Poison Princess

25

DAY 235 A.F.

DEEPER IN MISSISSIPPI

“Do you need to slow down?” Jackson yelled over the winds.

I shook my head, wanting to continue on. We’d left Haven almost two weeks ago; I was beginning to fear we’d never get out of this state.

Bandannas over our faces and sunglasses in place, we meandered through another deserted town, with a windstorm whipping around us—and tremors beneath our feet.

Lucky for us, the storms had become more sporadic and shorter, lasting just an hour or two a day. A blessing, since we remained carless.

Even if Jackson could fix a vehicle, the tank would be empty.

On foot, we’d started seeing gaunt-cheeked survivors every now and then, peeking out from behind barricaded windows. Much to Jackson’s annoyance, I always gave them a tentative wave. But none of them had wanted anything to do with us. . . .

“You stay right behind me,” he said now, pressing on. He would always walk first, blocking the wind for me, insisting I draft behind him.

During the worst part of the storms, I would curl my forefinger around one of his belt loops, which always seemed to amuse him.

I did so now, dumbly following his broad back down yet another “main” street. During daylight hours, Jackson usually had the shotgun in hand, with his bow and bag slung over his shoulders.

Today, he also carried something far more exciting—

Without warning, my head started to pound. My nose itched.

Matthew.

My bandanna was continually bloody on the inside, courtesy of his appearances. Jackson might keep the voices in check, but Matthew showed whenever.

And with each visit I’d become more convinced that he was, in fact, sending me visions. I didn’t believe I’d ever been clairvoyant. He was the only one with that talent.

Now blood began trickling to my upper lip. These moving visions were the worst. I’d learned to just keep walking, even when Jackson disappeared and all I could see around me was Matthew’s basement.

—Find me, friend.—

I clamped my lips shut, willing myself not to speak out loud. I told you, I have to find my gran first. Where are you, anyway?

—On your way.—

Truly? What city are you in?

—Arcana means secrets; keep ours.—

I don’t understand. If I had a can of ravioli for every time I told Matthew that . . .

—Have you seen the red witch?—

Unfortunately, I dream about her all the time. Is she alive today?

—She arises. She’s coming for you. The Empress fights the red witch. Learn her strengths and weaknesses.—

Do you expect me to face her?

—Evie, you must be ready.—

Apparently. God, why do I put up with you?

—The same reason I put up with you.—

Which is?

—We are friends.—

Once he was gone, I furtively washed the blood away with water from my canteen. I’d just finished as the storm faded. When the ash settled over the town, the temperature began to rise on the shade-free street. The odor of refuse boiled up from the ground.

I unzipped my hoodie and pulled down my bandanna, surveying the area. I could see so much more around me. Not necessarily a good thing.

Of course there were bodies. But it was worse than that. . . .

Over his shoulder, Jackson muttered to me, “Bedlam.”

I was beginning to understand his compulsion to solve puzzles. Every few feet, a new mystery taunted me.

An eighteen wheeler lay atop a house. On my right, someone had painstakingly nailed a wedding dress and veil to a front door. A dingy sleeve waved in the wind.

To my left, a dead man and young boy were positioned in a front yard, as if they’d been making snow angels in the ash right up to the end.

On the side of a dumpster, someone had spray-painted: Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn . . . Whatever.

I struggled to assign meaning to things, to read clues. But post-Flash, little made sense. I had to wonder if Jackson might not be right, that maybe everyone was bad now. Or at least crazy.

Up ahead, there was a moaning Bagman, chained by the neck to a refrigerator, crawling in place, its pants rotting off. Who in their right mind would think chaining up a Bagman was a good idea?

Its skin was chalkier than the ones I’d seen in the swamp, and it moaned louder.

Jackson paused before it, offering me his crossbow. “Shoot it.”

I shook my head.

“Come on, it’ll do you some good to take one out.”

“No, Jackson.” Did I think the Bagman needed to live? Not at all. But I didn’t want to be the one dispatching it. What if I . . . liked killing it?

The witch enjoyed killing more than anything. I’m all about life.

With a scowl at me, Jackson shot it in the temple, then retrieved his arrow. Great. He was mad again.

But he surprised me a short while later, when we had to cut through the cracked open fuselage of a jumbo jet. He took my hand, helping me over the debris. I grimaced at the bodies still fastened into seat belts, still hunched in a crash position.

“Hell on earth, huh?” he asked when we were clear.

I nodded shakily. “About the only way to describe it.”

“You know, at first, I wanted you to see stuff like this all the time, so you’d get harder.”

My drill sergeant. “And now?”

“Now I wish you never needed to get harder. But it’s just goan to keep getting worse,” he said, continuing on.

I believed that. I’d be even more despairing over our circumstances if it wasn’t for the knowledge that every step took us closer to North Carolina—that and my growing fascination with Jackson.

It was mind-boggling to me that I’d known him at school and had never guessed how remarkable he might be.

Unfortunately, my fascination was slipping toward infatuation. I told myself it would never work between us —best not to complicate things.

So why had I been absolutely thrilled when Jackson had begun carrying my bag?

Last night, we’d been forced to stay in a library—one of those fire-exit capitals—but at least this one had been locked up. As we’d meandered through the stacks with his windup flashlight, I’d teased him, “You carried my bag today. Does that mean you like me, Jackson? Hmm? Isn’t that what a beau