After the End ate-1

by Amy Plum

  I don’t understand how mankind can watch their loved ones get sick, when following the Yara ensures health and longevity. I remember asking my father how men could willfully destroy the earth and destroy themselves. How something as precious as life could be treated with such disdain.

  “The answer was right there in front of them,” my father said. “But they chose to be blind. They chose temporary ease over long-term stability.” And now that I am out in the very world he was talking about, seeing the effects of not being one with nature, I understand what he meant.

  I used all my free time in Seattle reading about current events, catching up with what happened to the world since the 1984 EB left off. The world is as my parents had described its condition leading up to the war. That part was true. Whole species of animals becoming extinct. Natural disasters becoming commonplace. Diseases running rampant… diseases that could be avoided in a healthy setting, following the Yara, treating nature as it should be treated and receiving the reward. Why, when offered practical immortality, would man turn his back on it?

  Then it hits me. Miles acted so weird when I insisted that my father hadn’t aged that I didn’t press the point. He treated his mother’s illness as normal. He thinks of disease and death as unavoidable. Reading and Conjuring seem like magic tricks to him. They don’t know.…

  From the way my parents and Whit described the world, it sounded like a choice mankind had made—when presented with the Yara, they rejected it. But what if they had never known about it at all?

  In that case, our “escape” from the nonexistent World War III was like abandoning ship when things were at their most dire. But why would they do that? Why couldn’t they live among “nonbelievers” and try to change things for the better with their knowledge?

  Why not work from inside the machine to change it instead of running away and waiting for end times to destroy it so they could rebuild it pure and new? It just doesn’t make sense. I know deep down that my parents and the elders are good people, even if they lied to us. So why would they sit by on the sidelines and watch the earth destroy itself? It almost seems like they hold a secret they don’t want anyone to know.

  The gas-pump light on the dashboard flashes red. The dial underneath it is on the E. “E for empty,” I remember Miles quipping as he pulled over to get gas. I wonder how far I can drive before the car stops working.

  The only buildings in sight are barns set way off the road. I drive for another fifteen minutes, keeping my eye on the gas needle, and begin to worry that I won’t make it to a gas station in time and will be stranded in the middle of the Utah wilderness. I have no doubt that I could survive until I made it to a town. But if I strike out on foot, I will be a sitting duck for my pursuers—especially Whit, who could find me in mere hours.

  I see yet another sign for the main highway, and this time I follow it. My heart is in my throat as I turn onto the entrance ramp. I’ve been so worried about running across Whit that when I don’t see the big green vehicle from when I Read Poe the moment I pull onto the highway, I feel a surge of relief. And I feel even better when I see a sign indicating that there is a gas station ahead.

  In five minutes I’m pulling off into a Shell station lit up from the inside, and the only person there is the girl behind the cash register. I have watched Miles fill the car with gas enough times to figure it out myself, and in no time I am standing at the counter, handing the cashier a hundred-dollar bill. I left the sunglasses Miles bought me in the car, so I stare downward to hide my eyes, but the girl behind the register doesn’t even look at me.

  I’m feeling so jittery that when a car turns into the station, I’m ready to make a dash for the bathrooms. But when I see that it’s a small red car and a woman in a cowboy hat steps out, I breathe easy and walk back to Miles’s car.

  I don’t want to stay here, out in the open, any longer than I need to, but I’ve been driving for two hours and was already starving when Miles and I arrived at the motel. One minute is all I need to dig through the trunk and pull out a couple of apples, a bag of walnuts, and a bottle of water. I toss them into the passenger side and go back to close the trunk when I hear a familiar squawk. I look up to see a black shape hurtling down into the fluorescent-lit station toward me.

  Poe lands on the ground and ruffles his feathers once before squawking again. There’s only one reason that Poe would search me out, and that is if Whit directed him to. Panicking, I pick up the bird and close my eyes. I feel nothing. No connection.

  It is only then that I see the tiny flashing light coming from Poe. I lift him above my head to get a better look and see a metal ring clamped around his leg with something electronic attached to it. It must be a device used to locate the bird. Whit sent Poe to find me and will follow this machine’s signals straight to me.

  I try to crush the metallic tag between my fingers. No use. I remember the way I broke Miles’s phone—the fire that I Conjured to melt the insides—and try to repeat it. Nothing happens. My heart seizes with despair. I am no longer connected to the Yara. I feel naked. Powerless.

  The sound of screeching tires comes from the highway. I turn to see an army-green Jeep with three passengers swerve across the highway from the left lane in order to catch the exit to the gas station.

  I take a split second to assess my strength against theirs. I have no doubt Whit’s companions are armed. It’s three against one, and I have only a crossbow and a knife. The odds are against me.

  I drop Poe, scoop up my pack from where I had set it on the ground next to the car, and leaping over the gas station’s cement barrier, run at full speed into the pitch-black night.

  38

  MILES

  DAD’S SECURITY DETAIL TAKES A PRIVATE JET TO Twin Falls and arrives at the hotel in less than two hours. They introduce themselves as Redding and Portman but don’t need to say much more—I see them standing around security-guarding every time I visit Dad’s office. “Do you have any idea where she was headed?” Portman asks me, leaning over the seat as we speed away from the El Dorado.

  I pause. “She was heading toward Salt Lake City,” I admit, feeling a pang of guilt when I think of the expression on Juneau’s face as she drove off in my car. Is this just another betrayal? No, I decide. I’m helping her. Once she talks to Dad, this manhunt will be called off and he’ll go after the people who actually do have the information he needs.

  While Redding drives, Portman flips between trucker CB ham radio stations and the police scanner. We’re on the road less than fifteen minutes when a blue BMW is identified as abandoned at an interstate highway gas station about an hour away in the direction of Salt Lake. The plate number matches my own.

  39

  JUNEAU

  MY EYES HAVEN’T ADJUSTED TO THE DARKNESS. I am running blind through low scrub, with my pack thrown over one shoulder and my hands stretched in front of me in case I run into anything. But there is nothing to run into, just knee-high grasses slapping my jeans with a hissing swish, and occasional bushes crackling under my shoes.

  I don’t dare look back. I’m certain they saw me under the bright lights of the Shell station, and this pastureland offers nowhere to hide. I see a dark wall rising slowly to meet me, and after a few minutes realize that I’m headed toward a tree line.

  I hear shouts behind me and am glad for the waist-high barrier around the gas station’s parking lot. If it weren’t for that, Whit and his men could have driven off-road right after me. But from the sounds of it, they decided to follow on foot. The trees get closer, and my vision is clearer now that the fluorescent glare has worn off.

  As I reach the first of the trees, I allow myself a split second to look back, and see two bulky forms lumbering across the pasture, vaguely in my direction, flashlight gleams bobbing up and down as they run. They haven’t seen me, or they would be headed directly my way. I take off through the trees, leaping over broken branches and bushes, headed in no particular direction besides away from them.

&nb
sp; The trees turn out not to be woods, but rather clumps of evergreens separated by stretches of barren grassland. There is no good cover—I am exposed.

  And then it happens: I step into some kind of hole, and my trapped foot remains stationary while the rest of me keeps going. I am blinded by a white blaze of pain.

  Crouching, I use my fingers to pull the dirt away from my foot until it is free. Although I can barely see, I can feel that the hole is a big one. Fox or badger den, I think. Making a split-second decision, I grope around until my fingers touch a fallen branch, and I use it to dig out the tunnel. Driven by fear, I uncover the empty animal den in less than a minute and, dragging my injured foot behind me, gather the nearest sticks and branches.

  I throw my pack in the three-foot hole and then lower myself down into it, lying on my side with my pack at my stomach, curling up fetal-style around it. Reaching up to my pile of evergreen branches, I sweep the stack over and around me until I—and the hole—am completely covered. And then I wait.

  Now that I am motionless, my ankle throbs with pain. I want to touch it, to feel if something is broken, but I’m afraid that any movement will shift the branches and uncover my hiding spot. I bite my lip until I taste blood. Every crackle of leaves, every creaking branch is amplified in my ears as I listen for my pursuers. And what seems a mere moment after I am hidden, they arrive. One is close by—I hear the plodding of heavy boots. From a distance I hear the other one yell, “There’s no one out here. Like I said, she went the other way.”

  The nearby footsteps stop, then shuffle around as the man sweeps the area with his flashlight. A ray of it pierces down through the pine needles into my den. But I am hidden well enough that he sees nothing, because his footsteps get fainter as he moves farther away.

  I wonder where Whit is. Probably back at the car, letting his henchmen do his dirty work. Where did he even meet these people? What happened to the peace-loving dependable man I’ve known my whole life? For what possible reason would he have my entire clan kidnapped and imprisoned? And why can’t he just leave it at that? Why does he need me?

  Acid rage burns inside my chest. I want to scream but clench my fists instead, so hard that my fingernails dig painfully into my palms.

  I stay in the hole for as long as I can. Finally, when I get to the point where I am so chilled and in pain that I’d prefer capture to staying another minute in the ground, I lift my hand and sweep my cover away.

  I sit up. Look around. No one is here but me and a surprised-looking squirrel, who begins chittering wildly as I lift myself up—scolding me for scaring him. I brush off the dirt and leaves and test my foot. It is painful, but I can put a tiny bit of pressure on it. I press gingerly around my ankle. The flesh is swollen, but not enormous like Nome’s when she got it caught in the emergency shelter’s trapdoor. “A light sprain,” Esther, our clan doctor, had said. But Nome couldn’t walk on hers, and I am at least able to hobble my way through the grasslands.

  My eyes have adjusted so well to the darkness that I easily locate a large branch on the ground and strip its limbs, trimming it to armpit height with the knife from my pack, rounding off the top so that it doesn’t poke me. I try out my crutch and find I can put enough weight on the stick to walk at a reasonable pace.

  I look ahead and see a mountain range emerge abruptly out of the pastureland in the near distance, just a few miles away. I can hide there until I’m sure they’ve finished looking for me, I think, and set off in the direction of the towering peaks.

  40

  MILES

  IT LOOKS LIKE JUNEAU GOT DESPERATE ENOUGH for gas to venture off the tiny side roads to the interstate. But why would she abandon my car? The only explanation I can fathom is that Whit caught up with her while she was getting gas. Either he captured her, or she took off on foot to get away from him.

  A nagging thought claws at my heart. Everyone she knows has betrayed her. Her mentor, her parents, and now me. I can’t imagine how it would feel to be completely on your own, with no one you can trust. She opened up to me. Told me all about her bizarre past. And what did I do? Turned her over to my dad.

  But… (1) it’s not like he’s going to do anything bad to her. He’s a businessman, not a thug.

  And (2) she freaking used me last night. She tricked me into kissing her and drugged me. All for her hocus-pocus Yara delusions. I wonder what I even said to her while I was “under the influence.” Something about Whit following her and catching her. And another tidbit about serpents and city near unpotable water. Which she handily interpreted as the Snake River and Salt Lake City.

  That was kind of clever, actually, I think. She is a smart girl. She just has her crazy alternate universe mixed up with reality, which is kind of sad.

  What’s wrong with me? I get kicked out of school just before graduation, I botch up my one chance to earn some respect from my dad, and I’m falling for a lunatic. I wish I could just wipe the slate clean and start back at square one. If I hadn’t cheated on the test, I would be graduating and getting ready for my freshman year at Yale.

  I have to prove myself. I know how Juneau thinks better than these play-it-by-the-rule subservient goons of Dad’s do. As soon as I can get away from them, I’ll continue the search for her on my own.

  I ride the rest of the way in silence, trying not to think about her honey-colored eyes.

  41

  JUNEAU

  I’VE PACED MYSELF AT A FAST HOBBLE ACROSS THE pastureland and stay as close as I can to the clumps of trees so that I’m not an easily spottable lone figure wading through the seas of knee-high grass. I see up ahead that at the base of the mountain there is a curtain of trees. Hiding will be easier once I am among them.

  I look up at the position of the moon and find the constellations. It’s around midnight.

  Setting my sights on a small stream that flows out of the wooded mountainside, I do my hop-limp-hop toward the water. When I reach it, I follow it just past the tree line, and, once hidden among the evergreens, slump to the ground and scoop several handfuls of water to my lips. It is ice-cold and delicious. Filling my canteen, I allow myself a few minutes to recover but know I can’t stay here for long.

  I lie back, nesting my head in a pillow of leaves, and close my eyes. I am deep-breathing, trying to restore myself enough to be able to trek for a few hours, when I hear the crunching of boots on twigs. I shoot up into a sitting position, grab my bag, rifle through it, and in three seconds am on one knee, pointing my crossbow in the direction of the light that bobs toward me through the woods.

  How did Whit’s men manage to get so far in front of me? I didn’t see anyone else on the pastureland leading up to the mountain. I kneel there, one eye closed, the other peering through my crossbow’s metal sight, when I hear a woman’s voice.

  “Don’t shoot. I’m totally harmless.”

  I keep my finger on the trigger, ready to fire, and watch the flashlight approach until the person stands five feet away. The light points straight into my eyes, “Yep, it’s you,” she says, and then angles the light up at her own face. “See?” she says. “I’m just a woman. Not an ax murderer.”

  I grab my improvised crutch and use it to push myself up into a standing position as the stranger approaches, but keep the crossbow pointed in her direction.

  “Looks like you’ve hurt your foot,” she says, staring at the crutch. “Well, we better get you back to my house. Would it be easier if you put an arm around my shoulder?”

  “Who—who are you?” I stammer.

  “My mom named me Tallulah Mae, but you can call me Tallie.”

  I stare at her. Who is this woman who just appeared out of nowhere? I don’t think she’s with Whit—I never saw any women with him in the Readings. And from the way that she waits, arms crossed, for me to say something, I can tell her attitude is impatient rather than menacing. She throws off her hood and a cascade of elbow-length red curly hair springs free. “See. A normal, unthreatening, thirtysomething woman. Not a serial
killer bone in my body, I swear.” And she gives this grin that wipes any lingering doubt from my mind.

  “There are some men after me,” I say, half whispering, and dart an anxious look over my shoulder toward the pastureland.

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that,” she says. “It’s okay. I’m ninety-nine percent sure they won’t follow us, and my house is just five minutes upslope. Now come on, let’s get you indoors.” And she drapes my arm around her shoulder and helps me hobble much more quickly than I could on my own.

  As we follow the stream uphill, I don’t see anything slightly resembling a house or any sign of civilization. And then, all of a sudden we are approaching a large log cabin. “Wow, I didn’t even see that coming!” I exclaim.

  “Camouflage,” she says proudly. “I’ve planted trees strategically around the place so that even if lights are on, you can’t see them from the base of the mountain.”

  We come around a clump of bushes and I get a full view. It stops me in my tracks. “Your house is built over the stream?” I gasp.

  The main section of the log cabin is two stories high, but there’s a windowed room—like a closed-in balcony just as wide as the house—that stretches over the rushing water and is supported by stilt-like wood columns on the far bank.

  “Yep. You’d think it was just whimsy, but in fact it’s terribly practical to have running water so close.” Smiling, she opens the door and helps me totter through. Her jade-green eyes sparkle, and the smile on her bowed lips is genuine and friendly.

  “Let’s see about this foot now. I’m going to be really careful,” she says, and eases my tennis shoe off my hurt foot. I wince as a lightning bolt of pain passes through my ankle, but the shoe is off and now Tallie’s peeling back the sock. “Well, now. It looks like you might have a sprain here,” she says, touching the swollen skin lightly. “But if you were able to put a tiny bit of weight on it, which you did, then it must not be too bad. Let’s get you over to the couch and ice it.”