A Broken Time

by Anna Oney

  Despair had her grappling with her will to stand. The flickering of a faint light at the top of the hill pulled her attention from the bitterness of her predicament. With a low growl, she set her sights upward, and rose from her knees, trudging forward.

  Topside, her lungs burst out in rebellion, momentarily clouding her sight. A swirl of snow flurries thinned out, revealing a lit candle illuminating a small area of a field. The wax pooled from the base, melting into the snow, but the color didn’t match that of the source. It was blood red.

  “Please, not yet,” a woman’s voice cried on the wind. “Not yet!”

  Fawn stepped forward, feeling as though her bare feet were being stabbed by a dozen daggers as they sunk into the snow.

  “Where are you?!” Fawn exclaimed. “Where are you?!”

  The three rings of a bell rattled Fawn’s eardrum. A layer of fresh snow swept across the ground as if someone had taken a broom to it.

  “Let me help you!” Fawn shouted, holding out her hand to shield her face from the howling wind.

  Another bell rang, this time, enclosing Fawn in darkness.

  “Where are you?!” Fawn shouted again.

  I will find you, she thought, barely able to keep her teeth from chattering. I will.

  “There’s no need to find me,” the woman’s voice reverberated around her. “I’m everywhere.”

  “Ma’am,” a man said, and cleared his throat, jolting her awake.

  Stiffly, Fawn rose from the furs, propping her back up on her elbows.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Yeah,” she grumbled, trying to wrap her mind around the strangeness of her dream while fighting against the grogginess of her nap. “What-what is it?”

  “I’m here to conduct your physical exam.”

  “I’m physically sound, thank you,” she replied as she donned her top and breechcloth. “Leave me be.”

  “You’re required one, ma’am.”

  “Required? I don’t remember being included in that conversation.”

  “It was mentioned at the last community meeting.”

  Fawn had made a point not to attend the meetings the NWA saw fit to schedule.

  “Ah, well, that explains it.”

  “It’s imperative we make sure everyone is healthy to stave off viruses and diseases. You didn’t come to us, so now we’re coming to you. May I come in?”

  Light spilled through the smoke flap at the top of the tepee as Fawn opened the vent using a hooked pole.

  “If you must,” she replied, looking herself over, making sure everything that needed to be covered was covered. “Come in.”

  A skinny arm came sliding through the flaps of the tepee, allowing a gentle breeze to pass through the small, triangular opening. The pages of Henry David Thoreau’s collected works were ruffled, as a man no older than twenty-five stepped fully through the entrance.

  Looking him up and down, lyrics from Bob Seger’s, “Night Moves” popped into her head. Little too tall, she sung to herself, could’ve used a few pounds.

  Immediately, he stared upward, holding his hands out before him.

  “Would you mind putting on something less revealing?”

  “You’re the intruder here.” She sat at the table and crossed her legs. “I’m not here to accommodate you.”

  The man didn’t sport the same buzz cut as the soldiers, which made Fawn assume he wasn’t one. His hair grazed the slanted hide of the tepee, prompting him to duck his head, and step into the light.

  “Let’s get to it then,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Blythe. Blythe Greenlee. I’m an assistant to the Chief Medical Officer.”

  “You mean Dr. Wenze?” she asked, taking his hand.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he replied, gracing her with a half-smile. “My helper, Noelle, wasn’t able to join us today. If you’re uncomfortable doing this inside your home we can head to the medic’s quarters.”

  Fawn shook her head in response, studying Blythe’s hands. They were the cleanest Fawn had ever seen — no callouses, no dirt beneath the fingernails, no scars. Just being in their presence brought Fawn’s to shame. She glanced down at her own. Compared to his, hers looked as though she’d been digging holes with her bare hands.

  “You’re an inside person, aren’t you?”

  He slung his pack from around his back and sat it on the table beside her.

  “Most of what I do is indoors,” he replied, rummaging through his pack, “but I’ve been known to step outside once in a while.”

  A few strands of his sandy, tapered hair flipped from the crown of his head, tickling his eyebrows. The way he brushed back his hair had Fawn imagining his fingers trailing up her torso. For a split-second, he met her observing gaze. His hazel eyes stood out against his olive skin, only adding to his attractiveness.

  Hunter, she thought, and shook her head.

  “I’m going to take your blood pressure first,” he said, wrapping her bicep with a scratchy, navy-blue material. “You’ll feel a slight pinch.”

  Fawn became fixated on the small black pump he squeezed.

  “This inflates the cuff,” he said.

  The tightening of the material nearly shot her from the chair.

  “Easy,” he said, chuckling lightly. “It’s perfectly normal.”

  “Good night.” She grimaced and gripped the chair. “That’s tight.”

  Slight pinch, she thought, and sucked in a gulp of air. Yeah, right.

  He took hold of her forearm, placing a silver, flat circular device on her inner elbow.

  “What’s that?” she asked, as the sudden cool sent a rigor down her spine.

  “Stethoscope. It enables me to listen to your heartbeat. Keep your breathing normal,” he said, donning an odd pair of earplugs that were attached to the circular device. “I’m releasing the valve now.”

  Fifteen seconds passed, and the pressure on her arm was fully released. She closed her eyes, relishing in the relief, but jumped as an obnoxious screech invaded her ears.

  “Sorry,” he said, rolling up the cuff. “Velcro.”

  Having never heard of Velcro, Fawn assumed he was referring to the material that held together the arm-strangling device.

  “You’re about 122 over 81. That’s good for someone your age.”

  “You know my age?”

  “We’ve interviewed everyone,” he said, placing the blood pressure cuff inside his pack. “All except you. We’ve gotten their names, ages, past illnesses and injuries, names of family members still living. Pete’s filled us in on some basic info about you.”

  “What else did he say about me?”

  “Sit up straight for me,” Blythe replied, easing back her shoulders. “He said you tend to come off as a hard-ass, but you’re really just a sweetheart.”

  There’s that word again.

  “That’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said about me.”

  “You two must butt heads a lot,” he said, and placed his fingers below her jaw, applying pressure. “Checking for lumps in your lymph nodes. You’re all clear.”

  “What would it mean if I had one?”

  “Could be many things. Signs of illness, infection, hernia,” he replied, picking up his stethoscope from the table. “I’m now going to listen to your lungs.”

  He stepped closer to her, redonning the odd earplugs. He skimmed her neck as he swept her auburn waves over her right shoulder, sending electricity down her spine.

  “Take a deep breath, hold it for two seconds, and let it loose,” he said, pressing the cool surface of the circular device to her back.

  He rested his hand upon her shoulder. Fawn breathed in, trying to ignore the sensation of his touch by staring forward. The positioning of his hand caused his fingers to drape over her collarbone, lingering inches above her breast.

  Hunter, she thought, and exhaled. Hunter, Hunter, Hunter . . .

  “Good, that’s it,” he said, as his index finger curled against her bare skin. “O
ne more,” he said, sliding the circular device to the left of her spine. “Deep breath. Excellent. Lungs are clear,” he said, stowing the stethoscope inside his pack.

  His hand reemerged, clutching a syringe.

  “Now for the vaccine.”

  “It’s a no from me,” she replied, rising from the chair. “Thanks.”

  “Ma’am, it’s imperative that you accept. You’re putting yourself at risk.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” she said, passing through the flaps of the tepee.

  Outside, she began to stretch, when Blythe came barreling through the exit.

  “Ma’am, please,” he interjected behind her. “Just do as they say.”

  Fawn turned to face him, intrigued.

  “Or what?”

  “Trust me,” he replied, still clutching the syringe. “You don’t want to piss these people off.”

  A cardinal soared above them, perching itself on top of Fawn’s tepee.

  “You’re putting yourself at risk,” he repeated, stepping forward. “Please.”

  “At risk from what, exactly?” she asked, twisting her hair into a bun. “Viruses and diseases? Or the NWA’s wrath?”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Stop calling me ma’am,” she said, clenching her fist. “That syringe must be filled with something real special. I’m guessing it has nothing to do with my wellbeing.”

  “Don’t give them a reason to . . . to—”

  “To what, for crying out loud?”

  Pushing down on the plunger, Blythe emptied the fluid from the syringe, avoiding her glaring gaze.

  “We’re done here,” he said, storming inside her tepee.

  “Hey,” she called, entering behind him. “I’m talking to you!”

  “I can’t say more about it,” he said, snatching his pack from the table. “Take my advice or don’t.” Brushing past her shoulder, he shoved the emptied syringe into a side compartment of his pack. “Your brother was wrong,” he said, stopping midway through the tepee’s flaps. “You are a hard-ass.”

  ***

  A week after her encounter with Blythe, Fawn found herself standing outside the mess hall. Through the plastic window, she spied on her neighbors as they shoveled something called “chicken spaghetti” into their mouths. She’d never eaten spaghetti noodles before, or experienced the savory smell of the cream sauce they were drenched in. Still, she refused to take part and giggled as her peers struggled to spin their forks without splashing the front of their clothes.

  “Would you like to join in?” a man asked from her right.

  Fawn flinched at the sudden break of silence and turned her head slightly.

  “Hey, Dr. Wenze,” she said, chuckling as she peered back through the window. “No sir, I don’t feel like making a fool of myself today.”

  “Fair enough,” he replied, craning his neck to see through the window. “Oh, Blythe said he finally got to check you off the list.”

  “What list?”

  “The list for administered vaccines.”

  Silence filled the space between them, prompting Dr. Wenze to tilt his head, questioningly, as he waited for a response.

  “That’s right,” she said, her stomach in knots. “I’m grateful for the peace of mind.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied, nodding, as he walked away. “Enjoy the rest of your day,” he added over his shoulder.

  “You, as well!” she called after him as he waved back at her.

  She watched as Dr. Wenze’s form disappeared inside the tent thirty feet away from the mess hall. She realized one thing: Blythe Greenlee lied for me. What concerned her was why he’d felt he needed to.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hunter stared out the window of his ailing father’s bedroom, observing the NWA raise yet another tent within their community.

  “Son!” Aiden called from his bed. “Wh-what’s going on out there?”

  “They’re setting up another tent,” Hunter replied, rubbing his inner elbow — still tender from the needle Dr. Hays, the medical officer assigned to their community, had used to inject the vaccine. “That makes five so far.”

  “Re-really making themselves at-at home, aren’t they?”

  Hunter winced at his father’s sudden bout of coughs. The medicines Dr. Hays had administered hadn’t reversed Aiden’s condition. They’d only succeeded in dulling the pain.

  “Yes, sir,” Hunter replied, leaning his forearm against the window’s frame. “They sure didn’t waste any time.”

  The tents made a circle around their massive barn and homes, enclosing their small community. Being surrounded by armed men with seemingly forced, amiable demeanors, had Hunter regretting that he’d dismissed Fawn’s concerns. The thought of his father making a speedy recovery had blinded him from the obvious truth. It seemed the NWA’s first goal was to take control. With Hunter’s help, they’d already begun to succeed.

  The main headquarters, located twenty yards from their barn, had two men guarding it at all times. Hunter leaned closer to the window, watching Sgt. Maude Finch clear the distance between herself and the tent. Two men were stationed on either side of her, as well as in front of and behind her. Tucked under her arm was a black cylinder, about the length of a yard stick.

  “All right,” Hunter said, turning away from the window. “I’m headed out.”

  “Where to?” Aiden asked, pulling the covers over his chest.

  “Meeting up with Fawn at the Boom Hole,” he replied, sitting on the edge of his father’s bed. “I’m interested to see how things are looking at Back Wood.”

  “I-I’m sure she’ll gi-give you an ear full,” Aiden said with a sharpness to his tone.

  During these past couple of months, Hunter had caught on to his father’s deep-seated disdain toward the woman he loved. Hunter could count their number of interactions on one hand. As far as he could remember, he’d been present for all of them. Nothing out of the ordinary stood out in his mind.

  “I still ne-need to,” Aiden added, coughing into the cover, “to talk to her.”

  “You mind telling me what you need to talk to her about?”

  “It’s be-between her and I — something I-I need to tell her before I go.”

  Stressing over what it might be, Hunter rose from the edge of the bed, and strode toward the door.

  “Whatever it is,” he said, opening the door, “I hope its heartfelt instead of hateful.”

  Without waiting for a response, Hunter parted from his father and headed toward the stables at the back of the barn. Seared into the barn’s archway were his grandfather, Reed’s, initials: R.B. Upon his entry, an outbreak of nickers and huffing breaths told him the horses were aware of his presence. Spiders had spun webs across the posts in the rafters. Dust and chaff floated in the sunlit air. He passed a ladder to his right that led up to a loft, commonly used by teenagers looking to make out.

  Saddling Rodale, a rustle of hay drew Hunter’s attention to a soldier named, Dwight, passing under the archway.

  “Hey, man,” Dwight said, waving a quick hand.

  “Hey,” Hunter replied — his eyes glued to the automatic rifle Dwight cradled in his arms. “You need something?”

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  Hunter chuckled, buckling the billet strap beneath Rodale’s belly.

  “Looks that way,” he replied, placing his foot in the stirrup, and grasping the horn of the saddle. “Why?”

  “Did you not read the sign that was posted this morning?”

  “Sign?” Hunter retorted, hoisting himself up. “What sign?”

  “No persons are to leave the community without permission from Sgt. Finch.”

  “Is that right?” Hunter said, gripping the reins. “You don’t know me. I’m usually not the type of guy to tell someone to go to hell.” Hunter squeezed Rodale’s sides to start moving. Below the archway, Hunter glanced over his shoulder. “But, go to hell.”

  ***

  An hour later, Hun
ter arrived at the Boom Hole, and found Fawn sitting at the edge of the creek bank, hugging her knees.

  “Fawny,” he said, dismounting. “You okay?”

  “Oh,” she replied, turning her head slightly. “I didn’t hear you ride up.”

  Hunter tied Rodale’s reins next to Juniper’s on the lowest limb of one of the cypress trees. The horses swished their tails, bumping their noses against each other’s.

  “Really?” he asked, sitting beside Fawn, who stared at the flat surface of the glossy water. “Rodale’s as heavy-hoofed as they come.”

  “I’m scared, Hunter,” she said, tossing a pebble into the creek. “They posted a sign this morning.”

  “They posted one at the farm, too.”

  “No persons are to leave without permission,” she recited, meeting his gaze.

  He nodded, covering her hand with his.

  “We need to find out what they’ve injected everyone with,” she said, turning her body to his.

  He tucked his arm behind his hip, hoping she hadn’t noticed the small bruise left by the needle.

  “You mean the vaccines?”

  “Yeah,” she replied, rising from the ground. “Dr. Wenze’s assistant acted strange when I wouldn’t accept. Like, he was worried something bad would happen to me if I refused.” Pacing, she dusted sand from her backside and continued. “Next thing I know, he’s putting my name on the list for administered vaccines.”

  “What’s this assistant’s name?”

  “Blythe Greenlee.”

  “You trust him?”

  Hunter hated the idea of Fawn trusting another man, but he asked anyway, knowing either answer would have conflicting effects on his heart. On one hand, he felt it would benefit them if they could trust someone within the NWA. On the other, the thought of losing her to this man, who’d possibly put himself in danger by lying for her, terrified him.

  Is this how Grandpa felt? Hunter asked himself, remembering his father’s tale of how Fawn’s grandmother, Emma, had chosen to be with Tom instead of Reed.

  “The man lied for me,” she replied, sinking to her knees before him. “But I’ve only trusted two men in my life. One died three years ago,” she said, grasping his hand. “The other is you. I believe it’s destined to stay that way.”