction from the stranger who was going to teach them how to save their town.

  The red-haired boy was especially excited to be included in the first group. Like everyone in town, he was familiar with the details of the stranger’s victory over the five mutants. He knew of his impressive fighting skills and his strange new weapon, which was capable of firing several rocks in quick succession.

  The boy looked forward not only to learning from Caleb firsthand, but maybe even following him into battle. He and his partner had sustained serious damage to their storefront home in the recent mutant attack, their windows smashed and much of their stored goods destroyed. Since then, he had been hungering for revenge. Today, he had come half expecting to be handed his own weapon, given instructions on how to use it, and maybe even led to the mutant camp for some kind of showdown.

  But he had been surprised. So far, the lesson was nearly all talk. What’s more, most of what the stranger had to say was downright bewildering.

  “I can’t teach you how to fight,” Caleb said at the very beginning. At this, everyone shifted on their feet, glancing at one another and murmuring. “Fighting isn’t in your hands or your feet, and it isn’t about getting hold of some fancy weapon. Mostly, it’s in your head.”

  The boy with the red hair wiped sweat off his brow as he mulled over these peculiar words.

  By now, Caleb had worked his way to the end of the line. Everyone had punched or slapped his hand—some harder than others, some less eagerly, some clumsily. The boy brightened up at this part of the lesson; this was what he had come to do. He assumed Caleb would now get down to business, would talk about the techniques of hitting and fighting and pick out and praise the strongest participants. Maybe he’d even spar with the best student and again, the boy felt his hopes rise.

  But once more, he was surprised.

  “Fighting isn’t a game,” Caleb said. “You should only do it because you have no other choice. And you’ve got to know that your enemies aren’t just stronger than you. They’re smarter, too.”

  The boy frowned. He was not quite sure he followed what Caleb was saying. He was also not sure he liked the sound of what he was hearing.

  “To win, you’ve got to keep your mind clear,” continued Caleb. “You’ve got to see the situation as it is and use every advantage you got. But you can’t keep a cool head if you put your feelings into your fists.”

  He turned to the red-haired boy, who was now examining his hands. “For instance,” he said, “I could tell by the way you hit that you’re impatient and you want to fight.” Caleb imitated the boy perfectly, his eager stance, the overly enthusiastic punch. “You want to prove to me and everyone here that you’re strong.”

  There was suppressed laughter down the line and the boy frowned, trying to understand what had been said and if he had just been insulted. But before he could say anything, Caleb had moved on to the next person in line, the girl with the close-set eyes.

  “You think this is some kind of game,” he said to her. “It’s like you don’t even think the threat is real.” The girl giggled, then blushed, staring at the floor.

  Caleb moved to the next person. “The way you hit tells me you’re mad, maybe at me,” he said to the boy, a hulking sixteen-year-old. “You don’t like being told what to do.” The boy looked startled; then he glowered at the stranger, his fists clenched.

  Caleb continued to work his way down the line. He stopped in front of each person and told each one what he thought he or she was feeling:

  You’re scared. You th
ink you know better. You care too much about pleasing others. You’re bored.

  When he was done, Caleb turned to face everyone, his expression serious. “Think about what I said,” he said. “Try to leave your emotions at home. And I’ll see you back here tomorrow.”

  At first, the red-haired boy darkened with anger. But when he thought it over, he was astonished. It was amazing that the stranger could know so much about him by just a single punch to the hand.

  By the look on everyone else’s face, he knew he was not alone. Feeling a first glimmer of understanding, he stepped forward to speak his mind.

  But he was stopped in his tracks.

  Without warning, a gust of wind swept through the broken windows that surrounded them, swirling grit and paper across the room. Everyone simultaneously glanced outside.

  Overhead, the sky had changed to a deep and unnatural green and purple. Then, it seemed as if all the air was violently sucked out of the room; shards of broken glass rattled in their wooden frames, some snapping off and sailing into the street.

  Caleb moved deeper into the room and everyone followed. They stood against the back wall in order to get as far away as possible from the gaping windows and open door.

  Even if the red-haired boy were to speak now, no one could hear him. For with a deafening crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning split the darkening sky.

  A moment later, rain began to fall: fat drops freely splashed through the broken windows, forming puddles on the marble floor. Outside, the drops marked the dusty ground vividly, faster and faster. They covered the hardened dirt with dark spots before converging and turning into deadly pools of mud and water.

  Half an hour later, the storm was still raging. Looking onto a deserted street, Esther watched the steady downpour from the decrepit lobby of Joseph’s home, the Gideon Putnam Hotel.

  When the first drops had begun to fall, she leaped off her bike and wheeled it into the nearest building, thankful for any shelter at all. Even so, she was aware of the heavy sound of rain as it thrummed on the sidewalk and splashed through the gaping windows and doors, soaking the faded carpet. She moved deeper into the building interior, making certain to avoid the walls, which had begun to weep moisture.

  She berated herself again for not thinking, not planning.

  It was a stupidly close call. Moments earlier, an unlucky gust of wind could have driven the downpour straight at her, through the broken glass of the front door. She knew all too well what a single raindrop could do if it found its way into your eyes, your mouth, or a scratch on your skin that hadn’t healed. First came the bone-crushing fatigue and telltale lesions; then headaches and fever. These were followed by severe stomach pains, vomiting, and delirium.

  After that, she was not exactly sure what happened. For no one had ever been allowed to stay in town once the symptoms appeared.

  Esther had been on her way to the school, where she knew Caleb was staying, when the storm hit. Now she had to wait until it was totally spent before she dared to continue on her way.

  Whenever it rained, the people of Prin pressed close to their windows and watched the storm. They couldn’t help it: from the safety of their homes, they found the risk, the presence of death, fascinating.

  But not Esther. As usual, she turned her face from it.

  That was when she saw Joseph.

  Her friend was standing across the lobby, carrying an empty plastic bucket. As ever, he was accompanied by a cat. Both boy and feline stared at the intruder with a look of astonishment.

  “Esther,” Joseph said.

  Esther felt a pang of guilt. So much had happened recently that she hadn’t told him. Now she had only run into him by accident. She noticed what he was carrying.

  “You’re not going to get rainwater with that, are you?” she exclaimed.

  “With what?” He looked down at the bucket. “Oh, no, I—”

  “Because it can kill you,” she said. “Do you remember what I told you? Do you still have any of the water I gave you last time?”

  “Yes. Yes. I do.”

  “Then will you please drink that instead?”

  As she watched Joseph first attempt to hide the bucket behind his back and then a column, Esther realized too late that she had spoken in a sharp voice. I must sound like Sarah, she thought. “I’m sorry I shouted,” she said, touching him on the arm. He felt thinner than usual, and so she dug deep in her shoulder bag. At the bottom, she found what she was looking for: the lunch she had not eaten at the Harvesting, a container of boiled rice and beans. “Take this.”

  “Are you sure you want to—”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Smiling his thanks, Joseph received the gift. Then he placed it on the floor in front of the cat, which began to eat.

  Esther watched for a moment. “I wish I had more.”

  Joseph shrugged, then shuffled his feet. “Would you like to come upstairs? We can have a proper visit.”

  “I can’t.” Esther spoke with real regret. “Once the rain stops, I’ve got to see someone. I’m sorry.”

  She turned to check the progress of the storm and was startled to make out her image reflected back to her in the cracked glass door.

  Esther leaned forward and examined herself. She squinted, trying to imagine that she was seeing herself for the first time, as if she was a total stranger.

  As if she was someone like Caleb, for example.

  Esther had never done this sort of thing before. There was a full-length mirror at home, but she almost never glanced at it. In fact, she associated primping and fussing with Sarah, so much so that not caring about her looks had become not just a matter of pride, but an easy way to irritate her sister. She was amused by how agitated she could make Sarah by something as simple as not combing her hair.

  But now that Esther was studying herself, she was rattled by what she saw.

  She saw a girl in boy’s clothes—jeans and a sweatshirt—that hung off a bony frame; she saw watchful eyes that seemed too large and dark in a thin face. There was a smudge of dirt on her chin, which she tried to rub away with her sleeve. Her hair, dark and unruly, was cut unevenly, at different lengths, and it stuck up on top. Esther frowned and tried to smooth the cowlick down; it wouldn’t obey and she gave up.

  Then she turned sideways and tried to examine her figure, pulling her sweatshirt close.

  It was no good, she realized with a sinking heart. She was simply not appealing, not the way other females in town were. She lacked the curves and softness of some of the girls, the gracefulness of others, even the dainty femininity of her sister.

  For a moment, Esther stared at her reflection in the glass and despaired. Then she turned to her friend, who had been watching her with a bemused look on his face.

  “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  Joseph started, then seemed to consider the question. After a few moments, he looked up. “You’re Esther,” he replied.

  Esther smiled. Although at that moment, she would have given anything, anything at all, to change her looks, she realized that there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t, after all, change who she was.

  She walked over and kissed Joseph on the cheek. He recoiled, as she knew he would, but she didn’t care.

  At last, the rain started to let up. Esther waited until she was sure it wasn’t a false alarm. Then she saw a rainbow—the indisputable sign that the coast would soon be clear—stretch across the sky.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said.

  After a final, vain attempt to make her hair lie in place, she wheeled her bicycle out from the hotel lobby. Her hood drawn around her face, Esther took off through the glistening streets for the school, a half mile away.

  There were many shattered windows on the ground floor of the building. It was no trouble for her to reach in, unfasten the latch, and enter.

  She made her way down a hallway, lined on both sides with dusty and dented metal lockers that gaped open. She picked her way through trash,
mounds of paper, and broken light fixtures. Along the way, she passed empty classrooms, rusted water fountains, and abandoned stairwells.

  When she rounded a corner, she noticed something written on the wall, and curious, stopped to examine what it was. Primitive drawings and words, little pictures of hearts with arrows through them, and initials were carved into the plaster. She was able to spell out the words and letters with difficulty:

  mikey + lissa. e.h. + a.t. j-bo and k.k. 4ever.

  They made no sense to her.

  Caleb sat on the creaky cot in his room. He had been given these accommodations in the school, a dank, gray two-story building, as a reward. When Rafe first showed him the place, he assumed that the stranger would take the largest room, the auditorium, for his lodgings and had it furnished accordingly. By Prin’s standards, such a dwelling—with its high ceiling, scuffed wooden floors, and tall windows covered with thick wire mesh—was luxurious, even palatial.

  But after living outdoors for so many months, Caleb no longer trusted open spaces. Instead, he thanked Rafe, whom he was beginning to find irritating and overbearing. Then once he was alone, he searched the building until he found a room more to his liking: a classroom off a secondary hallway, with dusty blackboards still attached to the walls and desks and chairs pushed to one side in a jumble. Satisfied with its size and location, Caleb transferred all of the furnishings and supplies Rafe had the townspeople provide.

  He thought about those people and his students, as well. He had taken the job for practical reasons only, as a way to stay in town. But he found he liked the teaching more than he expected.

  On his rickety bed, Caleb drank from a plastic jug of water. Lowering the bottle, he glanced around and for the first time took in where he was.

  The tables that were pushed against the wall were much too low to sit in front of; and the chairs piled on top of them were small as well, perhaps coming up to his knee. He looked up and noticed strange pictures tacked to the wall, faded, mysterious illustrations that were curled from too much humidity and mottled with mildew: