by AJ Steiger
And then what? What, exactly, am I planning to do once we get there?
Well, we’ll deal with that when the time comes.
I step on the gas. The car lurches forward. With a gasp, I slam on the brake.
“Easy.”
“I know.” Biting my lip, I tentatively lower my foot onto the gas again. The car moves forward in small jerks. I twist the wheel back and forth, trying to stay on the road, and the car veers from right to left. I nearly plow into a tree, fumble around, and shift into reverse. “Hang on … I’ve got this.” I shift gears again and drive slowly forward, fingers locked around the wheel. This time, I manage to stay on the road, though I have to keep the car under thirty miles an hour.
Just when I’m starting to relax, there’s a burst of movement in front of me. I gasp again and stomp on the brake. My mouth falls open as a group of sleek brown forms bound across the road. There are ten—no, twelve—of them. White-tailed deer. I’ve never seen one outside of pictures and videos.
Steven lets out a small, startled laugh. “Pretty wild, huh?”
“Yes. They are.” I watch them disappear into the trees, their tails flashing like white flags. So beautiful. Those creatures used to live all across the country. Now most people go their entire lives without having the chance to see one.
I feel a moment of gratitude that I could see them with Steven.
After an hour or so, Steven gets into the driver’s seat. I’ve already run into two trees and a rock. I surrender the wheel with mingled relief and disappointment, but mostly relief. Driving manual is nerve-racking. How can anyone feel comfortable knowing they’re controlling a four-thousand-pound weapon of death?
He’s still a little shaky, but he’s more or less back to normal. As for his collar, I have no idea whether it’s still working or not. We’ll just have to hope for the best.
We drive through the rest of the afternoon, making our way slowly but steadily north. Without the autodrive and the GPS, I have only a vague idea of where we are. There’s a map folded in the glove compartment for emergencies, but I’ve never had to use it. I’m not sure I’d even know how to read one.
Steven, however, seems to know where he’s going.
As the sun sinks lower, I watch him from the corner of my eye. The fading daylight reflects off the pale plane of his cheek, tinting it orange, then gold, then soft pink, and finally a delicate purple-blue before the last wisp of twilight dims from the sky and there’s only the pearly fairy light of the moon to guide us down the long, deserted stretch of country road.
Every so often, I start to think about that kiss, then forcefully pull my thoughts back to the present. It’s too much to process. We need to focus on surviving.
I start to feel dizzy, and it occurs to me that it’s been hours since that meager snack in the car. I grabbed the suitcase and the Gate when we fled, yet I didn’t take the extra two seconds to grab our bag of fruit and cereal bars. Of course, I wasn’t exactly thinking ahead at the moment. And now we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere without food or water.
“So, what’s the plan?” Steven says.
“Plan?”
“For getting into Canada. How are we going to cross the border without being seen?”
“Um …” He assumes I have a plan? Who does he think I am? Someone who knows what she’s doing? “Honestly, it’s a little hard to think right now. I’m very hungry.”
“I still like my barbecued roadkill idea.” One corner of his mouth twitches. “We passed a dead squirrel a mile back. I could try frying it with the ND.”
“I’ll pass. How are you holding up?”
He tosses a few pills into his mouth. His eyes are bloodshot. “I’m getting all these weird floaters in my vision, like jellyfish or something, and there’s this buzzing sound in my head. And I can’t feel my feet.”
I shift my weight. “Do you want to take a nap in the backseat?”
“Nah. I’m good.”
“Seriously. I know I’m a terrible driver, but there are fewer obstacles out here, at least. Crashing a car in the middle of an empty field with no other vehicles in sight would be an impressive achievement.”
He makes a small, rough sound, not quite a chuckle. “Really, I’m okay. I’ve driven in worse shape than this.”
“You have?” I wonder what kind of situation would necessitate that. Do I even want to know?
“Yeah. Don’t think I could sleep, anyway.”
It’s almost midnight when we reach Wolf’s Run, population sixteen hundred and fifty, according to the crooked sign.
Steven abruptly slams on the brakes. I lurch forward and grip the edges of the seat. “What’s wrong?”
He stares out the windshield, fingers locked in a death grip around the steering wheel. Then he parks the car and gets out. I follow, bewildered.
The moon hangs over the horizon, enormous and yellow. The stars are so clear out here. You can see millions of them, it seems, like bright pinpricks against deep, velvety black. I never realized how many stars I was missing out on in Aura.
Steven stands, a breeze ruffling his hair. “I know this place,” he says.
The land slopes into a valley, and the town sprawls across the valley floor, bordered by woods on one side. It’s the first time I’ve seen a town. It looks absurdly tiny, a short stretch of road lined by stores and a handful of squat little houses—though even from here, I can see that the houses are more individualized than those in the city. Some have peaked roofs; some have flat roofs. Some are made of stone, others of wood. There’s no standard design. Beyond the houses is a cluster of lights and machinery. A generator.
“St. Mary’s is close,” he says. “In the woods just to the east. Those woods.” He points at the solid, dark wall of trees near the edge of town.
My heartbeat speeds. “Do you remember anything else?”
His brow furrows, and his eyes cloud over. “I remember …” A shudder runs through him.
I touch his shoulder. “Steven?”
His expression is distant, closed off. I wonder what’s going on behind those pale eyes. After a moment, he gives his head a shake. “It’s gone.”
“But something came back to you,” I say, “even if it was just for a moment. Your blocked memories must be close to the surface.”
“Yippee,” he mutters. He looks down at the town again and rubs a hand over his face. Then he sways on his feet and staggers to one side, as if he’s drunk.
I manage to catch him before he falls over. “What’s wrong?” I cup his cheek, tilting his face toward me. “Did another memory—”
He lets out a breathless laugh. “Nope. Just got dizzy.” He presses a hand over his stomach. “I’ve been running on adrenaline for the past few hours.”
“Oh.” I had a nap last night, but Steven—not counting that brief spell of unconsciousness—hasn’t slept at all. And of course, we both need to eat. No wonder he can barely stand.
I sling an arm around him. “We can stop in town. They must have somewhere to buy food.” Of course, it would be safer to drive straight through—the sooner we can reach the border, the better—but there’s no telling when we’ll have another chance to stock up on supplies. And there is the small matter of us not having a plan or, therefore, any reasonable expectation of crossing over into Canada without being caught.
We get into the car and drive down the hill, past a ramshackle collection of barns and grain silos, past pens of grazing cows and sheep, into town. The highway runs through the center, but it seems to be the only real road. The rest are dirt and gravel. To our right is a small brick pub, seemingly the last place in town that’s still open. The smell of meat, smoke, and grease drifts from within.
Ordinarily, that smell would probably repulse me, but my midsection voices an eager rumble. “Should we go in?” I ask.
Steven’s gaze shifts back and forth, scanning our surroundings. “It’s probably safe. We shouldn’t stay long, though.”
I nod in agreemen
t.
The pub’s windows glow with yellow light, and there are a few cars parked in the lot, along with a motorcycle. I study the odd-looking contraption. Motorcycles are illegal in Aura, and have been for decades. And no wonder. The thing looks terribly unstable, like it might tip over at any second.
We get out of the car. It occurs to me that Steven still has a neural disrupter and a switchblade concealed in his leather coat. Just a week ago, the presence of weapons might have made me nervous. Now it makes me feel safer. I wonder what that says about me.
We approach the small door, and I hesitate outside. Vague stereotypes about townspeople float through my mind—they’re illiterate, violent, crude, et cetera. Or at least that seems to be the general consensus, though most people have never actually visited a town, just traveled from city to city. At best, the town dwellers are seen as quaint yokels with charming local customs but no idea how the real world works. At worst, they’re portrayed as a bunch of anarchic thugs from the dark, barbaric past. Who are they, really?
I suppose we’re about to find out. I push open the door. The hinges squeal like small animals being tortured.
The place is dimly lit and deserted, save for the bartender and a few very old men sitting in a corner playing cards. Their clothes are heavy and rough, mud-stained jeans and flannel shirts. Music plays—an ancient, crackling recording. Every surface seems to be stained deeply with several layers of grease and smoke, as if they’re part of the wood itself. A deer head stares down at us with glassy eyes, its antlers spread out like tree branches. At the sight of it, I flinch. Is that real?
The old men watch as we slide onto the padded barstools. I shift, trying to get comfortable. “Hello,” I say. My voice sounds too loud. “Um. We’d like something to eat, please.” I look down at the counter, searching for a screen. “Where’s your menu?”
Someone chuckles.
The bartender is a tall, bony man with a somber face and waxy skin. “No menu. We got burgers and fries. That’s about it, ’less you want a beer.”
“I’ll have a burger, then.”
“Cheese on mine. And pile some bacon on, if you got it,” Steven says.
The burgers arrive in a few minutes. They’re thick, buns soggy with grease. I wolf mine down, uncomfortably aware of the locals’ eyes on us. They probably don’t get visitors very often. They seem … not hostile, exactly, but not welcoming, either. There’s something cautious in their expressions, and an unnatural silence hangs over the room, as if they’re observing us, waiting to see what we do or say.
“So, where you bound?” the bartender asks.
“None of your business,” Steven replies.
The bartender’s gaze sharpens. For a few seconds, the room seems to hold its breath. When he speaks again, his tone is casual, but that alert look never leaves his eyes. “You kids wouldn’t happen to be running for the border, would you?”
Steven lurches to his feet and stumbles backward. I see him reach for the ND.
In an instant, the bartender’s aiming a huge rifle at him. I let out a strangled gasp. “Put ’er down, son,” he says, not unkindly.
Steven doesn’t move. The locals in the corner are watching us with sudden interest, though no alarm. One of them cracks a peanut and eats it.
“Don’t misunderstand,” the bartender says. He smiles, the folds in his weathered face deepening. “I’m not your enemy.”
“Then why are you pointing a gun at us?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“Your friend was the one who reached for his weapon. I don’t care for having a weapon pointed at me. So let’s both put ’em down real slow. All right?”
They measure each other with their eyes for a few seconds, while I sit frozen, heart hammering, wondering what I’ll do if this turns into a shoot-out.
“How do we know we can trust you?” Steven asks.
He shrugs. “You’re free to get up and walk right out that door. No skin off my ass. But if you want to know what I know, you’ll put the toy gun down.”
“This is an ND,” Steven says.
“Like I said. The toy gun.”
“Have you ever seen what this toy can do?” With his thumb, Steven slides the switch to the highest setting.
Great. I can practically smell the testosterone leaking into the air, like some kind of explosive chemical that the wrong word will ignite.
I look from the bartender to the door and back again. My heart is beating so hard, it drowns out my thoughts. I struggle to make sense of the situation. If you want to know what I know, he said. What does he know? Is he offering to help us, or is he planning to kill us and mount our heads on the wall next to that hapless deer’s?
One of the customers takes a swig of his beer. They’re still watching us, silent as stumps, and I have the odd sense that they’ve seen this same confrontation play out before.
I meet Steven’s gaze. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Steven narrows his eyes, as if to say, Are you crazy? I just hold his gaze, keeping my expression as steady and calm as I can. Finally, he nods and slowly lowers the ND. The bartender lowers his rifle as well. Steven thumbs the safety on the ND and shoves it into his belt, but his hand remains near the grip.
Suddenly, I notice a faded photograph of a smiling little girl tacked to the wall behind the bar. His daughter?
“Go ahead,” I say quietly. “We’re listening.”
The bartender studies us with pale eyes. “There’s something you should know about townsfolk,” he says. “Most of us aren’t too fond of city authorities. They like to come in here every so often, stick their damned mind-reading gadgets in our faces, and look down their noses at us. I’m not inclined to help them if they’re looking for you. None of my patrons will breathe a word to them, either. We never saw you.”
“Well,” Steven says, “that’s good to know.” Still, there’s a sharpness in his tone.
The bartender rests a hand on the edge of the ancient, scratched bar. “People like us, here in Wolf’s Run … we’re the last of a dying breed. A dying world. I’m one of the few who remember the time before the war. Of course, I was still a boy then.”
“Is this gonna be a long story? Because we haven’t got all night,” Steven says. I kick his shin, hard.
The bartender glances at him, expression unreadable, then continues. “There were people back then who really didn’t like the way things were going. People who didn’t trust this new system of government. They wanted out. So a few reservations were set aside for folks like us—folks who wanted to live the way we’d always lived, without Types and all that bullshit. But even out here, they won’t leave us alone. Government agents poke around and ask questions. Tourists show up to gawk at us. Like we’re a museum exhibit. Maybe that’s what we are.” He stares at the picture on the wall. “Every year, our population gets a little smaller. Our children are leaving us for the cities. My daughter—she’s grown now—skipped town a few years ago. In a way, I can’t blame her. Who wants to stay in a place that’s dying?” His voice wobbles a little.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. I don’t know what else to say.
He shakes his head. “Never mind. Point is, IFEN is our enemy. So if people come through here on the run from the men in the white coats, I steer them right. It’s all I can do.”
I sit up straighter, listening.
“Head down Main Street to the end of town, then keep driving,” he says. “You’ll come to a big blue house. That’s Gracie Turner’s. Go there.”
“Who is she?” I ask.
“That’s all I’ll say on the matter. If anyone asks you questions, you never talked to me. Got it?”
Steven gives a short, grim nod.
“Good. Finish your burgers.”
I don’t feel like eating, but considering that he has a gigantic rifle under the bar, it seems like a good idea to do what he says. I pick up the dripping mass of bread and meat and take another bite. Once we’re finished, I fish the credit card
out of my pocket and look around. “Where do I pay?”
“Cash only,” he says.
I blink, mystified. “Cash?”
“Never mind.” He smiles, as if I’ve said something funny. “It’s on the house.” He takes our plates.
“Thank you,” I say uncertainly. “And thank you for the information.”
“Remember. You never talked to me.”
Steven and I rise to our feet and walk toward the door. As I reach out to open it, Steven suddenly speaks up: “Did you know Emmett Pike?”
The bartender’s face turns stony.
“This is the town where he lived, isn’t it?” Steven says. “You ever heard of him?”
“I recognize the name.” The bartender polishes a glass, with a cloth. A long, tense silence passes before he continues. “I know damn near everyone in this town. But this guy they showed on the news, he didn’t look familiar at all. I’d remember a face like that. Of course, some folks said they’d seen him lurking around. And who am I to say they were just looking for attention?” He shrugs, then smiles, showing a hint of a gold tooth. “You kids be careful now.”
We walk out of the pub. Steven kicks a brown glass bottle, and it skitters across the pavement.
“So,” I say, “are we going to look for this Gracie Turner?”
He doesn’t respond. He stares straight ahead, eyes distant and glassy.
“Steven?”
He gives his head a shake. “Sorry. Just … thinking.” He stops, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders rigid. “I guess it’s official, huh? Pike never existed.”
“That’s what it sounds like.” Right now, I’m more worried about the future, about how we’re going to get out of the country without being caught. But I can see why Steven would latch on to that detail. This is his past. His identity. And he’s just received confirmation that it’s all a lie.
We get into the car. He doesn’t drive off immediately—he sits, hands resting on the wheel. “I don’t get it.” He doesn’t sound angry or scared. Just tired. “It’s supposed to be impossible to create new memories, isn’t it?”