“I have to try.”
The color in the sky lightens, like night is turning inside out. I help Grandpa from the car. He leans on me, testing his leg. We take several steps together, but they are arduous and painfully slow. We won’t get far this way. Grandpa tries putting more weight on it to move faster. A dull crack just below his knee sends him into another fit of agony. He shakes his head, frustrated, as I help him back to the car. He looks at me with apologetic eyes. “I’m afraid walking will make it worse,” he says.
It occurs to me: Maybe he doesn’t need to walk. Maybe I can pull him. “I’ll make you something you can sit on,” I say. “Something that will move, and I’ll pull you.”
“A sleigh,” he mumbles.
“A what?” The word is new to me.
“A sleigh. You’re going to make me a sleigh.”
On the other side of the road, I find a hollowed piece of metal. The edges curve up, and there are two hinges on either side, but the center is smooth and good for sitting. Grandpa says it was a convertible once and that this was the top. The daylight sneaks up on us, painting everything in fresh color. Most everything is a deep charcoal, except for the new fragments of things that have been left. A dark purple sweater. A child’s pacifier. Someone’s shoe.
I find floor mats in the car we slept in and, even though the rubber is crumbling, use them to pad the convertible top. I cover them with the wool blanket to form a seat. “You’re going to need something to pull it with,” Grandpa says, though I can tell he thinks this is a bad idea. “You won’t get me very far,” he says a couple of times as I search everywhere for rope or twine. “I’m twice your size.”
“You have one good leg. You can push. I’ll pull.”
In the trunk of the car, I find two rubber cords with metal clips on the ends. I hold them up. “Could these work?”
“Jumper cables? Maybe. Maybe so.”
I loop the cables around the rusty hinges on the convertible cover, working them so they stay put. When the sleigh is ready, I help Grandpa into it, then hook the jumper cables around my shoulders like a harness. Grandpa laughs when I do this. “This is ridiculous, Rudolph.”
“Rudolph?”
“It was a name once. A silly name for an animal that pulled a sleigh. It doesn’t matter now.”
I chuck the cables over my shoulders and make ready to walk. “If Rudolph can do it, so can I.”
Grandpa looks worried. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“What’s a little scrape or bruise? Come on. Push with your good leg.”
We start along. Progress is slow as we find our rhythm. The sky changes quickly now, turning a warm amber at the very bottom. The wind stills, making the air thick and moist. I press on, but when we’re halfway to the second car—the one with a fabric roof and windows—I stop. I’m sweating in my mother’s chemical suit. I let the harness fall from my shoulders, then shrug off John’s cargo jacket. I peel the chemical suit halfway down, then turn, tucking the book under my T-shirt. It sticks to my skin, providing a strange, alien kind of comfort. Despite the heat, I keep John’s jacket on. The chemical suit is useful, so I add it to the sleigh. Grandpa looks at it, then at me. “So that’s how you did it.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d wondered how you got out undetected.”
I keep pulling, timing each step with his good leg’s pushes at the back. We pass the full length of the car pileup. I catch my grandfather looking at it, his eyes strange and far away. His face grows pale, and I decide once again not to tell him about the book, about Miriam, John, and the man who hunted us. Not yet. I can tell something has changed inside him over the last twenty-four hours, like a single thread in the core of him has been severed. Every time I think I should tell him, I turn back, and the look in his eyes tells me not to.
“We’re almost there, Grandpa,” I lie several times. The lie is important now more than ever. What good would it do to tell him there’s nothing for us in the Winnow, that we’ll be lucky to make it that far alive? A little hope never hurt anyone, it seems.
I spot the overturned truck, its cargo obstructing the road. Bones start appearing around me. I’m pulling as hard as I can, but something’s amiss. I turn and find Grandpa has stopped pushing. He’s just sitting there, dazed. I drop the cables and go to him. He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are vacant, watching something in the distance. I take his hand. “Grandpa, you have to help me. Do you hear me? You have to push. Push with your good leg.”
“Yeah,” he says, blankly. “Yeah, it’s just . . . I thought I saw something.”
“What? What did you see?”
“I don’t know. Little black bodies in the distance. Darting around.”
I follow his gaze back to the road, toward Fell’s bioslice towering on the horizon. There’s nothing there but the things we passed. The heat is rising as we stand still. We have to keep moving. “There’s nothing there. Let’s go.”
I reposition the cables and set off. Soon, we hit a sea of bones. The skeletons sing along the underside of the sleigh as we tear over them. The snap and scratch of them against the underbelly of the metal makes me walk faster. “Push, Grandpa. Let’s go!”
The pushing stops. I halt in the middle of a patch of bones next to the overturned truck. The smell hits me. Where it was pungent before, it’s downright foul now. I can barely breathe, but again, Grandpa hardly seems to notice. He lifts his hand and points dully into the distance. “Noelle, look.”
My gut sickens when I see them: a pack of wild dogs following us. Stalking. That’s the word I get when I look at them. No wonder I didn’t spot them; their coats are covered with ash. They’ve been out here a long time, I see now. This is their hunting ground, and we’ve just walked right into it.
The still air fills with a deep, thrumming growl. If their teeth are anything like the ones I’ve been stepping on, we have a serious problem. “Gotta move,” Grandpa says. “And fast.”
“Maybe we can give them something. You know, distract them.”
“No. They’re rabid.”
We abandon the sleigh. I slip under Grandpa’s arm and help him along. We’re slightly faster but more visible, and though he tries not to show it, each step is torture for him. After several steps, I leave behind the long piece of metal in order to help Grandpa with both hands. I glance behind me. The dogs are biding their time. They can sense one of us isn’t moving so well. Easy prey.
“We can hide inside the big truck,” Grandpa says. “Wait them out.”
“No way. It smells like death in there. That will just encourage them.”
“Elle, you go on. Find help in the Winnow. I can defend myself.”
“Absolutely not. We go together or not at all.”
“This isn’t wise. But I know it’s no use telling you. You’ve always made up your own mind.”
We navigate the boneyard, each step excruciating. I keep an eye on the scene behind me. The dogs have spread into a triangle formation, two in the middle, one on each side. I know we don’t have long. I have to hand it to the mutts: it’s a brilliant trap. Up ahead is the chemi-wire fence. We don’t stand a chance of getting through without being torn apart. All they have to do is wait, attack us when we’re most vulnerable, then drag us back to the boneyard, where they can pick us over at leisure. We’re trapped between teeth and fence inside an animal graveyard.
I pull up my sleeve and stare at my leather cuff. John put the two safe squares here for a reason. In case I needed somewhere to hide. I look at the nearest square and remember the car, the small one with its windows intact. “Grandpa, we have to go back. We have to turn and go back right now.”
“What? Why?”
“The car, the one with the fabric roof. We’ll be safe in there.”
Grandpa looks ahead to the Winnow and back at the little two-door car, the dogs lining up just a sprint behind it. They bare their teeth now. A low, guttural noise reaches us. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s run for it.”
“Faster,” Grandpa says. “Must move faster.” There’s no way to avoid the pain: Grandpa has to bear weight on his leg to gain any kind of momentum. We’re ten feet away from the car when the leader lifts his head, giving one ear-piercing howl. The pack releases. They dash for us. Grandpa moans as we hobble toward the car. “Pray it’s open,” he says.
The dogs’ teeth rip at the air. Slobber drips and splashes as they run. Their eyes are already devouring us. We have to outrun them. I let go of Grandpa and sprint to the car door. I check it’s open, then turn and wait. “Come on, Grandpa!” I shout. “Hurry!” The leader extends himself, running full speed at me, his face distorted with hunger and sickness. My hand grips the door. The leader lunges at me full force. One. Two. Three . . .
I wrench the door open just as the leader surges, swinging it on its hinges. The leader hits it and tumbles toward the pack. He rolls, stunned, then regains himself. Those thick teeth emanate from his brown lips. His head lifts, his shoulders rise as his paws come forward. Something deep and angry rumbles inside him—the viciousness magnified. I grab Grandpa and push him into the front seat. The pack surrounds us. It’s too late.
“Elle! Here!” Grandpa reaches out before I shut the door. There’s something sturdy and heavy in my hands. I swing wildly, occasionally clipping their lean flesh. The leader waits while the others advance. A dog with white-and-brown spots clamps down on John’s jacket and pulls. The lower pocket threatens to rip as another dog leaps at me, grabbing my forearm in its mouth. John’s jacket starts to tear. Something inside me snaps.
I whip to the left, whacking the dog on my forearm against the side of the car. With my free arm, I club the mouth that is shredding John’s jacket. It releases me as another approaches for its turn. I bash him with a wild swing, fending him off. He retreats into the pack. The leader backs up as if to run at me. The low rumble inside him has turned to a roaring bark. It cuts the air like thunder.
His teeth gnash as he gallops at me. He’s in the air now. I find the car door and scramble onto a leather seat. Grandpa pulls me across by my shoulders. I tuck my legs and feet in, away from biting teeth. The door slams shut. The dogs start hitting it with their skulls, bashing the windows head-on. In seconds, they’ve surrounded the car. The one with the spots leaps onto the hood. I look at Grandpa, who is breathing as rapidly as I am. “They’re not getting in here, right?”
“I sure as hell hope not,” he says.
Hell is a word I haven’t heard before. But it sounds right for this moment. The fabric roof above us caves in. Paw indentations form above us.
“We’ll have to wait them out,” Grandpa says as the low growl returns.
*
It seems like we’re in the car an eternity. The air inside turns into a humid haze of sweat and breath. The windows are electric, Grandpa says, meaning we can’t open them. The sun drifts along the skyline. We lie in our seats, absorbing the heat, waiting for the dogs to get bored. It occurs to me they are waiting, too. For us to give up or die in the heat. In the outside world, everything merges together—the nameless streets, the long-abandoned houses and buildings. My head drifts side to side, looking into the distance. I think I see a school, its playground a strange ghostly stage for how children once played. Through the front windshield, Fell rises up like a distant fortress.
My eyes shift to the rearview mirror, to a tall figure standing in the shade of the overturned truck. I struggle to determine what’s wrong with his stance, why it’s stiff and strange. Then I understand. He isn’t standing. He’s walking through the bones. He’s headed in our direction. There’s a peculiar purpose in his gait.
I turn to my grandfather. The air coming in and out of him is uneven. I shake him a little, then a little more. “Grandpa? We have to leave.” He doesn’t move. His eyes don’t open. He’s somewhere far away. “Grandpa!”
I swallow the thickness of dread in my throat, bracing myself for the moment the figure will meet the sunlight and no longer be just a shadow. I tilt my face by the window to look outside at the unfettered sky. Help us. Help us, please.
He moves out of the shadows. The sunlight hits his shoes first, then travels up his legs and torso. His face comes into view. The sight of him knocks the breath out of me. His name is just a faint breath of terror on my lips.
NOELLE
EIGHT
John?
It can’t be. I watched him die.
The whole universe slows down to the rhythm of a single step that proves the impossible is real: John Potts, my best friend, is alive.
My mouth falls open in disbelief. Nothing and no one could have saved John. His blood was . . . everywhere. And yet here he is, a mirage drawing closer. The line of his jaw, his cheekbones come into view, followed by his smile. His eyes.
He isn’t real. The heat is getting to me. The concave ceiling of the car lifts up. On the ground outside, four black paws meet the road. The leader and his pack sniff the air, sensing another human nearing. Their growls return, low and hungry as they focus on John in the distance. They bound toward him, new prey.
“John!” I climb into the backseat and bash my palms against the window. “John!” He stops walking. For a moment, I think he hears me. He doesn’t move as the pack approaches him.
Before I can calculate what I’m doing, I open the door. I’m on my feet, flying along the pavement with the stick in my hand. I brace myself for the dogs to attack. I won’t survive losing him a second time. My head grows fuzzy as I run, the heat taking over from the inside. I won’t allow myself to stop. Even though my legs feel strange and prickly. Even though my feet have disappeared and the road is growing, like a mountain. Black asphalt blinds me. Now I’m swimming in it. A searing badge of heat stamps my cheek. Blackness surrounds me.
*
Water. I think I see water, and a face. John’s face. His eyes drip into me. For the first time ever, they’re fully open, clear, and alive. I sit up, startled, and stare back at him. The dogs have dispersed. The breeze has returned.
“John?” I manage to whisper. “You’re okay? You’re alive?”
He looks at me in a way I’ve never seen. I reach for him, relief washing over me from head to toe. He snaps back, avoiding my touch. “John, you can see?”
He nods once, his face imperceptibly calm. It’s no use trying to contain my emotion. The moisture streams down my face. I wipe it away with dirt-covered hands.
My heart begins to race. I can’t resist reaching for him. My arms spread wide, ready to pull him to me. My fingertips graze his shoulder as he starts backward, avoiding me. The strangest sensation punches me in the gut. He freezes, his face turning to stone. “John?” I say again, my nerves swallowing most of the sound. “What’s wrong?”
“Noelle?” His voice is so calm, with a serenity in it I’ve never heard.
“What happened to you?”
There’s a great pause. John glares at me as though he doesn’t know me. The weight of his silence is excruciating. Then I understand. He’s angry. Of course he is. It was all my fault.
“I’m so sorry for what happened. I never meant for . . . for anyone to get hurt.” He studies me for a moment. Everything in my body wants to be close to him. To tell him how sorry I am. To feel him forgive me.
“I thought you were dead.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I thought I had lost you.” A small sob escapes from my chest. I reach for him again, hoping he won’t run away, or disappear, or be taken from me again. “John, please,” I say, looking into his eyes. “I need you to forgive me. I should never have come here. I should never have put you and your family in danger.” His eyebrows knit together.
“And Miriam. Is she alive?”
John tilts his head. “Miriam?”
“Yes! Miriam. I thought they killed her, John. Ju
st like I thought they killed you. And my parents. They’re . . . they’re gone. They killed them. Fell killed them.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How is it possible you’re alive? I can’t believe you’re here! That you can see! What happened to you?”
John looks uncomfortable once again. His lips part as though he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. His eyes search me.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Whatever it is we’ll figure it out. Together. I’m just so happy you’re okay!” I try to hug him, but John takes a determined step back.
“No,” he says, holding up his hand. “You can’t.”
His expression is pained but stony. It’s unlike him to hold a grudge. A Winnower is a friend for life, Grandpa used to say. But I destroyed that the moment I set foot outside the bioslice. You put his family in danger. You let him risk his life . . . for you.
I lower my head. Tears fall from my eyes, dotting the ash-covered road. I can’t look at him anymore. The boy I care so much for, who was once so warm, so happy, turned to ice and stone. “All I can say is I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I need you. I—”
Don’t say it. But I can’t help it. It’s the truth. It’s been the truth for a while. Maybe for forever. John was my best friend. Is my best friend. He made my life in the Vale tolerable. I never wanted anything to happen to him. I feel my gut wrench, my stomach drop. To lose him now when everything else is so dark in my world would be unbearable. He has to know, even if it doesn’t change anything . . .
“I love you.”
I shut my eyes, figuring when they’re open, John will be gone, and this moment will have been part of the raging nightmare of my life. But John is still there, studying me like I’m the rarest thing he’s ever seen. His stern expression has turned reflective. I think I can see his anger breaking.
He lifts his hand to me. For a moment, I think he will let me in. Then the world folds inside itself. John disappears. Suddenly I am blind.
Blood, Ink & Fire Page 8