by Casey Hays
I reset the spring lever as Kyle explained, crossing my fingers the whole time. The gaskets around the hatch suction into place as I spin the handle into its locked position. And I go through the motions. I examine the hatch, push against it. It seems intact. So I focus my attention on the tiny window covered by a small sheet of Plexiglas that houses the gauge. The needle leans drastically, aiming its point at the one-hundred percent mark. Beneath the gauge is a panel with a series of buttons. I check the stopwatch. Three minutes. I have three minutes to get out of here.
I focus on the panel, pushing each button in the order Kyle instructed. And I wait. The needle on the gauge moves to ninety-percent. I hold my breath. Maybe if I don’t breathe at all the toxins will level out more quickly.
At fifty-percent, I check the stopwatch again. One minute fifty-nine seconds. And panic begins to set in. Forty-five percent. Thirty. Eighteen.
Thirty-two seconds remain when the gauge reads ten percent, and I focus on the outer hatch, repeating the steps until only the last few turns of the handle are necessary. Ten seconds, the needle hits zero. One final turn, and the hatch releases. I plunge through the opening, reset the handle to lock itself into place, and slam the hatch. And the freshness of the night air—real live, outdoor air—slams me in the face with its promise of freedom.
I run a hand over the area where the hatch should be. It’s invisible now, blending into the wall. It seems to be sealed.
My heart races. I did it. I run a hand along the back of my neck in relief as a huge explosion of air bursts out of my lungs. I hike up my pack a little higher, turn my back on Eden, and head toward the shadowy tree line.
The siren still blasts, but it’s tolerable in the open. I move quickly, my adrenaline pumping hard and fast. I will be able to run a good while in the dark tonight, and this energizes me.
Suddenly, mixed with the ringing of the siren, I hear something else. Something loud and unfamiliar, a chugging dissonance. And then above the tree line a hulking shadow creeps into view and flies overhead. I freeze in my spot, watching it race across the sky to disappear on the other side of Eden.
Astonishment floods me.
Is that . . . a plane?
The spitting of gunfire echoes off the wall filling the night sky. And I’m running at my highest speed across the open ground to the covering of the trees.
Come to me, all of you who are weary and burdened,
and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you
and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
Matthew 11:28-30
Kate †
Chapter 26
The rains come again, but they do not sweep in like a raging animal this time. They fall over us in a shy drizzle, non-stop and chilled but not torrential. We tolerate the shower for a few hours before Justin decides it best to camp for the night.
We haven’t seen another city in two days, and any cabins or barns or farmhouses we’ve encountered have been so dilapidated they couldn’t provide adequate shelter of any kind. We’ve traveled far, and Justin estimates that we are five days from crossing the river. Five days to civilization, he says.
I’ve often wondered over the last few days what it will be like to see people again. Not the handful of stragglers we’ve seen, but entire villages of people—living and working and surviving in this broken world.
Diana falls asleep quickly tonight. The baby inside her grows, and she has begun to tire more easily. Justin and Jesse take turns carrying her, even when we walk.
I never have told her of our destination. Again and again I reason with my conscience, and again and again it tells me that keeping her in ignorance is best even with the discomfort it causes me. I don’t like to lie, yet every time I muster up my courage and convince myself that today is the day, I find that I cannot tell her the truth. Mostly because I don’t know where to begin. If I tell her we go to Jordan, I must tell her why. And if I tell her we are not welcome in Eden, I must tell her why. And there is no easy way to say any of it.
The rain slows, the pitter-pattering easing up in its constant battering of the tent walls. I rise, slide the zipper open, and steal out into the wet darkness. The raindrops sprinkle my face lightly as the clouds stand back to expose the moon. Low and bright yellow, it peeks out before the clouds rush in, shrouding it once more. We camped just off the highway under a grove of trees. A rail made of metal, rusted and gruesomely contorted out of shape separates us from the highway itself. A truck, once red but now faded to a pale rusty pink, sits on the opposite side of the road—a fossil of the days before the Fall. It was the first thing I noticed when we made camp just before dark. A lone soldier that somehow deviated from the others of its kind and found its resting place here. Its roof is peeled back in splintery shards dangerous to the touch, and its mouth stands open to reveal what is left of its insides. It’s a monstrous thing, and I shiver at the sight of it, grateful that these machines no longer roam the earth. It isn’t difficult to imagine what kind of damage such a powerful piece of moving metal may have been able to invoke when it was alive.
Justin’s tent sits next to ours, and his silhouette shimmers inside of it as he adjusts his flashlight. I watch him—watch his hand rise to open his pack. Watch it pull shadowy items from inside and set them down on the tent’s floor. Watch the shadow Justin arch his back, hear a small groan as he feels the stretch. He lies back, propping his hands behind his head, and the shadow grows smaller.
I study his silhouette as he raises his hand and rubs it down the side of his cheek before returning to his previous stance. I owe Justin much gratitude for safely bringing me and Diana this far. He has taken the primary role as leader, and he has guided our every step in Ian’s absence. Through it, I have learned to trust him. I have learned to lean on him and the protection he gives.
I cannot deny that I am involuntarily drawn to him. Drawn in by his kindness, his patience, his youthful wisdom. He has given yet another perspective on the male species, and he is once again, nothing that I’ve been taught that a male should be. Yet, in his gentleness, he is by no means weak. I find a kind of restrained strength there, and I wonder what I might see in that beautifully halted power if he were ever to truly release it.
I have come to care for him. I didn’t know how much until I saw him pierced clean through his arm with that arrow. Right then, I realized how much he has risked for Ian. And for me. Against his better judgment, but without complaint.
I have never seen such selflessness.
The moment we made camp, he broke the arrowhead off the end and pushed the shaft through his arm without so much as wincing.
The boys each examined it—this weapon that made Justin’s arm completely useless in the same way Ian was crippled by a knife. They are baffled. And though they have no proof of who the assailant is, they are nearly certain it is the same enemy who struck again. And whoever it is—the Set Typhon or some other foe—they are no amateurs. They aim with precision.
But the arrow did not give us proof of its owner. There is no insignia on it anywhere.
Justin handled the entire incident as he always does—sensibly. Even when the cabin was in flames, and I saw no chance of escaping it alive, he never panicked. He was in calm control, giving orders through the desperation. He is far too grounded in reason for such a thing to ruffle him.
He’s not spontaneous; he’s never reckless.
Everything I love about Ian is everything Justin is not.
And I find myself intrigued.
Jesse has taken first watch, and he sits huddled in his rain jacket under a tree, his large hunting knife dangling from his fingers. As the clouds part to let in the moon’s light, I see him. He tosses me a quick wave from beneath the overhang of low branches that partially shields the rain. Our recent escape from the burning cabin keeps us cautious.
The drizzle deepens, a
nd I shudder and pull the hood of my jacket up over my head. Justin hasn’t moved. He could very well be asleep, but I kneel in front of his tent anyway.
“Justin?”
His shadow expands as he sits up, and the opening stretches wide in one whizzing zip.
“Hey. What’s wrong? Is it Diana?”
“Oh, no.”
The sprinkling suddenly grows heavier. Justin slides over.
“Come in.”
I duck through the flap and edge into the small space next to him. He slides the zipper and leans back to examine me.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his features deepening with concern.
I smile, shake my head, look away.
“Yes. I just . . . I’m not tired, and I saw that you were still awake. I thought we could talk.”
“Sure,” he smiles, and the gentleness that always accompanies it floods in.
I peel back the hood and run my hands up and down my arms to ward off the chill.
“So,” he exclaims after several seconds of silence.
I wring water from the end of my braid. “So.”
The silence resumes, but then we both laugh, and the awkward atmosphere relaxes. I examine him. A thin beard has sprouted from his chin and sweeps up his jawline. It makes him look older, more mature. He moves just so in the light, and there I am . . . drawn in again. I blink, breaking away from his gaze.
“What’s on your mind, Kate?”
I chew on my lip. What’s on my mind? This is an incredibly intricate question. Too many thoughts have stolen space in my head. He might’ve asked what isn’t on my mind. This would be exceedingly easier to answer. But he waits, and so I quickly choose a topic.
“Do you want to tell me about Jordan?” I ask.
Justin’s smile slides into place. He leans back on one elbow and examines his thumbnail.
“So that’s why you came out into the rain. I was wondering when you’d be over your anger enough to finally ask.”
“I wasn’t angry,” I blurt, sitting up straighter to face Justin’s skeptical expression.
“You were so,” he retorts.
I frown. “I was shocked.”
“Okay.” His smile tips dangerously. “But your ‘shocked’ is everyone else’s ‘angry’.”
His blunt comparison makes me laugh again, and I shake my head at his clever speech. I stretch my legs out in front of me and cross them at the ankles.
“You haven’t mentioned Jordan to Diana, I’ve noticed.” Justin’s voice is suddenly serious. My smile fades.
“No,” I say with a hint of regret. “I decided perhaps you were right.”
“And your real reason?”
I sigh. “I’m afraid to tell her. The situation has become so complicated I don’t know where to begin.”
He nods.
“I get it. It’s better to let her see it all for herself anyway.”
I don’t respond. He lies back, placing his hands behind his head, and gazes at the ceiling.
“Jordan?” I prod, and he smiles at my persistency.
“Right. It’s a small village. I didn’t really get close enough to see yours, but I think they’re similar. Well, without the whole Pit thing,” he assures. “Jordan specializes in metal.”
I gape at him. “Metal?”
“Yeah. Blacksmithing, it’s called. They make weaponry. Swords, arrows, bullets, and pretty much anything the other villages may need.” His dark eyes dance at my sudden glazed over expression. “I think you’ll like it there. Dad takes me there a few times a year. On medical expeditions. It’s a nice enough place to start a new life.”
“So, it isn’t like Eden at all?”
He laughs. “Nothing at all like Eden. Most places aren’t. It’s pretty basic. In fact, Eden is the most advanced city that I’ve ever seen.”
“How so?”
“Well, mostly because it was preserved during the Fall. Eden was a scientific research compound before the war. And a shelter. A safe house, I guess. The only one of its kind. We learn about this in our classes as kids. The compound was designed to be a refuge in case of a natural disaster or a nuclear war or some other catastrophe. It was made to withstand anything, you know? With its titanium walls and all. And it was barely affected by the Fall as the rest of the world fell apart outside. Eden was designed to get electricity and plumbing capabilities back on line. Well-designed. We have technology, computers, medical equipment. You step inside Eden, they say, and you’re almost stepping into the past. No other city on earth that we know of has what we have. No other city every made it back.”
I chew on my lip in thought. “Did people go there during the Fall? For refuge?”
His eyes grow sad. He shakes his head. “Some. Most people died of toxin poisoning . . . or worse . . . before they made it there.”
“And you’ve seen many other villages?”
“A few,” he shrugs. “When my dad lets me go with him. I’ve been to Jordan more than any other village.” He scoops up the flashlight, toying with it until our shadows ricochet into each other upon the tent walls. “They’re reserved. Discreet, you know? Secret-keepers. Dad doesn’t want a whole lot of attention, but he doesn’t mind helping them. They keep quiet.”
“And will they mind helping us?”
“No.” He sits up, faces me. “That’s why we’re taking you there. To Penelope.”
“And who is Penelope?”
“She’s one of the kindest people left in this world.”
“Is she?”
“Yep.” He sets his flashlight back in place.
“And how do you know this?”
“Because she’s my aunt. My dad’s younger sister.”
I raise a brow, blinking once as he continues.
“I see her a few times a year. We stay with her and her husband Aaron when we visit Jordan.” He fixes his gaze on me as if willing me to believe his next words. “She will take you in. You and Diana both. And she will love you.”
“Love me?” I smirk at his conclusion. “She doesn’t even know me. How can she love me?”
“It’s not so hard.”
His breath catches. I meet his eyes briefly. He looks away.
“I mean, that’s what Ian says,” he adds quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” I shake my head, aware that an awkwardness has seeped in on us again. And awkward is not where I want us to be. “I just . . . I suppose the thought of someone I’ve never met loving me is . . . quite absurd.”
Justin purses his lips, and a solemnity comes over his features. But he doesn’t answer, and the air grows tenser. I run nervous fingers across the back of my neck.
“How do you know she will take us in,” I ask.
“You’ll see when you meet her. She’s a little different. She has some interesting beliefs that I don’t really buy. They’re kind of out there. But . . . I trust her.” He sighs, shaking his head. “It might even be because of her beliefs that I trust her.”
I straighten as a kernel of interest suddenly plants itself deep inside me.
“What . . . does she believe?”
He looks at me full force, and he doesn’t answer right away. I lick my lips, lean toward him, urging with my eyes for him to answer me. A deep longing springs up in me in the same way a dried up well longs for water, and I can’t understand the urgency. I only know that I want to know—no, I need to know the answer to this question.
Finally, with a slight shake of his head, he speaks.
“Do you know what Penelope would have done the minute she saw how sick Tabitha was?”
Surprised by his question, I shake my head.
“She would have prayed to her god. And she would not have stopped praying until he answered her one way or the other.”
I am so intrigued by his statement that for a moment, I forget to breathe. He does not speak of Fate, and I have never heard of someone directly petitioning one of the gods. Is it possible th
at there is a god who listens? A god who cares enough about a dying child to hear a sorrowful petition?
Has the Moirai heard Diana’s pleas? Do they listen? Or do the rulers of our constellations care?
I frown. No. Of course, they don’t.
“What is the name of this god?” I whisper.
Justin props one leg up, and hangs his hand casually over his knee. “She calls him Yeshua. She says this is her “safe” name for him. But she says he has many, and each name defines one attribute of who he is as a whole.”
“This god is male?”
Justin smiles. “Yeah, I guess.”
I ponder this for a moment—wonder whether such a god would be any different than what I’ve already encountered in the Archer.
“She’s spoken to you of this god often?” I prod.
“Every time I see her.” He shakes his head to show his exasperation. “My dad just lets her talk, rolls his eyes, and we forget about it when we leave. She doesn’t make a lot of sense, but she can believe what she wants. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Why is she not in Eden?”
He raises a brow. “I told you, Kate. Eden isn’t a prison. People can leave. About twenty years ago, she did.”
“And so, she knows about you?”
“Well, yeah.” He leans in. “She was one of us. But it’s a good thing she left because it gives us a safe place to take you. And don’t let what I said about her bother you. Just . . . be warned you may have to listen to her ramblings some.”
He laughs softly while I digest his words. Could there truly be someone so selfless as to take in strangers? And for how long? When will we wear out our welcome?
Then again, she is a relation to Justin, one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met. Perhaps I shouldn’t be at all surprised by what he says.
But what of Ian? Will he come to live in Jordan, too? Will she take him in as well? Or will he visit on occasion? Will I only see him intermittently? It is not what I had envisioned when I made the choice to leave with him.