“I was a little distracted at the time. I was expecting her to say she was there to free us.” I’m not terribly interested in this little guessing game right now. If we’re going to survive the night—who knows what kind of predators prowl these hills—then I’ve got to think about shelter, fire, food, warmth. I’m willing to bet that the envelope will still say FOBRASSE after we build a shelter and make a fire. But the sun won’t stay up forever.
“Fobrasse. What is that? Or, who is that? I’ve never heard it before.” She’s simply thinking out loud now. She doesn’t expect any answer from me, which is fine. I can get on to the important business of survival.
There's not much to work with, though. The trees are stingy, clinging to every twig. I find almost nothing worth kindling, let alone a single good branch for a fire. I could break some off the trees, but they wouldn't burn. After five minutes wandering around this little copse, I have a pile only big enough to fill a shoe. A child's shoe.
“I may have to go farther out to get wood for a fire,” I say out loud to no one in particular.
“Okay,” Freda replies.
“You might consider coming with me,” I offer.
“Oh. Mmm hmm.” She’s not listening. We’ve been married only a few hours, and already she’s ignoring me.
“It might be better if we stuck together.”
“Yeah.” She doesn’t move.
I stroll twenty yards upstream, but Freda continues to sit and stare at the envelope. She’s rooted through the outer envelope a dozen times, turned the Fobrasse one over in her hands a dozen more.
“Freda.”
She looks up. Finally. “What?”
“Come with me.”
“What? Where?”
“We need wood to burn, and there’s not enough here. We need to go farther up the pass.”
She looks past me up the slope. It’s a quarter mile to the next stand of gnarled, little trees. I’ve seen them already, and I can tell from her frown that she’s evaluating them in the same way. “Are you sure there’s wood there?”
“No. We could walk miles and not find enough firewood. But I guarantee we don’t have enough here.”
She looks down at my pathetic, little pile of twigs and bark, and she nods slowly. She glances around at the other things that she tumbled out of the satchel. “We’d better pack up, I guess, and bring the wood we have with us.”
“Good idea,” I croon at her, and from her sharp look I realize I’ve mixed a little too much sarcasm in. I soften my voice. We need to be nice to each other to have any chance at all. “We can try to figure out what Fobrasse is later, OK?” I pronounce it like she did: Foe-brass.
She sighs but doesn’t say anything as she begins gathering the few items and stuffing them back into the bag. When she gets to her bundle of clothes, she pauses. “Do I have time to change?”
“Yeah, sure.” I stand still and wait for her, hoping she’ll hurry up. The sun is sinking faster than I’d expected, and the higher hills to the west will bring darkness quickly.
“Mmm.” It’s a noncommittal sound she makes as she stands holding her bundle and does not move. After a moment she smiles at me. I smile back, hoping she’ll speed it up a bit.
“Ahem.”
Oh. “Um, should I… like, turn around or something?”
“That would be very kind of you, yes.”
Considering we’re married and we’re in the middle of nowhere about to face death in the next day or two, maybe even as soon as night falls and the wild predators come out to hunt us, she might show a little less modesty. But I turn around and look up the slope to stare at the next group of trees.
The sun has sunk almost to the farthest hilltop, and it creates a blinding background. Maybe it’s a trick of the lighting, or maybe it’s the exhausting, awful day we’ve had, but I could swear there was some movement among those trees. A small creature of some kind, moving quickly. I squint into the brightness to try to make it out, but I can see nothing except the bulky silhouette of the grove.
“All right, let’s go.”
I turn to see Freda in thick hunting pants and a heavy, wool sweater. The elegance of the dress her father crafted has been bludgeoned into oblivion by this artless, shapeless garb. I give her a once-over and scowl. “I liked the dress better.”
“Well, maybe I prefer this.”
Sheesh, I was only trying to compliment her. Instead of replying, I snatch the satchel from her hand, sling it over my shoulder, and stomp on up the hill. I was only trying to say she looked pretty, even in this awful, God-forsaken place. She didn't have to throw it back in my face.
She follows, and we walk in silence for a few minutes, listening only to the gravelly dirt crunching under our feet and the occasional screech of a hawk from the Southshaw side of the wall. Halfway to our goal, she speeds up to my side and takes my hand. “I’m sorry, Dane. That was a nice thing to say.”
I’m not sure I want it to make me feel less grumpy, but it does. I allow my hand to slip into hers, and we walk the rest of the way close together, falling into step.
As we near the trees, my tension rises. I scan ahead for any sign of the motion I saw before, but I hide my concern from Freda. I'm a little out of breath at this higher elevation. Beside me, Freda breathes very hard. There is no movement, and when we arrive the place looks almost as barren as the lower copse. I don’t even bother trying to gather them. Instead, we turn to look back down the slope at the wall.
From here, we can see the top of the wall but not much beyond. Below the wall, the valley turns to the right and descends to the lake below. The jutting hills block our view beyond. The peaks around us might offer a view of Southshaw, but they look unclimbable—far too steep and crumbly. I might be able to reach the top, but Freda surely could not.
“Dane, it’s nothing but the same farther on,” Freda moans. She’s not whining. I can hear in her voice that she will persevere as long as I need her to. Her hope has lasted longer than mine, and I can hear it fading with the failing sunlight.
“We’ll figure something out,” I hear myself say, but I'm not sure why.
It seems to perk her up a little. The hill continues to rise in waves ahead of us, and along the way small stands of trees gather in hopeless little groups. We could continue on, from copse to copse, finding no wood to burn and nothing for shelter. Or we could stop here and do our best. Or we could retreat to the wall which might provide better, more defensible shelter.
“I think we should go back,” I say.
“Whatever you think is best,” Freda replies.
“We have blankets, and food for tonight. If we start early in the morning, we'll have all day to find something better.” If we survive the night, I don’t say out loud.
Without talking more, we both head back down the hill. It takes only a few minutes and is far easier than the uphill trek. We reach what I’ve come to think of as our spot, the place where Freda first drank from the stream and then dumped out the satchel, and when we reach the wall we turn left, away from the gate.
The lengthening shadows make me anxious. The cliff looming at the end of the wall has a sinister look about it, untrustworthy. It's solid and won't slide, but something about it makes me want to head back to the trees. Halfway there, with a hundred yards to go, I just stop.
“That way’s no good,” I say, and I turn and begin walking back to the trees, pulling Freda with me.
“I think you’re right,” she whispers, and I’m glad she whispered because the deepening twilight makes me feel like too much noise will bring out the evil that we both fear.
We hurry back to the trees. Where they looked so grim and angry before, they now welcome us back with their twisted and knobbed arms. Under their branches, with the familiar patter of water on pebbles for company, the fear recedes. But only a little.
We dump out the satchel again, and Freda looks away while I change from my worthless wedding getup into the thick, warm clothes provided by my mot
her. Freda spreads the blanket out on the flattest, least pebbly spot of ground she can find beneath the trees.
“Not much of a marriage bed, is it?” She tries to put lightness into the words, but they're smothered by the thick evening.
“It’s the best I can imagine,” I coo back at her, but it's too contrived. We both know what lies ahead of us: true unknown.
We sit close on the blanket, our backs leaning on the warm stone of the wall, and we nibble on the nuts and jerky my mother packed. Our hips and shoulders nuzzle each other, our elbows bumping from time to time. Neither of us minds the poking.
Suddenly, Freda laughs a light, tinkling giggle that seems dreadfully out of place here.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Lamb jerky.”
“So?” I’ve never found lamb jerky to be funny before.
“Where do you think Judith got it?”
I’m still unused to hearing my mother referred to by her name and not “mother” or “First Wife.” Then I remember. This was part of the Wifing gift that Suzee Lummon’s father delivered on the day of the interviews. I bark out a laugh, and we both fall silent but smile together for a few minutes while we savor our small dinner.
“Dane?”
“Try not to worry, Freda.”
“No, it’s not that. I think I understand a little about the envelopes.”
“Oh? You’ve figured out what Frobass is?”
“Fobrasse, not Frobass. No, I’m still working on that. But I think your mother expected the guards to search the bag before giving it to us.”
“Of course. That’s why they didn’t give it to us until after they’d already locked the gate. Who knows what they took out of it before dropping it over the wall. I'm surprised they let us have even that.”
“I think Fobrasse is someone we are supposed to meet on this side.”
“A person?”
“I… don’t know. Really, who knows if the stories we’ve heard about the wild are true?”
“I’ve been trying to think like that all day, but…” My voice trails off into the darkness.
“Remember Lupay.”
I have been thinking on and off about Lupay all afternoon, and as twilight turned into night I couldn’t exorcize the memory of our minutes together on the shore of the lake, before the ghost men came for the first time.
Freda waits for my reply that doesn’t come. “What I mean is, she was so different from what you were taught to believe. Right?”
“Right…”
“So, what if that’s not the only thing we’ve been taught wrong?”
I lean into her a little bit, grateful that I’m not here alone. She could have gone back to her parents. She could be home safe in her warm house, sitting by the fire, eating a thick, hot stew and enjoying her mother and father’s company. I want to thank her, but how do you say thank you to someone for giving up their own life for you?
“Look up,” she whispers.
I do. There are some meager branches above us, but beyond that is a cloudless, black sky filled with billions of diamond pinpoint stars.
“The stars are the same on this side of the wall as on our side,” Freda breathes, barely even a whisper.
I don’t even know when twilight turned to darkness. It will be an hour or more before the moon rises, silvers the sky and dims the stars. I slide down so that I’m lying on the blanket on my back instead of sitting against the wall. Freda slides with me, never losing contact between our bodies. We clasp our hands together and gaze upward through the branches.
“Freda…”
“Shh. It’s all right.”
I smile a bit, which I know she can’t see, but smiling still makes me feel a little closer to her. “Thank you.”
“Shhh.”
“You didn’t have to—“
“I said, shhh.”
I smile up at the stars, listening to the trickle of the intrepid stream and feeling the warmth of Freda’s body against mine through our thick wool. After what seems like hours but is probably only a few minutes, I whisper, “I don’t care what happens. I’m glad we’re here together.”
I hear only the soft, heavy breathing of sleep beside me. If I could pick the last sound I hear in this life, that would be it. But I hope it's not.
I lie still for a long time, listening to the night. Suddenly I snap open my eyes, certain that a sound pulled me from unexpected sleep. I’m on my stomach, with one arm pinned under me.
Freda’s breathing rasps uneven nearby, and she rustles, restless. I wish she would keep still, but I'm sure she's tormented by awful dreams. I listen through the scratching of her wool sweater on the wool blanket, the rumble of the gravel beneath us each time she moves.
It’s easy to block out the constant trickle of the stream and the distant hum of cicadas. Beneath those sounds, an unnatural skitter comes and goes, a patter that sounds like artfully placed feet on a treacherous surface. Someone, or some thing, is stalking us.
CHAPTER 16
The moon has risen high into the sky. We've been here two, maybe three hours. Freda stirs again beside me. When she moves, I roll onto my back, pretending still to be asleep. If something comes at me, I want to see it. The branches above us form a spider web silhouette against the paler black of the starry sky.
The arm that was pinned under me is completely numb, and it lies where it was like a sack of flour. Useless. I can't even wiggle my fingers.
More skittering patter of feet. Coyotes? Rabbits?
A hissing whisper. Very close. My imagination runs through children's stories and troubled dreams, forming abominable monsters in the shadows. Human snakes, two headed coyotes, living-dead corpses of previously exiled Southshawans…
I'm an idiot. Why did I leave the little knife in our satchel?
My numb fingers begin to tingle and prick as the unknown monster approaches in the dark. It—or they?—come from the other side of the stream, the cliff side.
I slowly roll to my side to face that way. The moon is bright on the hillside, but the shadow of the cliff falls dark all the way to the trees. I focus through slitted eyes, and shapes of deeper shadow move in the darkness.
Three. Human sized. Crouching, stealthy. Coming straight at us, there’s no doubt. So much for my hope that they were only interested in the stream. They are only a few dozen yards away.
If I knew they were coyotes, I could jump up and scare them away. Or I could wake Freda and run away, but to where? Or I could lie still and hope they kill us quickly, let Freda sleep through the whole thing.
Strangely, I don't feel the dizzying rush I know from Baddock's training sessions. Instead, a calm settles over me. Let them come. Whatever happens. In any case, it's too late to run.
Only fifteen yards away, they pause at the edge of the shadow. They are so dark, they must have black fur, or perhaps they’re shadow creatures, some ghastly mutation released from Hell itself. Or maybe some spirit, some ghost—
The moon slips a little higher and the shadow retreats. Eyes. Human eyes. Peering out from the blackness of a silhouette. Their gaze locks onto mine and they widen. A crisp word that sounds like “now” breaks the silence, and the shadows lunge at us.
At the same time, I leap to my feet, my numb arm bristling with reluctance and dead weight. The three take different angles and cover the distance in an instant. Two sweep around in narrowing arcs to come at us from the sides. The one with the eyes lunges four steps and leaps the stream at full speed, then plows into me.
Together we tumble over Freda, who shrieks. A rock-hard shoulder brutally hammers into my ribs, crushing the air from my lungs. I land on my back on the hard dirt, flattened by the full weight of the man slamming down on top of me. This is it, then. I can't even gasp under his weight. My eyes roll, and I fight to keep from passing out.
Vaguely, I become aware of more shrieking. Poor Freda. The other two are probably tearing her apart. I wait for the inevitable—teeth ripping at my throat, or a c
lawed hand tearing open my chest. But it doesn’t come. Instead, the weight lifts off me, and I’m roughly turned over onto my stomach. My hands are quickly tied behind my back, faster even than Baddock could do it.
It’s so swift that I almost don’t realize what’s happening. The shrieking has stopped, but there’s some other noise that sounds like Freda’s voice shouting. But I can’t understand it. Maybe I hit my head when I fell. Maybe the Radiation is finally wearing me down. I can barely keep from going unconscious—if this is the end, I want to be here when it happens.
It all happens as if I'm underwater. Sounds slowed, wits thickened, a hand pressing my face into the dirt. My mind keeps trying to hear the word that Freda had been yelling, but I can't quite catch it. The yelling has stopped, but the word repeats in my thoughts until finally it becomes clear.
“Foe-brass! Foe-brass! Foe-brass!”
If Freda thinks it’s worth saying, then I think it’s worth saying. I try to spit out the dusty syllables, and it emerges as “fll blth.” I try again. “fll blth.” My mouth feels like it’s filled with rocks, and the effort of making words puts me again at the edge of passing out.
“Shut up,” hisses a voice directly behind my ear.
I shut up. But not by choice. Another attempt at saying Fobrasse and I’d probably go unconscious. For now, it’s enough that I’m not being killed or eviscerated or eaten alive, bit by bit. That may yet occur, but it’s not occurring right now, and I am thankful for that.
Hands grab my arms and shoulders, and I'm lifted to my feet. The dark night spins around me, blurring and clearing and blurring again. The strong grip of my captor keeps me from crumbling back to the ground. At least I can breathe now.
As I gulp at the air, my head slowly clears. But other things are happening while I struggle to control myself. I am marched off, aware that Freda is nearby as we go. Whispered words drift on the air just beyond my comprehension. Each word is clear, but I work so hard not to fall on my face that I can’t quite string them all together. It's frustrating, like listening to Freda talk with my mother.
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