‘What for?’ Mario asked.
‘I want to figure out a way to rig up a carrier of some kind for Max. I thought I could tie him, somehow, to my back.’
At this, Mario got quiet.
‘Well, I was thinking… maybe Max should stay here with me.’
It took us a moment for his words to soak in and then there was a group recoil, like he’d puked or something. Ulysses cried out and Batiste shrieked no and Sahalia started yelling her head off.
‘I know you don’t want to leave him.’ Mario tried to speak over the loud protests but it was no good. ‘SIMMER DOWN!’ he shouted. ‘I know you all don’t like the idea, but maybe Max would like to stay. Why don’t we ask him?’
From the back, Max shouted weakly, ‘Not a chance in hell.’
So Mario Scietto finally came to understand that we were not a group you could divide.
We walked.
It was better than before. For one thing, the road was pretty flat and straight. Also, we were rested, well fed, and had new clothes. Old boots but new clothes.
Mario had told Niko which houses in the development might have a pushchair. Niko had found a good pushchair, too. A jogging pushchair. If Max felt embarrassed to be pushed along like a baby, he didn’t mention it. He was all wrapped up in a blue-and-orange Denver Broncos rain poncho Mario had given us.
We were walking on a road called Gun Club Road, which seemed sort of ominous, but the area there is flat and blah. Just mile after mile of nothing. No houses or buildings or rest stops.
Of course, there still were cars on and around the highway and cars were scary. Someone could be hiding in them, so we had to approach each one carefully. But mostly they were molded over and everything was quiet. It was deserted.
Gun Club Road runs fairly close to 470, so when we’d get close to the highway we would see some clusters of cars on the edge, but that was fine.
We walked and walked and walked. At first, I had thoughts in my head, but then the trudge, trudge, trudge of my feet on the road was so rhythmic, my brain stopped its spinning.
All there was was one foot in front of the other.
We might live. We might die. But it seemed like we’d never stop walking.
After many hours, Ulysses asked Niko to tell a Mrs Wooly story.
‘I can’t,’ Niko said.
‘Why not?’ Max asked.
‘It makes me too sad.’
‘I know why,’ Batiste said, huffing a little from our pace. ‘You think she’s dead.’
‘No!’ Ulysses protested. ‘Mrs Wooly?’
‘Please, Niko, please? I’m so tired,’ Max complained.
‘What are you tired from?’ I snapped. ‘You’re getting pushed in a pushchair!’
‘Aargh. Okay, everyone, be quiet!’ Niko said. His voice sounded cold coming through the transmitter in the air mask.
‘Mrs Wooly’s going to come down this road we’re on,’ he said.
‘What will she be driving?’ Max asked.
‘A van.’
‘What kind of van?’
‘Oh my God… She’ll be driving a… a Kia Sportvan.’
‘Red?’ asked Max. ‘With a sunroof?’
‘Red, with a sunroof. And she’ll say, ‘I was just going to get you at Mr Scietto’s house. I knew he was taking care of you there while I got this van.’ ‘
‘How’d she get the van, anyway?’ Max asked.
‘Well, that’s the reason she’s taken so long.’
‘What do you mean?’ Batiste asked.
‘She had to earn the money to buy the van.’
‘What’s she been doing, then?’ Max asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Niko said.
He had to push the pushchair up over a little hill and the soggy ground was giving him trouble.
‘Maybe she’s been stealing it from people,’ Max said.
‘Or maybe she dug a pit and trapped some people,’ Batiste added.
‘Ugh, never mind,’ Niko snapped.
There was quiet for a while.
And I just thought, step, step, step.
‘How much farther?’ Batiste or Max or Ulysss would ask.
‘A while,’ Niko would answer.
That happened about 20 times.
Step, step, step.
Ulysses started crying softly.
It wasn’t a cry like he was asking for attention. Just pure misery.
And suddenly Sahalia’s voice rang out.
She has a good voice, kind of high and gravelly, like a punk-rock girl.
I think it was a rock song, but it was a little hard to tell, just her voice alone on the wind.
These were the words:
