Deviants (26 page)

“Does that mean others inside Haven might discover they’re Deviant if they got out and breathed dust?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not certain, but I think so.”

My mind spins. “I guess it’d be a risky thing to test.”

“There’s the rub. No one knows how much dust is too much. Even for us Chosen. If we take too much—” He stops himself.

“We become Shredders,” I finish.

His head snaps toward me and it’s clear he didn’t know I knew this. He nods, a grim look on his face.

“Is everyone at the Settlement a Deviant?”

“No. And we don’t call it Deviant. We call it Chosen.”

“Chosen for what?”

“Chosen to adapt to the dust, I guess, to survive.” He pauses for a moment as if considering what he just said. “But some at the Settlement can’t tolerate any dust without choking. A lot of people traveled up here from the South. They
survived for generations in bomb shelters and mines—anywhere they could find—but when they came out from hiding, the dust was so thick it made what little soil was left impossible to farm. Most water supplies had dried up. They came north.”

Burn told the people at the fort that we’d traveled up from the South. Now I understand why, but I don’t know if Burn told my father about how we were captured and taken to the fort. I certainly don’t want to, so I keep my mouth shut.

We’re nearing the top of the ridge when Gage runs back to join us. “The air is so fresh here. Almost no dust. Amazing.”

Dad nods and I decide to stop asking questions. For now.

We enter a clearing and Dad climbs a lone tree at its edge. Near the top, he unclips a cord that’s wrapped over a branch. He unfurls a bright red flag then waves it in a pattern—two small swoops to the right, a giant figure eight starting down to the left, then three circles above his head. A moment later, I spot flags waving in similar intricate patterns from the two guard towers. Dad climbs down and we continue up the hill to its crest.

When I reach the top, my breath catches. Stretching below us are thousands of buildings, all much smaller than the high rises in Haven, but even from a distance they instantly look more like homes than anything I’ve known. Farther ahead there’s a gleaming lake surrounded by green. Green brighter than the skin of the cucumber Cal fed me. Greener than the needles of the pine trees we’ve walked through. And there are
fields of soft gold, too. It’s so beautiful.

“What do you think?” my father asks.

“Spectacular!” Drake says and grins.

“Holy moly.” Gage runs forward.

Joy spreads inside me, trying to push out the blackness, and I think I might let it. Drake’s always been a positive guy, but looking at him now, it’s like I’ve never seen him smile before. The entire world seems brighter. Even though I know I don’t deserve the happiness this place promises, at least I’ve accomplished my goal. Drake is safe.

We continue to walk down a well-worn path that zigzags in long, sweeping passes. Soon both sides are lined with small buildings. Like the uppermost parts of Haven, many of these dwellings are constructed from materials clearly salvaged from ruins, but some are made of wooden planks that look new. Fresh wooden planks are something I never saw in Haven, although I now realize there might be many things Management had access to that I never witnessed.

Ahead, a woman steps out of a doorway and shakes a small rug. “Good morning,” she says as we pass. Her smile’s broad and genuine, but her eyes are the strangest color I’ve ever seen—bronze, and they sparkle so much it’s like they’re faceted. Whether she can do anything beyond seeing with those eyes, her appearance alone would brand her a Deviant. I hope she never lived inside Haven.

After we round the next bend in the road, a group of about ten men and women appear. They’re walking with purpose and authority toward us. At the group’s apex is a man who’s well over six feet tall. While his height makes
him seem slight, his figure’s imposing and his hair’s closely cropped and coppery. His tightly fitting suit is made of the heaviest material I’ve seen. It looks thick and strong like the Comps’ armor, but it flexes more easily, almost like leather but it can’t be—leather is way too rare to make into such large garments.

The two men flanking him are similarly dressed and panic skitters in my chest. Their approach is too much like Comps marching toward us, or those men at the fort, but Dad keeps going so I don’t let fear stop me either.

Burn steps out from the back of the pack.

My heart skips and a smile bursts onto my face. Waving, I start toward him but he immediately turns away.

The air rushes from my lungs like I’ve been punched. I know he saw me.

Drake tugs my arm, pulls me forward, and the tall red-haired man steps up to us. He shakes my father’s hands and they lean in for a quick, backslapping embrace. Burn holds back, not even looking in my direction.

“Welcome to the Settlement,” the man says. “I’m Rolph. Commander of the Freedom Army.”

“Army commander,” Gage says, with caution in his voice. “Do you welcome all guests like this, or are we special?”

Rolph turns toward Gage. “Not sure about you, yet.” One corner of his mouth twitches up. “But you”—he turns directly toward me—“you might prove very special indeed.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

^T
HERE
’
S NO MORE
mention of my being special, and I don’t bother to tell the commander how very wrong he is—unless he deems murderers special.

The commander takes Dad forward to walk with him, and every few minutes my father glances over his shoulder, like he expects Drake and me to vanish. Burn still hasn’t said hello.

The hair at the back of my neck remains on alert, as if it’s expecting Comps or Shredders or some unknown danger to leap out at any moment, but nothing scary happens and I have to admit that the atmosphere here is more welcoming than hostile. As we pass, people stare, but we also get nods and smiles. As we descend farther into the Settlement, my neck hairs stand down, the tightly bound muscles in my shoulders unfurl.

Near the bottom of the hill, where the land flattens and the town seems to spread out forever, Drake, Gage, and I are ushered into a building that’s made of stones piled up on each other. The building has windows—with real glass!—and I can’t resist walking over to a window and running my fingers over its surface. So smooth, so hard, yet virtually clear. A few bubbles are scattered inside the glass, and as I
move my head to the side, I notice that in some places the glass bends slightly from within, distorting the stones of the building across the street.

The room appears to be a restaurant, but not like the ones in Haven. Here you can sit down to eat and drink. Although I’ve yet to see any food, the mere smell makes my stomach cramp and scream to be filled.

“Hungry?” my father asks. He puts his hand lightly on my shoulder and, for some reason, his tiny gesture sparks tears at the back of my eyes.

He should hate me. He must hate me. How could he not hate me? And yet I can’t find evidence of hate in his words or actions.

Not waiting for me to answer, Dad guides us over to a long bench that looks like it was made from half a trunk of one of the pine trees. After we sit, a man, with a round face and even rounder belly, sets a large black pot at the other end of the table. Steam, carrying the most delicious smell that’s ever hit my nose, rises from the pot and my stomach twists and growls.

The man returns with a stack of bowls. My eyes almost leap out of my head as he starts to ladle liquid, with big chunks of white and green and orange, out of the pot.

“What is it?” Drake asks.

The man laughs as he passes the bowl to the woman at the far end of the other side of the table. “Soup. Chicken and vegetables.”

“Chicken?” I’ve heard the word but can’t remember where.

The man makes a noise that sounds like
tut-tut
and then passes a bowl to my side of the table. My eyes widen, realizing that everyone’s passing the bowls down. The first bowl will end up in front of Drake, and the second bowl will be mine.

My father, sitting next to Drake, turns to us. “A chicken is a small bird. Its flesh is good to eat and it lays eggs that are tasty, too, and a good source of protein.”

“But,” I say, “there are no living things Outside except Shredders and rats.” I smile at my mistake. I know better now, yet can’t stop reciting what I’ve always been told.

“Oh, you poor kids,” the man serving the soup says.

The man next to me pushes the bowl of soup in front of me. My head snaps back at the scent, then my nose is drawn down to the liquid. I could satisfy my cravings by merely inhaling the scent from this glorious and mysterious concoction.

My father picks up his spoon and dips it into the liquid in his bowl. He blows on the broth to cool it, and then puts it into his mouth. It’s not my first broth, but I’ve never seen soup filled with so many marvelous things and I’m glad for Dad’s demonstration, letting us know it’s okay to eat.

I dip my spoon in and stir, awed at the bowl’s contents. There are chunks of what I now recognize as meat, and I lift a spoonful with one of the orange-colored chunks. I look up.

“Carrot,” my dad says without me having to ask, and I try to reconcile this bright disk with the dried gray cubes I’ve had in my rations.

I slip the spoon into my mouth and the heat of the broth
instantly warms my insides, as if it has flowed more places than just down my throat. I bite down on the carrot. The fresh, sweet flavor jumps on my taste buds. Trying another bite, I discover that chicken tastes a lot like rat—except better—and it’s tender, easier to chew.

“Eat up,” says the man with the pot. “There’s lots more where that came from.”

I continue to spoon the food into my mouth, savoring every taste, and I wonder if there will ever again be a time in my life when I’m this happy.

“Drake, you can sleep over here.” Dad points to a mattress against the wall and close to what he’s already told us is a stove that’s used not only for cooking, but also to heat the cottage during winter months. “And Glory, I rigged a curtain for you here so you can have some privacy from us boys.” He pulls back a sheet of blue fabric hung on the other side of the room, to reveal another mattress, raised up off the ground on a legged platform and covered by a clean lavender blanket.

Without even thinking, I dash toward it and run my hand over the blanket’s soft nap. “It’s beautiful.” My father’s beaming, and a rush of memories wash over me. Memories from before our lives fell apart.

Before I ruined our lives.

For my eighth birthday, Mom gave me a new blanket made from scraps she’d salvaged in the factory. It wasn’t as soft as this one, but at the time it was the most luxurious thing I’d ever seen, never mind owned. The Health & Safety people used it to wrap Mom when they took her body away.

I sink to the small rug in front of my bed and bury my face in the edge of the blanket.

My father sits on the mattress and pulls me up from the floor and into his lap. I resist but his hug transfers warmth and comfort—comfort I don’t deserve but accept.

“Why did you do it?” I ask, my voice shaking. “Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?”

He squeezes me more tightly. “You’re my daughter. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“I’m so sorry.” Pain constricts my throat and pinches my temples. “I know it’s not enough just to say it, but I’m so, so, so sorry.”

“Oh, Glory.” He hooks his finger under my chin, trying to look into my eyes, but I won’t let that happen, not when I’m feeling so much my eyes sting.

“This is the last time I want to hear you apologize,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault. I won’t hear another word about it.” His words are stern, but his tone isn’t and I press my cheek into his shoulder.

Drake crosses the room. My dad rises, setting me down, and the three of us embrace.

“I’m so happy our family’s together again,” Drake says.

A lump clogs my throat. “But Mom—”

“Nothing,” my father says. “No one can tear our family apart. Not again.”

There’s a knock and Dad lets us go. He opens the wooden door a crack, enough so I can see who it is. The commander nods at my father, who shakes his head sharply then steps outside, closing the door behind him.

“Do you think everything’s all right?” Drake asks but I’ve run out of reassurances.

A few minutes later, my father returns and tells us that he has to leave for a meeting. He suggests we get settled and take a nap. The second that Dad leaves, Drake crosses to his mattress, plops down on his belly, and falls asleep on top of his blanket. I drape mine over his sleeping body, smiling at his splayed legs as he lies as peacefully as a baby.

I’m tired, too, but my mind is moving so quickly I doubt I could sleep. I don’t want to leave Drake alone, but this place seems safe and I’m curious about the Settlement.

When I open the door, I’m temporarily blinded by sunlight and raise my hand to shield my eyes. Burn’s standing about twenty feet away, leaning against the wall of another house and staring at me. Heat traces through my body and I’m not sure if it’s anger, or surprise, or something else entirely.

He crosses over. Once he’s nearer, his body shades mine from the sun, but I keep my eyes trained on his chest. He’s taken off his signature long coat and several layers of clothing, and even though his T-shirt’s several sizes too big, it can’t hide the definition of his muscular shape. Cal seems like a distant memory. A distant
bad
memory, and I let myself imagine a life here at the Settlement. A life with my father and brother. A life with safety and security. A life with Burn.

“Hector will be gone awhile,” he says. “Want me to show you around?”

“Yes, please.” This is exactly what I want and I’m surprised that I don’t want to be left alone to explore. Perhaps I have
changed over these past days, become someone different—a person who accepts help and trusts others. Here I almost believe it’s possible to do that and survive.

He looks down. “You aren’t afraid?”