The Release

by Tom Isbell

  “Why? Because of those?” He gestures vaguely to the Xs on her face. “You think you’re the only one around here with scars?”

  “No …”

  Book tugs up a sleeve and displays the crisscrossing lines on his wrist. “What do you call these?”

  “Sure, they’re scars …”

  “But?”

  “They’re hidden. You’re not disfigured like me.”

  “Right, because yours are on your face, that makes them somehow worse,” he says sarcastically.

  “That’s right.”

  “Because everyone can see them, that somehow makes them more noticeable than everyone else’s.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And my limp?”

  “That’s different and you know it.”

  “Is it? What about my internal scars? How about those?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Feeling responsible for the deaths of my friends. Those scars don’t heal.”

  “You think I don’t have those, too?”

  “I know you have them. That’s my point. All of us do.”

  She stops abruptly. “So these are just nothing?”

  “I don’t care about those. No one does.”

  “I do!”

  Her voice carries farther than she intends, and Diana makes a move to come to Hope’s side. Hope shakes her off.

  “I care about these scars,” Hope says in a fierce whisper. “I care because I know that’s all that people see. They can say they don’t, that they can look past them, that all they really see is my soul, but that’s bullshit and you know it.” She whips the hoodie back so that the Xs catch the full brunt of sunlight. The scars pucker the skin; shadows crisscross her cheeks. “Tell me you don’t see these.”

  Book shrugs. “I don’t see them.”

  “And you see into my soul.”

  “I see into your soul.”

  Hope grabs Book’s hand and slaps it against her cheek, resting his fingers on the cold, raised edges of her scars. “And now?”

  “They don’t exist.”

  She throws his hand away. “You’re crazier than I thought.”

  Then she pulls the hood around her face and stomps off, joining the seventy-some others who trudge past Book in the vast expanse of snow.

  7.

  HOPE WOULD HAVE NOTHING more to do with me the rest of that day. Or the day after that. When we set up camp each evening, I put my bedroll on one arc of the circle, and she put hers directly opposite. Then she’d go off in search of food, not returning for hours.

  Each evening, we huddled around our fires, pockets of muffled conversation drifting from one group to the other.

  “What do you think it was like?” Flush asked out of the blue one night.

  “What what was like?”

  “The day the bombs fell. Omega.”

  “Frightening,” an LT said.

  “Confusing,” another added.

  “Terrifying,” a third chimed in.

  “For the living, yeah,” Twitch said.

  We turned to him. His blind eyes probed the night.

  “Ninety-nine percent of the earth’s population was probably eliminated in a matter of seconds. They didn’t feel a thing. They might have been the lucky ones.”

  His words settled on us. The fire popped and crackled. The world had never seemed so still.

  “I wonder which country started it,” Flush said.

  “Why’s it matter?” Cat said, whittling a branch. “What matters is it’s left to us to pick up the pieces.”

  “Yeah, but aren’t you curious?”

  “Why? There’s no way we’ll ever know.”

  Cat was right—we’d never find out the answer to that—but it did make me wonder about something else.

  “Why do they hate us?” I asked. The question had burned within me ever since I found out we were considered Less Thans. As I spoke, I petted Argos. I could feel the ribs protruding beneath his fur.

  “Who?” Flush asked.

  “Everyone. Brown Shirts, Hunters, Crazies. Why do they all want us dead?”

  “You know what they say,” Twitch said. “There are three reasons to hate someone. Either we have something they want.”

  “Yeah, right,” Flush said sarcastically.

  “Or we’re a threat.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Or we’re just different.”

  Flush didn’t respond to that one. No one did.

  “But why the Hunters?” I asked. “I mean, I can maybe understand the Crazies not liking us—they’re just crazy. And the Brown Shirts have somehow been indoctrinated to think we’re evil. But what do the Hunters have against us? What’s their deal?”

  “Maybe they just like shooting defenseless people,” Cat said.

  “Yeah, maybe.” But we all knew there was more to it than that.

  By the fifth day after leaving Libertyville, our pace had become glacial—a combination of fatigue and lack of food. Although Hope often returned with a rabbit or a squirrel, sometimes even a porcupine, it wasn’t enough. Not to fill over seventy bellies. We were slowly starving to death.

  Our rest breaks dragged out. We covered fewer miles. Each day started later and ended sooner. Although the sun brought warmth, its sharp rays bit our skin, chapped our lips, burned our cheeks red. Our eyes formed a permanent squint from staring into sunlight.

  It was obvious we couldn’t go on like this.

  “We need to go to the Compound,” I said on the sixth afternoon, as we were gathering wood.

  “What’re you talking about?” Flush asked.

  “The Compound—where we were held captive by the Skull People.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “We need to return there.”

  Everyone around me stopped what they were doing.

  “But that’s, like, miles and miles out of the way,” Flush said.

  “I know.”

  “The fastest way to Dodge’s is if we cut across the river and head east, not go south to the Compound. And for the sake of the sick, for the sake of all of us, we need to get to Dodge’s as soon as possible.”

  “I don’t disagree.”

  “Not to mention the fact that the last time we were at the Compound, the Hunters and Crazies were having a field day massacring the Skullies.”

  “I remember.”

  “So why do you think—”

  “There might be food there.” That was the magic word: food. “You’re right, the Compound was attacked. But that place was so well stocked, there have gotta be some hidden rooms where there’s still food. Just imagine what that could do for us.”

  The thought of eating smoked meats and canned vegetables made my mouth water.

  “But Book, we don’t know who controls the Compound,” Twitch said.

  “True, but what if the Hunters and Crazies just attacked and left? What if they’re not there anymore? Not only that”—here I hesitated—“what if there are survivors? Skull People, still alive. If so, we could bring ’em with us.”

  Flush cleared his throat before speaking. “I don’t mean to sound heartless or anything, but why would you want to do that?”

  “First of all, because they helped us escape.”

  “After they locked us up.”

  “And secondly, because they have skills. They’re smart—they can help us.”

  “If you’re thinking of your little friend Miranda,” Diana said, “don’t forget she was a traitor.”

  It was the first time anyone had uttered her name in months. Miranda. The girl who’d kissed my cheek as we watched the sun set. The same girl who’d been spying for her father.

  “At first she was, yeah. But if it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t have gotten out of those caves. She created the diversion.” No one responded—not Diana, certainly not Hope—and I went on. “Listen, we’re not going to make it out of this territory unless we get some food. Like, soon. And the Compound is the only possi
bility I can think of.”

  “But if the Crazies are still around—” Flush began.

  “We take that chance. We don’t have a choice.”

  The silence stretched, and it was a long time before anyone else spoke. I squinted into the distance. The setting sun erupted in an explosion of orange.

  “I love it,” Sunshine said. “We’re screwed if we go, we’re screwed if we don’t. Welcome to the life of a Less Than.” He brayed like a donkey.

  “What’re you thinking, Book?” Cat asked.

  “It wouldn’t be everyone,” I said. “Just a small group. Whoever wants to join me. The rest of you go on to Dodge’s and we’ll meet up there. Hopefully with a whole mess of food.”

  Now I needed volunteers. I shot a look to Hope, hoping she would say yes. She met my stare with narrowed eyes.

  “Go,” she said. “We’ll continue on without you.”

  “That’s what I’m suggesting,” I said.

  “Then do it. You don’t need my permission.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  I didn’t disagree with her, but it hurt, the way she said it. Like she wanted no part of me.

  “I’ll go,” Red said.

  “Me too,” Flush added, although not with as much conviction.

  So that was the group: Red, Flush, and me. And of course Argos. Everyone else would cross the river and head straight for Dodge’s.

  “If you want, I can join you,” Cat said later on, when it was just him and me.

  “No, better that you’re with the others. They need you.”

  “You sure about this? You don’t have to go back there if you don’t want.”

  “It’s best this way,” I said, and left it at that.

  That night I had watch, peering into the dark for any sign of yellow. I wondered if the wolves were content now, if they had just wanted us to leave Libertyville so they could reclaim that part of Skeleton Ridge for themselves. Or were they trailing us across the frozen tundra, waiting for the right moment to attack?

  Soon, it wasn’t wolves I was thinking about, or Skull People, or even Hope. It was my grandmother. The woman with the long black hair whose final words to me had been I haven’t been guiding you, Book. You must be listening to your heart.

  But at that particular moment, I had no idea what my heart was telling me. It felt like I knew less than ever.

  8.

  THEY SEPARATE THE NEXT morning. After an awkward round of good-byes, most of them cross the frozen river to the other side. The only ones who don’t are Book, Red, Flush, and Argos. Hope and Book don’t exchange any final words, but when Hope reaches the opposing riverbank, she catches him watching her. At the same moment they both look away.

  Hope agrees that they need food, and she can’t fault Book’s plan to return to the Compound. Still, she can’t help but wonder if his ulterior motive is to find Miranda. It angers her that she feels a stab of jealousy.

  For the first part of the morning, the two groups are a mirror—three on one side, seventy-one on the other—trudging through snow on opposite banks of the river. The trio moves at a far quicker pace, of course, and soon they forge ahead. When they eventually disappear into the horizon of white—Argos’s muffled bark a final good-bye—Hope is surprised to feel a sudden emptiness.

  Later that day, Hope hears a distant sound. It takes a moment to identify it, and when she realizes it’s the growl of a Humvee, the Less Thans and Sisters scurry for cover, throwing themselves to the ground. Cat is atop a ridge, and Hope crawls forward until she’s next to him. They peek their heads above the snow.

  A lone Humvee appears in the far distance, and they watch as it snakes its way across the snow-blasted prairie. What Hope can’t figure out is why it’s out here, where it’s going. The one-lane road appears to dead-end at a small, snow-covered mound. There are no buildings here—no structures of any kind. Just a rusted chain-link fence encircling a tiny hill.

  “Launch facility,” Cat explains.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s where they fired the missiles that day. My dad took me to one once.”

  “There’s a missile there?”

  “Used to be, in an underground silo. Nearly five thousand of them, scattered across the country. That’s how the world blew itself up.”

  Hope has often wondered about Omega. She was young when her father first explained it, but somehow she envisioned airplanes dropping bombs from the air, not missiles erupting from the prairie.

  She studies the hill. It’s a good quarter mile away, but she’s able to make out an upside-down dome on top of the mound. Burn marks scorch its edges.

  “What’s in there now?”

  “Not a missile, that’s for sure.”

  So why is the Humvee headed there?

  They watch as the military vehicle nears, then passes through the fence, skidding to a stop when it reaches the small hill. Three Brown Shirts emerge, cracking jokes, their laughter bouncing off the cloudless sky. One lights a cigarette before they disappear behind the far side of the mound.

  “Where are they going?” Hope asks, more to herself than Cat.

  Five minutes pass before the soldiers return. They each carry a large wooden crate. Stenciled on the sides is the distinctive symbol of the Republic: three inverted triangles. Beneath that are a series of letters and numbers. M4. M16. AK-47.

  Military weapons.

  The three soldiers slide the wooden crates into the back of the Humvee and then return to the mound. Hope rises to her feet.

  “Where’re you going?” Cat asks.

  “I want to see what they’re doing.”

  Cat looks at her like she’s crazy. “You want to go inside a missile silo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where there are three Brown Shirts with weapons?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  She’s not sure she knows the answer, but it has something to do with unfinished business. Everything has to do with unfinished business.

  Cat turns to the Less Thans behind him. Their hunger and exhaustion are obvious; many have fallen asleep in the snow. Cat points to the LT named Sunshine.

  “Sunny, get up here,” he says.

  Sunshine crawls forward. “What’s up, el bosso?”

  “You’re good with a slingshot, right?”

  “I’m good with any weapon.” He says it loudly, as if for Hope’s benefit. She rolls her eyes.

  “Great. Then you’re coming with us.”

  “What? I—”

  “We’ll move in on their next trip.”

  They wait for the soldiers to return.

  9.

  IT WAS STRANGE TO be following the same path we’d used to escape from the Compound. Once more, we were racing to something we’d already escaped from. I longed for the day when we could just live in one place.

  Red raised his hand and motioned Flush and me to stop. He pointed to Argos, who was sniffing the ground with a sudden intensity. When he lifted his head, snow encrusted his muzzle.

  Directly next to his front paws were human footprints.

  I lowered myself to the ground and analyzed the treads; they weren’t from the moccasins of the Skull People nor the rags of the Crazies. These were pre-Omega shoes: Brown Shirt boots.

  Soldiers.

  My body gave an involuntary shudder.

  “How many, do you think?” Flush asked.

  “Looks like two.”

  “Recent?”

  “Recent enough.”

  The footprints veered inland, away from the river but in the direction of the Compound.

  “Do we follow them?” Flush asked.

  “Do we have a choice?”

  We shared a look, and Argos took off at a trot.

  The footsteps were easy enough to track, and by midafternoon Flush pointed to the far horizon. Squinting across the flat tundra of snow, all I could make out was a speck of a distant object, sparkling sunlight.

&n
bsp; “Solar panels,” Flush explained. “I used to clean those things.”

  That was his job at the Compound. While I was working in the Wheel, he was helping harness energy.

  “So we’re close?” Red asked.

  “Not just close,” Flush said. “We’re probably above the Compound right now.” We all looked at our feet, envisioning what was on the underside of the ground.

  We marched on, eager to reach the Compound entrance … and dreading it just the same.

  It was the smell that suddenly led us forward. The footsteps were still there, of course, but we could have reached the Compound from the scent alone.

  No, not scent—more like stench.

  “What the heck?” Flush said.

  Neither Red nor I answered, because we each had a suspicion we didn’t want to voice. The Brown Shirts’ rotting, putrefying bodies outside Libertyville had taught us what death smelled like. But why was that smell so strong out here, especially the closer we got to the Compound?

  When the footsteps forked in the direction of the Compound’s main entrance, we abandoned them and went the other way, following the smell instead. We needed to see where it led us.

  We were now in a field of corn stubble, dead stalks jutting from the snow. With each passing step, the bile rose in my throat, and my imagination was working overtime. Did we really want to discover the source of this awful stench?

  Argos stopped and began to whimper. At first, I thought he was picking up the scent of more footsteps. Then I saw the black oval—a small hole in the middle of the field. It was nearly invisible to the naked eye … and just wide enough in diameter to allow a human body.

  “Good boy,” I said, and nudged him out of the way.

  I got down on hands and knees and inched forward, then stuck my head into the opening. There was a long wooden ladder that descended into darkness. Where it led was impossible to see. All I knew was that a wave of rancid smells gushed through the narrow opening, like lava spewing from a volcano.

  I recoiled, breathing through my mouth to avoid gagging. It was rotten eggs and dead skunk and overflowing outhouses all mixed together. My eyes watered after a single whiff.

  “Where’s it lead?” Flush asked.

  “Hell,” I answered … and then started making my way down.