by Annie Oldham
I reach a hand behind me and Jack takes it. I squeeze his hand once and then drop it as we hurry faster through the trees. I can't hear the voices anymore, and if I can't hear them, they most likely won't hear us.
Then I'm running, flying through the forest, my pounding heart keeping rhythm for my legs. Jack's footsteps follow mine, and we lose all caution as we crash through the forest, away from the men that stole our packs and wanted to take us as well. My feet churn up the damp leaves, and the smell of decay floods my nose. The crisp air chills my cheeks and my nose starts to run. I swipe at it with my sleeve. Then a loud thud sounds behind me.
“Terra!” Jack hisses.
I whip back. Jack's legs are tangled in some brambles my running uncovered. I hurry back and kneel beside him. I pull the knife Gaea gave me from its sheath at my hip. This knife and freedom are the only good things she's given me. I could also say she gave me the gift of life, and while that's true, I can't call her mother. Suddenly my thoughts jump to sweet Nell with her fingers raking through the soil of the oca fields, pulling weeds, and making me smile. I draw a deep breath to calm the dull ache in my chest. She was more of a mother to me for the few weeks I was with her.
At least this knife is sharp.
I slice through the brambles, freeing Jack's legs. He shucks the dried plants off and jumps to his feet, but I don't have the energy to run anymore. He sees my hesitation.
“What's wrong?”
I just shake my head and brace my hands to my knees. Remembering my biological mother and then Nell brought me up short and now all I can think about is my exhaustion. I wouldn't even have tempted my mind to go there—wouldn't even have drawn the knife, if that's what it took—if I had known.
Jack takes one step in my direction, but I hold up a hand to him and then dry heave. He misunderstands, thankfully. He thinks my body has quit on me after running like a madman on no breakfast, but I can't bring myself to tell him about my mother. I need to. Oh, I need to. I need to tell him about Gaea, about the colony, about those pieces that make up who I am. Those are the things I need to tell him. But not yet. I'm so unsure if it'll just drive him away.
When my stomach stops cramping and my breath calms, I look ahead and see daylight bursting through the trees. There's a clearing or some kind of break in the trees. I point and Jack follows my finger.
“It stretches east and west,” he says, “for quite a ways.”
I tentatively step forward, unsure what this new development might mean. Could it be a barren town out there? If so, there may be supplies that haven't been scavenged yet or at least a bed in a derelict building that I could rest on for just a few hours. Towns are dangerous, yes, because they're easy to monitor from the air. But right now, I really don't care. I've been running for too long, and my body is ready to give out on me.
I walk the last distance through the trees, and the forest opens up to reveal not a town, but a smooth ribbon of pavement stretching east and west in an unbroken line.
A road.
Something about it, about its uniformity, triggers a warning, but my brain is too sluggish and stupid right now to puzzle through it and pinpoint why it sets me on edge.
The late morning light glistens off the road, making me squint. I peer left and then right. I turn back to Jack and shrug my shoulders. He puts a hand to the back of his neck.
“I don't know, Terra. Following the road would be easier, but for some reason I don't like it.”
I nod, but the invitation of smooth road and no brambles clutching at our feet wins me over. I need food and water soon, and surely this road will lead somewhere—a town, a lake, anything. We've left the nomads behind. I'm sure of it. Even if we haven't, it will be easier to see them coming here in the open.
Jack frowns but steps beside me.
We walk long past noon, past what looks to be about three o'clock. My lips and tongue are dry, my stomach has long stopped rumbling, and my legs are ready to give out, when we see a small building. It's a small square of concrete set with windows shaded by a sagging canopy. Dingy, metal scanners stand beneath the canopy. At least they look like scanners, but they have hoses coming out the sides. Ancient scanners, maybe? I can't ask Jack what they are. Something tells me that if I were from the Burn, I would know. I'm reminded all over again of what I need to tell him, but he saves me by doing the last thing I expect—laughing.
“A gas station.”
Jack lengthens his strides. He avoids the canopy; it looks like it could collapse at any moment. He yanks on one of the glass doors, but it's locked. He looks around, grabs a rock with his slender fingers, and smashes it through the glass. The violence startles me right out of my hunger fog. He has such beautiful hands; they soothed my wounded feet so gently. That's how I usually think of Jack—as a healer. To see him use his hands this way shocks me. I can't help but let out a strangled giggle. How else do I react to something so incongruous? Jack raises an eyebrow, but I think he's used to the way my laughter comes through at the strangest moments.
The shattered glass crunches under his feet as he reaches through the glass, unlocks the door, and opens it for me.
I marvel that the store hasn't been touched. Granted, there's nothing around—just the forest and this single road. Maybe when all the evacuees of local towns and unsanctioned cities were shipped off to Seattle, there was no time and no one to come here before us. But it's been decades. Could any of this food still be good?
A thick layer of dust coats every shelf. I draw a finger over the counter and leave a long, snaking stripe. A massive refrigerator that takes up the entire side wall holds some kind of bottle obscured by the foggy glass. Jack opens it, and rows of water bottles stand before us. The water might be stale, but the taste of stale water is the last thing to bother me now.
I swipe two bottles and open them both up so quickly I slosh some on my shoes. The water eddies around me in dusty swirls. I hand one to Jack, and our fingers brush as he grabs it. He lingers there just a moment too long, then pulls the bottle away and drinks deeply.
“It tastes horrible, but at least it's water.”
I nod and sip mine. I'm too hungry and too thirsty. If I go too fast, I'll retch all over the floor. Jack may be in love with me, but it's still gross to watch someone puke. So I nurse my bottled water as I wander around the store. Too many of the cans are dented or bulging, and the food in plastic wrappers feels rock hard. I wonder if we'll find anything worth eating.
I notice a door at the back of the store with a small pane of glass. I push it open and can't contain a giggle. Jack takes a minute to decide if it's sincere.
“What is it?” Jack calls, stooped over some kind of candy, ripping open the packages and sniffing the contents.
I just laugh again and let the door swing closed behind me as I step inside. The people here obviously knew some kind of disaster was coming. There are metal shelves with toilet paper and soap for restocking the restrooms. But next to that are metal cans that read “hard red wheat” and “sugar” and “rice.” Back in the colony during my failed attempt at culinary arts, I learned that the colonists kept several staples on hand in case of a disaster in the agriculture pods. Wheat, rice, and beans would keep for years without losing any nutritional value. I tried to learn recipes incorporating each of these, but my bread loaves were more like bricks and my beans could have been the mortar.
These people were also planning on a disaster. But can I open the cans? There has to be a can opener around here somewhere. And will there be a way to grind the wheat?
The door swings open behind me and Jack steps through. His eyes scan the room, but he doesn't understand what it means like I do. I grab his hand.
This keeps forever. Probably still good.
His eyes light up. “How do you know?”
Trust me. We need a can opener and grain mill.
We dig through boxes of first-aid supplies, silver pouches of water—these might taste fresher than the water in bottles—and rolls
of paper.
“For receipts, probably,” Jack says. “You know, I've never seen a receipt in my life. I only know what my grandma told me.”
I find a can opener on a desk covered with stacks of paperwork. I get to work prying open a can of beans followed by a can of wheat.
Jack finds a metal contraption with a small chute at the top, a crank, and an opening at the bottom. I'm so excited that I hug him. His eyes shine brightly at me, and I pull away but return the smile.
“I take it that's what we're looking for?”
I nod.
He figures out how to clamp it to the desk. I find a paper cup in an old drink dispenser, and we take turns pouring grain in and turning the crank until the cup is full of coarse flour. Jack puts a hand on the back of his neck.
“I watched Red make rolls in the settlement, but I really couldn't tell you where to start. I liked to think I was better company, and they never offered to let me do it.”
I laugh. I've made bread. Not well.
Jack squeezes my shoulders. “Well, that's probably better than I could do. How are we going to bake it?”
I look around the store. There are a couple microwaves. Do you think the gas station is still on the grid?
Jack shakes his head. “It might be. But we have no idea how carefully it's monitored. We could have agents on us in a heartbeat if it is.”
We look at each other in silence for several moments. My stomach complains loudly.
“Here's what we're going to do. We'll gather up a few things. A can of rice, a can of beans, some of those medical supplies, some water. There was a display of packs up near the front of the store. We'll be ready to go. If we hear anything suspicious, we run.”
You're sure?
He nods. “I know, it's dangerous.” His mouth turns in a lopsided smile. “But the sound of fresh bread is too tempting.”
Don't get your hopes up.
“But it'll still be warm.”
I get another bottle of water and mix it into the flour and add a little sugar. I don't have any leavening, so this bread really will be a brick, but like Jack said, at least it will be warm. I put a lump of the dough into a small paper tray and open the microwave door. The light inside flicks on.
It's still on the grid.
Jack's hands clench closed. “We'll have to be very careful from here on out. It looks pretty deserted now, but it could have been a stop for government trucks.”
We both know the risk of using electricity that may be monitored by the government. But hunger trumps our concern. The microwave sputters to life, and as the dough circles around the inside, Jack finds a small container of honey that is so crystallized he uses my knife to cut through the plastic and peels it away from the honey like a banana peel.
When the timer finally dings, I pull out the steaming mass of bread, and Jack holds the honey to it. The heat melts some of the honey, and when the bread is cool enough for me to pull a chunk away, I taste it. The bread may be dense, but with the honey it's almost palatable. I offer the tray to Jack. We devour the small loaf of bread before I have time to make another one and put it in the microwave.
After about half an hour, I feel like I have a rock at the bottom of my stomach and from the look on Jack's face, so does he. We slump to the floor in sight of the front entrance. I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open, but Jack and I are both nervous that we've signaled the entire regime to our presence. The voice in the back of my head tells me we should grab our new packs and put some distance between us and the gas station, but after running this morning and then eating way too much heavy bread, all my body wants to do is lie here.
I put my head on my pack, Jack sits next to me with his hands crossed over his knees. The sun throws long shadows across his face, and the golden light of early evening shimmers through his hair. I blink and watch the dust swirl through the air. I'm so tired.
“Sleep for a while, Terra. I'll watch.”
I shake my head. My mind shouldn't be this sluggish, and I want to stay awake with him. I need to talk to him.
He laughs. “Really, Terra. It's fine. I'll watch. I'll wake you in a couple hours, and then it'll be your turn.” He turns a package of candy over and over in his hands, and the plastic crinkles as he turns it. He's keeping himself occupied, and I can't help feeling that I'm the reason he needs a distraction.
I need to talk to you.
He holds my palm and traces the words. Not now. Just sleep. We'll talk tomorrow.
It's important.
He smiles and his eyes crinkle as his cheeks turn up. He found a razor on one of the shelves here, and all his scruff is gone. His skin is paler where the sun hasn't been able to touch it. “Tomorrow will come, Terra. Sleep.”
But I worry tomorrow won't come and things will be left unsaid. The need to tell him about the colony is almost overwhelming, but there's something on his mind, something he needs to puzzle through, and the distracted look in his eyes tells me he can't talk now.
I let my eyes slip closed knowing I'll be safe with him right there beside me.
But I don't sleep long.
I wake to moonlight on my skin and Jack's face inches from my own. He's shaking me awake, and before I can figure out what he's saying, I feel the rumble under me. All traces of drowsiness are gone in an instant, and I jump to my feet.
Trucks are coming. This gas station was being monitored by the government, and now they're on their way to investigate the unauthorized use of electricity. Inside I'm screaming at myself because I knew this would happen. We both knew it would happen, but we ignored it just for the sake of eating something half-way decent and enjoying a bit of shelter out of the woods.
The headlights slice through the dark. We sling on our packs and bolt through the supply room and out the back door. There's a fat, heavy moon tonight, and it bathes everything in light. Trees jump up to greet us only ten feet from the exit, and we're sprinting toward their welcome darkness before we even stop to ask which direction we're going. We stick to the deepest shadows, crashing between the trees, not caring about the noise we make. The screech of air brakes tells me that the trucks have parked, and I know we're still much too close. Light still filters through the trees behind me, and I'd feel much better completely surrounded by darkness.
Funny how I wanted nothing more than to get away from the darkness in the colony, how I felt like it was an oppressive force about to crush me. Now I'd give anything for that kind of black. I race beside Jack, and his breathing tells me he's starting to panic. Normally we can both run a fair distance without even being winded. I glance over, and his eyes are wide, his fists clenched so tightly the moonlight makes his knuckles look bone-white.
The bread sits too heavily in my stomach, and a cramp cuts its way through my side. I put a hand to it, willing it away. We can't slow down now.
Through gasps, Jack says, “They'll have night-vision goggles.”
I nod. We have to keep running.
“We're too loud.”
But where can we hide? Then I stumble over a fallen tree lurking in the shadows. I scramble in the wet leaves and try to right myself when I notice the dark space under the tree. There's a hollow barely big enough for both of us, and Jack sees it too. I look at him, his eyes shining in the moonlight fingering through the trees. He nods.
We burrow down in the hollow and scrape the bracken around us. I pile the leaves down against our legs and shiver as the dampness seeps into my pants. I'm pressed up against Jack, and his arm wraps around me protectively, before he can even stop to question—like he has on so many other nights—if I'd even want him to. There's no time for thinking, and when there's no time to overthink this, I realize I never want him to move his arm. But I can't follow that train of thought through to its conclusion because I hear footsteps coming toward us.
I reach my hand up to Jack's arm and squeeze it so tightly I'm sure he'll gasp, but he's silent and still as a tomb. I'm trembling, and even Jack's arms around me can't st
op it. Nomads were one thing. They might kill us, but it would be quick. But agents? They would torture us to find out where we've been, how many other illegals we've come across, and what unauthorized settlements we've seen. They would probably kill us eventually, and there would be nothing quick about it. I look down and see the small thread of a tracker scar on Jack's arm next to the unblemished flesh on my own. Very few people have never had a tracker. What would the agents think of me, and what would they do about it?
I close my eyes and listen to the heavy tread of combat boots stirring up the leaves. I try to pick out the steps to count how many there are. I tap Jack's arm three times. He taps me back three times in agreement. Three soldiers armed with night-vision goggles and guns. Our only hope is that we've hidden ourselves well enough and that we have the patience to wait longer.
The boots get louder, and I swear they're close enough to kick me. The leaves shuffle by my head, and Jack grips me harder. Then a static click breaks the stillness.
“Anything?” comes a clipped voice.
“No, sir. Nothing. Maybe they didn't come this way.” They're talking with an agent through some kind of communicator.
“But the back door is open.” The voice trembles with impatience.
“Yes, sir.”
“Which means, soldier, that there's nowhere else they could have gone. They wouldn't have followed the road, so the only other option is the woods. Spread out and keep looking.”
“Yes, sir.”
The static click sounds again, and then silence descends on us. All I hear is Jack's breath in my ear and the fainter breath of the soldiers. My legs and side are wet from lying on the ground, and the cold makes my muscles cramp. Jack tenses next to me, and I know he's feeling it too—the inane desire to burst from cover and run until we can't run anymore. When faced with fight or flight, we'd both choose flight. We're alike. We've always been alike.