by Celi, S.
Once again, I’m all alone.
It’s a dead body and me. Glenn’s dead body. I steal a look at him lying in a heap. One leg juts up and makes a triangle with the grass. His blood on the grass turns it purple. Supplies from his backpack cover the ground next to him. This grows more dangerous every minute.
Ten minutes pass before I cry.
The pain comforts me in a way I don’t expect as I lean against the old paint and tattered wood. I make sure I stifle my sniffles, and I only allow myself to cry for a few minutes. Through the emotion, I focus on what to do next and will myself to pull together. Now is not the time to break down. This is the time to be strong. Time passes fast. I can’t stay behind the garages because it’s too risky. I have to move. I need to move soon. I must find Fostino.
6:45.
The factory will close soon, so I rule it out. I don’t know if people work there anymore, anyway. I think about it for a few seconds. I consider all my options and decide I’ll head to the apartment.
I focus over my shoulder on the field where Glenn died. The field makes up the straightest path to the elementary school — a wide building that gives me the most cover possible until I reach the corner of Metamora and Main. From there, it’s another trip up two alleys before I hit the apartment complex. I recoil a little. If I take this route, I’ll go right past his body. The thought of leaving him almost makes me sick, again. I stare at his body and know there is no safe way out here.
He would want me to do this. He would want me to escape. He would want me to get away.
6:50.
Soon, I will run out of time. I want to get to the apartment before dark. I want to see Fostino Sanchez as soon as I can. Demons have taken over my hometown, and I want to hide. I suck in one long breath before I adjust the straps on my backpack. My gun remains at my hip. If I need to, I’ll use it.
Even if it means using it on myself.
Five, four, three, two, one.
I don’t have any choice about the field. I need to cross it, too. My left hand balls into a tight fist. I bite down on my lip and step out from behind the garage. I peek to my left, then my right.
No one’s there.
I take five quick steps. Fifteen. I shut my eyes and pass Glenn’s body. Thirty steps. Forty. Sixty. I press my back against the jutted brick of the school until it hides me again. The rough clay and brick comforts me, and I exhale the breath I sucked in minutes before. It’s like I’ve passed a huge test. After a few more long breaths, I force my heart to stop its breakneck pace. I must move. I must move.
I must move now.
7:00.
My feet carry me to the far end of the school’s back wall. My ears catch every sound with sharpness, my mouth has dried out, my eyes clear and widen. I even smell my fear.
At the corner of the school, I examine my next route. The path turns here and leads me down a residential street before a turn onto Main. I estimate the apartment complex sits 20 houses down, a few feet from another turn that would put me face to face with the Sanchez’s convenience store.
It’s a short walk and an epic one all at the same time. I close my eyes and steel my nerves once more as my head presses against the brick. Twenty garages, a few trees, five rusted ancient children’s play sets, two blocks, and a few minutes, stand between Fostino and me.
I can do this. I must do this.
I will do this.
My stomach constricts as I take the first tentative steps.
I duck behind one garage. Then another. My body slides up to the third one. I take cover in the fourth yard behind a large oak tree. Once I hit the safety of one, I scan my surroundings and allow myself a few minutes to breathe. With each move, I wonder when my luck will give out.
Each yard backs up to the open alleyway. A crumbled gravel road leads me through what’s left of my hometown. As I pass the vacant and dilapidated properties, I don’t even know if the people who own them are still alive. The thought depresses me.
I round the corner and duck behind the last garage, one that allows me to see the back door of the apartment complex and the side door of the convenience store. Forty feet or so separates me from what has become the apartment.
God, I’m so close.
I adjust my backpack of supplies and will my stomach to settle down. With a quick survey, I take in the clues I see. First, someone has busted all the windows of the convenience store. Shattered glass litters gravel like broken eggshells. Next, no lights are on in the store, and twisted metal shelves once for food and supplies lie scattered between the inside and the outside. No one has been at the store for at least a few days.
My eyes study the apartment complex. Broken and busted windows stand out against the old brick. Wooden shutters hang off their hinges and swing at the slightest breeze. Someone has been on a rampage through here, too. Fear runs down my spine like a bullet train.
But, I don’t care. Suicide mission or not, I will see this through.
I bite down one more time on my lip, stand up straight, and sprint to the open back door of the apartment complex once I see the area around the apartment is clear. After a second, I shuffle through the hallway of the building. This is it: the moment I’ve worked so hard for is upon me. In seconds, I’ll enter the apartment.
Will he be there? Is he still alive? What will I find?
I reach the door. I throw the key in the lock, and then see I don’t need it. Someone has busted the door lock since I left. The wooden door doesn’t close any more. Once I glance down the hallway, it’s easy to see the other doors don’t close, either. All the muscles in my body tense. I shake my head. I try to shut out my bad thoughts and push open the door to home. The stress even manifests in my feet; the bones in my toes clench and tighten like screws on a board. The door creaks as I force it to open, the one sound in the whole building. It’s as if I’ve entered some sort of time and sound vacuum.
Nothing else exists but this moment, this second.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A half second after I make my entrance, I shut the door as far as it can go and turn on a small flashlight I pulled from my backpack.
Only the bed remains in the room. Light filters in through the cracks of the boarded up windows. No one who walked in here would imagine someone lived here at all. It’s hard for me to imagine myself. The backpack falls off my weary shoulders and drops to my feet. I don’t know if I have enough strength left to find Fostino. I stand in the middle of the room, next the box, and bury my head in my hands.
I’ve come so far, dealt with so much. Too much.
Fostino Sanchez’s face blots out the rest of my thoughts. After a few minutes, I sit down in the center of the room. I don’t care if someone finds me. I only think about Fostino. I have no idea where he might or what happened to him. He might be hurt, in a camp, or dead. The unknown overwhelms me.
I should have told him I loved him. I should have told him I loved him. I should have told him I loved him.
I stay on the floor for ten minutes. Only my memories keep me company. My thoughts pound through my head and punish me for leaving Fostino.
You should never have left him. You should never have left him. You should never have left him.
Soon, exhaustion overtakes my body. My back softens, my legs relax, and my arms give up their protest. What’s left of my soul doesn’t want to move any more. I give in to the pain and the tiredness; it’s time to lie down.
“Damn it,” I mutter to myself. I will never find him. I look down at my Hologram Watch as despair fills every part of my body.
I use the padded side of the backpack as a pillow. I lay my head on it, pull my legs out onto the wooden floor, and face the bed. My heavy eyes fall over the metal frame of the Murphy bed and white lace of the bare mattress. From here, I’ve got a clear view of the dust bunnies and sp
lintered floor under the headboard of the bed. That’s when I remember something and can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.
My eyes run over the trap door to the shelter as I muster my last strength to stand. I pull up the Murphy bed and take another deep breath. Nothing about the wood says anything is out of place or anyone might be down there, but it doesn’t matter to me. I reach down, hook my fingers under the door and lift up. The wood breaks free from the floor with a groan and the blue light from the flashlight falls into the shelter.
I blink a few times and almost scream.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Are you kidding? Fostino!”
Fostino blinks in the blue light and then his eyebrows knit together in a frown. I make out his face in the darkness of the shelter. My heart pounds fast. I can’t believe he’s been here the whole time.
“Charlotte?” he says after a long while. “That you?”
“Yeah.” I balance between the wooden trap door and the hole below. The flashlight swings free from its strap around my wrist and illuminates the small shelter. A sweep of the light shows Fostino has hidden here for a while.
“I can’t believe it!” My voice sounds loud, but I don’t care. I rush down the steps of the shelter to him. My arms ache to have him around me; my heart overflows from the joy. Adrenaline courses through my body with a force. I want to touch him one more time.
Fostino peers back at me as I come closer. I stop once his breath brushes my face. He’s made no move to reach out to me. In fact, he appears stiff and scared. Even darker circles rim his already dark eyes. He squeezes his gun with his left hand.
Wait a minute... I’m not the enemy...
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I came to save you. I came to— I came to help you get away, to warn you.”
“To warn me?” He crosses his arms across his chest. “We’re past the point of warning.” I strain to hear his words, and his voice sounds strange. Then he shakes his head and his matted dark hair. “You’re supposed to be dead. I thought you were dead. Everyone’s dead.”
“I thought you died, Fostino.” Then his last sentence hits me like a punch in the face. “Wait.” I stare at him for a moment. “Everyone’s dead?”
“Everyone.”
I don’t know what to do, so I make a small move to him. He takes a step back and buries himself further into the shelter. One movement creates an invisible wall between us. He holds his body rigid.
“You’re not the same,” he concludes through clenched teeth. “Thinner. Different hair.”
I pull my hand on my new brown locks. “I changed it. They made me.”
“Who?” He whispers.
“The people who helped me.”
“You mean the people in the SSR,” he says, and for the first time I don’t hear him spit the name out with disgust. “They’re the ones who helped you.”
“Right.” I glance over at the front door of the apartment. My thoughts drift to Glenn’s dead body. My next words come out fast. “Listen, I don’t know if anyone knows I’m here.” I focus on the front door and will it to stay shut. “Can I join you?”
After a long moment, he gives me a curt nod. I throw my backpack down onto the cot. I follow up with the flashlight and jump down to the dirt below. He helps me close the shelter’s lid and secure it in place. We’re alone together in this small space.
Fostino grabs the flashlight, places the backpack on the chair beside the cot, and turns to me. He sizes up my new appearance as he holds the light low on the left side of his body. I can’t think of what to say, so I try anything.
“You know, you’re not the same either.”
“Nope.” He’s cold.
I try something else. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” I take in his sharp jaw and mocha skin. He’s better than I remembered, still so handsome. As I wait for an answer to my question, I notice he doesn’t wear the medal-strewn uniform from the Homeland Guard. He’s replaced it with simple black shorts, a white t-shirt and silver tennis shoes. Even though he’s also lost weight, the tight shirt clings to his chest in a way I can’t ignore. His bicep pops out of the sleeve.
“I thought about you a lot, too.” He shrugs. “And then a few days after you left, I heard about you, too.”
“Did they tell you why I left?” My words come out quickly.
“No,” he replies. “They came in one morning before we left for the factory and told all of us in the Homeland Guard that you topped the Most Dangerous List. They said we had to step up our work, and that instead of looking for Undesirables, we would be looking for you.”
“What happened after they couldn’t find me?” My breath quickens because somewhere deep inside, I know his answer won’t be good.
Fostino closes his eyes. “It got bad. Very bad. Really.”
“What happened? Tell me.” I don’t bother to hide the urgency in my voice. My thoughts turn to Farrah and his parents.
Did they die?
Fostino opens his eyes again. Anger rims his pupils. He grits his teeth and takes a step to me. “No. I won’t tell you. Not until you tell me what you did that put you on the Most Dangerous List. Tell me.”
“They didn’t tell you?” I wince.
“No. Tell me. Now. What did you do?”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I chew on my lower lip before I answer. I don’t quite know how to reveal this to anyone, but I’m about to confess it to him.
“Fostino,” I start after yet another deep breath. “It’s not what I did. It’s what I am.”
He raises a thick black eyebrow and a quizzical expression takes over his face. He doesn’t speak.
“A few weeks ago, Thompson, one of the members of the SSR, found me after work.” The words flow like the Colorado River. “And he told me the truth about my father.” My eyes search Fostino’s face to see if he has any idea of what I’m about to say. His expression doesn’t change. I swallow before I say the next words. “My father is Maxwell Cooper.” A beat passes before I continue. “You know. Maxwell Cooper, the Supreme Leader.”
The last sentence comes out as the smallest of whispers. I bite my lip once I finish. I don’t know how I expect Fostino to react, but the way he does surprises me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says in a hush. He shakes his beautiful head hard. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Fostino crosses his arms in front of his chest and the action makes the muscles bulge. He looks right into my eyes so I can’t break away. “You should have told me.”
“I couldn’t, they, the SSR, they told me to not to. Too dangerous, they said. I needed to escape right away.” I offer any excuse I can to try to make him understand. “They said you couldn’t come with me. Not at all. No way. Besides, you’re a member of the Homeland Guard.”
“Was a member,” he says. His eyes darken again. “Was.”
“Huh?” The revelation makes me stop my rambles and excuses. My mouth hangs open a little. “What do you mean?”
“Yeah, was a member.” Pain wraps his words. Fostino sits down on the cot and sighs before he explains. He puts his head in his hands and all I focus on is his curly mane. “Not any more. Nope.”
“What happened?” I move the backpack to the floor and sit down, too.
At first, Fostino doesn’t move his hands from his head. “When you left, after the searches, they — The Party — they got angry when they didn’t find you. When no one gave you up, it got worse.” Fostino sits up and leans his back against the metal wall of the shelter. “They ran another Count two days ago. They questioned people in rounds, like they did the day of the massacre. They wanted someone to tell them what they wanted to know about you.” His eyes glaze over a little bit. “Everyone, even the members of the Homeland Gua
rd, had to stand in line and then sit on a stool at the steps of the civic center and answer questions from regular Party members. The whole process took hours. I had to stand in the back with the other members of the Homeland Guard and wait. Mom and Dad stood further away, at the front with Farrah—” He breaks off as if the next words hurt to say.
I only gape at him. Fostino continues with his story.
“When my dad reached the line, they asked him the questions about you.” Tears pool at the edge of his eyes. “I guess he knew. He knew more than I gave him credit for, and I guess he was tired of all this.” Fostino waves his hand in an ambiguous way above our heads to help make his point. “He wouldn’t answer any of their questions. He wouldn’t say one word. Not about you, not about me, nothing.” The first tear falls down his beautiful cheek and pools at the edge of his jaw. I guess where his story goes.
“They decided to make an example of him,” he reveals. He blows out a breath. “They brought my mother over to him and hit her when he wouldn’t answer. They brought Farrah too. Then, when he wouldn’t talk about me, or you, the soldiers forced mom and Farrah onto a flatbed truck with about 20 other people.” He looks at his hands again. “Dad fought back. Then they shot him. Right after, they shot other people — ten or fifteen of them.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
My hand covers my mouth and I bite down on my palm. The skin tastes salty and bleeds a little under the force of my teeth. I don’t care. I deserve this pain. Tears threaten to fill my eyes and slide down my face, but I choke them back. I will not cry anymore over what I can’t change, the things I can’t take back. Even as I do this, what Fostino has said hangs around us like a heavy metal chain neither of us can break.
“This is hell. We live in hell.” I lock eyes with the boy I love. “Oh God, Fostino, I am so sorry that happened.”