and clammy. Sometime during that fight the lines between bad and good had become blurred. Reversed.
But I could still see Chase’s detached, furious stare as he’d held Rick’s limp body against the building. No matter how much I told myself he’d been protecting us, I couldn’t be sure. In that moment, he’d forgotten everything. He’d become a machine.
It wasn’t that I was afraid he was going to hurt me; at least I didn’t think so. The old Chase never would have. But the soldier…
Chase killing someone was something I could not be a part of, no matter how perilous it would be without him, no matter what past we’d shared. Whatever part of him was still
By the time we’d passed Winchester, Virginia
The semblance of a plan shot through my brain. I still had the change in my sweater pocket from the gas station. I could follow the highway back to Winchester. It was early still, midmorning. I could still reach the carrier on my own before noon.
I had pretty good intuition about people—I would seek out someone trustworthy to help me find a transport station. If it was anything like home, buses left the station at noon on weekdays. Then it was just a matter of blending into the crowds, like I had in high school. Not popular. Not a loner. Middle of the pack. The MM wouldn’t notice me if I kept my head down and didn’t linger too long.
I’d give a new name when I bought the ticket. If they asked for ID, I’d tell them an officer took it during the census, like Chase had told the highway patrolman.
My mom and I had been fending for ourselves all my life. I could manage a short trip to South Carolina, wanted or not.
Near Winchester, I’d asked to stop so that I could use the restroom, but Chase had told me to wait. I’d pointed to the blood dripping from his arm, but instead of tending to the wound, he’d just scrubbed away the puddle with his shirtsleeve.
We crossed into farmland. First rolling fields of fruit-bearing trees, picked clean and nearly camouflaged by the gray dust and the high weeds overtaking them, then corn in equally unattended condition. Abandoned vehicles, red and black with rust and mold, slowed us down. Most were parked off the asphalt, but some had died right in the middle of the lane. Chase eyed them warily as he sped down the highway, looking, I realized, for scavengers hidden in the shadows. Most of the windows in these cars had been broken out and cleared of anything valuable, but that didn’t mean that someone wouldn’t still come treasure hunting.
There was an eerie, graveyardlike silence in this place. A deserted stillness that made my skin crawl. This had been one of the evacuation routes when Baltimore had gone down, or maybe DC. I’d seen it on the news once, years ago after the first attacks, from an aerial view. That was when reporters could still use helicopters, before nonmilitary aircraft were banned from the skies.
The mass evacuation. Then, the streets had been packed with cars and frantic pedestrians, who slept on roadside cots at Red Cross stations when an accident or an overheated vehicle blocked traffic. I remembered the news capturing fights and victims of heat exhaustion. Kids wandering around looking for their parents.
Some of the cities had started to rebuild, but after eight years, this highway had been forgotten.
Chase eased off the pavement onto the bumpy soil and steered around a broken dining room table. Most of the dull yellow stalks immediately off the road had been trampled by scavengers or vehicles too impatient to wait in line during the evacuation. But beyond those there was heavy cover, enough to hide me when I disappeared.
With a pained grunt, Chase slammed the shifter into park.
My anxiety notched higher. It was almost time.
He’d be angry at first; I remembered his begrudged promise to my mother. Hopefully he wouldn’t look too long. After a while he’d probably figure I’d gone to the carrier and be relieved that his burden was lifted. Then he’d go on with his life. Just like he’d done before. He’d lost his military career, but I couldn’t feel guilty about that: The old Chase had never wanted to be drafted anyway. The old Chase had hated the MM.
We both stepped outside from our respective doors. I was moving too cautiously, watching him out of the corner of my eye to see if he was watching me. He jerked the bench seat forward with his good arm, muttering something about a first-aid kit.
I could still see him waiting in my driveway beside his motorcycle, the rain dripping from his hair and his chin and his sopping clothes.
His eyes had burned then, so many conflicting emotions, but I’d been only afraid. Afraid that they would come after him and punish him, and that it would be my fault because I couldn’t let him go. Afraid that if I wasn’t strong enough to say good-bye, my mother would be left there alone.
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
