Article 5 (17 page)

The letter quaked between my trembling fists. I didn’t shelter it from the rain. I wanted those words to wash away, but every reading yielded the same results.

“Chase Jacob Jennings: In accordance with Section One, Article Four of the Moral Statutes of the United States, you are hereby ordered for immediate induction into the Federal Bureau of Reformation. This is your third and final notice.”

The look on his face ripped my heart clean in half.

“One word, Em. That’s all. Tell me you want me to stay.”

If I had, he never would have gone to the draft board. He never would have arrested my mother. I never would’ve known Rick and Stan, Brock or Randolph, Morris. Or what it was like to ache every day for him.

It had begun to rain, just a drop here and there, a tease of the oncoming storm. In the distance I heard the ominous crack of thunder. While he was distracted I reached into the cab and grabbed the chocolate—sustenance should I not immediately find a local soup kitchen.

I had some money, food, and clothing. It was as good as I was going to get with the circumstances as they were.

I looked at Chase one last time. His hair was streaked with sweat, likely from the pain he was in. It brought forth a staggering sense of helplessness, something I knew I could not indulge now.

He’d be all right. He was a survivor. And now I had to be one, too.

“Good-bye,” I said, knowing that my voice was too soft to hear. I forced myself to ignore the sharp pang of regret as I took a step back, away from the truck.

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” My voice cracked.

“Go,” he grunted, still consumed with peeling off his shirt. “But stay close.”

I nodded then turned quickly and walked through the rows of corn in a straight line away from the road.

*   *   *

MY
plan was to get as far away from the truck as possible before turning parallel to the highway. I walked fast, glancing behind me often to see if Chase was following.

The high yellow stalks surrounded me on all sides, the scent of rotted corn permeating my senses. When I could no longer see any traces of the truck, I made a hard left turn, but the rows weren’t as even in this direction. I had to loop around clumps of plants and weeds to continue my forward momentum. My line ceased to be straight.

I lost my bearings.

The cornstalks were too high, and I continued to cross curving paths left by vehicles, which threw off my sense of direction even more. I looked up, but the sky was a consistent pewter. Even if I knew how to find my way by the placement of the sun, I was at a loss now.

The rain came, soft at first but then with sudden vigor. It clattered off the sheaths of dried corn, growing in volume until I could barely hear my own footsteps as I tromped through the weeds.

I wiped the hair from my face and the pouring water from my eyes and tried to control my breathing. I was reluctant to raise my hood for fear that I’d miss some landmark or clearing that would show me the way back to the road. I spun in a circle, but even my tracks became distorted by the rain. There was no turning back. Everything looked exactly the same.

Panic clawed its way up my spine.

“Pull yourself together,” I said out loud. But I was acutely aware of each passing second. I had to make it to Winchester soon. To catch a bus and find the carrier. I didn’t have time for this.

I could feel my mother slipping away.

Spooked, I began to run, needing to escape from the prison walls that reached two feet above my head. I thrashed my arms to clear the way in front of me, but the plants had sharp edges, which sliced into my exposed skin. Every time I knocked down a stalk, another sprang up in its place.

Slow down,
I told myself.
Breathe. Think!

But my body didn’t listen. I couldn’t see the highway back to Winchester. I couldn’t even find the truck. The fear stabbed deeper into my chest. I ran on, feeling the sweat mingle with the mocking rain from the sky above. Where was the road?

I fell once, slapping into a puddle of mud that splashed onto my face and into my mouth. I spit out what I could, choking, and ran again.

Finally, I spotted a clearing ahead. Without pause I steered toward it. I didn’t even care if I’d backtracked to the truck, just so long as I figured out where I was. As I drew closer, I could see more clearly and grasped my knees, gasping for breath but exalted that I was no longer alone.

Ahead was a double-wide trailer, the same dull yellow as Rick and Stan’s skin and eyes. It was covered on one corner by a strip of aluminum where the weather had worn down the siding. Below huddled three large plastic drums, transparent enough for me to see the liquid that sloshed within
—
water, presumably. Several wind chimes swung violently from the front door’s awning. I couldn’t hear them over the pelting rain.

On the square cement step, a woman sat in a rocking chair watching the storm. The sweatpants she wore bagged around her calves, and a knit shawl the color of plums was wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She looked like she’d been heavyset at one time but had grown suddenly thin and been left with too much extra skin. I could see such a pouch hanging from her chin, and more on the exposed areas of her forearms. A big yellow Lab lay on the ground beneath her feet.

Behind the house was a car, and behind the car was a gravel driveway.

My spirits lifted. The woman looked friendly enough. She could have been any one of my peers’ mothers, sitting on the porch, waiting for her children to come home from school. Maybe she could give me a ride into town.

Maybe she could give me a ride all the way to the checkpoint.

190 Rudy Lane.
I repeated the address over and over in my head.

The butterflies began beating in my stomach. I heard Chase’s voice cautioning me that nowhere was safe. Well, there was only one way to find out.

I emerged from the cornfield into the clearing, fifteen feet away from where the woman sat. She jumped up so quickly she nearly knocked the chair off the step.

“Hello!” I called, walking slowly toward her. I tried to look as nonthreatening as possible. “I’m sorry, I’m a little lost. I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”

She had widely spaced eyes and flattened cheeks, which drained of all color as I approached. Her mouth fell open, and she absently went to smooth down her salt-and-pepper hair.

It’s probably been a long time since she’s had surprise guests,
I surmised.

“Oh!” she said suddenly, then motioned for me to come closer. “The rain! You’re getting soaked! Come up here!”

I moved cautiously forward toward the front steps. She was smaller than I’d expected, several inches shorter than me. When I was under the awning, she placed a tentative hand on my shoulder and then patted me gently, as though to assure I was real. I became aware of how I must have looked, covered in mud, soaked to the bone. I swiped the back of my hand over my face, hoping I wasn’t too dirty.

I could hear the wind chimes now; they were nearly deafening. I jumped at a particularly loud clang that she seemed not to notice.

“You look like you’ve had a hell of a day,” she said.

I laughed, or sobbed, one of the two. At the end of it, we were both smiling.

“Sorry, sorry! Come in. I’ll make you some tea.”

I hung by the door as she pushed through. The dog, which had ignored my presence up until now, sniffed my hand lethargically with his whitened muzzle, then padded inside.

I tilted my head in, looking from one end of the compartment to the other—and was blasted with a pungent odor that was so strong it made my eyes water. A cloud of flies swarmed through the tepid room, and the buzzing, combined with the clanging of the chimes and the downpour, made my head hurt.

It was a mess. Dirty dishes were stacked in the tiny metal sink and spilled over the countertop. Tissues and cloths of all colors and sizes were strewn across the compact table. On the bed at the far right end there was barely enough room cleared for one person to sleep.

The woman sorted through the dishes, probably searching for a clean cup. Finally she gave up and shrugged, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her over the noise. “I’m really not that thirsty. I was wondering if you might be able to give me a ride. I’ve got family in Harrisonburg,” I added. The smell was so strong I had to take a step back.

The woman shuffled over to me and reached for my hand. It was warm and soft against mine, but I started at the contact. I was glad that she didn’t appear to sense my unease. I didn’t want to appear rude while asking for a favor.

“You can’t go now, sweetie. Not with this weather. Please come in.”

“Actually, they’re expecting me,” I tried to smile. “I’m sure they’re worried.”

Against my better judgment I took one step inside, suddenly aware of all four walls. The room was too small for both of us, the dog, and all this clutter. I could feel the stifling air sticking to my throat as I tried to swallow. Unconsciously, I began to tug my hand back.

“I’m sorry about the mess. Things have been so hard since Dad’s been gone.” Her lower lip quivered, sending rippling waves through the loose skin connecting her chin to her collarbone.

I couldn’t picture this woman living with a full-grown man in such a crowded compartment. I wondered where her father had slept. Hopefully not in bed with her.

“I’m sorry about your loss.…” I stopped, eyes growing wide.

What had been hidden behind a coatrack when I’d stood outside was now visible. An animal carcass, maybe three feet long, hanging from a hook in the ceiling. The source of the sickening stench. It had been dripping blood onto the floor, which the dog was now slowly licking at. The thing
—
whatever it was
—
had been skinned and was turning a bluish white. Flies and maggots covered one side that had gone completely rotten. I tasted the sharp bite of vomit in my mouth and struggled to swallow it down.

“They shut off the water you know. Power, too. I get some supplies from old John’s place, but, well…” She batted a hand in front of her face, not sensing my discomfort in the least. “None of that matters now that you’re here.”

“I … um…” I turned to look at the door, feeling her hand tighten around mine.

“I like your hair that way,” the woman said. She moved closer to me, and I automatically stepped back.

“You … like…” I began, still too distressed by the dead animal hanging in what appeared to be her living room to finish. The dog continued to lick at the spot that had stained the patch of linoleum peeking through the dust.

“Oh, yes. I always told you it would look better short, didn’t I?”

Of all the things that had sent alarm bells ringing through my head since my arrival, this was the comment that scared me the most. It took everything I had not to push her down and run out the door.

“Miss … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” I started, jerking my hand away and bumping into the coatrack.

“Alice, you know I hate it when you say that. Call me Mother, please.”

“Mother…”

“That’s right, sweetie.”

It became explicitly clear that this woman did not intend to let me leave.

“No, I mean, I’m
not
Alice. You don’t understand. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.” I turned to the exit. The woman moved with surprising dexterity, shoving her body in front of me and latching both fists around the doorframe.

“Let me go,” I said, voice trembling. The flies clouded the air between us. The stink was rising as I became more frightened. I could barely stop myself from gagging.

“Sweetie, is this because of Luke? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about him. But I told you. They shut off the power and the water. The corn’s gone dry, and there’s not much food that old John doesn’t need for his family. I had to kill him, Alice. I know you loved him, but I was starving,” she rattled frantically. Her face had gone white again, and all the empty skin quaked.

“That’s a
person
?” I screeched, glancing against my better judgment at the carcass hanging from the ceiling. I gagged again.

“Luke? That’s your puppy! Don’t you remember? Oh, Alice, we’ll find you another, I promise.” Tears filled her eyes. She was genuinely upset that she had hurt me. Or Alice.

The sound of the dog licking up the spoiled residue on the floor pushed me over the edge. I tried to cover my mouth with my hand, but it was too late. I vomited all over the floor.

The woman stepped cautiously from the door and grabbed a towel. With a mother’s kindness, she dabbed my mouth. It smelled as sick as the rest of the room. I weakly pushed her back. My knees were wobbling now, and my head spun. I focused on the open door before me, and the cool, fresh air of freedom.

“I have to go,” I told her.

“No, Alice. We’re okay now. You came back to me, and we’re going to be okay,” she crooned. She lifted an arm around my shoulder for comfort. I jerked away from her touch, stepping on the dog’s tail. He barked viciously, snarling at me.

“Max!” the woman screamed. He returned to his slow work cleaning the floor.

“My friend is waiting,” I tried. My throat burned from the bile, and my eyes were now streaming. The little room was spinning. Shrinking.

“No, dear. Mother’s your only friend,” she soothed again.

I pushed shakily past her, and in an effort to stop me, she wound her arms around my waist. A snake constricting her prey.

“Now, Alice…”

“Let go!” I shouted, and as we began to struggle, my strength returned. Some small part of me knew I didn’t want to hurt her, but I was going to if she didn’t let me through that door this instant.

“Alice! Please!” the woman begged laboriously between sobs.

Finally, I grasped the doorframe, pulling myself forward. At the first whiff of humid air, I renewed my efforts, gasping in breaths. She only tightened her grip. Something metal clanged as it fell off the countertop. The wind chimes smacked against each other in chaotic cacophony.