Dead Time

by D. L. Orton

  I take a deep breath, pull off my mask, and blow three short whistles. I put the mask back over my face and exhale to clear the smoke.

  Before I have a chance to blow the three long blasts, I hear Peter’s reply.

  That sound is sweeter than anything I’ve ever heard.

  He’s alive.

  I start running toward him, taking twenty breaths and then pulling off the mask to blow the whistle again. I listen for his reply and then repeat the process two more times.

  The smoke is becoming so thick that we nearly run into each other.

  I throw my arms around his neck—almost knocking off both our masks—before I realize he’s not alone.

  There’s a group of women and children crowded around him, carrying backpacks and dragging large sacks, one of them pulling a child’s red wagon full of pots and pans.

  “We have to get out of the open,” Peter says. “The men will have heard our whistles.”

  Peter takes my hand and leads me through a door into a large room. It must have been a toddler’s play area because the floor is littered with soft mats, and you can still see elephants and giraffes painted on the walls.

  The smoke is a little better in here.

  “I saw Grizzly,” I say, keeping my voice low. “He says you were convicted of murder and sentenced to be… burned at the stake.”

  “For blasphemy. It’s been a while since they had one of those.” He looks spooked. “Was he alone?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I ran into him at the base of the tower.”

  “He used to take me there when I was little,” Peter says. “To see the world.”

  “He also said the Giver is in a rage. The men have been ordered to kill anyone who resists and burn everything in the Wilds. He told me we should get out while we can—and he wished you good luck.”

  Peter stares at me, a far-off look in his eyes. “That’s why they brought guns today. They’re not planning to let anyone escape.”

  “We have to get back to the airlock, Peter. I left it open so that we could get inside quickly, but if the men find it—”

  “We’ll figure out something else,” Peter says and puts his arm around me, waiting for the Others to come inside. “The important thing is you’re safe.”

  “Sorry I didn’t stay put, but I couldn’t let you go off and…”

  “Have all the fun?” He smiles. “I should have known you wouldn’t listen to me.”

  The last of the group pulls the red wagon through the door and then shuts it. All but two of the Others are wearing our masks—and the ones without are wearing swim goggles with strips of cloth covering their faces.

  They look like the sand people from Star Wars.

  The thought gives me the creeps, and I edge closer to Peter, my heart still racing.

  All of them look tired and scared—and all of them are women.

  There are two D-2s and a handful of D-1s, but most of them are the same age as Mom, and one of them is as old as Lucy.

  Peter pulls the mask away from his face. “This is Shannon,” he says, turning toward the crowd. “She’s the one who made the masks.”

  I hear a murmur, and a few of them nod.

  “The masks were made to be worn Outside,” Peter says. “They’ll protect you from the poisoned air if something happens to the biodome.”

  There are more murmurs, and everyone looks at the two people without masks.

  I take the spare rebreathers off my quiver and offer them to the sand people.

  I hope they’re all sealed properly.

  The women remove their headgear and slip the masks on.

  “Thank you, Shannon,” the older woman says. “You’re a gift from God.”

  “You’re welcome.” I slide my gaze across the motley crew. “Thank you for the bow and arrows.”

  “We have more,” the old woman says. “But we don’t know how to get the string on the bow. Perhaps someday you will show us?”

  “Of course,” I say, wondering what sort of future that might be. “Peter knows all about archery, and he’s a good teacher.”

  “We don’t need bows,” one of the women says, her left eye not tracking properly. “We need guns. How are we going to fight them if we don’t have guns?”

  “We’re not,” Peter says. “We’re going to outsmart them. But we need to get back to the airlock before they find us. Once we’re inside, we can seal off the door and talk.”

  “They’ve been setting fires,” the old woman says. “I think they mean to burn everything in the Wilds and force us back to the Barrier.”

  “Why would they do that?” I say, glancing from the old woman to Peter, unable to believe that someone would destroy a whole biodome on purpose. “If they burn a hole in the outer wall, this side would be contaminated in a matter of minutes. Anyone without a rebreather would die—including all of them.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time that heartless bitch was willing to sacrifice lives to gain power,” the old woman says. “But I imagine she’s expecting us to surrender before things get too bad.”

  “I ain’t going back to that hellhole on the other side,” the woman who walks with a limp says. “They can shoot me first.”

  Some of the others nod in agreement.

  A voice booms out from hidden speakers all around us. “When the Lord thy God brings thee into the land and drives out before thee many nations, thou must destroy them totally. Make no treaty with them. Show them no mercy!”

  “It’s the Giver,” Peter says, the muscles in his jaw tight.

  “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” The Giver’s voice is frenzied and loud, and some of the Others cover their ears. “Submit to thine husband, as to the Lord!” We hear whooping and wolf whistles. “He who curses his father must be put to death!”

  “Come on,” Peter says and takes my hand. “Out the back door.”

  He pulls me into a jog, the band of outcasts following along behind us.

  “Do you know how to get back to the airlock from here?” he asks as we move between abandoned buildings, keeping to the smoky shadows.

  “Yes,” I say, visualizing the map I drew.

  “I want you to lead the group. Stay next to the buildings until you get to the other side of the park. Once you pass the guard station, head straight for the airlock. I’ll make sure everyone stays together.”

  “Peter, I don’t want you to leave me—”

  “I won’t let you out of my sight, Shaz. You have my word. Just remember everything I taught you.”

  I nod, wondering what happened to the shy, fearful boy who was afraid to shake my hand. “Okay,” I say, trying not to cry.

  “And if you fire an arrow, shoot to kill—then keep running.”

  I stare at him, fear taking my breath away.

  “Once you get back to the airlock,” he says, “start the cycle. I’ll be there before you’re done.” He kisses me, and all I want to do is bury my face in his chest and make the rest of the universe disappear.

  “Be careful,” he says, holding me by my shoulders.

  “I love you, Peter.” I throw my arms around his neck, and this time he has to push me away.

  “Go!” he says.

  And I do.

  I—and the eighteen others carrying everything they own—sneak across a smoky biodome in the half-lit darkness, trusting Peter to keep us all safe.

  Twice I look back to see if Peter is there, but the haze is too thick, and I finally give up.

  I say a prayer to Peter’s God, asking Him to keep everyone safe—but especially Peter.

  We manage to make it all the way to the far edge of the park before we’re seen.

  Just as I step out of the cover of the guard station, I hear an arrow fly, and a man only a few meters ahead of me lets out a scream and falls to the pavement. Another arrow flies, and there’s another shout. And then I see more men up ahead. They’re carrying knives and one has an ax, but I don’t see any guns.

  A woman behind
me cries out, and I turn to see a man with a knife grab her around the waist and start dragging her away. The other women try to fight him off, but he cuts at them with his blade.

  “Get away so I can shoot!” I yell, and the moment they do, I fire an arrow, aiming between his shoulder blades.

  It hits him in the arm, and he releases the woman, stumbling back and trying to pull the arrow out. Then he turns and sees me. “You fucking bitch, you shot me!” He staggers toward me, and I fumble with my bow, notch an arrow, and let it fly point blank.

  It embeds itself deep into his shoulder, almost going all the way through. He falls to his knees and then collapses on the ground.

  I stand there, staring at the blood pooling around him, unable to move.

  You killed him, Shannon. You killed another person.

  And then I hear more arrows whiz past.

  Peter.

  A man who was closing in on me goes down, two arrows in his chest.

  I look away.

  Oh, God, this is horrible.

  I get everyone back behind the small guard station and take aim around the corner, hoping that Peter is protecting us from behind.

  Shoot to kill and then run like hell.

  My first arrow goes high because my hands are shaking, but the next two get closer to their marks. Both men drop their knives and start sprinting in the other direction.

  The man with the ax shouts at them, calling them cowards—and then he sees me. He raises the ax over his head and starts rushing toward me.

  An arrow hits him in the chest—and then a second lands a hand’s width away from the first. The huge man drops the ax right in front of me and crumples to the ground.

  I swallow, trying to get my legs to move.

  And then we hear gunfire coming from the other side of the park—and all hell breaks loose.

  The breach alarm goes off, and the red lights mounted on the roof of the biodome start flashing, making the smoky half-darkness look like some weird version of Dante’s Inferno.

  I fire more arrows, aiming at the men between me and the airlock. When they fall back, I move forward toward safety. One of the women rushes past me and starts grabbing dropped weapons.

  And then I would swear the ground starts shaking. Loud grating noises fill the air, metal scraping against metal, coming from… everywhere.

  The bulkheads must have some sort of backup power because the massive doors are closing all around me.

  You should have marked them on the map!

  And then I realize if the one between here and our airlock closes, we’ll be trapped.

  “Run!” Peter shouts, and I realize he’s up on the roof of the guard station behind me.

  I drop the arrow I have notched and race toward the airlock, the Others on my heels. I pass a huge metal wall creeping across an ancient rail set in the concrete. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I estimate it’s going to take half a minute for the bulkhead to shut.

  God, I hope that’s long enough for Peter to get through.

  I hear arrows whiz past me, but I don’t stop running until I reach the airlock door.

  I pump the handle, counting down as I go.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry!

  Once it’s open wide enough, a young girl slips through, and then the rest of the women follow, one by one. I count them… ten, eleven, twelve. More are coming, but I can see three men chasing after them.

  One of the men falters—and then another.

  Peter must still be up on the guard station?

  Through the narrowing gap of the bulkhead, I see him drop down onto the ground and run toward me.

  He’s going to make it. Oh, God, please let him make it.

  And then he slows down, pulling another arrow out of his quiver to shoot at the man between us.

  “No!” I shout. “Run!”

  Peter glances at me—and keeps moving.

  I notch an arrow, step away from the airlock so if I miss I won’t hit Peter, and shoot at the last man. The arrow flies wide, clattering into the closing bulkhead—just as Peter slips through ahead of it.

  I draw another arrow, take a breath, and let it fly. This time, the shaft buries itself in the man’s thigh, and he rolls to the ground, howling with pain. Peter jumps over him, barreling toward me, as the last of the women enter the airlock.

  “Shannon!” Peter shouts. “Watch out!”

  Someone grabs me from behind, choking me with his arm.

  “Stop right there, lover boy,” the man says, “or I’ll send your girl up to heaven.”

  The guy licks the side of my face, and I let out a surprised shriek.

  He laughs. “Or down to the other place.”

  Peter stops running, his bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. “Mikey.”

  “Got it in one,” Mikey says. “With your pops outta the way, you ain’t such a big dog anymore, now are ya?”

  “Let her go,” Peter says. “It’s me you want, not her.”

  “Oh, I want her somethin’ fierce,” Mikey says, his breath hot on my neck. “But I won’t kill her if you do as I say.”

  Peter takes a step closer. “What do you want?”

  “Put down your weapon and kick it over here,” Mikey says, jerking my head back when Peter doesn’t immediately comply.

  “Okay,” Peter says, bending over to place the bow on the ground. “Don’t hurt—”

  The bulkhead wall clangs shut, and some sort of pump engages, the noise louder than the airplane engine.

  Mikey turns toward the sound, loosening his grip for an instant.

  I twist around and knee him in the groin as hard as I can—which is difficult because he’s a lot taller than I am.

  “You, bitch.” He throws me down on the floor.

  A second later, an arrow whizzes over my head, and Mikey falls backward against the wall. “You bastard!”

  Two more arrows follow in quick succession, one of them hitting Mikey in the throat.

  I close my eyes, unable to look anymore.

  Peter takes hold of my shoulders and lifts me up. “Are you alright?”

  I nod, too terrified to speak.

  “Inside,” he says and helps me through the airlock.

  He does a quick headcount and then starts sealing the door.

  I stare at eighteen terrified faces, knowing mine must look the same.

  We’re going to be okay.

  I say it again, out loud this time.

  “Yes,” Peter says and puts his arm around me, facing the crowded room. “We’re gonna be alright.”

  My eyes come to rest on the elderly woman. She’s the one who collected all the weapons. Even in old age, she’s tall and full-figured.

  Her skin is darker than Peter’s, but her hair is the same shade of copper.

  His grandmother.

  Peter realizes who I’m staring at. “Shannon, this is my Gran. Before today, I hadn’t seen her since I was five.”

  “Nice to meet you, Shannon,” she says. “Peter tells me you’re a most amazing young woman, and I can tell that he’s right.”

  I don’t know who blushes more, me or Peter.

  Before I can respond, there’s some sort of banging outside the airlock.

  All of us turn to see a group of men pounding on the other side.

  They look really angry—but they don’t look like they know how to get in.

  “What are we going to do?” asks a girl peeking out from behind Gran. She looks to be five or six.

  “We’ll head to Texas,” Gran says. “They have two big biodomes in Dallas. Probably take us four or five months to walk there—a lot fewer if we can find some vehicles that still run.”

  “How long will the masks keep working?” the woman with the bad eye asks.

  “I don’t know for sure,” I say. “The filters were designed to last eight months, and they haven’t been used before today—but they’re also twenty years old.”

  “How will we eat and drink with the masks on?” someon
e else asks, a raven-haired girl who looks to be a few years older than Peter and me.

  “The masks have a built-in drinking straw, but you have to be careful using it.” I show her. “We’d have to set up environment tents to eat.”

  “Which we have,” Peter adds.

  The men swing the blade of an ax into the glass, making lots of little cracks in the outer layer—and that makes up everyone’s mind.

  “If we don’t leave before they manage to break in, they’ll kill us all anyway,” the woman with the limp says.

  “Are there any opposed?” Gran asks.

  No one speaks, but we can hear the men pounding on the door.

  “Well, then, open the damn exit,” the woman with the bad eye says.

  We put our masks back on, and while I start the sequence to unlock the Outside door, Peter has everyone run through the checklist to make sure their rebreathers are properly sealed.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Peter says and helps me spin the valve wheel to open the heavy outer door.

  We stare out into the downpour.

  He takes my hand as the others crowd around, all of us scared and anxious.

  But alive.

  37

  The Long and Winding Road

  Diego

  With the sun low in a sky full of snow clouds, we get off the freeway and roll into a small town just inside the border of Colorado.

  Five days ago, when we broke out of C-Bay, we didn’t slow down until the low-fuel light came on 171 miles later. The whole time, we were expecting to see that black SUV on our tail. We decided to stay off the main freeways, but we both still got sore necks from looking over our shoulders. But either Dave told his men not to come after us, or they guessed wrong about which route we’d take because they never caught up.

  Once we passed the 250-mile mark, Bella relaxed a little. She said Dave’s militia wouldn’t risk running out of gas that far away from C-Bay and would turn back.

  It would seem she was right.

  The morning of the second day, we ditched everything we didn’t absolutely need, and I pumped up the trailer’s tires using a canister of air we nabbed from a car parts store. Then we hit the main highway west and put the pedal to the metal, blistering along at a whopping 42 mph.