“You all okay back there?” Aidan asks, after a long period of silence.
“They’re asleep,” I answer automatically.
“Are you okay?” he presses, and I realise that I was included in his initial question.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Do you think she’s going to make it?” he asks eventually.
“No,” I reply truthfully, “I don’t.” I press my hand to my mouth trying to hold back a sob, and he turns his head, looking at me through the seats.
“Hey,” he turns back to check the road and then swivels around to face me once more. “It’s okay.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me and he cranes his neck again.
“Rebecca, come up here,” he pleads, and then, “please.” When I don’t move he tries again.
“I’m going to seriously hurt my neck if I have to keep looking back there. Just for a minute; you need to talk about it.”
“I don’t. I’m fine,” I reply, biting down on my tongue and turning my head away so he can’t see the tears springing to my eyes.
“Get up here,” his voice is low and earnest. I sigh and then, squeezing the child’s hand once more, I move slowly past her and between the seats, flopping down into the passenger seat. I twist my body so that my legs are in the space between the two seats and I am facing the back. This way I can keep my eyes on her. Aidan smiles encouragingly at me, shifting to a lower gear as we start up a steep incline.
“Seriously,” he murmurs, “are you okay?”
“She’s not going to make it,” I answer hollowly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m fine.”
“Does she . . . does she remind you of him?” he asks, licking his lips nervously. “Of Alex?” The word sounds unfamiliar as it rolls off his tongue.
“Yeah. A bit.”
“He’s okay, though,” he points out, “he’s safe?”
“For now,” I nod.
“As sad as this is,” he gestures behind him, “your son, our son,” he corrects, “is okay.” I give a screech of hysterical laughter.
“Okay?” I ask incredulously, wiping at my eyes. “Okay? He’s about to find out that his father, who incidentally he adores, is alive but doesn’t remember who he is! How the hell am I going to explain that?” I ask, another tear tracking its way down my cheek.
“You’re not,” he says quietly. “You won’t have to explain it to him alone, Rebecca. He’s my son, too. I’ll be there to help you.”
I sniff loudly, feeling embarrassed about my outburst.
“You’re right. I’m being stupid. I’m being overemotional. She’s just too close to home.” I glance back at the slumbering child.
“What’s he like?” Aidan asks and, as always, thinking of Alex makes me smile.
“He’s gorgeous. Full of life and energy and questions. He questions everything. He has an enquiring mind.”
“What does he look like?”
“He has your eyes, but he looks like me.”
“He must be a good-looking kid.” His compliment throws me a little and I don’t answer.
“So, you seem to be getting quite close to Sofia?” I ask and he looks at me strangely.
“I, uh, I don’t really think this is something we should talk about,” he mumbles.
“You know, you’re right. It’s the last thing I want to talk about.” My voice is laced with anger and he picks it up immediately.
“I understand it must be hard for you.”
“Seeing the man you’ve loved your whole life cosying up to a complete stranger? No, not at all, why would you say that?” I retort sarcastically.
He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. And the man whose fault it is paid for it with his life.”
I am still not sure how I feel about Eric. A part of me wants to hate him, the part that doesn’t want to deal with the fact that I may have been wrong, that Eric may not have been all bad. He was my husband for over three years and all that time I had worked against him. I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if I had confided in him, if he had confided in me. Would things be any different? Might we have been on the same side, united against a common enemy? Adam’s words come back to me: the enemy of your enemy is your friend.
A few minutes go by and I keep my eyes on our patient.
“You really loved me your whole life?” Aidan keeps his gaze fixed on the road as he breaks the silence.
“Yes.”
“And I loved you?”
“Madly,” I smile. “You used to say that I was your orbit. That your path just seemed to . . .”
“. . . revolve around you,” he finishes unthinkingly, and with a jolt of shock, we jerk our heads to stare at each other. “Why would I say that?” he asks, sounding startled.
“You always say that,” I whisper, not daring to breathe.
“I do?” he frowns, a perplexed expression on his face. “I can’t remember . . . Why can’t I remember anything?” He hits the steering wheel angrily and Sofia calls suddenly from the back, “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” Aidan replies, smiling reassuringly at her in the rear-view mirror. He glances across at me briefly and then turns his attention back to the road, almost as if wishing I wasn’t sitting there beside him. “Nothing,” he murmurs again, a blank mask settling on his face. I ease myself back between the seats, settling into my original position beside the injured girl, my head swimming with a myriad questions that I know there are no answers to.
By the time we reach Fresno the sun is setting and the child has not woken. She is still deathly pale, and I have taken to checking her pulse every few minutes, in case she dies in her sleep. Henry will only change the bandages in the morning and, if she survives the night, he will start her on a course of oral antibiotics. While Archer goes in search of food and the others search the vicinity, checking that there is no danger nearby and finding a suitable place for us to sleep, I set about cleaning the child. Henry soon joins me.
“She needs a name,” I murmur, wiping down her body with a damp cloth. She is shivering slightly, but I have stripped her of her filthy, blood-stained clothes and have found a woman’s size T-shirt in the pile of clothes we packed into the Humvee. It is far too big, but at least it’s clean.
“She may have one already,” Henry says.
“She needs a name,” I stress. If she never wakes up we will have to bury her. I cannot bury a nameless child. Henry seems to understand.
“Maggie,” he offers.
“Maggie?”
“Yes. After Maggie Thatcher. She was the first female British prime minister. Come to think of it, she was the only female prime minister. Unless there’s been another since the war – I’m not really up to speed with British current affairs,” he says, tongue in cheek. “Anyway, many of my fellow countrymen didn’t really hold her in high esteem, but I always liked old Maggie.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I laugh, “but Maggie it is.” I wipe away the last traces of dirt and slip the T-shirt over her head.
“Please get well, Maggie,” I whisper, kissing her forehead.
The others spend the night in various buildings, but I stay in the truck with Maggie, still checking her pulse every so often. I convince Henry to get some rest and eventually he consents, dragging a weary Sofia with him. Reed climbs in with me a little after dark.
“Sleep, Tiny,” he urges, pulling my head down onto his lap. “I’ll keep an eye on her.” Secure in the knowledge that he will do as he says, I fall into a fitful sleep, my dreams filled with visions of mutilated children.
At some point during the night I am woken by the sounds of Henry rummaging through his bag for more fever medication, which he gets down Maggie’
s throat with great difficulty. Fully awake, I reach for her hand, which seems warmer and less clammy than before. I tell Reed to get some sleep and I lie next to her, stroking her hair.
“We’ll change the bandages in the morning,” Henry whispers in the dark.
“She seems a little better,” I mention just before he leaves. He is silent for a long moment and I can sense the compassion radiating off him.
“Let’s just see what tomorrow brings.”
I open my eyes in the morning and a pair of green eyes stares back at me. I jerk back with a start, colliding with Reed, who sits straight up with a bellow of surprise.
“You’re awake,” is all I can think of saying as I stare at Maggie. She is still very pale, but there is no sweat beading on her brow and there are two faint roses of colour on her cheeks. She doesn’t say a word, but regards me curiously.
“Get Henry,” I whisper and Reed climbs out of the truck.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Maggie.
“Where’s my mommy?” Her voice is lilting and she has a slight lisp.
“Oh honey, I’m not sure.”
Henry, thankfully, arrives before she can say anything else. “What’s your name, love?” he asks, checking her pulse rate.
“Brooke,” she replies shyly.
“That’s a beautiful name,” he smiles. “So much for Maggie,” he mutters.
“She’s seems much better,” I say hopefully.
“We should change her bandages.”
“Henry?” There is something he’s not telling me.
“I won’t know until we change them,” he insists, and then, seeing my expression, he sighs.
“Brooke, we’ll be back in a minute. My daughter Sofia is going to sit with you.”
Brooke nods indifferently and Henry signals me to follow him. Once outside, I raise my voice slightly.
“What’s going on, Henry. She’s better, right?”
“It could be the surge,” he mumbles.
“The what?”
“The surge. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes, a few days, even a few hours before death, patients suddenly experience a surge of energy. They seem to be getting better, remarkably so, but it doesn’t change the outcome.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“But true,” he meets my gaze levelly. “You’ve seen her injuries, Rebecca. You may not be a doctor, but what do you think?”
I avert my eyes, frowning in consternation. Brooke’s injuries are the worst I have seen in a long time, but I look Henry right in the eye as I lie with all the conviction I can muster.
“She’s going to be fine.”
Henry smiles indulgently. “Okay, then, let’s go and change those bandages.”
I brace myself as Henry pulls back Brooke’s blankets and slowly raises the hem of the oversized T-shirt I have dressed her in. I am sitting near her head, smoothing her hair and trying to distract her, but it’s not really working. I can see the fear and the trepidation on her little face. Henry very carefully starts to unravel the bandages, rolling them back up as he goes. Suddenly, he sits back, drops his hands to his sides and stares down at her. His face is as white as a sheet. Oh God, it’s bad.
Sofia, distracted from her chore of preparing the new bandages, looks down to see why he has hesitated. She does a double take and crosses herself. I am about to snap at them for their lack of consideration, when a huge smile breaks over Henry’s face.
“What is it?” I ask, hope flaring in my chest.
“A miracle,” he answers mysteriously and I look to Sofia for an explanation.
“It’s impossible,” she whispers.
“What is?”
“See for yourself,” Henry moves slightly to the left and I have a full view of both her legs.
“Are the angels coming for me?” Brooke’s small voice breaks the stunned silence and I look down at her.
“No, sweetheart. You’re going to be fine.” I can’t help myself and I start to laugh, Henry and Sofia joining in. “You’re going to be just fine.”
Chapter 29
“She’s healing,” I tell Reed. “She’s Gifted. He raises his eyebrows disbelievingly.
“No way. How? She’s four years old! Who would do that to a little kid?”
“I have no idea.” I shake my head. I completely understand his disgust, the Gifting procedures are highly risky, and to put a child’s life in jeopardy is beyond my comprehension. I have seen this before, though. Morgan and Michael Kelly’s mother did the same thing. She risked her children’s lives, giving them the Gifts of strength and speed. She did it to save them, to give them a fighting chance in the war that was coming, but she did not survive her own procedure. The siblings’ father, Simon Kelly, was working for Eric and he had been willing to hand them over to the Dane army without a second thought. At least Maria Kelly’s intentions had been pure – she had genuinely wanted to protect her children. Perhaps Brooke’s mother had done the same – who am I to judge a person without knowing all the facts?
“I don’t like it either,” I say, “but regardless of whoever gave that child her ability or why, it has just saved her life.”
Brooke is sitting with Adam at the fire, her intelligent eyes alive with excitement. She is in awe of Adam, who is regaling her with stories, and we have let her loose among the toy supplies, along with the young Deranged boy. Adam has named him Oliver after some orphan character in an old book he has read. The two children were overwhelmed at first but, having discovered the joys of toy cars and teddy bears, they soon settled down together.
I watch fondly as Brooke unconsciously fiddles with her bandages. Her wounds, though improving, are by no means completely healed and Henry is keeping them wrapped and coated in antiseptic cream to ward off infection. At the rate she is healing, he will probably need to take the stitches out this evening so that they do not become embedded in the new tissue. The antibiotics have also been deemed unnecessary.
“She must have been living within the fences,” Reed interrupts my musings. “It’s the only way she could have had the procedure.”
“Unless someone out here is doing it.”
“That’s highly unlikely.” He’s right. The materials and the serum, never mind the high-tech laboratory apparatus needed to facilitate the procedures are hardly easy to come by. And as far as we know, there are very few people who are capable of administering the procedures to begin with.
“So what were they doing all the way out here?” I ponder. “Why leave the safety of the States?”
“Maybe you should ask her that,” Reed nods in Brooke’s direction.
I wait until after lunch and then I take her aside. Very carefully, I broach the subject of her mother and her face falls. She knows, I realise, as she starts opening up. Brooke knows that her mother is dead. She remembers her collapsing and not getting up again. She stayed with her during the night and then went in search of water, but she didn’t make it far before she fell on the street, her own strength failing her. She vaguely remembers the coyote.
“Where did you come from, before you ended up here?” I ask. “Did you cross any fences; do you remember?” She shakes her head, no. They moved from place to place, I gather, as she continues, never settling anywhere. A nomadic lifestyle in the barren lands with a small child is no easy feat; I’m surprised they survived as long as they did. I can’t help thinking that she is wrong about crossing the fences. Reed is right, there is no other way she could have been Gifted.
“Well, you’re safe now,” I promise, and her grateful smile melts my heart.
We spend two days in Fresno but we do not find any Deranged. Adam approaches a man on the street on the day of our departure, but this man is impervious to his charms. When Adam is within striking distance the man launches himself at him, his eyes rolling crazily i
n his head, saliva dripping from his mouth as he lets out an inhuman howl. Archer’s shot hits him square in the chest and he drops instantly, as Adam stands perfectly still before him.
“Freaking Rados,” Archer mutters under his breath, “there’s no reasoning with them.” I’m suitably impressed.
Archer’s skills with the bow are astounding. I am also surprised at how easily he killed a man in order to protect Adam, and how calmly everyone accepts this. I realise for the first time that although Adam is a saviour, his primary aim to protect and help those in need, he is no soft target. His compassion is not a weakness, and he will kill to protect himself and those around him. He is far more of a warrior than I initially gave him credit for, and I begin to believe that the Ordinary army may just be an asset in our war against NUSA.
The cities pass by in a blur, and we pick up two more Deranged along the way, one woman and one man, only two miles apart, near the city of Madera. There are now seventeen of us travelling in the three vehicles and I am beginning to worry about running out of space. The Deranged who we have picked up along the way are used to living in isolation, and my main concern is that travelling in such close proximity to others could unhinge them and result in catastrophe.
“If we find any more survivors where do you plan on putting them?” I ask Adam early one morning, before we continue north.
“We’ll make space,” he says, after a moment’s consideration, but he seems concerned too.
“Maybe,” I answer, “but if not, we may have to consider going back and offloading. We can always return later.” I can see that he is not happy with my suggestion, but he doesn’t argue.
It is in Modesto that we find a solution. Loader discovers an old Modesto Area Express bus. I have never seen the big man so animated. The fifty-seater bus is obviously not running, but Loader is confident that he can get it going with a bit of help from the motor vehicle parts we found in LA.
“I’ll need a couple of days,” he booms in his deep baritone voice.
“A bus,” Reed’s voice oozes disdain and I rub his shoulder sympathetically. He has just got used to the truck and its speed restrictions, and now this.
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