I pull a matchbox from my backpack. Striking a match against the side of the box, I drop it onto a stack of baled fibers, slated for weaving. Braided cord is stacked alongside giant spools of yarn and crates of unpolished twine. The material ignites, becoming a slow smolder then gradually spreading. I fan the flames, coughing as I raise a halo of smoke.
Carefully, I stick my head out the door. Before I raise an alarm, I want to make sure there’s enough of a fire to draw a crowd of bystanders. Maybe if people’s attention is focused on putting out a fire, the search for a single runaway won’t matter.
Seeing no one in the hall, I enter one of the knitting areas, the floor lined wall to wall with heavy looms. I sidle over to a corner crowded with racks of garments. Hidden behind a wall of hemp shirts and trousers, I start another flame, making sure there’s plenty of fuel to feed the fire as it spreads. Slipping out of the corner, I move to the wall and yank the alarm.
A searing wail fills the building and shouts of “smoke!” and “fire!” advance around the room. Fear and confusion spreads among the workers and they gaze around uncertainly before rushing toward the nearest exits. I join a group of loom operators, all heading for a back stairwell. I let myself be swept along, my eyes watering from the increasing thickness of the smoke.
The press of people against my body has me choking for air and room. I fight back a clutching panic. If I stumble, I’ll be trampled. What if I don’t make it out in time? What if others don’t? I take a breath and hold it and, finally, the press of people carries me out the door to the sidewalk. Hacking now, grabbing at a stitch in my side, I stumble forward, my head kept low.
The sidewalks are mobbed, everyone shouting advice and warnings to the approaching fire fighters. The dome keeps the smoke from dissipating and until the fire fighters can get the dome’s ventilation system adjusted, there’s precious little visibility. Soon everyone is hidden in a thick cloud of ash. One man raises his arm to point toward a second floor window where smoke is pouring out in black billows, and I dart beneath him toward the back of the crowd and freedom.
When I get to the farm, J.D. is pacing behind one of the outbuildings. He turns toward me, then stops, his expression one of amazement at the sight of me striding up the gravel. I glance down at myself and realize I’m filthy from head to toe, completely unrecognizable.
“I got caught in a fire.”
Reaching out a finger, he swipes it down my cheek. When he lifts his hand, his finger is covered in black soot. “No kidding.” He casts a quick glance down the path. “Were you followed?”
“Of course not.” I grab his hand, not caring that I’m getting him dirty. I need the physical connection. “Don’t you want to know what I did? Whether anyone’s hurt?”
“Are they?”
I frown. “I don’t know. I tried to set the alarm early enough for everyone to get out. But what if someone didn’t….”
“I’m sure you were careful. You probably triggered the alarm even earlier than you had to—everyone’s safe.”
It occurs to me that he doesn’t want me to feel badly, and I’m struck by a surge of gratitude. I hope he’s right and everyone really did make it out in time.
He wipes sooty fingers down his britches then hitches his backpack over his shoulders. “Are you ready to go?”
I nod and we head off-road toward the area farms. We stick to the vegetated areas as long as we can, but soon we’re back among the rivers of sand and dust, narrow cracks giving way to ragged sections of dry, hard sod. Our pace slows as we settle in for the next stage of our journey.
“How long were you at the orphanage?” J.D. asks.
“Almost as long as I can remember.” My mind slips backward, reaching as far as I know how to take it, to before I even had language skills to organize my thoughts, when memories were just motion or color; sound or smell. “I have so few memories of my mother. Although…”
“What?”
I clear my throat. I need this. I need the distraction of conversation. Tonight, the moon is a slit in the sky, illuminating a silvery sheathe of sand. J.D. is a shadow beside me, the outline of something solid through which starlight cannot pass. I know his eyes are searching the landscape, his body taut and electric, wired for whatever action may be required. We’re both tense since leaving Bio-4.
“Sometimes I dream about her,” I say softly. “I wake up, and I’ve got this feeling, like her voice or her smell or her touch was somehow close to me, and by waking up, I’ve caused that to disappear. It makes me sad.”
“So you weren’t a baby when you went to the orphanage?”
“No.”
This doesn’t make me particularly unusual. Many children do arrive at the orphanages as infants. People are so terribly short-lived. There’s often no accounting for who lives and who doesn’t. The strange interactions between human genes and toxins left lingering in the air and soil and water create abnormalities in the body and each new generation is just a little more fragile than the one before it. Even if a child doesn’t start his or her life at a children’s home, it’s where most children eventually end up.
There was another orphanage not far from the Garner Home that took in mutant babies. Cook was from there. She always remembered it as a sad place. Most of the babies didn’t survive. Cook wasn’t born with a big mutation, just a small one, a sort of tail. Doctors were able to remove it.
I can tell J.D.’s waiting for more information, but there’s really nothing unusual in my history. “Until the age of five, I lived with an uncle.” I haven’t thought of him in ages. “I don’t remember him well.” I continue slowly, “but I know he was a large man with red hair, and he used to twirl me in his arms to make me laugh. We lived by the ocean, and I can remember walking with him on the beach. He never let me touch anything. He was afraid of contamination, so he made me wear these oversized boots and gloves.”
I’m unable to hold back a chuckle, recalling how it took me four steps for every one stride of his. He’d swing me onto his shoulders when I got too tired to keep up.
“What happened to him?”
“He harvested kelp for a living. He and his crew would go out for days at a time on this harvesting barge. He only took me onboard once because I was so frightened by the giant blades they used to cut the kelp. One day, he and his crew went out to sea and never came back.” I keep the sigh out of my voice and tighten my hold on the strap of my pack. I don’t want it to seem like I’m asking for sympathy. Many people are alone in the world. J.D.’s alone. But he and I kind of have each other now, don’t we? “I was staying with a neighbor when my uncle disappeared. One day, a man came and got me and took me to the orphanage.”
“Do you remember the man?”
I concentrate for a moment, but fail to come up with a clear picture. “I must have been overwhelmed or confused. I don’t know. I don’t have a clear image. I do remember arriving at the Garner Home and meeting Matron and being put into a room filled with other girls my age. I was terrified.”
“And there’s no other family? There’s no great-aunt somewhere who might be trying to find you?”
“No,” I tell him, ignoring my sense of isolation. “There’s no one.”
We walk awhile longer in silence then I figure it’s my turn. “J.D.?”
“Hmm?”
“What are you looking for?”
He gives me a puzzled glance. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what you’re doing.” I don’t add “with me,” although I wonder that, too. “You’ve traveled all sorts of places. What are you looking for?”
For the longest time, I think he’s not going to answer. He forges ahead, his eyes intent on where he’s going. “I’m not looking for anything, Kira. I don’t see the point in it. I’m surviving one day at a time, the same as the next guy.”
“Oh.” I’m disappointed. What had I expected? Poetry? Some sort of declaration. Sheesh. Well, survival is what we’re all doing, one way
or the other. But if it’s survival that matters to him, why not stay in the Biosphere?
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you just….”
“No. It wouldn’t,” he says, apparently adding mind reader to his array of talents.
A few miles later, he clears his throat. “I want to try and answer your question again.”
“Okay.”
More minutes pass. I wait.
“You asked me what I’m looking for, and I am looking to survive, that’s true enough,” he says slowly. “But, deep down, I know there’s more to it. I think I’m also looking for a reason to survive.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Survival’s an instinct. Every living thing has an instinct to survive.”
“Let me put it another way. Everybody dies. Nobody gets off the hook on that one, right? And it’s my belief that we all die the same death. No matter how you live your life, no matter what you believe, death is death. So if we’re all going to die regardless, what does it matter if we die off slowly, one by one in a trickle, or whether we die off in one generation of mass extinction?”
“Oh. I see.”
“If I’m going to die; if you’re going to die….”
I’m unable to suppress my wince.
“It’s not clear to me why I should be invested in the human race, in human survival—or even in my own survival. Does any of it matter?”
I don’t know the answer to his question. Maybe death is the same for everybody. But life is not. Maybe it’s only our life and what we do with it that makes us unique. Regardless of how I twist it around in my mind, it seems like life should matter. That he matters and I matter. That life is a gift even now in this time of desolation and affliction. I just don’t know why.
“Since I met you,” he continues softly, “it feels a little easier to wake up each morning and keep walking. So I’m willing to consider that there’s something I haven’t figured out yet and traveling with you may help me to find it.”
He gives me a small smile, which I try to return. His words aren’t exactly a declaration, but they’re honest. And oddly enough, I feel better.
It occurs to me that my being followed could put his chances of survival at risk, which is a compelling reason why he and I should split up. But more than ever, I don’t want to be alone. And maybe he doesn’t want to be alone either. Circumstances and, if I’m being honest, a difficult personality made me a loner at the Garner Home. Now I’ve discovered I enjoy the company of others. Certain others, anyway. Tamara and Shay had felt like family, at least like what I imagine family to be. I miss them already. And J.D. is, well, I’m not sure what he is, but he’s important.
The next few days are tough.
I wonder if J.D. knows the tiny hairs on the back of my neck frequently stand on end, for no apparent reason. Does he feel my watchfulness? I feel his. We move and move, barely stopping to rest. There’s a tight ball in my stomach now, forcing me to pick up my pace.
“Whoever that was looking for me, do you think he’s given up?”
“It’s been ages since you left the orphanage, Kira. If he’s been looking for you since you left, clearly he’s not the type who gives up easily.”
“Do you think he knows how long we were at Bio-4?”
“I’ve thought about that,” J.D. says. “He would have checked the camping lots. There are security cameras at all of them. I don’t know how long they hold onto the footage, but we’re definitely on those tapes, Kira. He would have seen us.”
“And Tamara and the baby.”
“Yes.”
This shuts me up. I worry about them. I worry about their safety. I could never forgive myself if something bad happened to them because they’d been our friends. Yet, how would I know? And why did I assume the man hunting me would even be interested in them? Then again, I was still trying to figure out why he would be interested in me.
“GPS shows a small lake bed ahead,” I say, slapping away a fly. “Do you think I could make water? A bath would be nice.”
“It’s not safe.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If this guy knows you can make water….”
“Why would he? Only Mary knew,” I insist, “and no one believed her.”
“We have to think the way they’re thinking,” says J.D.
“‘They?’ What ‘they?’” I vent, throwing up my hands in frustration. “There’s no ‘they.’ There’s a guy with a photo, looking for a runaway.”
“Maybe.”
Suddenly, we stop in our tracks. A strange humming sound seems to be getting louder and I glance around in alarm. In seconds, a swarm of stinging flies has surrounded us.
“Head for the rocks,” shouts J.D., pointing toward an outcrop in the distance.
I break into a run, slapping furiously at the pests landing on my neck and cheeks and hands. They even brush against my eyeballs, craving the moisture there. The bugs seem bent on attacking any exposed skin. My eyes are tearing, my mind clouded by the stinging pain. And so it is that I stumble into an ambush, snatched up by rough hands. My fists flail wildly against flesh and bone before a blow to the head sinks me into darkness.
I hear mutterings and giggling in the background, but I’m reluctant to open my eyes until I’ve got a better idea of my situation. How long have I been unconscious? My head feels like it’s wrenched in a vice. My throat is raw. My body aches. I try to wiggle my fingers and realize part of my discomfort is due to ropes tied around my wrists and ankles.
It’s all I can do not to scream with frustration. I am so brainless. I thought there was danger behind me, perhaps ahead of me, but I hadn’t been alert to the danger that was close at hand. Had our attackers released the flies on us? Or had that merely been a happy coincidence for them? And where was J.D.?
“Fresh meat. Fresh meat.”
A childish, sing-songy voice sends a shiver through me. Cautiously, I peer beneath my lashes. I’m in a cave, that’s obvious. I smell smoke. Firelight casts moving shadows on rock walls. There’s a person standing near me. In the firelight, I can make out thin, emaciated legs. Black fingernails on a sallow hand reach toward me.
“Don’t touch me!”
The man jerks back his hand, startled. I open my eyes and try to twist myself upright. Glancing around I see half a dozen gaunt faces staring at me. Some young. Some adolescent. All show clear signs of advanced skin cancer. Dark melanomas on the face. Oozing moles. I’m torn between revulsion and reluctant sympathy. Someone has opened my backpack on the cave floor and they’ve been gorging themselves on the trail mix and algae bars packed inside. There go my supplies, I realize numbly.
The man towers over me, frowning. “You are spunky, hmm?” His eyes rake me top to bottom. “At least you look to be in good health,” he says shortly.
“Where’s J.D.?”
“The boy then? Why he got away. Took a bite out of my ear, he did, the little monster.” The man turns, showing me a bloody wound on the side of his head.
Repulsed by the ragged tear in the man’s ear, I’m nevertheless flooded with relief. Thank goodness, J.D.’s okay. He got away. Now how can I do the same?
“What do you want with me?”
“Why my family and me, we want you for dinner,” he says grinning. The others snicker.
I take their meaning. I’m the fresh meat. I’ve heard stories of course, of bandits and scavengers and other outcasts who dine on the weak and the dying. A trembling begins deep inside me that I try desperately to mask. I mustn’t let them see my fear. And I’m not weak. I’m not defenseless. My body threatens to betray me, but I fight for a measure of control. I have no intention of being anybody’s dinner.
I search the room for an idea, for a way out, for something. A pile of bones in a dark corner catches my eye. Are they human bones? My stomach churns and I glance away, my eyes settling on the faces watching me. One or two are openly hostile. The others just look gaunt, pleading, hungry.
“It’s wrong,” I say s
tupidly, my eyes searching out the man’s. Are you supposed to make eye contact with a predator? I have no idea, but I’m desperate to connect with him on some level.
“What is this ‘wrong?’ Who says it is wrong? We do what is necessary to survive. Survival is a good thing. Survival is right.”
What about my survival?
“You could go to the Biosphere,” I say, scrambling for something to change their minds. “There are people there who could help you. They could take care of your sores. Maybe you could get a job. There’d be food.”
“Beh! Who you kidding? There’s nothin’ in the Biosphere for us. Once you get sick, the Territory puts you on the docket for euthanasia. As far as they’re concerned, we’re the walking dead. We can’t get a water ration. We can’t get jobs. They get one look at us, and we’ll be rounded up like animals.”
I’m not unmoved. Life is hard for everybody, but for these people every day is misery. Still, my life is at stake. It takes me a minute to realize I have only one bargaining chip. My palms are damp with fear, but my mouth is dry. Now that’s odd, I note absently, for someone who makes water. I force my mind to the task at hand. “What if I could give you water, enough water for your entire family?”
“What foolishness is this? Girlie, there’s not enough water in your pack to last one day.”
“No. Listen. I can make water. Truly. I can give you water out of the ground. I can fill a small pond or a pool here in the cave. I’ll show you.”
He looks at me suspiciously. The others have grown quiet. “What are you saying, hmm?”
“You don’t even have to untie my hands. Just take the ropes off my ankles. And you can come with me. I just need….” I search for a depression in the cave floor. “Is there a ditch or an old sinkhole nearby? It may take a few minutes, but I promise I can do it. If you can just be patient. Is there something, a place I can make water?”
“You’re playing games with me. If I untie you, you will try to escape. You will attack my last good ear then make a run for it.” He claps his hands together, causing me to jump. “I knew I should have thumped you harder. Your throat could be slit by now. Thaddeus, bring me my knife.”
Dry Souls Page 6