Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

  With that amusing memory, Joan drifted off to sleep, and for the first time in a long time, she had pleasant dreams.

  15

  Joan scowled as the pain shot up her left ankle. She had been traveling for a week now. Over the last couple days, she kept up her pace, but her foot had changed from blistering and aching to bleeding and burning. She alternated between a fast-clipped walk and a slow limp. She was doing the latter, shuffling along near the river, keeping her wounded foot on the soft, sandy part of the soil.

  When the burning intensified to the point she could no longer stand it, she stopped to rest. She nibbled on an energy bar and examined her left foot. The sandal made of leaves and rope had disintegrated a while ago. Her sole was painfully blistered and scratched. She set it in the river, relishing the cool relief the water brought.

  The trickling water mesmerized her, and she didn’t react at first when she heard what she thought was a human voice. Jerking her head, she jumped up and hid herself in the bushes, trying to locate the sound. The noise came from downstream.

  Quietly she crept through the forest a short ways, spying a clearing. A cabin. A woman stood on the porch, waving and calling good-bye to a man climbing into a pick up truck. People? And cars? This didn’t coincide with what she learned in school about the Outside.

  The man drove off, and the woman went back into the cabin. It wasn’t a large cabin but appeared rustic, nestled comfortably in the clearing. Smoke lazily swirled out of the chimney. A large chicken coop sat off to the side, with several hens and three goats inside. A small water tower stood near the house. A distance away, down the path the truck had taken, was a large barn with the doors closed. Wires ran from the barn to the house. Electricity? she wondered.

  A raised porch wrapped from the front door of the cabin around to the other side, hidden from Joan’s view. On the porch sat a pair of boots. Shoes. Joan gasped. She couldn’t travel much farther without some. She watched for a while longer. No other activity at the house. No other people evident. The woman may be alone. It was worth the risk. She needed a shoe, and twenty yards away sat a pair of boots. She could crawl up hidden in the grass, sneak onto the porch, grab the boots, and be on her way downstream before the woman even realized anything happened.

  She watched the woman walk out the door with a rug. She took it to the far side of the porch, out of Joan’s sight. Then she returned and entered the house.

  Joan took a deep breath and moved stealthily out of the forest, limping toward the cabin. Huddling down she paused at the front steps, listening to movement from inside the home. It sounded like a faucet. Running water? From the water tower, she guessed.

  She ascended up the stairs. Silence. She kept going, step by step—slowly. On the porch she rapidly moved toward the boots. Grabbing them, she spun around to leave. Something big and brown lunged at her from around the side of the porch. A dog?! The animal barked loudly and pinned her against the railing. Falling back, she realized she was trapped.

  The woman came out, “Grizzly, what’s—?” She froze when she saw Joan.

  “Off, boy! Off!” she said forcefully.

  The dog backed down. The two women stared at each other. Joan didn’t know what she looked like, but she must have been quite a sight for the woman.

  The woman looked around, “You alone?”

  Joan nodded.

  “From the East?”

  Joan nodded again. The woman’s gaze rested on the boots in her hands.

  “I needed some shoes.” Pause. “Sorry.” Joan held the boots up to the woman, who took them.

  After a moment the woman said, “Come on in.”

  The woman, Hazel, had brown eyes and a large nose protruding from her pockmarked face. She was short and stocky. Her hair had turned mostly gray, and coupled with her worn face, it made her appear older than her forty-two years.

  The inside of the cabin was not sparse but full of knick-knacks. Oddities hung on the walls. It consisted of only one large room, with a small kitchen, a round dining table with two chairs, a bed in one corner set apart by a sheet hanging from the ceiling, a fireplace, one soft chair next to it, and end tables full of pottery. The fire burned embers. The dog settled himself near the fireplace, chewing on an object. As Joan surveyed the large room, something about it unsettled her.

  “Here, sit here,” Hazel motioned to a chair at the table.

  Joan did as instructed, placing her backpack beside her.

  “Hungry?” Hazel asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  A moment later, Joan devoured food from a full plate Hazel put in front of her—stew. It was room temperature, but that didn’t matter to Joan. When Hazel set a glass of milk before her, Joan brought it to her lips, but the odor made her stop. She took another whiff of the milk and looked questioningly at Hazel.

  “Buttermilk,” Hazel explained.

  Joan took a sip—tangy but sweet. She drank the liquid in one gulp.

  “Your people’re always hungry,” Hazel commented, as she spooned more of the stew onto Joan’s plate and refilled her glass. Seeing Joan’s quizzical look, she continued, “Yeah, we get some of you each year, runaways from your Alliance. Just so you know, I’ll give you some food to take, but after you’re done you got to skedaddle on out. Go on your way.”

  Joan kept eating.

  “And you ain’t taking the boots, neither.”

  Joan nodded, “I’m sorry,” she mumbled with a full mouth. “This is really, really good—the best.”

  Joan realized why the room bothered her. It was the walls. There was no photo of the Governor. She’d never been in a room without one.

  Hazel eyed Joan’s foot.

  “You know,” Hazel said, as she walked over to Grizzly and took the item from his mouth, “how about this one?” she held up an old, chewed up boot—a left shoe. “This is one of my old boots. Garth wouldn’t miss it. Garth’s my husband, you see, and he has a rule about giving things to you runaways. A meal and some food for the road, he says, but no more. But he wouldn’t miss this. Grizzly’s always burying his chew stuff.”

  Joan stopped in mid-bite, not knowing what to say, “Thank you.”

  A shoe—she had a shoe and real food. Her eyes teared up.

  Hazel softened even more and sat next to her. While Joan ate, Hazel told her about her life. She and Garth had been together since she was a teenager. He distilled and sold whiskey. There were many people like them here in the mountains, outside the reaches of the Alliance. This area of the continent was full of settlers. There existed a thriving exchange of goods between the Alliance and the settlers.

  Farther west dwelled what Hazel called Nomads. After the Impact, Nomads had returned to the land, living like their ancestors and roaming the plains. They controlled most of the central and desert part of the continent, Hazel explained. The settlers and Alliance both traded with the Nomads.

  Small towns dotted the entire continent, she told Joan, mostly centered on the navigable highways, coasts, and big rivers. Along the coasts, both in the Far West and in the South, the large cities were rebuilding quite successfully.

  “I know. You’re surprised, right? We heard your Alliance tells you all that we’re a horde of wild people, wanting to overrun you and kill your children and so on. We’re all just trying to get along, to survive.”

  “Do you know anyone called Lucas?” Joan asked between bites.

  Hazel shook her head. The sound of a car interrupted them.

  Looking out the window Hazel said, “Alliance army.”

  Joan started, but Hazel calmed her, “Don’t worry, they don’t care about runaways. They’re probably here for Garth’s whiskey. What’s that? Ain’t never seen a uniform like that. All black.”

  Joan rushed to the window. Nox. It was Nox.

  16

  Through the dirty window, Joan observed Nox climb out of a basic army transport vehicle, called a durable. Four soldiers accompanied him.

  “I have to go,” she l
ooked frantically around for a weapon, a way out, a hiding place—she didn’t know what. The cabin had one door, the front door. She ran to a window, but it was in the driveway’s line of vision.

  “Hold on, girl,” Hazel advised, gazing out the window. “Here comes Garth, too.”

  The soldiers and Nox paused in the dirt driveway, waiting for Garth to park and get out of his truck.

  “Come on,” Hazel hurried over to the kitchen. “Here, hide under the sink.” She pulled out a trash bucket to make room for Joan. Joan squeezed inside. As Hazel closed the cupboard door, Joan pushed at it, “My backpack.”

  The sound of heavy footsteps boomed on the porch. Hazel ran and grabbed the backpack. The steps came closer. She hurried back to the cupboard, tossed the pack to Joan, and closed the cupboard door, just as the front door opened.

  Inside walked Garth, Nox, and one soldier; the others remained out on the driveway. Garth carried a bottle full of a clear liquid.

  The soldier nodded to Hazel, “Morning, Hazel.”

  “Lieutenant,” she greeted back. “So who’s your friend?”

  Looking at Nox, the Lieutenant said, “Oh, this’s Captain Nox. He’s with our Tax Enforcement Office—”

  “New batch of shine,” Garth interrupted, placing the bottle on the table. “Gonna test it. Haze get me a saucer.”

  Hazel went to the cupboard and withdrew a teacup and saucer, handing both to Garth. He set the cup aside, and carefully poured a spoonful on the saucer. Then he lit it with a match. The flame burned blue. Garth smiled.

  The Lieutenant nudged Nox, “‘Lead burns red and makes you dead.’ Garth taught me that. See, a blue flame. It’s OK to drink.”

  Nox looked confused.

  “It’s whiskey,” the Lieutenant explained.

  “But it’s clear. Whiskey should be golden,” Nox said.

  Garth and the Lieutenant exchanged knowing glances. Garth got up and picked a small piece of burnt wood from the fireplace and dropped it into the bottle.

  “There, soon it’ll be a good color and a good oak taste,” Garth smiled.

  Nox was uncomfortable here and promptly realized why: no photo of the Governor. The illegal liquor also disturbed him. Laws apparently meant nothing here, and what’s more, the Lieutenant didn’t seem to mind.

  He glared at the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant cleared his throat thinking to himself that Nox was a real killjoy, and he’d only been around him for a of couple days. He wondered if a few months out here in the wilderness would make him relax.

  “The Captain is looking for someone, a runaway—”

  “Criminal,” Nox interrupted sternly. He described Joan to them.

  “Well, we ain’t seen nobody,” Garth snarled. Hazel stood in silence.

  Nox examined the room, taking in every detail. Walking up to the table, he motioned to the boot, bent, and picked it up.

  “One boot. Left,” he said.

  “Yeah, so?” Garth raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “This criminal is missing a left shoe.”

  “Yeah, so. This is my dog’s toy,” Garth grabbed the boot from Nox and tossed it to Grizzly.

  Nox marched around the cabin. Squeezed in her hiding place, Joan huddled, petrified. Her mind flashed to visions of Frank hiding inside her apartment wall. Nox stopped right next to the cabinet where she hid.

  “What’s this?”

  Joan held her breath.

  “Trash bucket,” Hazel answered at once. “I’s just gonna empty it when you came in.”

  “But it’s not full,” Nox said, always observant, greedily noticing everything.

  “What is this?” Garth questioned, annoyed, as he sensed the accusatory tone in Nox’s voice. “Just what are you getting at?”

  “It’s nothing,” the Lieutenant tried to calm Garth down and send a warning to Nox. “He’s used to asking questions and being suspicious in his line of work. Listen Garth, we’re heading into the hills. Plan to ask around and see if anyone’s seen her. We’re looking for a tracker to hire, to help us find her, if we pick up her trail. Who do you think could do it?”

  “Maybe Polk, over at Sutter Mountain. He’s one of the best. I don’t know, though. People don’t like turning in runaways, you know.”

  “Criminal,” Nox corrected, again.

  The Lieutenant smiled, “Well, we have a reward for this one. Thirty dollars.”

  Joan swallowed.

  “Alliance paper money?” Garth questioned, raising his eyebrows.

  “No. Silver coins.”

  Nox shook his head. He had been against offering a reward. Following the law was a reward unto itself.

  The Lieutenant put on his hat. “Well, it was good seeing you, Garth. Hazel. Keep an eye out. Come on, Captain, let’s go.”

  Garth poured himself some whiskey, “What’d this girl do, anyway?”

  “Attempted murder of an officer. She hit him in the head with a rock.” Nox answered, as he walked out the door.

  From her hiding place, Joan jerked her head and gasped, oblivious to the fact she might make a noise. Attempted murder? Duncan was alive.

  Relief swept over Joan. Nox was gone. She had not killed Duncan. “Thank you. Thank you,” she whispered, not knowing whom she thanked.

  She listened, as the men walked out, to their footfalls down the porch and the durable’s engine roar to life.

  At the table, shaking his head, Garth said about Nox, “He’s a squirrelly guy.”

  Hazel walked over and whispered in Garth’s ear.

  Joan strained to catch what they said.

  “Huh?” Garth uttered. “What’re you saying Haze?”

  Silence. Footsteps reverberated across the room. The floor creaked and groaned—heavy footsteps. He must be a large man. He moved closer to her and stopped right in front of the cupboard. She held her breath. The cupboard door swung open. He squatted and stared at her, as if she were a caged animal.

  He was a big man, not fat, but heavy and solid. A few days of bristly, coarse stubble—reddish-brown tinged with a dingy gray—set off his bald head. He had deep eye sockets, which hid his eyes in the shadows as he crouched, appearing to Joan as if he had gaping holes of nothingness beneath his brow. She made no human connection in them, and she felt a sudden, shattering chill climb up her spine, like a spider.

  “Come on out o’ there, girl,” he instructed.

  Joan crawled out and stood before him, clutching her backpack to her chest.

  He regarded her and walked in a cringing manner over to the table. “Well, sit down.”

  Joan did not want to sit. She wanted to get out as fast as possible.

  She tentatively walked over toward him, “Uh…I’m going to just go.”

  She made her way hastily to the door, not looking behind her and hoping if she didn’t see him, he wouldn’t stop her. It was working. She was at the front door, opening it…and then his arm reached over her shoulder and slammed it shut.

  “Nah.”

  She looked at Hazel for help. Hazel would not meet her gaze.

  “Please, I just want to leave. I won’t say a thing about being here. I don’t want anything.”

  “Well, I want something,” he chuckled. “I want that reward.”

  He took his arm off the door and moved his body away from it—away from Joan. Joan yanked open the door. He grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her away, throwing her to the center of the room. She maintained her balance. Using her kickboxing skills, she struck him with two quick punches: a left jab to his abdomen and a right hook to his jaw. He snarled, more in surprise at her strikes than pain.

  The dog jumped up, barking and growling. Garth came at her. She barely had enough room to maneuver, but she executed a roundhouse kick, aiming for his head. He was too tall. Her foot landed on his shoulder, and he grabbed it and yanked, sending her flying to the floor. This is no good. He is just too big and too strong, she thought. This wasn’t like the kick-boxing exercises at the Center, with plenty of room, protecti
ve padding, and, most importantly, an opponent her own size.

  She jumped up and prepared for another kick, but the dog ran in and out, snapping. She stepped back. She turned away from Garth for a second, but it was long enough. His blow came, and it was spectacular, hitting her squarely in her kidney. The pain was exquisite, like a tidal wave of agony, spreading from her lower back throughout her body. Incapacitated, she fell to the floor. He kicked her twice, but seeing her situation, he stopped and hovered over her.

  “Had enough?”

  She couldn’t speak, not even to beg.

  “Shut up!” he yelled at Grizzly, who backed down and quieted. To Hazel, “Gimme the bowie.”

  Hazel went over and retrieved a bowie knife hanging in a sheath on the wall and handed it to Garth. Joan managed to look. She had never seen such a large knife. She began crawling away as best she could, back up against the wall.

  “You give me any more trouble, and I’ll use this.” He waved the knife in the air. “They didn’t say you had to be alive for the reward.”

  In the ghetto, Joan had seen donors beaten, broken, and defeated. She knew how to act. She put up both hands, palms open, in a universal sign of giving up. Glaring at her, Garth sheathed the massive knife.

  “Hazel, you go on up to the fort and leave a message for the Lieutenant that we got her.”

  “I can probably catch them,” she replied. “They were heading to Polk’s place. They shouldn’t be far—”

  “No. Go to the fort. They won’t have the silver with them here. I ain’t giving her up without it—and I don’t trust that Nox fella. We can just keep her here till they get back to the fort and bring the silver.”

  Hazel persisted, “But that’ll take me all day to drive there. Won’t get back till late.”