Wasteland (Wasteland - Trilogy)

by Kim, Susan

  Occasionally, she shifted the bundle in her arms.

  At last, she arrived at what appeared to be her destination. It was a massive oil tower, a giant steel tank set high atop four spiderlike legs. Weather and time had eaten away the letters once painted on its side, and the metal was corroded with rust and rot. A spindly ladder made its way to the top. At its base, the female finally set down her bundle.

  Esther stepped out of the shadows. “What do you aim to do with that baby?”

  The female started violently and cried out in fear. When she saw who it was, her expression changed to one of utter disbelief.

  “You followed me?” she asked. It was Sian, an older girl Esther knew only slightly. “All the way from town?”

  Esther nodded. “What do you aim to do with that baby?” she repeated.

  Sian shook her head dismissively.

  “It ain’t no baby,” she said.

  She stepped aside and Esther could see the child. It was tiny, much smaller than she had imagined. It whimpered, then beat at the air with its minuscule legs and arms. The blanket fell away and in the early morning light, Esther could see its sex, which was a misshapen lump, neither male nor female. Its nose was nearly flat, little more than slits in its broad face. Its eyes were far apart, bulging, and lavender in color.

  It was a variant.

  Esther, stunned, tried to make sense of it.

  “So you’re just leaving it out here to die?” she asked.

  Sian shook her head with a mixture of disgust and pity. Then with her robes hiked up, she took hold of the ladder and began to climb, an orange T-shirt clenched in her teeth. When she was more than halfway up, she tied it to a rung with a clumsy knot. Then she made her way back down.

  “This way, they know,” she said.

  “You mean the—” Esther started to ask, but the other girl cut her off.

  “The fathers don’t want to know. And the mothers want to forget. So this is how we figured it out with the mutants, long ago. It works out the best for everybody.”

  Esther couldn’t take her eyes off the baby. It had found its thumb and sucked on it.

  “It’s a secret only the mothers know,” said Sian. She stared at Esther, her voice hard. “And now you do, too.”

  Esther headed home, walking down the center of the road that led to town. The sun was already well in the sky and she was aware that she risked being detected by a crew on its way to work. Yet she was too exhausted and confused to care.

  She was thinking of all the couples in town and how so few of the females ever managed to become pregnant. Of the few dozen who carried a child to term, most of their babies were born dead.

  Or at least that was what everybody was told.

  Now it seemed the truth was both simpler and more complex. Her suspicions had been right, all along: Variants weren’t animals at all, but humans. That the mothers of Prin kept this secret was something she couldn’t have begun to imagine.

  Still brooding, Esther walked home down the center of the street. Although the sun was visible above the horizon, it was too early for anyone else to be out. She was not aware of the bicycle until it had pulled up beside her. The rider in robes and dark glasses jumped down, removing the scarf that covered its face.

  “Esther.” It was Eli, his face flushed and eager. “I saw you from my window and wanted to talk.”

  She smiled back politely and he fell into step next to her, pushing his bike. They walked like that in silence for a few moments. He seemed to want to say something, but each time she looked at him, he merely blushed.

  “Esther,” he began again.

  When she glanced at him, he cleared his throat. Then he awkwardly reached over and, to her shock, took her hand. His skin was rough and dry; his palm seemed the size of a dinner plate. She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “We known each other a long time,” he said. Esther could see her distorted reflection in each of his sunglass lenses; she looked confused and exhausted. “And you got to know how I feel about you. I guess what I’m saying is, I want to be . . . I was hoping you might think about me becoming . . . your partner.” He finished in a rush, his face red.

  Esther was speechless.

  Yet why should it be a surprise? At fifteen, Esther was past the average age for partnering. Still, she could have three or four good years ahead of her. And Eli had always been kind and generous. In a town that treated her like an outsider, he had never made any secret of his affection for her. And even she had to admit, she may have encouraged him by asking favors.

  Now Esther stared at him critically, as if seeing him for the first time. Eli was not tall, but he was strong and healthy. He had thick, wavy hair, a nice smile, and dark brown eyes. His voice was deep and pleasant, and he was a hard worker, dependable and considerate. She could do a lot worse than to become his partner.

  Yet she felt nothing beyond an acknowledgment that he was a good catch. Was that reason enough for her . . . or for him, for that matter? Was she so wrong to expect something more from a decision she would have to live with for the rest of her life?

  Eli had stopped talking and seemed to be waiting for her to respond. Yet Esther found her thoughts were not on the boy in front of her.

  She was thinking of Caleb.

  Esther pulled away her hand. “I can’t tell you right now,” she said. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  Eli stared at her, clearly disappointed. Then he tried to smile.

  “Sure,” he said with forced heartiness. “I can understand that. A girl needs time to think this kind of thing over.”

  As she walked away, stiff with self-consciousness, Esther could feel Eli’s eyes following her before she heard the sound of his bicycle heading off. But she was still rattled.

  If she were paying more attention, she might have noticed that although the sun was well over the horizon, there were no other townspeople outside, on their way to work. Instead, the streets were empty. It was not until she entered her building and crossed the empty storefront to reach the stairs in the back that she noticed that something was odd.

  Esther paused. The building around her felt different somehow. Every nerve ending in her body told her that.

  Her first thought was of her sister. Esther hesitated at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the banister.

  “Sarah?” she whispered.

  And with that, they were upon her.

  Two townspeople lunged down the stairs and sprang at her. Although startled, Esther was able to leap backward and avoid their grasp. But she was not prepared for the two others who now rushed in from the street, blocking her escape. One of them seized her by the arms; another struggled to bind her wrists behind her back with an elasticized cloth cord that had black metal hooks at each end. Esther struck out, kicking and punching, but she was only one against several and was quickly overpowered.

  “What are you doing?” she screamed. Her mind was whirling; was she being punished for finding out about Aima’s baby?

  No one answered. Rafe walked in, his expression unreadable.

  “Rafe!” she screamed. “Help me!”

  But a vile-tasting rag was stuffed into her mouth. Esther couldn’t speak; she could barely breathe. The last thing she saw across the room was Sarah, clinging to the doorframe, her hand to her mouth. Her face was white with shock and anguish.

  With arms tied behind her, Esther was dragged from the building and down the street. When she stumbled, she was yanked back up by her elbows. It was a long, hot walk.

  When the group stopped, they were in the middle of what had once been a large lake on the outskirts of town. The ground under their feet was dusty red clay, baked hard by the sun and littered with trash. The shoreline was edged by dead willows and more than a few dozen motorboats that balanced lopsidedly on their hulls, long since drained of any gasoline. A rickety bridge spanned the narrowest part of the lakebed, cinching it like a belt.

  The five people who surrounded her were identical in
their reflective sunglasses and face scarfs. Only Rafe spoke.

  “You know why you’re here,” he said. “We got word you left your work detail. You got anything to say?”

  Esther swallowed as the realization sank in: It wasn’t about the baby after all. The situation seemed so unreal that only the pain of the rubberized cords biting into her wrists told her this was not a dream. “It was Rhea, wasn’t it?” she said in a low voice. “She hates me and my sister.”

  “It don’t matter if she hates you or not,” said Rafe. “Was it true what she said?”

  “I worked hard on the Harvesting. You could ask anyone else who was there.”

  “You’re not answering the question,” Rafe replied. “Did you leave your work detail or didn’t you?”

  When she didn’t answer, he nodded his head. “That was what I thought.”

  Esther glanced at the others in open appeal. They must have been thinking what she was: that no one in Prin had ever been Shunned for anything less than illness or a serious crime. Never for something as minor as skipping work detail. Rafe was just following Levi’s new rules without thinking, and for that, Esther found him more contemptible than ever.

  Two of her neighbors refused to meet her gaze. It was clear that none of them was going to help her in any way, to speak in her defense or ask for mercy.

  “Esther,” said Rafe. “You are hereby Shunned from Prin.”

  He nodded, and one of the others fumbled to undo her bonds. Another handed Esther a nylon backpack which she took, numbly. In it, she knew that there would be supplies meant to last a week or so.

  For an instant, Esther sensed that this last person was viewing her with regret, even sympathy. But the moment passed and whoever it was joined the others, who stood together, watching in silence.

  In a daze, Esther walked across the lake surface and toward the rising sun.

  On a grassy patch behind the bank, the seven townspeople surrounded Caleb. He was in the middle, holding a long, wooden stick with an angled end, the word EASTON printed along the laminated shaft.

  Caleb addressed one of the students, a tall boy. “Tell me what you’re going to do,” he said.

  “I’m going to go with the motion of the push and see where it takes me,” said the boy.

  Caleb nodded. Then he raised the stick and used it to shove the boy in the right shoulder. The boy grabbed the stick with both hands and pushed back.

  Caleb shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “See how you’re fighting back? You’re pushing against the motion. I want you to go with it instead and see where it takes you.” The tall boy nodded, brow furrowed with concentration.

  This was the second day of class and the boy with the red hair was surprised; things were going much better than before. Somehow, he had absorbed some of Caleb’s earlier verbal lessons. Now he was focused on the actual basics of fighting.

  That morning, they had spent three hours on punching. The boy hadn’t realized there was so much to learn and how little he knew: how to make a fist to best protect your thumb and knuckles. How to aim for a distance a hand’s width beyond your intended target to maximize the impact. How, if you lacked arm strength, you could use speed to compensate. How to increase your power by stepping into the punch with your entire body. How to relax your body until the instant you threw the punch.

  Now Caleb lifted the staff again. “We’re going to try it slowly,” he said, “and this time, don’t fight it. Relax and try going with the motion.” As he pushed the stick against the tall boy’s left shoulder, the boy allowed himself to be guided backward, his body twisting.

  “Where is your right arm going?” Caleb asked.

  The boy gestured: It was swinging inward.

  “Now make a fist with it. Think about using that natural movement and using it to help you punch inward. Again.”

  The two repeated the move, and this time, the boy succeeded in turning the attack into a roundhouse punch.

  “Do you see what you’re doing?” asked Caleb. “By going with the motion, you’re decreasing the damage to your shoulder. At the same time, you’re using it to generate an unexpected attack, from the other side.”

  As the tall boy thought this over, everyone else in the circle murmured. “Thanks,” said the tall boy, beaming with excitement.

  Caleb glanced at the sky; the sun was almost overhead and he made a quick calculation. After he had worked with everyone in the circle, he would have only a short time to teach basic self-defense moves. Then he would devote the afternoon to beginning techniques in slingshot, sap, and short club.

  With any luck, they would be finished by sundown.

  He knew he was going quickly, much too quickly, for his lessons to be truly useful. If they could even remember what he was teaching them, his students would have to practice each move for many weeks, hundreds if not thousands of times. Only then would their new skills start to become automatic and, therefore, any help at all. But even the best of them would be nothing more than mere beginners: eager, perhaps, but clumsy and unskilled.

  To learn to fight well took months, even years of training. And he had spent little more than a day with them.

  It was the best he could do. He should have left Prin already, gone that morning. Yet at the last moment he decided to stay a day longer. He unexpectedly felt obligated to these people and wanted to leave them with at least a fighting chance to protect themselves.

  There was another reason that was even more important. He had to see Esther again.

  “How are we doing?”

  Caleb looked up; Rafe stood in the doorway of the bank. His hands clasped behind his back, he rocked up and down on his heels, checking out the class. Caleb noted the we in his question. This was the first time the town’s leader had deigned to show up. While learning to fight was something for others to do, Rafe seemed happy to share the credit.

  “We’ll get there,” Caleb replied.

  Rafe gestured for Caleb to approach him. “What’s your guess on how long it’ll take?” he asked in a low voice. “How many days do you think?”

  Days? Caleb thought. More like months. But he didn’t say it.

  “Hard to figure,” he replied.

  But there was no time to keep talking. The red-haired boy had seized the staff and was using it to prod the others, with a bit too much enthusiasm, in an attempt to drill them in the technique they had just been taught.

  “More slowly,” Caleb said, walking back to the group. “It’s not a natural reaction . . . you have to feel it first. Let me show you . . .”

  It was sunset. His pack strapped onto the back of his bicycle, Caleb stopped in the street outside the building marked STARBUCKS. He didn’t want this to be the last time he saw Esther. Yet how in good conscience could he ask her to join him?

  He looked up at the second-floor window, half open and framed by a fluttering white curtain. He called up, just loud enough to be heard.

  “Hey?”

  After a minute, a girl came to the glass and looked down. Wearing a flowered bathrobe held close to her throat, she looked haunted. This must be Esther’s older sister, Caleb thought. He raised a hand to get her attention.

  “Is Esther at home?” he asked.

  At the name, the girl winced. There was a pause during which she did not reply. She untied the curtain, which fell and covered the window. Then, just a shadow, she walked away.

  Caleb rode on, disturbed. Although he knew he should be leaving, the weird encounter made him want to see Esther more than ever. So, as evening deepened, he continued to search for her.

  He headed along the main street of Prin, glanced down alleyways, passed the meeting hall, the old parking garage, the bank. By now, the streets were largely deserted; most people were home from work. Whenever he saw anyone, he asked, “You know Esther? Where she might be?” Each time, he got the same response: averted eyes, an evasive shrug, an unpersuasive no.

  Heading down one street was a group of straggler
s. They stopped, recognizing Caleb. Some were in awe, too shy to speak. He asked them the same questions.

  “Any of you know Esther? Where she might be?”

  One girl found the courage to respond. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Caleb said. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s just gone,” the girl said. “For good.”

  The others glared at her. One tugged at her sleeve, whispering that they’d be late. But it was clearly an excuse.

  “But where did she—” Caleb started to ask, but they were walking away, the girl shooting him an apologetic gaze over her shoulder.

  Caleb stood there, still straddling his bicycle. Now he found the idea of leaving impossible. Despite what the girl said, he couldn’t believe it was true. Esther would never have left without telling him. And where would she go? So he did the only thing he could, continue his methodical search for Esther, up and down the streets of Prin.

  Eventually, he made it to the railroad tracks on the outskirts of town. The tree where Esther had perched, watching him, was empty, as were the surrounding fields. It had been many hours; by now, the horizon was touched with pink.

  He glanced up. Outlined by the rising sun, someone on a bike had crested a nearby hill and stood looking down at him. The face was obscured by a black hood.

  Another one of Levi’s boys, Caleb thought. What did he want?

  At that moment, the sun shifted, momentarily blinding him. Still, he could see that the boy’s arm had risen, in what appeared to be a wave.

  Caleb raised his hand in response. As he did, he blocked the light and perceived the truth: The boy was holding a fiberglass hunting bow and drawing back the string.

  There was a hissing sound, and Caleb felt a sudden blow. He stumbled, and a moment later, heat blossomed across his shoulder, surrounding the feathered shaft embedded in it.

  TEN

  THE DAY BEFORE, THE HEAT HAD BEEN INESCAPABLE.

  It not only beat down from the sun; it radiated up from the concrete and oozing tar. The air itself shimmered with arid heat, forming waves that danced across the horizon.

  Esther was not prepared for such relentless exposure.