by Simone Pond
Noah’s cheeks are blazing red. “Shucks, Kalliste. You’re a damn good kisser. Too bad your manners leave much to be desired.”
I shove him away, laughing. “Slightly ironic coming from the boy who’s been making me miserable all these years. Change of heart?”
He kisses my neck, sweetly. “I guess so.”
“And you’re okay with breaking every societal tenet in our grid?”
And just like that my fears attempt to spoil the moment. I expect Noah to get up and stalk off to into the woods, but he stays put and takes my hand into his. “Trust me, I’ve thought about that a lot. But being away from the constant pressure of my friends and family—from everything that’s been suffocating me—I’ve been able to do some honest reflection.”
“And?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve always liked you. Since we were kids.” Noah’s words render me speechless. I’ve never looked at things from his perspective. Regardless how much time anyone has, we all have our own problems. Being a Long-Timer doesn’t mean things are always easy. Especially for anyone with the slightest hint of a conscience.
“When you say you’ve always liked me, you mean as a friend, right?”
“Is that what you think I mean?”
“I don’t know what I think you mean. We’ve never been friends before. We hardly spoke before we went off grid together.”
“We used to be friends,” he says.
“Only by default. Because of our brothers,” I remind him.
“You’re a real hard case. You know that?”
“Why?”
“You contradict everything I say.”
“Not everything.”
“See!”
Despite my hardheadedness, Noah’s not angry or irritated with me. He kisses the top of my head. “I like you, Kalliste. More than a friend. And that’s all there is to it. So don’t try to come up with a rebuttal or a reason why we shouldn’t be together.”
If we were in Richmond would he feel the same way? Would he call me Fly for the millionth time? It doesn’t matter. Not when I have less than three days remaining. I don’t say anything. I don’t ask any questions. Instead, I rest my head against Noah’s chest and surrender to the moment, feeling the drumming of his heart against my cheek.
“Okay,” I say.
“That’s it?”
“I like you too, Noah Brenson.”
26
(2 days remaining)
As the sun begins to rise, I gently move from Noah’s arms and scoot out of the sleeping bag we shared. He looks so peaceful as he sleeps I don’t have the heart to wake him up. I’ll let the memories of our night together dance behind his eyelids. My DOD glows in the pale dawn. Two days remaining. A wave of sickness rolls through my stomach, but I keep a calm poker face. Getting upset over it won’t help anything. This isn’t over yet. A lot can happen in two days. Take Noah and me for example; I never would’ve predicted the two of us sharing a sleeping bag.
Johnson’s already up. The two of us walk to the clearing to investigate the smoldering ruins. The air has cleared of the heavy smoke, but there’s a layer of black soot and ash on the ground and trees. The truck is where we left it, but the tires are flattened. Johnson kicks up dirt and starts cursing loud enough to wake up Noah and Harper.
When Noah reaches us, he examines my wrist with a sigh of relief. “Thought maybe they took more time,” he says.
I point to the tires. “They did.”
Johnson gets on the wire, working relentlessly to contact Leo, but either the frequency is being jammed or something happened to their communications guy. We don’t have a vehicle, and we don’t know the safest route to take south. Still, with all the odds working against me, I’m determined not to let anything ruffle my feathers.
Johnson opens up a map, spreading it out on the hood of the truck. He points to one of the many starred locations. “There’s a safe house south of here. We’ll have to hoof it.”
“How long will that take?” Noah sounds panicked.
“It’s fourteen miles. If we make good time, we could get there in four or five hours. When we get to Jones we can pick up another vehicle and get down to Darien in time to meet up with Roman. The sooner we get to the island, the sooner we can fix your DOD.”
“That’s if you even get to the server,” Noah grumbles and walks away.
“What’s with the starred locations?” I ask, ignoring the topic of time.
“Other safe houses.” Johnson drags his finger along the map. “This is probably our safest route. We need to get going. Whoever destroyed this location might already have the other coordinates.”
We begin our hike, Johnson navigating through the back woods. The air is sticky and getting hotter as the day wears on. The humidity in these Georgia backwater swamplands is intense, but we keep marching on, making good time. Every now and then, Johnson runs ahead and taunts Harper so she’ll chase after him. They make a game out of it, kissing every time she catches up. Somehow this lightens all of our spirits.
“We might actually pull this off, Kalliste,” Noah says, tugging my ponytail.
“You know, you’re the only person who can get away with that.”
“With what?”
“Saying my name. You just say it so … right.”
Noah stops walking and pulls me over, leaning me up against a tree. He doesn’t take issue with the sweat dripping from my face as he presses his lips into mine. My heart rushes blood to my head, and my knees wobble a little bit. I’m still not used to this whole kissing thing, but Noah’s a great instructor. He pulls away, his face flush from the heat and our kiss.
“I could kiss you the rest of my life,” he whispers against my neck.
I’m about to remind him that I might not be around much longer, but Johnson hollers, “Keep up, lovebirds!”
Noah and I laugh as we resume hiking down the path. Lovebirds. Us. It’s too surreal to comprehend, but we’re going with it. Just as we’re coming up on Johnson and Harper, a familiar sound buzzes in the thick air. I’d recognize that haunting sound from anywhere.
“Flies! Run!” I yell to the others.
“Come on!” Noah pulls me off the trail, and we scramble through the bushes toward a muddy creek with Harper and Johnson following.
“But what about the geo-shield?”
“Forget the shield. Get to the creek.”
We’re running toward the murky water when Harper trips over a branch and slams into the dirt. Johnson runs back. He holds out the geo-shield device and huddles over her, but when he presses the green button nothing happens. I start to go back up the hill to help, but Noah yanks me into the water. Though it’s still and turbid—the opposite of the icy river—this doesn’t stop my heart from clamping into itself. Noah takes a deep breath, motioning for me to do the same, and goes under. Johnson shoves Harper so hard she’s propelled down the hill toward the creek. The swarm surrounds Johnson. She scampers on her hands and knees, wailing and screaming Johnson’s name. Noah jumps out and pulls her into the water, forcing her to go under. Johnson yells her name as the swarm locks in and takes him down. I hold my breath until my chest feels like a sack of bricks, then burst to the surface gasping for air. Harper tries to pull herself from the creek, but Noah clings to her.
“Wait,” he says.
Harper is sobbing and scratching at Noah. I help him hold her back until we’re sure that every last one of the flies is gone. We trudge up the hill to the place where Johnson lays motionless. His once warm brown eyes are glazed over, staring into an abyss. Harper wails and collapses, trying to shake life back into his stiff body. But it’s no use. Johnson is dead. The flies killed him. The SOB won. Noah and I walk away, giving Harper some privacy. I’m fuming and spitting mad as hot tears trickle down my cheeks, mixing in with the creek water.
“Go help her,” Noah says. “I’ll move him to a shady spot.”
I wipe off my face and kneel next to Harper, wrapping her in m
y arms. I don’t insult her with sentimental words. I give her the dignity of mourning the love of her life. She sobs in my arms, and I hold her tight, pushing away my hatred and giving her only softness. When her cries slow down to a whimper, I help her up. We move along the path while Noah carries Johnson over to a shady patch under some bushes.
“I can’t leave him behind,” Harper chokes out.
“We’ll come back for him,” Noah assures her.
“I don’t want to go without him. I can’t. I’m staying here.”
Seeing Harper so broken ignites something inside of me, giving me the conviction to encourage her. “We’re so close, Harper. Johnson wouldn’t want you to stop now. He’d expect you to be strong and finish this job. To kill the SOB. To make things right so this type of bullshit never happens again. We’ll come back for him.”
Harper folds into my arms. I return the embrace, emboldening her with the same courage she gave me in my bleakest moment. “We have to take them down, Kalli. All of them. Every last one of the sons-of-bitches.”
“We’ll make this right, Harper. We’ll do it for Johnson.”
27
(still 2 days remaining)
The hike to Jones becomes increasingly grueling as we take to the bottomlands, slugging through patches of swamp and guck. The stench of rotting wood and dung isn’t helping matters. I’m hoping we don’t have any gator sightings, but I’m keeping my knife in hand just in case. Harper trails behind us, taking cry breaks along the way. Her sobs sound like howling wolves for the first leg of the hike, but as we get closer to Jones she’s starting to simmer down. Every now and then I stop to give her a hug, reminding her she’s not alone. I know from experience nothing can fill up the living breathing hole of loss. Time eases grief, but there’s always something missing. When Harper slumps down in the mud, refusing to go any farther, Noah picks her back up and reminds her that Johnson believed in her. The three of us keep trudging forward, picking up momentum for a little while through the suffocating humidity. When the small patches of water start turning into full-blown swamps with deeper, murkier water, it’s my turn to stop.
“Come on, Kalli,” Noah shouts over his shoulder.
It’s amazing that after all we’ve been through, it’s standing waist deep in the green-brown water that breaks me. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
“We’re almost there. Just have to cross through this last patch.”
“This not a patch. It’s a full on swamp, and there are things in the water. Things we can’t see,” I argue, looking at Harper for some support.
She removes her backpack. I’m relieved, thinking she’s going to protest with me, but this is short-lived because she lifts the pack over her head and marches into the swamp.
“This looks too dangerous,” I call out to them.
She wades out to Noah. “If we’re getting to Jones, this is the only way.”
“But,” I stammer, cringing at myself for being such a wimp.
“But nothing!” Harper’s eyes are full of fury. “Johnson is dead. If we don’t finish this mission, he died for nothing. For nothing!”
She’s right. I can’t stop now. If Harper can withstand losing Johnson, I can walk through a swamp. It’s not that far across. I doubt there are any sea monsters hanging out here. “Suck it up,” I whisper to myself, and I plod through the sludge. Strands of reeds, or whatever, brush against my waist. I splash and scream whenever something touches me. Harper and Noah continue forward, ignoring my dramatic behavior. I don’t blame them. I sound ridiculous.
“It’s just water, you ol’ yellow belly,” Harper snaps. I let her get away with it since she just lost Johnson.
“You should’ve seen her in the river …”
For the first time in nearly fourteen miles, Harper lets out a burst of laughter.
“Hey, I saved your life,” I yell to Noah.
“If that’s what you want to call it,” he teases, making Harper laugh harder.
I giggle, grateful for Noah’s charming ability to break Harper’s trance and bring her back among the living. He can make fun of me all he wants, as long as Harper is feeling better.
They start to approach the bank when I see a ripple along the water’s surface. My heart stops short. “There’s something near the bank,” I warn them.
“You’re only making this harder than it has to be,” Noah says, already at the bank and on dry land.
“I’m serious. I think it’s a gator!”
Harper stops laughing and freezes. “Don’t splash,” she says calmly. “Go under and swim as fast as you can to the land.”
Noah grabs a branch—like that’s going to ward off anything—and waits for Harper to get closer. The gator moves cautiously in her direction. She comes up for air just as the beast opens its mouth, displaying hundreds of jagged teeth. My fear of water is immediately replaced with the thought of losing Harper. I paddle over to her, my knife stretched forward and leading the way. The gator clamps down on Harper’s forearm, then lets go and waits for her reaction. She tries to swim away, and it seizes her leg and starts to drag her. I kick harder and faster, as Harper wrestles with the gator. She swings her bag at its head, which helps, but the creature doesn’t let go. Blood pools around her as she thrashing about. Survival mode kicks into gear. I move in closer and jab at the gator. The knife slashes its head, only making him angrier. I try again with more focus and force until my knife stabs deeper and its jaw opens, releasing Harper. The gator twists toward me.
“Go for the eye!” she yells, blood trailing behind her as she swims to Noah.
Without thinking, I plunge the knife into the gator’s eye. It turns away and swims in the opposite direction. I make it to the bank, and Noah helps me out of the water. The three of us run into the woods, Harper is hobbling between us. She collapses next to a tree, her eyes glassing over.
“You’re losing a lot of blood.” I take off Noah’s jacket and cut the sleeve into a strip and tie it around Harper’s leg just under her knee. The bite on her arm isn’t as deep, so I wrap it with another piece of torn jacket. She’s fading in and out. I’ve seen this before in the speakeasies when someone overdoses. “She’s going into shock.” I wrap what’s left of the jacket around her shoulders. “You’ll have to carry her the rest of the way.”
Noah lifts Harper’s limp body. “We’re not far. Should be on the other side of the trees. Just hold on.”
Harper mumbles incoherently for Johnson. Noah picks up his pace, and I keep asking Harper questions to keep her awake.
“Tell me about the first time you met Johnson,” I say.
“You did good back there,” she mutters.
“It was nothing.”
“Afraid of water, but not gators—” Her head dangles over the side of Noah’s arm.
“Harper! Wake up. I want to hear about the first time you met Johnson.”
“It was like this … floating into oblivion.”
“You were OD-ing?”
“So far gone,” she whispers.
Noah glances down, nodding for me to keep going. I shake Harper’s good arm. “What did Johnson do to help you?”
“He picked me up. Carried me out of there … I never looked back.”
We’re coming up on a clearing. Harper’s breathing becomes stunted.
“Hurry, Noah. You have to run.”
He sprints across the field toward a white two-story house nestled at the bottom of a hill. As he approaches, he starts calling out for help. A guy darts out to the front porch, wielding a rifle and aiming at Noah.
“Don’t shoot! We’re with you,” I shout, catching up to them.
The guy lowers his gun and examines Harper’s face. Once recognition sparks in his eyes, he rips her from Noah’s arms and runs back into the house. A slender girl with long brown hair steps out onto the porch, keeping her shotgun trained on us. Noah collapses to the grass, and I lift my hands up in surrender.
“We’re with the resistance. Leo should�
�ve sent a something on the Wire,” I say.
“Haven’t heard anything all day. The lines are scrambled. Headquarters got hit.”
“Yeah, we were there.”
She lowers her gun, and I help Noah up. “You okay?”
“Just winded.”
“There’s supposed to be four of you,” the girl says.
“We lost one. Johnson.”
“Looks like you almost lost another one,” she says.
“That was Harper. Gator attack.”
“She’s lucky to be alive.” She swings her rifle over her shoulder, so I’m assuming we’re no longer a threat. “I’m Emily. That was Hudson.”
“I’m Kalli, and this is Noah. We’re not officially Borders, but we’re helping out. Achilles is my brother.”
Emily nods, opening the door and motioning for us to come along. “Let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”
I take a very long and scalding hot shower to wash the nasty swamp muck from my hair and skin. I change into a fresh set of clothes that Emily laid out for me, including dry boots. Being surrounded by swamplands, being showing up a filthy mess must be a regular occurrence. I leave my backpack in a sunny spot by the window to dry out, then head to the kitchen.
Emily is sitting at the table, drinking a tall glass of iced tea that makes my mouth water. She hands me a glass, and I gulp back the tea, too parched to thoroughly appreciate the sweet refreshing flavor. When I hold out my glass for a refill, she notices my wrist. “Cutting it pretty close, don’t you think?”
“We were supposed to fix it in Midway, but that plan got sacked. Any chance you can deactivate it here?”
“Not without cutting off your hand.” She has a bright and inviting smile.