Article 5 (15 page)

The town, preserved by time, was absolutely still.

I noticed a shopping center on the right and pointed to it. Chase took the nearest exit, turning onto a street called Garland Groh Boulevard. Within a minute, he had pulled into an alley beside an old sporting goods store. We’d had one of these at home, but it had closed during the War. The MM had turned it into a uniform distribution center.

I could see the empty highway just beyond the parking lot, a straight shot to the checkpoint. My heart pounded in my chest. It was a little more than five hours before the MM would report Chase AWOL. We’d have to get what we could and get out.
Fast.

Chase unhooked the wires near his knees, silencing the engine. Before he opened the door he removed a slender black baton with a perpendicular handle from beneath the seat. His face grew dark when he caught me staring at it with wide eyes.

The other weapon was in the front pouch of the bag. In case we ran across people, he didn’t want anyone seeing we had a gun. It would have been like hanging a hundred-dollar bill out of your pocket and hoping someone didn’t steal it.

“Stay close, just in case,” he told me.

I nodded, and we stepped outside the safety of the truck. Our shoes left footprints in the thin layer of gray ash over the asphalt.

I stayed close beside Chase as we rounded the front of the building. The store’s tall windows had been shattered, the remaining glass forming icelike stalactites that hung from the green-painted frames. The columnar handles of two French doors were bound together by a thick metal chain and a padlock, but the glass on either side was missing.

I scanned the parking lot behind us as Chase stepped through the doorframe. Apart from a scorched Honda that someone had set fire to years ago, it was deserted.

I breathed in sharply as I followed him inside.

A cash register was dumped on its side directly in my path. Metal racks and tables had been overturned or tossed into the aisles. Much of the clothing was missing, probably stolen, and what was left was strewn about as though a tornado had taken the interior of the building. As I made my way farther inside I spotted exercise machines and weight sets, all tagged by neon spray paint with the same symbol: the MM’s insignia X’d out. A rack of sporting equipment spilled onto the weather-stained, laminated floor. Baseballs, footballs, and flat basketballs were peppered all the way to the far wall.

“Try to find some clothes. I’m going to see what else I can pull together.”

I nodded. Even though I knew it was ludicrous based on the condition of the place, I checked for security cameras.

“You won’t get caught,” Chase said, reading my mind. “Anyway, look around; it’s not like you’re going to do this place any more damage.”

He had a point, but the last weeks had made me paranoid, and this place was scary. I worried that somehow the MM might be spying on us. That this was a trap.

I was glad that Chase wanted to go upstairs, because that’s where the arrow and sign for WOMEN’S CLOTHING pointed as well. The frozen escalator groaned beneath our weight as we climbed toward the camping section. It seemed surreal that people used to camp recreationally, but I knew Chase and his family had done that a lot when he was little. As he departed toward the steel racks, I felt a twinge of panic.

“You’ll just be over there?” I pointed to a mangled tent across the floor.

Something changed in his face when he registered my concern.

“I won’t be far,” he said quietly.

A central skylight gave the top floor a faint glow. The closer I got to the far wall, the more shadowed the area became, until I had to squint to see the floor. I stepped gingerly over the rubble crowding the aisles and found several racks of clothing in the back that looked relatively untouched. The tops were all fitted, and the pants were bootleg
—
that had been the style back then
—
but old as they were, they were new to me. Though the fabric was dusty, these clothes still held the crisp, folded lines and size stickers. I hadn’t owned clothing that didn’t come from a donation center since my mother had lost her job. Despite the circumstances, the thought had me giggling.

There was a special on women’s hiking boots: $59.99.
Free for me!
I thought guiltily, and searched through the shoe boxes strewn across the floor for my size. We never would have been able to afford these, even eight years ago. With inflation, these shoes would be well over $100 now. I was getting $100 shoes! I couldn’t wait to tell Beth.

If I ever talked to her again.

I forced the thought from my mind. Behind me was a display of jeans, and I quickly grabbed a pair in my size. A winter coat off the floor had minimal dust covering it, so I took that too. Then a tank top, a fitted tee, a thermal shirt, and a sweatshirt. I grabbed some extra socks, just to be safe, and an unopened package of underwear. It hit me that my mother might not have a change of clothes, either, so I grabbed one of everything for her also.

But as I made my way into the changing area, the laughter died in my throat. The dressing room was the size of a closet, and without the bright overhead lights, it looked like the containment cell I had seen in the shack.

I wasn’t about to shut myself inside.

I scanned for Chase but couldn’t find him. I was glad he hadn’t seen me falter; the last thing I needed was him thinking I was afraid of guns
and
the dark. With a deep breath, I dropped the items right where I was and hurried to change before he came looking for me.

The jeans fit pretty well, though they were loose around the waist from the weight I’d dropped at the reform school. I was midway through pulling down the tank top when I heard rustling behind me.

I spun toward the sound and saw Chase, ten feet away, wearing jeans and a new sweatshirt and carrying a pack over one shoulder. I twisted back away from him, the tank still hiked above my bra.

“Give me a second!” My voice hitched. “Turn around or something!”

He didn’t listen. He closed the space between us. I heard him breathing, felt the closeness of his body. I was frozen in place, but inside, every inch of me was taut and live with electricity. How long had he been standing there, watching me?

“What happened to you at the reformatory?” His voice was just above a whisper, hedged with a barely restrained violence.

“What?” As if submerged in a pool of ice water, my fingers finally thawed enough to pull down my shirt. I threw the other pieces over top.

“When I got there, they brought me down to that room, and I
heard
you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

The shack. He’d interrupted Brock and the soldiers just before my punishment. I’d screamed. The memory of it was enough to make me ill.

“You want to talk about this now?” I asked, incredulous.

He didn’t wait for me to turn back around. Suddenly he was in front of me. He leaned down, a breath away, and stared into my face. Both of his hands gripped my shoulders. I bit back a wince at the pressure.

“What did they do to you?”

“What did
they
do to me?” I shook out of his hold. “
You’re
the one who sent me there! Now it matters what happens to someone else when you disappear?”

The betrayal, the
resentment,
stormed through me. After he’d been drafted, he hadn’t called or returned my letters. He’d sent no word that he was alive, that he was okay. He hadn’t checked in on my mother and me. His promise that he would come back was a lie. Because a soldier had come back, not him. And that soldier had ruined everything.

He faltered back as though I’d shoved him. His hands went to his short hair.

“What made you do it?” I rolled on. “I know you …
cared
once. About me and Mom. Don’t even try to say you didn’t.” My fists squeezed so tightly the nails bit into my flesh. The angry bruises on my knuckles sent a jolt of pain up my arms. I was laying too much on the line; I could see it in his face, the conflict raging in his eyes. Did I want to know this answer? Or would it crush me when, more than ever, I needed to be strong?

His mouth opened but then shut. His gaze met mine, a kind of wild desperation in it that begged me to read his mind. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t. I didn’t understand.
What is it? What are you afraid to tell me?

“What happened?” I asked, this time softer.

His eyes hardened, like glossy stones.

“I don’t know,” he said. “People change, I guess.”

He grabbed the backpack, stuffed with supplies, and headed down the stairs.

The shock doused my rant like a frigid bucket of water.

I laced the new boots as quickly as I could with my trembling hands and followed.

*   *   *

“WHAT
did you find?” I asked Chase at the bottom of the escalator when my breathing had returned to normal. He was gloomy again; I could almost see the storm clouds over his head, which overrode my hurt and rekindled my irritation.
People change?
Not good enough. Obviously he was different, but that didn’t explain
why
he’d arrested us or set us free, it just made me want to kick him again. And it made me want to kick myself even more, because despite his secrets, I was worried. I hadn’t made up that crazed look in his eyes. Something dark was inside of him. Something cancerous.
That
was what was changing him.

He didn’t want to talk about the past? Fine. Probably better anyway. We needed to focus on finding the checkpoint.

“A first-aid kit and a tent. Some dehydrated food that the rats didn’t get.”

I cringed and shoved the extra folded clothes, along with my reformatory sweater, under the flap. He fastened a bulging sleeping bag around the bottom of the sack without once looking up at me.

“We should go,” he said, throwing the backpack over his shoulders.

I didn’t have a watch, but I guessed that it was probably about eight. The checkpoint was still almost two hours away.

Outside, the parking lot was still vacant. I didn’t know why I thought it might not be. The high clouds from the morning were pressing lower and had grown pewter since we’d entered the store. The air, which smelled faintly of sulfur, had a chilly, electric feel.

I followed Chase around the outside of the building and nearly slammed into him when he stopped abruptly.

My body reeled, sensing the danger from Chase before I saw it for myself.

There were two men outside our truck. One was in his late twenties, with unkempt black hair and a hooked nose. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt and baggy camo pants. A hunting rifle was cocked over his left shoulder. The other man was halfway into the cab of the truck; I saw the dirty skater shoes sticking out beneath the driver’s side door.

“Rick, hey!” hissed the first man. He swung the rifle toward us in a wide, sweeping arc and butted it against his shoulder. I heard the fateful
click
as he chambered a round.

My heart stopped. Guns were contraband for civilians and had been since the War. Only the MM carried them.

Or AWOL soldiers. Which I was pretty sure they weren’t.

The man I took to be Rick emerged from the vehicle. He was tall, not as tall as Chase but still a head above me. He was thick, too; even through his capacious clothing I could tell he was muscular. His muddy hair was long to his shoulders, and he tossed it back with a flip of his head. There was an eager expression on his face.

“Morning, brother,” Rick called out.

Chase said nothing. His face was as hard as steel.

“Maybe he’s deaf,” said the other man.

“You deaf?” asked Rick.

“No,” Chase answered.

“It’s been too long since you were around people then, brother. When someone says ‘Good morning,’ you’re supposed to respond back.”

“I don’t make small talk when someone’s pointing a rifle at my chest.” Chase’s tone was low, very controlled. “And I’m not your brother.”

Rick looked to his friend, then back to us. I noticed that their skin, and even their eyes, held a yellow tint, which clashed against the gray sky and the gray ash.

“Stan, you’re not making our friends very comfortable.”

Stan chuckled but did not lower the weapon. The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

Rick turned his attention to me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

My hands squeezed the jacket in my arms. I didn’t respond, trying to think fast. I might be able to reach the gun in Chase’s bag, but not without drawing the attention of the rifle carrier.

“See, Stan, you scared the poor thing.”

Rick stepped forward. Chase shifted deliberately in front of me, and Rick smirked.

“Oh, don’t be stingy, brother. Didn’t your mama teach you to share?”

Stan was laughing raucously behind him. I couldn’t swallow. My throat felt very thick.

Chase took a step toward the truck. I clung to his shirttail.

“Whoa now. Where you going?” Rick swaggered closer.

“We’re leaving,” Chase said with authority.

“
You’re
leaving. But not both of you.”

“I’m not going with you!” The words leapt from my throat. Chase stiffened.

“Ooh, she’s feisty!” Rick said, as though this was a delicious quality. I remembered how Randolph had groped me and called me “trash.”

Chase shifted his weight. Swiftly, Rick’s hand shot behind his back, reaching for something tucked within his belt. Chase knew exactly where I was without having to look. Roughly, he shoved me back, shielding me completely with his body.

I saw Rick rip the leather case off of a thick, gleaming knife that hooked into a menacing point.

Danger pulsed in my ears. For some reason, the knife scared me more than the rifle had. I couldn’t think why. I couldn’t think anything.

“Leave the pack,” Rick ordered. “I’ll take the keys and the truck.”