Ashes (31 page)

“Bet not,” she said.

More snow fell. The weeks melted away, and then it was only two days before Christmas. Alex watched as her window of opportunity grew smaller and smaller, contracting as her vision and then her mind had when she'd almost died outside that gas station. She didn't give up, not exactly, but with every day that passed, leaving seemed less urgent and more difficult, as if her will were being slowly suffocated under all that snow.

And really, was it so bad here? Five hundred miles was a lot of miles, especially when she didn't know what she was looking for or who was waiting, and with the Changed and desperate people out there, too. No one was really bothering her. Where, exactly, did she think she could run to that was safer than where she was?

She hadn't totally thrown in the towel. She'd gathered things, squirreling them in an old feed bucket that she hung from a joist in the darkest corner of the garage where she stabled Honey. Every item she added—a twist of rope, a book of matches, a jar of peanut butter, a scalpel swiped from the hospice and zipped into the lining of her jacket—felt like a triumph, but for only a moment. A flash in the pan, like the fizzle of a Roman candle. At this rate, she would be here all winter, or until the monster in her brain got tired of playing possum. Well, maybe waiting until spring was a good idea. She didn't want to set out in all this snow, did she? That was just begging for more trouble she didn't need.

Her life fell into a rhythm: work with Kincaid, chores at the house, rides with Chris. They were comfortable with each other. Maybe they were even friendly, though they weren't friends. After that night at Jess's, Chris had turtled back into himself, covering himself in shadows, as if embarrassed, afraid he'd said too much. That was all right. She had a few secrets of her own, and she didn't really want to get to know him better. She even understood why. Tom would, too. It would be like Tom giving the enemy a face. Do that and you'd never squeeze the trigger.

But she was scared. She was starting to forget Ellie and Tom.

At night, as Sarah slept, she would lie still and try to block out the distant crack of rifles and summon up Tom's face, his scent, a flashbulb moment …
anything
. Yet the harder she tried grabbing hold, the more her memories were like soap bubbles, bursting with every pop of gunfire. She'd have better luck hanging on to a handful of fog. Ellie was only a pink blur.

The attempts left her sick and weepy, gnawing the inside of her cheek until her mouth tasted of rust. There was something wrong with her that might have nothing to do with the monster. Where was the Alex who'd grabbed the ashes and run? The one who said to Barrett,
I'm calling the shots now.
She sure as hell didn't know.

So, really, maybe Rule was killing her with the promise of safety. She was cowering in the corner just like a bunny rabbit, hoping that no one would notice. Or maybe she was letting Rule infect her: squash her will, who she was and had been, what she could look forward to.

She'd never have let the monster get away with that, and there were many ways to fight. So why wasn't she?

Because something was changing. Again. Inside her. She felt it in this slow, general slide into a kind of numb acceptance.

Just like when I was diagnosed. It was that stages-of-anger thing. I was shocked and then I got pissed and then I fought like hell … and then I went numb. They called it acceptance, but it wasn't. It's what happens when you have only two choices: live with the monster, or kill yourself.

Only no one would let you kill yourself. It was a crime, which was stupid. Doctors couldn't help you; they'd get thrown in jail. She knew another girl, also terminal, who'd tried suicide. Pills and Jack Daniels. After they pumped her stomach, they threw the girl in a psych ward because they decided she was depressed.

Well, duh. Try living with a monster in your brain and see if you didn't get, oh, a little depressed.

So there was no choice, none at all. You either lived with the monster, or you did what she'd done:
carpe diem
and run.

She should run now. Winter or not, she should get out before it was too late. Sure, she'd probably die out there on her own, but wait too long and she'd be lulled into the belief that all this—Rule, the life they'd mapped out for her,
Chris
—was her best option. She'd settle for what
they
wanted.

Really, come to think of it, there were two monsters: the one squatting in her brain—and Rule.

Either way, she'd end up just as dead.

Run
, she told herself.
Run, you idiot, run.

But she didn't. She couldn't. She just … couldn't.

Christmas Eve, raiders swooped into the Zone. Whoever they were, they might've thought everyone in Rule was drinking eggnog and roasting chestnuts (that would be no), but—Peter being Peter and always spoiling for a fight—the patrols were ready. The guards kept Alex and the girls bottled up in the house, where they huddled by the woodstove for most of the night, through an intense battle they only heard: stutters and pops and the ripping roar of what sounded like rifles on full auto. The other girls dozed, but Alex remained awake, raweyed and so anxious her skin crawled. Her thoughts churned and tumbled, each new fear feeding another. Before, she'd had some half-baked idea that she might be able to slip away in the chaos, but now all she could think about was Chris, out there fighting, being shot at. Was he safe? What was happening? God, if they'd only let her
help
.

When the weak glimmer of a cold winter's dawn finally lightened the trees, the woods were quiet and word came that the battle was over.

“How many men lost, Nathan?” Jess asked the guard who delivered the news. The skin over her knuckles whitened as she clutched a shawl to her throat.

“Ten men lost, about the same number wounded—three pretty bad,” Nathan said. He was a grizzled, compact fireplug of a man, but his voice was surprisingly light, almost musical. “Could've been worse.”

Alex felt the air leaving her chest. Lena's eyes narrowed to

watchful slits, and the color drained from Sarah's cheeks. “What about the boys?” Jess demanded. “What about Chris?” “Is Peter all right?” Sarah asked at the same moment. “Is he—” “He's okay,” Nathan said, and then his gaze shifted to Alex.

“Chris, too.”

She wasn't prepared for the surge of relief, a great wash that flooded her veins and made her knees go a little wobbly. Too late, she saw Jess flash a quick measuring glance.

“And Greg?” Tori asked. Her face was pinched with worry. “Well.” Nathan's gray eyes slid sideways. “Greg got clipped—” “Oh!” Tori gasped, a hand going to her lips. “How bad? Is he …

will he—” “Doc says he'll be fine. Just lost some blood, that's all,” Nathan

said. “Can I see him?” “Orders say you got to stay here.” “It's okay, Tori, I'll go. Kincaid will need the help anyway,” Alex

said, but Nathan was already shaking his head. “Why
not
?” “Orders,” Nathan said again, stolidly. “You'll be safest staying here. Doc wants you, he'll let me know.”

From the set of his face, Alex knew arguing would get her nowhere. But why wouldn't Kincaid let her come? Because he didn't want her to see who he was going to let go? Allow to die?

Christmas morning was a subdued affair: no presents other than hand-knitted socks Jess made for each of them, because anything else was wasteful and Jess thought they ought to spend time being thankful they were alive. While that was a little sucky, Alex was glad; what, exactly, would you give someone like Lena? Maybe a muzzle …

In all the excitement, church was pushed to the afternoon: one big service held on the town square. Alex looked around for Kincaid, but the doctor wasn't there. Standing on the church steps, Yeager launched into a long sermon about
our men of Rule
, like they were crusaders on some holy mission.

“And our Lord has called on you, my consecrated ones,” Yeager said, his breath smoking in the wintery air. He peered down at the rows of men, gathered in front on folding chairs, who'd been in the battle the night before, and now Alex spotted Chris, Peter, Greg—with a bulky bandage around his left bicep—and a clutch of other boys, so easy to pick out from the old men who flanked them. “
I have even called My mighty warriors, My proudly exulting ones, to execute My anger.
Is this not a description of our men of Rule?
We
are the guardians of righteousness! The followers of Satan have become as beasts, they bear the Mark of Cain and the Curse of Ishmael, and yet we endure as the Lord's strong right Hand!”

This being Michigan, there weren't hallelujahs or anything, but Alex saw heads nod in agreement. When Yeager called the men up for a blessing, her blood warmed as Yeager clamped his hands on Chris's shoulders, and she felt something almost proprietary. A feeling that Chris was hers somehow; that his victory belonged to her, too. Then, when Chris rose and turned, his gaze brushed over the crowd, found hers—and did not falter.

For an instant, it was as if the world had stopped turning; everyone around her simply melted away, the shadows hugging Chris dissolved, and there was only his face and the look they shared. And was it her imagination, or was the scent of sweet, crisp apples that much stronger, so rich it overpowered everything else?

Tearing her eyes away from his was an effort, an act of will that was almost painful—because she didn't want to look away. Her face was suddenly slick with sweat, and her pulse tripped in her neck. What was happening to her? She couldn't have these feelings. Yes, Chris was fine, he was okay, he was a nice guy; but he was not Tom. She couldn't like Chris, shouldn't care about him. If she did, then Tom was gone, really gone—and she wasn't ready to let go.

“Please,” she exhaled. “Please, Tom, please don't leave me, please.” Her words were no more than a murmur, as insubstantial as the mist rising from her lips, and barely audible to herself, but she felt eyes again—not Chris's. She looked left and met Jess's gaze.

Alex stiffened in alarm. Had Jess heard? No, that was impossible; she'd barely breathed the words. But Jess was studying her with that same calculating look from earlier that morning. The older woman's scent betrayed nothing, and Alex thought once more of how Jess was a little like Yeager that way. Her scent was not like cloudy glass, however: just … nothing. Jess's scent was a

big zip-zero, like the white spot Chris associated with his mother.

“Hey.” Sarah plucked her sleeve. “Are you okay?”

At that, Jess broke her stare and turned to face forward once more. Alex flicked a glance at Sarah. “I'm fine,” she said, forcing a quick grin. “Just a little tired.”

She heard nothing after that and only mouthed the words to the hymns. Jess did not look at her again, but Alex knew what she'd seen. Jess's scent might be a white blank, but something flashed across the older woman's face just as she looked away that Alex
could
read, loud and clear.

Satisfaction.

And then it was the day before New Year's.

“I'm leaving town this morning. We'll probably—” Chris broke off as Tori slid a plate of biscuits and scrambled eggs onto the table. They were virtually out of baking powder, and the biscuits looked deflated, like miniature hockey pucks. “Thanks.”

“Where are you going?” asked Alex.

“Coffee?” Tori held up a pot.

“Uh, sure,” said Chris. He watched as Tori poured a dank black liquid that smelled suspiciously tarry to Alex. Even Chris raised an eyebrow. “What's in this?”

“Chicory,” said Jess, coming up from the root cellar off the pantry with Sarah close behind. Both dumped an apron of potatoes into the sink. “In New Orleans, that's a delicacy.”

Chris gave a noncommittal murmur. “Any butter?”

“I'm afraid not. What little we had we used for Christmas baking,” said Jess. “Those milkers need better feed.”

“I know.” Chris snapped a biscuit in two. “It's on the list.”

“Where are you going?” Alex asked again.

“A lot farther than I'd like,” Chris said, around biscuit. He swallowed, chased the biscuit with a sip of pseudo-coffee, and grimaced.

“I'm sorry,” Tori said. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I had to cut the flour with a little cornmeal. I know they're heavy. You want me to see if I can find some honey?”

“No, no, this is great,” said Chris. To Alex: “We're going out a lot farther this time, I think. Most of the towns around here are cleaned out, virtually nothing left. Peter's thinking we should head for Wisconsin.”

Tori gasped. “Aren't they guarding the border?”

“We're going to find out. A week there and back, easy, and that's not counting us having to actually
find
something.”

“Then you won't be back until after the New Year,” Sarah said. She sounded disappointed.

“Nope,” said Chris, and then looked up as Lena hip-butted the kitchen door with an armload of firewood. “Probably not.”

“Probably not what?” asked Lena.

“Chris and Peter won't be here for New Year's,” Tori said. “They may have to cross over into Wisconsin for supplies, if they can get across the border. It's not fair they fight on Christmas Eve and now this.”

Lena did her usual eye-roll, but this time Alex agreed with her. Life hadn't exactly been fair, in case Tori hadn't noticed.

Chris said, “If you guys want something special, make a list. I can't promise anything, but—”

“Real coffee,” Lena said. “Failing that, a one-way ticket out of here would be nice.”

“Here we go again,” said Sarah.

Alex was tired of that subject already. “I don't understand, Chris. You said there are other towns, right? And there are the various groups of raiders you guys keep fighting, right? So why don't we, I don't know, organize? Or trade? Or maybe just share and share alike? That way, you guys don't have to worry about getting shot all the time and you don't have to travel as far.” She remembered the discussion she'd had with Tom about this. “What you're doing is kind of inefficient.”

“She has a point,” said Jess. She didn't look up from scrubbing potatoes.

Chris looked uncomfortable. “That's really not my call.”

“Why not?” Alex persisted.

“Well, first off, we'd have to have something worth trading,” Sarah pointed out.

“We've got supplies. We've got tools and weapons and—”

“We're not going to trade weapons or tools,” Chris said flatly. “That's like handing them the keys to the front door.”

“Well, what about clothes?” Alex persisted. “Or soap or candles or lanterns or—”

“Or us,” Lena said. She dumped wood in a loud clatter. “How much you think I'm worth, Chris?”

Chris looked like he'd been slapped. “Lena, it's not like—”

“Oh, bullshit. We're your precious little baby-makers. So what do you think you can buy with me? I guess that depends on when the guy gets tired—”

“You know,” Jess interrupted, “we could do with more wood.”

“Right. I forgot. Your house, your rules,” Lena said, and banged out of the kitchen.

Tori broke the silence first. “More coffee, Chris?”

“No.” His cheeks were splashed with scarlet. He wouldn't meet Alex's eyes. “No, I probably shouldn't.”

“Chris,” Sarah said gently, “she didn't mean that. She's not angry at you.”

And Alex thought,
Oh yes, she is.
Lena was rude; she was obnoxious; but she was deliberately baiting Chris, really pushing it.

The question was: why?

Fifteen minutes later, Alex shrugged into her parka and scuffed outside. It was snowing again, big powdery flakes spinning slowly as feathers. The snow was deep, an easy two and a half feet, and hard on Honey. For the past few days, Chris had taken her to and from the hospice in a Portland cutter, and he'd just left the house five minutes before her. Alex expected to see him in the dark blue cutter, but only Nathan was there, holding the reins of a white dray.

“Where's Chris?” she asked as Nathan's border collie pranced up to be petted.

Nathan chinned in the general direction of the backyard. “Headed that way when he come out. Said he'd be right back.”

Puzzled, Alex retraced her steps, then ducked around the house. Jess's yard was very large, about an acre before it blended into the woods. She spotted Chris in the far left corner by the woodpile—with Lena.

Whatever she'd been about to say dried up on her tongue. Chris and Lena were facing each other, and Lena's arms jerked in emphatic, angry gestures. Fighting with Chris? Knowing Lena, that was a safe bet, but after that little scene in the kitchen, why would Chris go out of his way to talk to her? Alex was too far away to hear, but she saw Chris shake his head and start to turn away. In the next instant, Lena grabbed his arm and flung herself into Chris so hard he staggered, and then she was threading her arms around his neck, pressing against him …

I don't want to see this.
Stunned, Alex stumbled back, her boots tangling, and she let go of a startled, involuntary yip. Chris's head darted around, and then he was trying to disengage from Lena, pulling at her arms. He might even have called her name, but Alex wasn't waiting around. Floundering back up the walk toward the street, eyes smarting, she couldn't breathe; her chest was tight, like someone had punched all the air from her lungs. Just get Honey and go. But no, she couldn't; Nathan would stop her because she wasn't allowed to go anywhere without an escort. Well, that was all right, that was fine; she didn't care what was going on between Chris and Lena, she didn't
care
….

“You find him?” asked Nathan as she clawed her way onto the cutter.

“Yeah.” As she settled herself onto the seat, she saw Chris wheel around the house. He was moving fast, and she smelled him coming: no apples this time, or shadows, but a roiling, angry storm cloud. She looked away as he clambered aboard, and then, with a crisp snap of the reins, Chris urged the dray to a trot and they glided off. He was silent, a black boiling wall pressing the air between them. Her heart was hammering and her stomach was twisting and fisting like her hands.

“It's not what you think,” Chris said tightly.

“I don't care,” she said, not daring to look at him. “It's none of my business.”