Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

  “Go,” he commanded, as he lobbed her the car keys. “Throw me that pack of hers.” Hazel tossed him Joan’s backpack, as she walked toward the door. “And take the dog.”

  With Joan still in pain and huddled on the floor, Garth rummaged through her backpack. His hands appeared dirty and rough, with jagged, long, yellow fingernails. He pulled out the rope.

  “You brought your own rope for us to tie you up with?” he snickered and set it on the table.

  More rummaging. He pulled out the flashlight, flicked it on and off a couple of times, and set it on the table. He pulled out the photo of Joan’s parents, held the precious memento in his grimy hands, barely glanced at it, and tossed it on the ground near the fireplace. Joan watched the photo float to the floor. Finished, he tossed the pack over near the door. He sat, poured himself a glass of liquor, and stared at Joan.

  “You’re a pretty little thing.”

  More whiskey, more staring. Leering.

  After a while, he stood up and walked to her.

  “Up,” he smiled sickly. “To the bed.”

  Joan pretended to be in more distress than she was, struggling mightily to stand and grasping her hands around her waist, as if in anguish. He grabbed her arm and stepped back from her—his mistake. This was her chance. She had enough space. He wasn’t expecting her to fight. She drove her knee into his groin, delivering a piercing strike. He doubled over, and she grabbed a ceramic water pitcher from a small end table and smashed it into his head. It broke to pieces. He fell and writhed on the ground, holding his bleeding head.

  Joan ran to the door, picked up the backpack and the boot, and ran out and down the steps. She stopped dead in her tracks. The photo. She hesitated. Her parents. She couldn’t leave without it.

  She headed back into the house. Stopping inside the door, she stared at him. He lay on the floor, not moving and with his back to her. She stood and watched him for a second. His chest rose ever so slightly—he was breathing. He was alive. Unconscious? She ran to the photo near the fireplace, picked it up, and slipped it into her sweatpants pocket.

  Unexpectedly her foot yanked out from under her. She felt fingernails digging into her flesh—he had her by her ankle. To keep from falling, she snatched at anything within reach—the fireplace tools, but they scattered. No use. She fell. He tugged her toward him. On her back, she kicked at him with her free foot, but his grip did not loosen. Feeling desperately around the ground near her, she seized the fire poker. She raised the iron rod high and slammed it on his head. He stopped moving, but he was breathing. She lifted the poker again and paused. Holding the poker high, she relaxed her grip.

  Then the black blur on her wrist caught her eye—her tattoo. The numbers. Stained, black, indelible ink. Her very self was represented in those numerals. Visions of Nox, of the Governor, of Dr. Melnick, of the snatchers, of the third floor… all flashed in her mind. The System. She intensified her grip on the poker. Rage and fright welled up inside her, the two powerful emotions combining. She wanted to strike, to annihilate—but she hesitated.

  Then his fingers trembled on her ankle—tightened around her foot. His head shifted, turning toward her. With a growl, she crashed the poker down onto his head. His hand jerked. A gurgling noise arose, not from his throat but from his chest, from deep down, as if he were fighting for something. Struggling. His eyes shifted toward her. Joan raised the poker again. The gurgling stopped—not abruptly but in a final, lingering, prolonged, exhalation of breath. His lungs gradually expelled every last atom of oxygen.

  Her foot still in his grasp, she dragged it from his limp hand. Dropping the poker, she stood up, slipped on her backpack, grabbed the boot, and left. She ran toward the river, through the clearing, and stopped at a safe distance to pull on the boot. As she neared the river, she saw a small rowboat tied up at the shore. Joan pushed it into the tributary, jumped in, and began rowing downriver, with the swift current. The water, once again, was saving her, guiding her.

  17

  “That was the last sign of her—four days ago,” Nox spoke into a picture phone. He sat in the communications room at the fort. On the view screen before him at the other end of the line sat Duncan.

  Keeping his emotions in check, Duncan asked, “Do you know how she is? What condition she’s in?”

  Laughing, Nox said, “Well, she killed a settler. Must have put up a good fight with the man, too. And he wasn’t a small man.”

  Duncan felt relief. She’s alive and to some extent well.

  “I’m going to travel on west, to the next outpost.”

  “You’re not coming back?” Duncan was incredulous.

  Duncan thought the search would end—the pressure would lift from Joan.

  “No. I asked—begged really—to let me go on. I can’t allow a lawbreaker like her get away. Starr, I’ve lost a few evaders in my day, but this one…this evader,” he said the word with derision, “…didn’t just break the law, she demonstrated a total disrespect for it, trampled it underfoot. It’s as if she spit on the Governor himself. She’s got to be punished.”

  Duncan made a spur-of-the-moment decision, “Can I join the search?”

  Nox narrowed his eyes and examined him over the screen, “I know you’re taking this personally. The whole Alliance saw her take you down.”

  Duncan jumped on Nox’s misperception, “Yes, Captain, you’re right. I do have strong feelings about this donor. I want to be there when we get her.”

  Nox thought for a moment. “I’ll talk to the Major. But understand, we’re not going to kill her. We’re taking her alive.”

  “That’s what I want, too, Captain.”

  In Garth’s rowboat, Joan sailed on downriver, covering a lot of territory. She never heard any dogs. Never saw any people.

  She experienced a strange feeling. The System—once her life—was gone, and itself was the cause for its own estrangement. It left her alone, wandering, cut loose from human connection. And it prevented her from ever returning.

  After three days she finally began to relax. She was able to observe—and enjoy—her new surroundings. The crisp air, the thriving greenery, the puffy clouds, the melodious birds, the sunlight leaking through the trees…she’d never just sat long enough to notice—let alone enjoy—such things. She recalled with pleasure one of her mother’s disorganized stories about two boys voyaging down a great river on a raft. Like Joan, they escaped something, too. Huck was the boy’s name, she remembered.

  Joan reveled in each glorious morning. She used to watch the sunrises from her apartment, but that was different. There, smoke drifted from smokestacks, and the noise of the city interfered. Here a silence existed that was broken only by the sounds of the river and the awakening birds. Each rising sun brought with it a mist, hanging just above the earth and hugging the river, like a soft white blanket wrapped around a newborn. The mist lay so low that Joan could stand up on the boat with her head above the fog, while the river and the rest of her body remained hidden in the mist. It was as if she existed apart from the world, apart even from her own body, floating among the clouds, among the heavens.

  In the afternoons and the heat of the day she swam in the water—a luxury. She knew the relaxing feel of a hot shower after working out at the Center, but this was different. This exhilarated and rejuvenated her. She reveled swimming naked, the cool water flowing over her and the tickling of the reeds on her bare skin.

  The river teemed with life, both under its surface and on its banks. There were massive trees, their boughs reaching over the river, as if straining to touch the trees on the other side. Large clumps of moss, soft and velvety, drooped from their branches. In the morning, dewdrops dangled from the edges of the moss. As if waiting for a signal, one would drop, and the others would follow.

  Wildflowers grew near the water. In one area small, yellow rosebuds sprang upward, casting themselves into the air toward the sun, oblivious to the rocks and stones that were trying to hinder their growth on the ground. The ye
llow roses cleared all obstacles in their quest for the light, for air and for life. She picked one and struggled to remember what had become of the yellow rose Duncan gave her. Lost forever. On second thought she dropped the flower into the water. She stared as it swirled with the current, but it stayed near the boat, traveling the same speed. After a while, she forced herself to look away.

  She didn’t want to think of Duncan and tried not to, but she couldn’t help herself. How could she have been so wrong about him? Was she so gullible? So stupid? Had it been a game for him and Tegan? Were they toying with her? Did they get a good laugh at her expense?

  Not wanting to gaze at the moon at night, she found the white luminescence of the river gave her solace, like the night-light her father put in her bedroom when she was young. But soon it stopped. Then the water turned so clear she could see to the bottom—every rock on the bed, every reed, every small fish. It was as if the river offered up its secrets to Joan.

  One day the sky darkened for a while, covered by thousands of birds. She relaxed in the boat, fascinated by the undulating waves in which they flew in rhythm, as if they were one large creature, breathing in and out.

  After two weeks on the river, the scenery changed from mountainous and heavily forested to a sparser, more arid landscape. Then the river changed course, turning sharply south. If Joan were going to continue west, she had to leave the river. She tried to figure a different plan of action because she didn’t want to leave the water. Traveling by water was so easy and fast—she had covered a lot of territory. But she had no choice. With disappointment, she pulled the boat onshore and hid it under branches. She may need to come back.

  Where to now? On the left—the south side—of the river was mountains. They rose to points, sharp minarets. She climbed the pinnacle of one. The trip took hours.

  Looking southward from the top, she saw a deep canyon—very wide at points. She had never seen anything so beautiful. The colors amazed her: reds, oranges, browns, and yellows combined, lovelier than any painting.

  In the far distance on the other side of the canyon, she spied something. Smoke. A skinny rise of smoke twirled up from the earth. Pulling out the binoculars, she zoomed in on the sight. She saw two durables, and she could barely make out the shapes of five people. She breathed in. Was she right? Did she see correctly? Two of the shapes wore black. Joan dropped the binoculars.

  Duncan stretched his arms, as he gazed at the sight before him. His left arm, wrapped in a bandage under his black uniform, ached. He’d never seen such a vast canyon, such vibrant colors. The immensity and splendor captivated him. Dozens of rock layers appeared, each a different color. In the middle towered a large plateau in the shape of an arrowhead. The three soldiers escorting them stood at the crest of the massive chasm, peering over and taking pictures.

  The ride seemed endless. The durables they used to traverse the continent were in decrepit condition. The seat in his had broken springs sticking through the seat. With no windows and no roof, the sun beat on them mercilessly. It felt good to stop and set up camp. They expected to reach another fort the following day.

  His gaze settled on the minarets on the far side across the canyon. Their exquisiteness set them apart from the canyon and the surrounding hills: gray granite, shooting up to points toward the heavens. For some reason they held his attention, kept him riveted. He stared at them.

  “Starr, soup’s ready,” Nox said from behind him.

  Duncan turned to walk to the campfire, when a shout from the edge alerted him. Two soldiers stared over. The third soldier was gone.

  “JAWORSKI FELL OVER!” one shouted.

  “We were taking a picture. He got too close. Slipped,” the other said, as Nox and Duncan ran up.

  Jaworski was ten feet down the vertical side, hanging precariously on a bush that grew from the side of the canyon wall. Below him it was a sheer drop to the canyon floor.

  Nox took charge, “Any rope in the durables? Go get it.”

  “No, we didn’t pack any,” the soldier replied.

  Nox looked at the poor soldier.

  “Quick,” he ordered, “give me your belts. Everyone.”

  As the men tossed their belts to him, he noticeably flinched. Fear flashed in his eyes for a moment. He shook his head, regained his composure and hooked the belts together. Then he suspended the belts over the side, but he still didn’t reach Jaworski.

  “Here, you guys lower me down by my feet. Then he’ll grab the belts, and you pull us up,” Nox offered.

  “Captain,” Duncan protested, “that’s too dangerous. If we drop you…”

  “Don’t drop me.”

  “There’s got to be another way,” Duncan maintained.

  “He’s slipping,” a solder said, gazing at Jaworski. “He can’t wait.”

  Nox began crawling off the edge. The two soldiers grabbed ahold of each foot, while Duncan, with one arm still bandaged, peered over the side and navigated them. Slowly, carefully, they lowered Nox, inch by inch, over the brink. After a few feet, he was close enough to suspend the belts to Jaworski. Jaworski grabbed them with one hand, looping his arm through them. Just then the bush gave out, ripping away from the cliff. The jolt of extra weight on the soldiers caused them to momentarily lose their grasp, and Nox dropped a few inches. But then they reestablished their hold. Duncan offered his strength from his good arm to help. Together, the three of them hauled and heaved until Nox and Jaworski were safe on the top.

  Joan descended the minaret, crying as she hiked, the tears in her eyes causing her to stumble. She continued quickly west, realizing the immense canyon would block them from reaching her for now. Only for now.

  A hill rose in the distance. Climbing to the top, she could get a better view of the surrounding area. Once at the crest, she stared in disbelief.

  Before her lay hundreds of dead trees, flattened out, as if a giant hand swept down upon them. She thought of the nursery rhyme, “The white riverbank makes a very good road, the dead trees show you the way.” These must be the dead trees that would show her the way. Optimism again. Hope.

  She walked among them. They must have been there a long time. They were petrified—turned to rock. The trees were large—two to three feet in diameter. The dirt they lay in was soft and ash-like, yet gritty and mildly abrasive. She rubbed her fingers through it, and it remained in a fine film on her skin. She smelled her hands and made a face. The earth exuded a burnt odor and a faint scent of rotten eggs. Nothing grew out of it—no young trees and no weeds. No insect life was evident; no ants, bugs, or worms wiggled through the soil. An intense silence pervaded the wasteland. Joan heard no normal sounds of life. Deadness. She wondered what sort of cataclysm knocked them down. Was it the Impact? She didn’t know. They rested parallel to each other, aiming the same way. They seemed to be telling Joan the way to go through their ruin. She began running.

  She kept the pace, just as she had practiced for the last seventeen years of her life. She left the dead trees behind her days ago but did her best to keep on the track they pointed: west.

  What propelled her, she did not know. She was trying to outrun something. Her father and mother encompassed her thoughts. She had betrayed her mother in their own home, causing her death. Her father was loving and caring, and she lied to him, day after day. Despite what she told her father and told her friends, it would be ever more challenging for her to admit to the lies she told to herself, for those permitted her to survive. She didn’t fully grasp she would have to confront those issues, enduring who knows how many miles in the wilderness ahead of her.

  18

  She hoped Nox had given up and had returned to the Alliance. Slumping against a tree, she wiped sweat from her brow and relaxed in the cool of the shade. She retrieved a water bottle from her backpack and took a long drink. A lizard perched itself on a rock nearby, sunning itself and reminding her of Nox. It had been a week since she had seen them at the canyon. Since then she had kept a good lookout for him, scanning the
horizon daily for any signs of human life. She always registered nothing. Nothing, she thought, rubbing her eyes against the glaring sun. No human life at all. She was growing dispirited—disheartened. How much longer can this go on? How much longer can she go on? Perhaps part of her wished Nox would find her and take her back. She was weary.

  Then she thought of her parents. She pulled the photo of them from the pack and gazed at it for a minute. Bracing herself, she stood and stretched her back and neck muscles, slipping the photo into her pants pocket. She took another drink. Her canteen was empty. Pulling out the other water bottle, she put it to her mouth, but it too was empty. It had been a couple of days since she’d last seen a stream or any water source. With the heat she must have drunk more than she realized. She had to find water.

  After jogging in the extreme warmth, she had become parched. After a while, she came upon what appeared to be a worn path. Something about it—perhaps the irregular shape, she didn’t know what for sure—told Joan it was not made by humans. Was it an animal path? Thirst overpowered her, and she removed the backpack to try to squeeze another drop from the bottle.

  Her backpack hung loosely over one shoulder, as she followed the trail. All she could think about was water. After a while, she propped the pack on her head to block her face from the sun. Soon, she distinctly heard the sound of water—could smell it. She quickened her pace. There it was ahead of her through the trees: a creek.

  She broke into a full run. Six feet from the stream, something yanked on her leg, pulled her foot out from under her, and sent her flat on her face. Her backpack flung away from her.

  The fall stunned her. Pain shot through her right ankle. She sat up and inspected it. The contraption was a wire trap, most likely meant for an animal. The wire wrapped tightly around her and extended on either side, where it connected to two trees opposite the trail. She pulled at the wire, and pain stabbed at her so that she cried out.