by Anna Oney
Seeming to catch on to Blythe’s constant looks over his shoulder, Laken shouted from the canoe gliding beside him.
“Your comrades are late risers,” she called, taking a breather as she rested her forearms on her thighs. “We’ll get the horses out of there before the soldiers drag their lazy rumps out of bed.”
Completely out of view of Caddo and the soldiers residing there, Griffin’s orchard was tucked behind an island of closely knitted pine trees. Griffin stood at the bottom of the steps of his wraparound porch, cradling a shotgun. Blythe wondered if the NWA was aware the old man was packing.
“What’s happened?” Griffin asked, leaning his shotgun against the handrail.
Laken, Davlyn, and Noelle rushed the children up the grassy slope toward Griffin’s home. Reesa held the hands of Ally and Cade, while her cousin, Jackson, kept an arm wrapped around a weeping Meadow. Blythe was at the back of the group, cradling a motionless Fawn in his arms.
“I’ll explain later,” a panting Laken replied, a stride’s length between herself and Griffin. “We need a safe place to hide these kids.”
“Go on inside,” Griffin said, gesturing toward the open front door of his home. “I’ve got a fire going in the sitting room.”
One after the other, the children disappeared inside. When it was Blythe’s turn, Griffin latched a hand to his bicep. Griffin’s watering, baby blue eyes focused on Fawn, limp in Blythe’s arms.
“Will she live?” he asked, his chin quivering. “My niece,” he said, bringing his fist to his mouth. “W-will she live?”
“She will,” Blythe said and nodded. “If I have anything to say about it . . . she will.”
Griffin gave Blythe’s back a firm pat and sent him up the porch steps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
September 24, 2086
Fawn’s fingers felt like icicles as her hands hung at her sides. She stood before the steps of her family home, which were caked with snow. Her feet melted into the snow as she breathed out, engulfing the air with steam. Cries coming from within the home uprooted her feet from the icy ground. She climbed the porch steps and halted before a door, shrouded in black and white. Her chilled, bone cracking fingers reached for the doorknob when the door swooshed open. She staggered backward, steadying herself by hugging the porch post.
A woman, blanketed in black and white, clutched her rounded belly, her face pointed downward. She rushed through the doorway, paying no attention to Fawn. The woman’s heaving shoulders were covered by copper curls — the only thing in color — which stretched to the middle of her back.
“Puh-please,” the woman whimpered, descending the first step. “Not yet. Just-just get to Cooper and Mrs. Maples.”
A pain shot through the woman’s abdomen, soaking her inner thighs with blood. The crimson drippings were sprayed sporadically across the steps caked with snow. Fawn detached from the post and strode to help the woman clear the remainder of the steps. Coming up beside her, Fawn stretched out her hand to grasp the woman’s arm. Her hand glided through the woman’s flesh, as though she was an apparition.
Bringing back her hand, Fawn looked to the sky, blotched with red.
“Let me help her,” she pleaded with God and charged down the steps. “Please. She needs help!”
Steam billowed from the woman’s mouth as she took quick breaths. She cleared the second step and stopped. Despite the frigid air, she was covered in sweat, gluing her copper curls over half of her face. She twisted the sole of her foot, slipping on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow. Fawn held her breath as the woman tumbled down the steps. Fawn braced herself to catch the woman, but her efforts were in vain as the woman passed right through her.
The woman rolled three times over her rounded stomach, letting out a primal, bloodcurdling scream. Fawn knelt beside the woman writhing in pain and recognized her from old pictures immediately.
“Gran,” Fawn softly cried. She reached out her hand to aid her grandmother, Emma, to no avail. “I’m sorry. I-I can’t help you.”
Fawn’s tears were frozen halfway down her cheeks. The air seemed to thicken and close in around her. The whimpering of a child pulled her focus from Gran to the doorway of her family home. A five-year-old boy with orangey ringlets and clothed in overalls clung to the doorknob. He peered down the porch steps, swiping his small fingers across his cheek.
“M-m-” he stammered, choking back the tears. “Momma . . .”
Fawn’s hushed voice muttered, “Daddy?”
A chill swept across the hardened snow, disintegrating Gran’s writhing form to charred bone and ash. Looking up from Gran’s blackened ribcage and skull, Fawn took in the image of Joy standing in front of her. Draped over the young girl’s shoulders were her blonde, braided pigtails. The skirt of her coral, knee-length dress swayed in the skin-splitting wind. Perched upon Joy’s left shoulder was a cardinal. A bobcat sat to her right, lowering its ears as she stroked its head.
Fawn rubbed her eyes in disbelief and blinked. The cardinal and bobcat vanished. Joy held a white candle, its flame dispensing red wax.
“Their lives,” Joy said, as the steaming wax drizzled over her fingers.
A scratchy lick to the side of Fawn’s face brought her palm to her cheek. She peered into Stella’s dark, penetrating eyes, and then looked to Joy.
“They’ve always been their own,” Joy continued. “Remember that.”
Joy blew out the candle, showering Fawn in darkness.
The scarred blind man’s last words, “I always knew,” echoed through Fawn’s pitch-black surroundings. “I always knew.”
Fawn’s crusty eyelids fluttered open. She blinked rapidly trying to diffuse the burning sensation in her eyes. Splotchy images surfaced, revealing a mask had been placed over her mouth and nose. She could feel it pumping air through her lungs. A bag of liquid hung from a hook at the top of a stand at the foot of a bed. As far as she could tell, that same fluid was being fed through a string of plastic attached to a needle stuck in her foot. She tried reaching for the mask, but realized her arms had been tied to the bedposts on either side.
What fresh hell is this?
Cedar walls surrounded her. The smell would have been soothing if she knew where she was — where her nieces and nephews were. The nearly transparent curtains of three open windows rolled against the wind as fiercely as water rushed to shore.
A cardinal soared through the open window closest to Fawn and perched on the left post of her bed. Flashbacks of a hundred cardinals diving from a pine tree during her altercation with Big Sneed surfaced.
“Why didn’t you help?” Fawn whimpered, trying to sit up. “My people . . .”
Tears streamed down the sides of her face, wetting the neckline of a nightgown she’d been dressed in.
“Why?” she repeated. “I just don’t know why.”
She squirmed on the bed and pulled against her restraints, overexerting herself.
The cardinal leapt from the bedpost and hopped up the bed. The gloss of the bird’s cherry red feathers gleamed with every tiny step it took. Arriving at Fawn’s shoulder, the bird lifted its wing, but as it rose, a silhouette was cast on the opposite wall. Fawn’s sight was pulled toward the shadow of a woman — a woman whose curls had been pulled back into a ponytail.
“Who are you?” Fawn asked.
The silhouette’s hand rested upon Fawn’s shoulder exactly where the bird’s wing was.
“Go on!” Laken shouted from the doorway, holding a tray that harbored a steaming bowl of water and a washcloth. “Shoo!”
The bird took flight, darting through the nearest window. Water splashed to the floor when Laken met Fawn’s red-eyed gaze.
“My God,” Laken said, closing the distance between herself and the bedside table. “You’re awake.” She sat on the edge of the bed, placing the tray gently on the table. Stroking Fawn’s cheek, she shook her head and frowned. “You poor thing.”
Laken rose from the bed and strolled toward the window
the cardinal had exited through.
“Blythe!” she called from the window, pounding a fist at the windowsill. “She’s up!”
Fawn noticed Laken’s downward gaze and the dip of her chin. She pondered over who she knew that had a home with more than one level.
“Where am I?” she asked.
Laken shut the window and turned to face her.
“Your uncle’s,” she replied, closing her fingers around the metal bars at the foot of the bed.
Uncle Griffin . . .
“In your condition,” Laken said, swiping her cheek against her shoulder. “This was the safest place to bring you and the kids. You’ve been out for six days.”
“S-so, the kids,” Fawn said and swallowed, feeling as though she had strep throat. “They’re here?”
“Yes,” she replied, turning to look out the window. “Blythe found them with Davlyn, and a girl named Noelle in the woods. He said they were pretty distraught over losing you. They told him you snuck out during the night.”
“I had to see if I could h-help them,” Fawn said, her bottom lip trembling. “Help my family.”
“I know, my dear, I know.”
The patter of someone’s feet came from outside the room. Fawn’s swollen, reddened eyes widened at the sight of a muscular Blythe paused at the doorway.
“I’ll leave y’all to it,” Laken said, coming to Blythe’s side. “Take care of her,” she whispered, squeezing his forearm before exiting the room.
“Intravenous therapy,” he said upon meeting Fawn’s gaze.
“Is . . . ” she said and paused. The pain in her throat was overwhelming. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It’s what’s helping you heal,” he said, motioning toward the bag of fluid held up by the stand. “It was touch-and-go for a while there, but I finally got you stable.”
Standing next to the bed, Blythe stuffed his hands into his pockets. His muscles pressed against his tan shirt, outlining them perfectly.
“You needed antibiotics and fluids,” he continued, moving to sit at the foot of the bed.
“Why . . . ” she said and paused, taking a breather. She wriggled her hands. “Why am I tied up?”
“You must’ve had direct contact with the smoke,” he said, lifting the blanket over her legs. A bandage dotted with blood covered her left calf. “Irritation of the skin and scratching is a symptom. So is coughing up blood.”
He reached up and untied the ropes binding her. The slightest move he made caused the muscles in his arms to flex.
“I had to stop you somehow. You wouldn’t stop scratching your leg in your sleep.”
“If-if,” she stammered, fighting back the tears. “If you were able to save me, then maybe some of my people are still alive. Maybe they have a chance?”
“No, ma’am,” he replied, helping Fawn sit up. “I’m sorry. There’s no chance of that.”
Fawn attempted to swing her legs — which felt like jelly — from the featherbed.
“I have to see,” she said.
He rose from the bed, planting himself in front of her. Grabbing her arms, he prevented her from standing.
“Stop,” he said, gently nudging her backward. “You need to rest.”
“I-I,” she said, a wave of lightheadedness washing over her. She eased her back against the headboard. “I have to make sure.”
“It’s a nightmare,” he replied, resting his forearms upon his knees. “The worst kind. You wouldn’t recognize the bodies. Toxic epidermal necrolysis. Within three hours of death, the victim’s skin rots and turns black. It peels off in sheets. The medicine I injected you with halted the process and restored your nervous system.”
Every word Blythe spoke was a hard blow to Fawn’s heart. Back Wood’s people had met their ends in the worst way possible.
“By now,” he said, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “The soldiers have burned the bodies and cleared the area. It’s what they do.”
Fawn picked at the skirt of her nightgown, trying to distract herself from Blythe’s words.
“Where are my clothes?”
“They had to be burned,” he replied, covering her legs with the blanket. “They were contaminated.”
She brought a shaky hand to the base of her throat, realizing Gran’s cross was missing.
“What about my cross?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, gently squeezing her hand. “I was able to save it. The cross is soaking in disinfectant. I’ve hidden your bow and what remained of your arrows away. I didn’t want the children playing with them and accidently hurting themselves. I did the same thing with Noelle and Davlyn’s weapons.”
Fawn spent the next thirty minutes trying to ingest a bowl of chicken broth. Guiding the wooden spoon to and from her mouth became too much of a task for her frail arms. Laken spoon-fed Fawn the remainder of the broth, which had become lukewarm due to her failed efforts. The same way, Fawn imagined, Laken had cared for her sickly sons who had passed away.
Laken explained that Griffin had welcomed Fawn and Back Wood’s children into his home. Fawn’s great-uncle knew the consequences of harboring enemies of the NWA. Blythe had made himself crystal clear on the subject. Laken assured Fawn that Reesa and the kids were doing as well as they could after being given the news of their loved ones. Davlyn, Laken said, seemed to take it the hardest, and had kept to herself, barely uttering a word.
Laken spoke of the day Dean had delivered the news of Amos’s death and how she’d agreed with Pete to begin an uprising against the NWA. She said sending Dean home had filled her with dread as she couldn’t imagine their situation having a happy ending.
After lunch, Blythe provided Fawn with a rocking chair from downstairs. He used the pillows from her bed to cushion the backrest and seat. Yes, he’d saved her life, but her life wasn’t worth a thing compared to the lives of those she loved. Seeing as how Fawn refused to trade further words with him after he’d helped her out of bed, Blythe left her to stew in her grief and anger.
Alone, Fawn peered out the window, studying the branches of her uncle’s fig and plum trees. Griffin’s home was perfumed by the hanging fruit that he either dried or fermented. Behind the fruit trees stood a barn. Reesa and Ally took turns brushing the manes of three horses. The white diamond in the middle of one horse’s forehead told Fawn it was Juniper. The knowledge that her dearest friend was being cared for brought her some relief. This whole ordeal had taught her that she could count on others. Of course, her nieces would tend to Juniper when Fawn was too weak to do so herself. Blythe’s motives, however, were more of a mystery as he had no ties to her or her family.
Why would he put himself at risk for a bunch of strangers? she asked herself.
The beginning winds of autumn had gained momentum during her slumber. After the second hour of staring out the open window, her skin turned to gooseflesh beneath her nightgown. A sudden chill sent a rigor down her spine. Pete’s last words echoed through her brain.
“Wakiza’s spear. The bunker. I never told them about the bunker.”
“The bunker,” she said to herself, bolting forward in the chair. “They could’ve made it to the bunker.”
***
Fawn spent the next week and a half recovering alone. Visitors weren’t allowed inside the room without permission from Blythe and Laken. Blythe had expressed his concerns to Laken outside the room when he’d believed Fawn to be sleeping.
“She’s in a fragile state,” Fawn had overheard him saying. “She needs time to heal.”
The next day, Laken had brought Fawn lunch. She pretended she hadn’t overheard their discussion. Entertaining guests wasn’t at the top of her list. She knew she’d end up trying to make them feel better when she needed to focus on mending herself.
Survivor’s guilt was something Fawn had experienced with her parents’ and sisters’ deaths. She’d never learned how to cope with it. One night, Fawn jolted upright in bed and found herself wra
pped up in Blythe’s arms. A vision of her loved ones calling out for help, with blood seeping through their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths had seemed so real to her. A cold sweat had glued her nightgown to her flesh.
Resting her cheek upon Blythe’s shoulder, she’d tried controlling the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She’d noticed the rocking chair by the window drifting slowly backward and forward. She’d assumed Blythe had been roused by her cries during her slumber and come to sit on the edge of the bed.
“I have them, too,” he’d whispered, stroking her back as she clung to his chest.
“Did,” she’d said, loosening her arms around his neck. “Did you lose someone?”
“My father,” he’d solemnly replied. “He was executed for treason. I was just a boy when they killed him. Too young to fight back but old enough to know that he didn’t deserve what he got.”
“What,” she’d said, swallowing back a catch in her throat. “What’d they do to him?”
Blythe had avoided her gaze, directing his to the floor.
“We burn the hands that rose against us,” he’d recited, staring into space. “And blind the traitor from the temptations that damned him to suffer this fate.” He’d locked his hazel watery eyes with Fawn’s and continued. “We pierce the heart of the traitor that broke our trust.”
There were three windows in the room, which kept Fawn abreast of the outside world. Day by day, she sat in the same rocking chair before an open window. Every other day, to switch things up, she’d sit in front of a different window. Staring out the window on the right side of the room, she’d often catch the children playing a game of tag or hide-and-seek. The window on the left side of the room was where she’d observe her uncle Griffin pruning his fruit trees on a ladder.
Unbeknownst to Blythe and Laken, Fawn made twenty laps around the room every night before bedtime. It was sluggish and slow going at first, but she steadily gained momentum. To balance herself, she kept her hand latched to the stand that held up her meds. Blythe had snuck the stand and medical supplies from the NWA’s medic tent. The wheels attached to the bottom of the pole sped up her progress. She had one goal — to get fit and well enough to return to Back Wood and search for survivors.