A Girl Called Fearless (30 page)

This wasn't just a storeroom. No wonder they called this the Bunker. These people were ready for a catastrophe.

Maggie pointed to a walled-off corner. “Chemical toilets. Sorry. No shower. But I know a few women here who might take pity on us and lend us theirs.”

“There are other women?”

“Forty, forty-five, depending on who's still here since the last time I visited.”

I heard her spin a lock and watched her open the cabinet. She held the door, blocking me from seeing what she was doing, but I caught a glimpse of what she pulled out of her duffel and stuffed in there: the wall hangings with their secrets. Stitch-coded names, dates, and details that could blow a hole in Congress.

She snapped the lock back on.

“Are there more places like Salvation?” I said.

“I'm convinced there are. Half the men in Rogan's platoon vowed they were going rogue once they got back to the States.”

I looked over at the camp cots, thinking I should pick one out and set it up, but all I wanted was to get the hell out of there. The way that cold, grey ceiling curved over us, I felt like I was in a coffin.

I blew on my hands. “It's freezing down here.”

“Yeah, we could use some long johns.”

I hauled a cot out of the pile and unfolded the aluminum frame, dropping my duffel onto the faded khaki fabric.

Pipes squealed as Maggie tried the faucet in the kitchen. “Well, we've got plenty of cold water,” she said.

“How long are we going to stay in Salvation?”

“Until things cool off. Those agents aren't going to leave Idaho until they think we have.”

I stuffed my freezing hands into my pockets, thinking about them prowling around like wolves, trying to sniff us out while the U.S. cut off our escape. “But we've got to get out of here before the border's closed.”

“There are other ways out of the country,” Maggie said.

I was just about to ask how when a voice called out, “Who's down there?”

A woman in a red down vest stood on the stairs with her arms crossed. She looked ten years older than Maggie. With her short spiky hair and round glasses, she looked like one of those tiny, endangered owls.

“Is that you, Beattie?” Maggie rushed forward as the woman clambered down the steps.

“Maggie! I heard Rogan came and got you.” They hugged with their eyes closed, whispering to each other in a way that made me nervous. Maybe Nellie didn't know what Maggie was really up to, but I was sure Beattie did.

When they broke apart, Beattie turned to me. “Who's this?”

“I'm Avie. I'm—”

“She's traveling with me,” Maggie said.

Beattie pursed her lips like she was trying hard to keep her questions to herself. Instead, she ran her eyes over my cot and said, “This is wrong. You can't stay here.”

Maggie shrugged, but Beattie reached for my sleeping bag. “You'll stay with us.”

“Thanks, but don't you think you should ask your partner first?” Maggie said.

“Cecelia's not here.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We haven't broken up. She's at a med school in Honduras until May, teaching and picking up some new skills.”

“Keisha won't mind company?”

“I think our daughter will be happy to have company, especially someone from Outside.”

“Fine,” Maggie said. “Lead the way.”

I followed them out, feeling like I'd crossed another border. Outside Salvation, women couldn't marry each other. The Paternalists didn't mind if two men married—less competition. But women who didn't want men were lucky to be left alone. More than one had been raped to “teach them a lesson.”

The sun blinded me as we went outside. I shaded my eyes as boys in leather boots and long jackets and girls wearing prairie dresses over their pants ran past us, yelling, “Mornin', Pastor Beattie.”

Beattie wasn't just a Survivor, she was a Servant of God. I'd never thought any place could be stranger than Vegas.

69

Sunlight bounced off the snow so Beattie's bathroom glowed pink. I stood under the shower, hot water raining down, loosening up the muscles in my back. A big purple bruise on my knee ached, and I found two more thumb-sized ones on my hip, but other than that, I was fine.

The soap dish cradled a block of handmade soap. I brushed my finger over the rose petal floating under its cloudy surface, remembering how Nana Stephie sometimes had soap like this. I held the bar up to my nose, and
breathed
.

I'm okay.

I made it to Idaho.

Maybe everything will work out.

I ran the creamy soap over my skin. Maggie had hidden us up in the mountains far off any main road. If Salvation wasn't on any map or in any government database then maybe we really were safe.

And the border was just a couple hundred miles from here. A couple hundred miles to Canada, and if we were careful and lucky, Yates and I might even find each other there.

I imagined standing on tiptoes in a crowd, triple-checking my phone and counting down the agonizing minutes until Yates came through the airport arrivals gate. He appears and I yell, “Yates!” People open a path between us as he rushes to me and I leap into his arms.

The water suddenly went cold and I hurried to turn it off. I reached for a towel and heard Maggie and Beattie through the door, their voices hushed and tense. I crept over and cracked the door open.

“You think it's a death squad?” Beattie said.

I held my breath and Maggie mumbled a reply.

“Your brother's name's not on anything,” Beattie said. “I don't see how they would track you here.”

I missed Maggie's answer.

“Even if the border's closing, you can't leave now. They know there are only two routes you can take.”

I shut the door and sank onto the stool by the tub. The night flashed back to me: speedometer ticking ninety, the steel box sailing like a deadly butterfly, Maggie screaming, “Hold on!,” the rain of rocks on the windshield.

My clothes lay across the toilet. I slipped my phone out of my jeans and turned it on. The reception was zero and the battery barely holding on.

I'd be in Canada right now if it weren't for this.

I muted the phone and scrolled through my files. Sparrow's messages were still there, including
FOR MAGDA'S EARS ONLY.

It was begging me to open it.
Right, like I don't have enough trouble, I need more?
I tapped on the first message Sparrow sent me from the Capitol steps.

Seconds away from torching herself, and there she was smiling, her eyes alive with a weird, almost religious ecstasy like some arrow-riddled saint right out of a Renaissance painting. She raised the bottle, and her final words played in my head. “See you in heaven.”

“Why'd you do it?” I whispered.
Why'd you kill yourself and leave me with this mess?

I saw us back at Masterson, Sparrow tinkering with one of her little inventions and muttering under her breath while Ms. A shared Congress's latest indignity to women. I had been close enough to hear Sparrow say that the world would close its eyes until blood ran down the Capitol steps.

And I remembered thinking, she'd do it. Sparrow would waste them all. Maybe Sparrow had always been unbalanced, or what happened with the boy she loved destroyed her, but I didn't want to end up like her.

I don't want to die for the cause.
Well, maybe I should have thought of that yesterday before I blew my cover and everyone else's.

Maggie rapped on the bathroom door. “Can I get in there?”

“Just a sec.” I stuffed the phone back in my jeans and pawed around for my underpants.

“Great. The sky's clear, so after I shower, I'll take you out for a shooting lesson.”

I lost hold of my towel and had to grab for it. “Today?”

“You have other plans?” she said.

I hated how smug she was, saying that. “No.”

“Okay, then.”

I pulled on my jeans. Learning to shoot another human being wasn't okay. It would never be okay, but I couldn't escape the fact that I needed to defend myself.

When I came out, Beattie was sitting by the woodstove, jotting notes from the
Challenge of Faith
. “I left a hat on the table,” she said. “I doubt you're used to this cold.” The hat looked like it was brought back from the Andes with llamas circling the crown, and two long skinny ties, made from the same heathery brown wool as the rugs covering the couch and floor.

I waited by the window, holding the hat, and twisting and untwisting the ties around it.

“Nervous?” Beattie said.

“I hate guns.” My fingers wouldn't stop moving. “
You
don't believe in guns, right?”

“Personally, I wish guns were only used for hunting. But I'm forced to admit that we're perilously close to
TEOTWAWKI
.”

“What's that?”

“The End Of The World As We Know It.” Beattie's voice quieted like she was quoting a religious text. ‘When the government collapses and anarchy reigns, we must protect ourselves from those who would do us harm.' It's the reason Salvation exists.”

Beattie seemed so rational. “You really believe in The End Of The World As We Know It?” I asked.

She peeled off her glasses and folded them tenderly. “You lived through the chaos. Is your world anything like it used to be?”

I choked back the rush of tears. Life as I knew it ended the day Mom died. “No.”

“Avie, knowing how to do something is different from using that knowledge. Buddha and Jesus are my guides, but if my life's on the line, I'm calling on Smith & Wesson.”

“Almost ready,” Maggie called.

Beattie stood up and eased the hat out of my fingers. “You poor, sweet girl, “she whispered, guiding the hat over my hair. I closed my eyes for a moment, and felt her mother's hands fuss with the scarf around my neck. I stood there, not moving, holding on to the tenderness of her touch.

Maggie strode into the room. “Let's go!” A bulging canvas bag hung off her shoulder.

Beattie squeezed my elbow. “Keisha should be here by the time you get back.”

Maggie handed me some mittens. “You'll want these,” she said, and showed me how to fold the tops back so they turned into fingerless gloves.

Fingerless, so they wouldn't interfere with squeezing the trigger.

I jerked them on and followed her onto the porch.
You're learning how to survive,
I told myself as we tramped down to the snowbanked road.
You learned how to drive, now you're going to learn how to use a gun.

But the other part of my brain wasn't about to listen to that crap. Shooting a gun isn't like learning to drive, it yelled back.

When you're driving, the point isn't to kill someone.

70

Piled snow lined the road from the church, past the barn and the twenty or so houses closest to them. The plowed part of the road stopped a few hundred feet ahead of us.

I walked next to Maggie. I didn't see anybody at the windows, but I swore I felt eyes on us. Even the goats in the pen beside the barn seemed to be watching us as we went by.

“It's about two hundred miles to the border from here, isn't it?” I said.

Maggie shook her head. “No, it's closer to six hundred.”

“Six!”

“We're in southern Idaho. It's a long state.”

I swore like Roik did the time a guy scratched Big Black's paint.

“Are you
blaming
me?” Maggie said, her head cocked, ready for a fight.

Six hundred freaking miles. And according to Beattie, there were only two roads that could get us to the border. If I wanted to survive, I needed Maggie. “No, no, I'm sorry.”

“I don't like this any more than you do, but I'm going to try like hell to get us out of this in one piece.”

“Okay.”

The quiet was broken by an engine rumbling and tires thumping over bumpy ground. We watched a pickup with monster tires come around the church.

“John and Barnabas are back,” Maggie said. They waved as they drove by, stopping at a small cabin up ahead. “We need to thank them for helping us last night.”

She said it in a strangely nervous way. And when I saw a young guy in a sheepskin jacket get out of the truck after the other two, I was pretty sure I knew why.

He took one look at us and stomped off in the opposite direction. Maggie followed him with her eyes, but she kept her face from showing how she felt.

The two older men climbed up on the back of the truck. The one with the big gut and ripped down jacket yelled out, “Jemima, I brought you a present!”

Nobody could beat Maggie at hiding the truth, but now I saw her lips part as she stared at the tall, slim guy with the greying ponytail sticking out from under his cowboy hat. She gave a little shake of her head.
Oh, Maggie. You've got it bad
. He was something she wanted, but couldn't have.

The two men wrestled with the front end of a claw-foot tub. Maggie picked up the pace. “Those idiots, trying to get it out of the truck by themselves. It's cast iron.” She raised her voice, and it almost sounded like she was smiling. “John, wait up.”

A girl a little older than me rushed out of the cabin, the pockets on her tool belt slapping her thighs. I guessed she was Jemima. Maggie climbed up beside the men, and I stood next to Jemima on the ground. We waited for Maggie and the men to turn the tub on its side and inch it to the tailgate.

They lowered it down, grunting and swearing and trying to brace themselves, as Jemima and I clung to the curled lip. The weight buckled my knees, and I dug my boots into the snow, afraid if I lost my grip the thing would crush me.

We set it down gently on its feet, and all stood there panting. “This is gorgeous, Dad,” Jemima said. The tub was nicked in places and stained near the drain hole.