Cured (21 page)

“Who
should I tell him is here?” I asked. It had been nine months
since he'd started showing up, and every time I asked him his name, he gave me the same reply:

“Names aren't important. Just tell him the vagabond is here.” A smile twinkled in his eyes and pulled his lips away from his green, crooked teeth
.

Not daring to take my eyes from the man, I walked backward to the front porch and opened the door. “Dad, the vagabond is here again.”

Dad came to the door. When his gaze settled on the filthy man, Dad smiled. “Wait here, Jack,” he said, and strode across the yard to meet him, holding out his hand. The bum took Dad's hand in his, and they shook like old friends. They spoke a few quiet words to each other, leaning close so their voices didn't carry, and then Dad turned and walked back into the house
.

I stood on the porch and stared at the vagabond. He stared back, gaze riveted on me, hint of a smile on his mouth. “It's been cold,” he called, kicking at the crusty snow
.

The snow was everywhere, blanketing the whole visible world since no snowplows scraped the streets, and no one was around to shovel their driveways or sidewalks. It covered the trash and filth that littered my neighborhood—the broken-down cars, useless garbage cans, broken mailboxes—and made everything appear fresh and innocent
.

“Are you guys staying warm?” His breath puffed out like white mist when he spoke
.

“More or less.” I shivered despite my goose-down coat and walked across the yard. I stopped beside Dean's dog, Bosco, and rested my hand on his head. “We have a big supply of useless furniture to burn, and when we run out, we just go into one of these houses for more.” I nod toward the nearest house, a brick rambler that used to belong to the Johnsons. The bee flu killed them all
.

The vagabond nods and takes a step toward me. I could reach out and
touch him if I wanted to. I don't. Bosco's fur bristles and he growls, but the stranger doesn't look at the dog. He's too intent on me
.

“The snow makes your eyes look like they are flecked with silver.” His voice is quiet. My eyes grow round and I shrink away from him. Warning bells gong inside my head, and I put my hand on my gun. The vagabond lifts his hands up in the air and takes a step back. “Sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It was just a random observation.”

I take my hand off the gun and put it back on Bosco's warm head
.

“Thank you, Jack.” He lowers his hands and stares at me. And stares at me. And stares. There's something in his eyes, something I know well. Hunger. I can take a hint. I dig in my coat pocket and pull out a small piece of flatbread, flicking little pieces of lint from it, and then hand it to him
.

He seems startled by the offering, but takes it and puts it in his mouth, and while he's chewing, he searches through his clothing and pulls out a thumb-size letter
J
made from wire, holding it up for me to see. It's beautiful—the wire is bent and weaved so it looks like the
J
is made out of a silver vine
.

“There's a loop on top of it so you can put it on a necklace or keychain,” he says
.

I take the
J
and step back into my yard. The vagabond takes one more long look at me. “Good-bye, Jack.”

“See ya,” I say, and watch him walk down the snowy street, until he turns a corner and is gone from view. Then I unzip the top pocket on my vest—the pocket where I keep my most treasured things, like the lip balm I just gave away—and tuck the
J
safely inside
.

I pick up the wire word
AB
, which is woven to look like it is made from silver vines. Lifting Kevin's sweatshirt halfway up my chest,
I unzip the top pocket on my vest, take out the
J
I was given nine months ago, and hold it to the
AB
. It fits perfectly—the wires lining up so exactly that the three letters had to have been woven at the same time and then had the
J
snipped off later.

A shiver runs down my spine.
JAB
. Those are my initials— Jacqui Aislynn Bloom. I put all three letters into the top pocket of my vest and walk in a daze to the closet. I already know what is in there, and it makes perfect sense. But the perfect sense is too weird to wrap my brain around.

The bars on the right side of the closet are full of hanging clothes, filthy oversize clothes, covered with dirt and dried grass—clothes no one would want to wear, not to mention hang up in a closet. On a shelf above the clothes are wigs, scarves, hats, and beards—all caked with dried mud and twigs and grass. Kevin's words echo in my head again.
I'm glad you finally got to meet the real me
. As opposed to the nasty, filthy, homeless version of him that I've sort of known for a year and a half. He is the vagabond. I shudder at the thought of kissing that homeless man. And then blush when I think of Kevin's lips on mine.

I lean against the closet door frame as opposites battle inside me. Trust versus mistrust. Attraction versus repulsion. Truth versus lies.

But the biggest thought running through my head is:
why in the world has Kevin, dressed as a filthy bum, been coming to my house for all these months?
Because it obviously wasn't for the minuscule tidbits of food I gave him.

“Oh no,” Fo mutters. I grab the door frame and hold my breath, waiting for bad news. “Jack! You need to see this!”

Vince is still sitting on the bed, driving the applesauce container, like it is a truck, over the faded quilt. Framed by the window, Fo is standing beside the telescope and watching me, her eyes wide with fear.

“What happened to the guys?” I ask, as if I've known all along something bad
would
happen. As I walk to the window, images of all the different ways Kevin, Bowen, and Jonah might die assault me—I've seen enough death to imagine some pretty gruesome things.

Fo shakes her head. “They're fine.” But the look on her face, like she's in pain, belies her words. “At least for the moment.”

“Then what is it?” I don't dare to look through the telescope. She doesn't answer, just tucks her long bangs behind her ears
and stares at me with her big brown eyes. And then she starts to hum something sinister, like my life now has its own personal theme music.

“What are you humming?” I snap.

“Sarabande.”

I stare at her.

“By Handel? Sorry. Morose, I know. I'll be quiet.” She gestures to the telescope.

Bracing for something bad, I hold my breath and stare out the window. The morning sun has painted the world a hopeful shade of bright, but long shadows bleed out beneath everything. The distant interstate looks like a faded, tattered gray ribbon laid out in a long straight line over the brown landscape. Taking a deep breath, I put my eye against the telescope eyepiece. It's still warm from Fo. The distant world zips into view, and as if on cue, Fo starts humming again.

I am looking at a neighborhood at the base of the foothills. A group of men is walking along the road. I start counting them, an almost unconscious reaction. But when you're facing an enemy, the first thing you need to know is how many there are. As I count the last head, I have never been happier to be out of the city. Even my family would be hard-pressed to make a stand against fifteen big, stout, armed men.

“Looks like the raiders are out,” I say.

Fo stops humming and says, “Keep looking. Move the telescope west.”

I do what she says, and my blood runs cold and my ears start to ring. I back away from the telescope, clear to the other
side of the room, until the wall collides with my back and I can't go any farther. “No. Please, no.”

Fiona is staring at me.
Vince
is staring at me, as if finally, for the first time since he's woken, he understands something is wrong. He reaches out and grasps Fo's long fingers.

“They're about to get caught, aren't they,” Fo says. She's not asking, just affirming what she already knows. She walks to my side. Vince, still holding her hand, trails a step behind. “Is getting caught part of the plan?”

“No. The plan is to sneak into raider headquarters and get the cure.” I unzip the top pocket on my vest and take out a folded square of paper. I hold it out to Fo.

“What is this?” She takes it from my trembling fingers.

“Plan Z, for if all else fails,” I whisper. I hug her and my gun grinds against my hip. “Take care of Vince.” In a daze, I turn and stride out of the room.

“Wait!” Fo comes after me. “Where are you going?”

I take a deep breath and fight the urge to vomit. “To warn them.”

“You can't go out there! You'll get caught or you'll die!”

I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Then I'll die trying, because I am
sick
of sitting around while everyone else fights!”

“Just hold on for one second. You have to do this right!” She pulls me back into the room, to the telescope, and puts her eye to it, slowly moving it back and forth. “Look.” She takes a step away and gestures to it. I look.

The guys have stopped running down the foothills. They're in a copse of dead scrub, huddled together. Kevin is talking, occasionally pointing toward the city.

“Do you see that water tower?” Fo asks. Not far below the guys, just at the base of the foothills, sits a massive tan water tank.

“I see it.”

“That's your landmark to help you find them.” She hugs me so hard I can't breathe. And then she bursts into tears. “Run fast.”

“I will.”

Drenched with sweat, I approach the bottom of the foothills and don't slow down, not even to remove Kevin's red sweatshirt. There's no time to waste on frivolous things like that. And I am doing what I do best. Only, for the first time ever, I am running
toward
danger, not away from it.

My gun is in my hand, catching sunlight. My muscles ache, my breath is ragged, and the metal letters in my top vest pocket clink together with every step I take. Fo's hummed music, Sarabande, is playing and replaying in my brain—constant theme music that keeps beat with my pounding feet.

I get to the bottom of the foothills and jolt to a stop. I have reached my destination—the massive water tank, which looked tan from the telescope but up close is grainy with rust and dotted with patches of flaking paint. There is no sign of the guys.

I lean against the water tank and hug my arms over my chest. I am now in raider territory and have no idea what to do. Spread before me is a neighborhood of silent midsize houses that once had nicely landscaped yards. Now, dead bushes and bleached weeds choke the rock-lined flower beds.

I step away from the water tank, roll my tense shoulders a
couple of times, and creep into the backyard of the closest house. My shadow huddles beneath my feet. The sun heats my dark, damp hair like it is trying to sooth me with its warmth. It doesn't work. I'm feeling less and less confident with every step I take.

I am walking between two houses when someone whispers my name. “
Jacqui
.”

My gun is up, my arm ready to absorb the impact of a shot, and I circle around, searching for the source of the voice.

“Jack!” Kevin, eyes shadowed by his camo baseball cap, waves at me from the doorway of the house to my right.

Relief makes me want to melt—somehow, with the appearance of Kevin, I know everything is going to be okay. I put the gun away and sprint to the house, throwing myself at him and wrapping my arms around his neck. He stumbles backward through the doorway and pushes me arm's length away. His eyes flash and his fingers dig into my shoulders. “What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here, Jack.”

“The raiders. They're in this neighborhood. Lots of them,” I explain, knowing that as soon as he hears why I'm here, he'll agree I've done the right thing. “I came to warn you guys.”

Kevin stares at me for a long moment, eyes burning with fury, and then he sighs and sags, as if he's been completely
deflated. His hands drop from my shoulders, and he presses his fingers to his temples. “This isn't what we planned. You shouldn't have come!”

“We didn't plan for you to get caught by raiders either!” I say. His brow furrows, and he strides over to an east-facing window, peering out of it.

We're in a dining room that has no table and no chairs—just a dusty copper chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room and a china cabinet against one wall. The dishes inside are untouched, their gold trim gleaming.

“Where's the note I gave you?” Kevin asks.

“I gave it to Fo. In case she needs a plan Z.”

“So, you read it.” He turns from the window and looks at me, disappointed.