Bound to Ashes (The Altered Sequence Book 1) (2 page)

She folds her arms and sighs, “Fine.” She rubs her arms. Sure, it’s getting colder, so what. She can handle it. No way am I starting a fire.

Ashton is more understanding. “It’s alright. I found a few blankets back there.”

“Oh, blankets, we’re saved,” Jules says, throwing her arms in the air. “If only Dragonbreath here weren’t so chicken, we’d be all set.

Ashton replies by throwing a blanket at her head. “Hey,” she says, laughing.

I lead them to the trailer and crack it open. Empty. Must have been hauling food or bottled water at some point for it to be this empty. We settle in, but the thin blankets are nothing more than a nice thought. They’re thin and stiff from dirt.

If sleep is a basic function of life, then why is it always so hard? Everything sleeps. Dogs, vultures, humans. But what happens if that organism never falls asleep? Or sleep doesn’t bring rest? I’m pretty close to finding out. Spreading the blanket over myself and leaning against the metal trailer are just recitations. Nothing really works.

Even after the night starts to lighten, I don’t think I’ve achieved anything close to sleep. Not even that wavering half-sleep territory. Whenever I feel close, right on the edge, something tears me away from it. Bullets. Skimmers. Keep them safe.

Movement to my right—I jump a little, but it’s just Ashton. He carefully steps over Jules (who’s sleeping like a rock, lucky her) and sits over the edge of the trailer. The sun is rising between the huge metal buildings, at least the ones that are still standing. Ashton flips out his journal and pen and starts writing.

“Isn’t it a little late for journaling?”

He glances over and shrugs. He’s not even surprised to see me awake. “It’s the only chance I get.” His long, knobby fingers absently trace the scuffs and frayed edges of the little black journal. It almost has as many scars as we do. I remember when writing was still a conscious effort for him, but now his hands move across the page like liquid. He rubs his eyes with his other hand.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep? You can probably get a couple more hours.”

He laughs gently and says, “Might say the same to you.”

“You’re funny.”

He looks back at the journal, then to the sunrise. He looks out on the world not with disgust, but with something like sympathy and calm acceptance. I’m not sure how he does it. “Good thinking back there, by the way,” he says.

“What?”

“When the skimmers were on their way, your suggestion to hide in that high-rise. I would have never considered that a possibility. But, you know me,” he laughs. “Flighty.”

I smile and say, “Yeah, you are that.”

“But, in all seriousness, thanks. Between all of us, you’re the most level-headed.”

I almost laugh. “It’s not that big a deal.” I did what anyone would do. It’s my job to protect them. I pull my knees closer and stare at the grey landscape.

“Well,” he says. “You’re one hell of a better leader than Cain.”

The laugh finally slips out.

Ashton smiles with me and says, “Hey, I’ll keep watch. At least just try resting your eyes, or something.”

“Right.” He looks back to his journal, chews on the end of the warped and dirty pen, and sets back to writing. I experiment by resting my forehead on my arms and closing my eyes. Sometimes sleep is a little easier than being awake.

Bang
.

Like the slam of testing room doors.

Bang
.

Gunshots and the kickback of a military-issue weapon in my small, fragile hands.

Bang
.

Little bodies falling.

I’m awake and staring like I’ve been awake my whole life, and Ashton is stepping out the trailer, yelling outside, “Would you quit that?!”

Jules stretches, yawns, and says, “Looks like Scruffy’s back.”

I toss aside the blanket to hop out of the trailer. Cain is lowering his rifle from the side of the trailer looking no-nonsense as usual. He’s glaring daggers at Ashton, who’s using his height as an advantage and towering over Cain threateningly. Their fights are usually bloodless. Too much is at stake to fight among ourselves, and besides, Spec died a long time ago.

“Late-risers,” Cain says. “You should have been awake hours ago.”

I just squint at him and massage my temple, but he’s already headed down the highway like it’s business as usual. The rifle’s slung over his shoulder.

Ashton breathes out angrily and says, “Thinks he’s a
general
or something.”

“Just leave him.”

But he huffs again and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. The sleeves are way too short for his arms.

Jules bounds between us and follows Cain, saying, “Burnin’ daylight, you two.” Her dark braid trails behind her and bounces with her every step, the first of many on the long road home.

Empty factories and charred rubble pass us as we go by. Brown vines crawl through broken buildings, claiming them as their own. Trees never got a chance to turn green again after the firebombing and droughts, so they’re just skeletons, too. The word
firebomb
makes my chest hurt and for a second, my painful hunger seems insignificant.

The road cuts through the factories and offices, we pass signs that read ‘Corporate Park’, whatever that means. Just miles and miles of overgrown shrubs and dead buildings. In the distance I can finally see the rows of dead, brown trees. It looks like a mustard gas fog from here.

The miles of naked trees become corridors of pillars topped with gnarled hands grasping for the bleaching sun. Ashton said they used to grow cherries, and every season their branches would be covered in thick, pink flowers, like clouds. But I don’t believe him. I don’t remember that at all.

Next to the dead orchard is our home. It’s hard to call it home, though. It’s just a hole in the ground.

We slip into the metal trapdoor one by one and pull the white dust in with us. We drop down to the entry corridor: empty and metal and coated in dust. It’s the normal routine. Wait in the entry and shake all the dust off our clothes and hair or it’ll itch like crazy. Jules has to take apart her long braid, finger-combing the city grime and dust from it. Some days she doesn’t even bother. Mine’s short enough to just run a hand through it. Ashton finishes up de-dusting, his black hair hanging in wavy strings, and says, “Anyone else starving?”

I can almost laugh. Why ask a question when the answer is always, ‘yes’?

“I’ll go see if the fire’s alive,” Jules says and moves quickly through the narrow halls into the darkness. The old missile silo we call home is consistently a few things: dark, dusty, and cold. At least it keeps out the drought’s heat, or else we’d cook.

Down the cylindrical hall and narrow walkway, down the stairs, through a door. The main chamber catches some last-minute rays of sun through the stuck-open zipper-teeth ceiling. Cain just crosses the chamber and is up another ladder, disappearing behind another door. His typical routine. We stopped asking where he goes.

“Bad news,” Jules shouts up to us as we climb the ladder down to ground level. Her voice echoes in the empty chamber. “Fire’s dead.”

Great. Exactly what I wanted to hear.

“And there’s no getting out of it this time,” she says, pointing at me.

I wrinkle my nose at her. “Fine.”

Around the fire pit, she and Ashton are already digging into the packs we’ve piled on the floor, rummaging through them for what food we found. Jules shakes a cardboard box with a chewed corner— she shrieks. A mouse scurries by her feet. Her hand shoots out like a snake and the mouse, dead, hangs in her hand. She looks up at me and Ashton and says, “Split it three ways?”

“All yours,” Ashton says.

Setting the mouse aside, she and Ashton move onto the canned food. They make a pathetic pyramid out of baby corn, string beans, two cans of peaches, and a small can of salmon.

“I need that one,” Jules says, snatching it up.

Ashton reaches for it but she curls back. “Come on,” he says, “I expend more calories than you.”

“Yeah right, you
expend more calories
! I do just as much work as you, Leggy,” she sneers.

I could make the argument that
I’m
the one naturally producing combustible fluids, but I don’t want to fight them for it. They deserve it more than I do.

The arrangement of kindling has to be just right. I lean them together, using their bark and ridges to make sure they rest snugly. I can only put off the
fire
part for so long, though. I swallow. We need it, though. They need it. So I kneel low, take a deep breath, and blow a small plume of fire under the stack of sticks. The drought-dried wood takes in an instant. I pull back and clamp my mouth shut, and try to make my heart stop beating so fast. I wish it didn’t happen every time.

Ashton and Jules are caught up in their own world, they’re not even paying attention to me. Watching them loosens my nerves. Ashton topples over her reaching for the can in a mad scramble, much to her loud and vulgar protests.

“You got the mouse, you can’t have both—”

“You let me have the mouse, I said we could split it—”

Finally, Ashton’s long reach gets the better of her, and his fingers clasp around the can. Jules reaches over and slaps a hand on his arm. Both his arms go limp. Resorting to foul play to win the can, how disappointing.

“Agh, Jules, that isn’t fair,” Ashton complains, rolling over and lying on his back. His arms drape over himself awkwardly, framing his scowl.

“Perfectly fair,” she states, standing and brushing herself off. “If you can use your freaky spider arms, then I can use my
own
abilities.”

I stand up, grab the can, and it slips out of her grip no problem. She let her guard down.

“We’ll split it.” Before she can immobilize me, I pop it open. It smells salty and fishy and wonderful. Much better than mouse meat.

She folds her arms and smirks. Ashton’s tail thumps against the metal floor in agitation and he says, “If we’re splitting it, I’m gonna need my arms back.”

Laughter is as rare as a decent meal around here, but sometimes it comes around, usually when we need it the most.

2
• Tin Cans

[Dev]

I should be happy that it’s windy so often. Tracking footprints on dust is impossible. But when it’s blowing flecks of sand into your face like it’s trying to peel your skin off, it’s pretty hard to be thankful. Guess a sandstorm is better than being tracked by human spies, though. Even though there hasn’t been a spy in months. Something about that makes my breakfast sit funny. They could be planning something. But I always think that, and nothing happens, so what do I know? You’re just paranoid, Dev.

Wind whistles past the bus windows. I used to wonder why there was a double-decker bus out in the middle of nowhere, half buried in dirt and sand, rusted to bits... but it’s a good place to get away from the other, bigger metal shell in the ground. A change of scenery. The dusty wind outside paints a haze in front of the brown trees in the distance.

There’s a harsh tapping on the rusty frame of the bus. The driver’s seat creaks from my startled jump. Ashton crouches and leans over to see inside the cab. For a normal pair of legs, it would be a normal squat, but with his long feet it looks like he’s on small stilts.

“Sorry,” he says. “Room for one more?” His easygoing half-smile makes it hard to say no.

“Sure.”

Ashton squeezes through the broken windshield, somehow, twisting himself around. He might not have been able to fit when the bus’s second floor was still intact, but it crumbled away a while ago. He sits in the passenger seat next to me and tries to orient his legs so they’re not bunched up. He finally leans back and says through a heavy breath, “Kind of hot out here for this, isn’t it?”

“It’s cooler than it was yesterday.”

But he still makes exasperated noises and fans himself with his hand. It’s not
that
hot.

“So what’re you doing out in the bus, anyway?” Ashton asks conversationally, looking out over the orchard. The winds kick up and the dust almost blocks out the trees, washing them out. Some of the ply boards nailed to the windows clatter from the wind.

“Just thinking.”

“You can’t say, ‘just thinking,’ and not expect me to ask what you’re thinking
about
.”

Yeah, yeah, okay. Walked right into that one. “I’m thinking about the human spies. Or, well, how there haven’t been any in a while.”

He nods. “True. That’s kind of a windfall, though, right?”

Windfall. That’s... a blessing? A good thing? “I guess.”

“You
guess
?”

“Well, no, I’m glad they’re gone, but what if it’s because they already know where we are? What if the reason they aren’t sending spies is... because they don’t need them anymore?”

Ashton shivers despite the heat. “That’s heartening.”

I shrug. “It’s a possibility.”

I almost add, ‘It’ll be a relief if the humans come and kill us.’ But it doesn’t seem productive to say something like that. But underneath my logical self, I think it’s true. I would be happy— well maybe not happy, but at peace— if they humans showed up with their guns and skimmers and got it over with. Dying of a gunshot wound seems better than starvation or dehydration. Wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again. But maybe before they shot us down I could ask them— why do you hate us so much? What did we
do
? And if it turns out they hate us for being able to survive the virus, or if they thought we fought in the war, or even just for existing, at least then I’d know
why
.

I glance over at Ashton. And there’s Jules back at home. And hell, even Cain, off wherever it is he disappears to. It’s always worth it to try and survive, if only for their sakes.

“So where’s Punk?” Ashton asks.

“
Your
dog is probably sleeping,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder.

“
Our
dog,” he corrects me.

“Ohhh no. I want nothing to do with that thing.”

“Come on. He’s...” Ashton glances behind him at the brown lump curled up between a few torn bus seats. You can practically see the fleas and tick lumps from here. “...Endearing.”

“Is ‘endearing’ another one of your words for ‘annoying and gross’?”

“Shut up,” Ashton says. “Remember when he brought us that rabbit once?”

“Once.”

He shakes his head at me and sits back in the seat, looking out across the plains.

Honestly, I’m amazed Punk is still alive. What does he even eat? Tin cans? Sticks? When he was just a squinting, whimpering pup, Ashton gave him portions of his food. Now... who knows? His defined ribcage slowly rises and falls and his tall ears flick away flies.

Ashton sits bolt upright at once. Every muscle tenses. “Do you see that?” He leans almost all the way out of the frame, squinting into the distance.

“What?” All I see are a bunch of dead cherry trees. But my heart pounds anyway.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he scrambles out of the bus and takes off across the dirt stretch towards the stand of trees.

“Wait!” I’m a little thicker around than Ashton is (but then again, who isn’t) so I’m slower wedging out of the bus. Once I have my footing on the loose dirt, I follow, but damn if he isn’t the fastest thing on two legs. I swear it takes him three or four strides to get to the trees in the distance. I’m closer now and he jumps into one of the closest trees. I wipe dust out of my eyes and blink away the pain, looking up in time to see a dark shape on the ground, curling in on itself.

A human.

I almost stop in my tracks. Forward momentum keeps my feet moving, but my mind screams,
Stop, stop
. The human scrambles for something in his pocket. His voice cracks, he sputters a bunch of numbers and letters into a two-way radio. His eyes flick back and forth. He tries to get to his feet, but his wide eyes are glued to me when I run up to him. They close when I kick him in the temple. He stops moving.

“Well,” Ashton says. “I suppose that works.”

I look behind me— and up— and Ashton’s still in the tree, tail swishing, frowning. He’s way up there, the human must have been using the tree as a vantage point.

“Get down.” I doubt he can see me roll my eyes from up there.

He jumps down and lands softly as a cat, then pads over. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” He looks down at the human like it’s a decaying animal. Weird and kind of disgusting.

“No. I don’t think so. He won’t wake up for a while, though. Did you hear what he said into the—”

The radio spits crackling white noise, then a voice: “We read you, Jacob. ... Jacob? Are you there?”

Ashton looks down at the radio, glances at me, and I nod. One stomp renders it to black splinters of plastic.

We stare at the human and the radio for a moment. They’re just dark shapes in white dirt, harmless, but I have an overwhelming desire to run despite my paralyzed legs. He has a young face, but sunburnt and dry, framed by an unshaven face and head of reddish hair. Haven’t seen one this close up in a long time. They look so much like us, but they’re not like us at all. They don’t treat us like they do each other. I mean sure, they kill each other for food, who doesn’t, but what they do to
each
other can’t be described as
hunting
. I stare at the motionless human in the dirt like it’ll bring answers, but all I get is a knot of hatred in my gut.

I dread having to move him, but we have to take him somewhere remote. We’re way too close to home.

Ashton’s over it, though. He’s rifling through the guy’s khaki jacket. “Hey,” he says, coming up with a dirty .9 mm. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while.” He experimentally passes it from hand to hand, checking the barrel and unlocking the safety. Looks like even after eight years the muscle memory is still intact. The gun almost makes me lose my appetite, but I don’t think anything can do that at this point.

“Hey Dev,” Ashton ventures carefully after he pockets the gun. “You don’t think those numbers were... important...?”

Those numbers...? Yeah, why would his last, desperate words be a series of numbers...? A code? A message?

My breath leaves me.

Those numbers were coordinates.

I press my fingers against my sore eyes. They mapped the area in coordinates? When?

“Oh,” Ashton says. I look over at him and his expression mirrors mine.

Now that the possibility is more real than before, I change my mind. Like hell are the humans going to kill us today.

“We have to go tell Jules and Cain.”

“Tell them what?” Ashton says, throwing his hands up. “To start writing our own eulogies?”

He won’t like my answer. “That we’re moving.”

“We’re
what
?” Jules shouts.

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “He got off the coordinates of the location, over near the bus, before we apprehended him.”

Jules spins around and storms off, muttering to herself, so Cain takes over: “You’re sure they got through? Maybe the other side didn’t hear?”

“It didn’t sound like they misunderstood,” Ashton says. “They just inquired why he didn’t respond.”

“They got an affirmative,” I add. ‘We read you, Jacob.’ His name is Jacob. Jacob’s lost and alone somewhere around the old water treatment facility. If he’s still alive... I did hit him pretty hard.

Cain folds his arms and looks down, working things out. Jules comes back, still outraged. “We can’t
move
! Where would we go? Oh, yeah, due north I heard of a great town called Eaten by Wild Dogs, heard of it? And south: a lovely city where the rivers are made of wine and the buildings are made of stacked cans of food....”

“
Jules
,” Ashton says.

“Seriously, though, where are we going to go?” She asks. “This is the only place that’s even remotely hidden, defensible, not to mention cool enough....”

Cain says, “We won’t move.” As if his word is law.

Ashton wrinkles his nose and says, “Why not?”

Cain is steel-eyed. “We can defend ourselves.”

“Right. Against military issue rifles, pistols, and skimmers,” Ashton says flatly. “Success is imminent.”

“Shut up and listen,” Cain says. “Look. You said his tracks came from the northeast, right?”

“Yeah, past the factory district. We lost them when we got past the railroad station.”

“So they’ll have to take the same routes, or at least close ones, to get here again. They have to go around the bomb craters.”

Those craters, full of fallen buildings and overgrown with dead plants, going around them doubles travel time.

“What’s your point?” Jules asks.

“My point is, we can cut them off.”

“You’re saying we anticipate their move, camp out in the factories, and ambush them as they come through?” Ashton says, like it’s the most outrageous thing he’s ever heard. But then again, he talks like that to Cain no matter what.

Cain just nods. “Yes.”

Ashton deflates and sighs, folding a hand over his eyes. “There are way too many variables.”

“When do the humans move? We don’t know. What will they bring with them? We don’t know. How many of them? Don’t know. Different route entirely?” Jules counts on her fingers with each point.

“Yeah I get it,” Cain interrupts her. “But it’s better than sitting around this metal
coffin
waiting to get killed.”

Ashton exhales through his nose and folds his arms stubbornly. Agreeing with Cain is like drinking the syrup out of a jar of maraschino cherries— it tastes disgusting, but you have to do it. And besides, he’s right.

“It’s our only option,” Cain says.

“Can’t we just... relocate, wait until they realize no one’s home, and then come back later?” Jules suggests.

“What’s stopping them from moving in themselves? Or stationing guards to report when we return?” Cain says. His blue eyes are icy as they stare Jules down. “Look, admit it, this place isn’t safe anymore. The humans know where we are.”