E (12 page)

"Stay here, Eden," Jonas mumbles through clenched
teeth.  He's wearing the same expression.  I follow their gaze across
the street to two men I've never seen before.

I open my mouth to protest, but Apollon and Jonas are already
striding across the street, leaving me behind.  They don't go directly to
the men, but to the alleyway.  A moment later, the men wander in their
direction.  I stand there and watch them disappear into the alley, and
decide I don't like them.  They have a hardened appearance.  A
thuggish gait. 

I give them two minutes, and I cross the street, ignoring my
orders.  There's no way I'm leaving my friends without backup.  But
by the time I get to the mouth of the alleyway, Apollon and Jonas are coming
back out. 

Apollon looks annoyed when he sees me.  Jonas gives me the
darkest of looks.

"I
told
you to stay there," he says, as I fall in
with them, heading toward home.

I shrug, and glance at Apollon.  "What was that
about?" I ask, when we turn onto a street with less people.

"Nothing," Jonas answers. 

I study Apollon.

His eyes scan over my face, then he looks away. After a while, he
redirects us into an alley.  Someone flees the other end as though we've
caught him out at something.  We walk deep into the alleyway and Apollon
kicks over a pile of rags, checking it for an occupant.  He glances up and
down the passageway. 

All the while, Jonas is scowling.  "Drag her into it,
too," he mutters.  "Good idea, Apollon."

Apollon gives him a look, sneers.  "She should
know," he says.  "She has a right."

Jonas crosses his arms and leans back against the old brick
wall.  He looks like a cat that has been dunked in water and is plotting
revenge.

"So, who were those guys?" I ask softly, hoping they'll
forget about each other.  The shadows of the alleyway are cold, making me
wrap my arms about myself.

"You know what Jacob and Taylor were saying?" 
Apollon says.  He looks away from Jonas and focuses on me. 
"Well, those are some of Grey's men.  Presumably here for
negotiations."

My eyes flick back and forth between my two companions,
considering.  Finally, I ask, "And what does that have to do with
you?"

Again, Apollon looks at Jonas, and hesitates.  He purses his
lips thoughtfully, studying the ground.  Then his eyes go clear, and he
looks up at me.  "We're Grey's men, too."

I close my eyes and lean against the brick wall.  My mind is
caught in a dark whirlwind.  Finally, I open my eyelids slowly, focus on
Apollon.  "How could that
be?
"

"We came here from Two," Jonas spits out softly. 
"That's how we made a living when we were there."

"But, you left there.  You've been here for a year and a
half, at least.  You weren't even going to stay."  My eyes
search Apollon's face, wanting him to tell me I'm right.  They have no
part in this mess.  They knew nothing about it.

But Apollon says quietly, "Grey sent us here to be in place
for... when things happen."

I blink and shake my head slowly.  I want to say something,
but I close my mouth on the words.  I turn to walk away from them. 

Apollon's hand on my arm stops me.  "Eden," he
says.  "You haven't heard everything."

I glance at him warily.  There
is
something more to
it.  But Jonas' face is still set in that dark look.  He still thinks
it's none of my business.  I want to throw something at him.

Apollon's fingers squeeze my arm.  "We volunteered for
this," he says.  "It was the only way to get out of Two. 
And we
did
mean to move on as soon as we could.  Before all
this.  It's just..."

"Oscar," I whisper.

He nods.  "And Miranda.  And Neveah, even. 
Travel is dangerous.  We couldn't just leave them.  Not
knowing--"

I wait for him to go on, but he doesn't.  "Knowing
what
?"
I finally ask.

He swallows.  "Grey means to take over," he
says.  "He wants to build an empire."

I turn and face him now.  "How?"

He shakes his head.  His voice goes even quieter. 
"I don't know," he says.  "We only have the general
idea.  We were supposed to wait for orders."

I cross my arms.  "Well," I say, "wasn't
that
your orders?"

Apollon and Jonas look at each other.  I don't like it. 
I think they're deciding what not to tell me.  And this makes me wonder if
I should have trusted them at all.  Are they
really
my
family?  Or are they a better-looking version of the old woman?

Surprisingly, it's Jonas that speaks.  "We never wanted
to be part of it, Eden," he says softly.  "You do what's
necessary to survive.  Sometimes you make choices that you don't
like.  But in the end, you're alive."

I meet his gaze, and it's like he has momentarily removed that
block that does not let me see inside.  He's sincere.  He's
honest.  He's read my mind.  A little jolt goes through me, like the
kick of a gun. Someone has dropped a hornets' nest into my skull.

He pushes himself away from the wall, walks to me, and takes my
hand.  "You don't need to know any more," he says.  His
voice is a caress.  "The less you know, the better it is for
you."

I'm staring at him.  Staring.  This is the Jonas whose
arm holds back my nightmares.  I've never seen him walk in daylight
before.  Except, maybe, for that one brief moment at the gate to our yard,
when he finally gave me an answer.  I feel the tendrils of some unnamed
tangle of emotions begin to climb up from the pit of my stomach, seedlings
reaching for the sun.  I've forgotten everything else.

"OK?" Jonas asks, his fingers squeezing mine.

I nod.  Of course it's OK.  Anything Jonas thinks is OK
is definitely OK.  I don't even really consider what it is that we're
OKing.

A little smile flicks across his face.  "Good," he
says.  He withdraws.  His hand, his eyes, his soul. 

I struggle not to let out the whimper of protest.

Apollon clears his throat and gestures to the far end of the alley. 
I turn, in front of them, and start walking, but as I do, I catch the look that
passes between them.  Apollon-- repressed amusement.  A toss of the
head and roll of the eyes.  Jonas-- barely hidden self-satisfaction. 
He sets his jaw.  Is it in determination, or to keep from laughing?

My face goes hot.  I take large steps to keep ahead of
them.  The brisk wind sweeps toward us as we emerge from the alley. 
I let my hair be blown into my face, and do not push it back.

***

Oscar has a slingshot.  He's not bad with it, really. 
As we wind about the maze of streets in the Outpost, he targets birds, and
chatters to me.  I try to focus on what he's saying, but my thoughts slink
away.  I scan our surroundings for any hint of danger, attempting to stay
vigilant and look intimidating.  This is the job I've assigned myself,
though I have no desire to do it right now.  I want to walk and be
alone.  But Oscar wants to hunt birds.  And since he actually killed
one two days ago-- pitiful little piece of feather and bone that it was-- I
can't really discourage him.  As his latest target flutters away, I
consider that it would be easier to hunt rats.  We're not
that
bad
off yet, though, and I'm unwilling to go there.  I don't want to ever have
to eat rat again.

We're coming to a cross street.  He aims at a fat pigeon
that’s clucking around a puddle.  He pulls back his slingshot, closes one
eye, and makes a face of intense concentration.  Only, the way his mouth
is screwed up sideways, the tip of his tongue sticking out-- it's the funniest
thing I've ever seen.  I start laughing.  He glances at me out of the
corner of his eye, then back at the bird, but that's it.  He's caught my
giggles.  I'm bending over with my hands on my knees, laughing, as he
tries to be serious enough to make the shot, but his attempts at sobriety only
make him look funnier.  I laugh harder.  His hand wavers as he aims.

"You look like a pirate," I manage between my giggles,
and he starts really cracking up, just as he lets the shot fly.

The stone hurtles itself toward the street, way higher than
intended.  In the span of an instant, I see it, and hear the rumble. 
I puzzle over what the noise could possibly be and figure it out.  The car
bursts into the intersection.  The stone goes through the driver's
window.  A spider web of cracks appear, springing outward from a
hole.  The vehicle screeches to a halt.  I recognize the car-- its
solar panels, one missing.

Oscar and I stare.  We're too startled, at first, to
run.  Then the doors of the car burst open.  One of Matthew's men
steps from the driver's side of the car, looking fiercely in our
direction.  From the opposite door emerges Matt.  His gaze falls on
us disapprovingly.

I grab Oscar's arm.  "Run," I whisper, even though
my own feet seem frozen to the spot.

Oscar gives the slightest shake of his head.  "No one
runs from Matt."

I'm about to say "Wanna bet?" when Matthew points at
Oscar, turns his hand over, and hooks his index finger. 
Come.
 
Oscar steps forward obediently.  I'm at his side.  But Matt shakes
his head, and the driver moves toward me.  As Oscar walks into the
intersection, around the car, the driver and I do a little dance a few paces
away from each other, him stepping to block my path each time I try to move
forward, and me trying to find a way around him without actually making
contact.  I give up, at last, held behind this invisible fence, and look
around him to Oscar and Matt.  I'm tense, ready to run.  I swear to
god if Matt hurts a hair on Oscar’s head, I'll kill him.  My knife hangs
heavily in its belt sheath.

Matt sits on the high curb and places Oscar directly in front of
him.  He's at Oscar's eye level, leaning in, talking to him
intently.  But if he's angry, he's doing a good job at holding back. 
He places one hand on Oscar's shoulder, making me jump, but he's not hurting
Oscar.  He looks like a parent giving his child a good talking-to. 
Nothing more.  Oscar nods soberly throughout the conversation.  Only
at the end do I hear his voice at all.  I think he's said, "Yes,
sir."  Matt looks seriously into his eyes, then nods his head in a
dismissive gesture.  Oscar turns and walks back to me.  Matt's not
far behind him. 

My eyes scan Oscar’s sober face.  I look at Matt, walking
toward us, and say, "Go home, Oscar."  I hate that I sound like
Jonas when he told me to wait across the street.  Oscar gives me a single
look of protest, then does as I've asked.

Matt saunters up with his hands in his pockets.  "He's
right, you know," he says, his eyes wandering over me. 

I try to look unaffected.  I managed to put myself on fairly
even ground with him before.  I'll be damned if I'm going to lose turf
now.  I raise one eyebrow at him rather than ask what he means.

"No one runs from me," he says. 

The nexus of multiple meanings settles into my brain, making my
blood run cold.  So much for level ground.  I try for comedy
instead.  "Well," I lull, grinning at him, sweeping one foot
lazily at a bottle cap lying in the street, "what would
you
do if
you accidentally put a hole in the all-powerful overlord's window?"

It works.  He starts laughing. 

I laugh with him, and it takes a moment for the humor to run down
to a soft chuckle.  I'm thinking I like this-- a villain with a sense of
humor.  It's sure got to beat the alternative.

He looks suddenly thoughtful, then says, "I would woo him
with my girlish charms.  I'm betting that would be very effective."

My cheeks go suddenly hot.  I'm smiling as I look away from
him.  I don't mean to, but he is... well, charming.  I remind myself who,
exactly, it is that I'm talking to.  When I look back at him, I say dryly,
"Your girlish charms, huh?"

He nods very seriously, crossing his arms.  "My girlish
charms."

Now it's my turn to look him up and down.  I frown. 
"I don't really see it."

He's done joking.  He reaches for my hand and traps it in his
own.  "There's not a lot of meat on pigeons, you know," he
says.  "Probably takes more effort to kill them than it's
worth."

I shrug.  "Oscar thinks it's fun."

"I could help you," he says, looking into my eyes. 
"If things are going that badly..."

I free my hand as delicately as I can, and wrap my arms around
myself, like I'm cold.  "Thanks," I say.  "We're doing
fine, though."

His eyebrows go up a touch in an expression of disbelief.  He
glances back at the car and his driver.

I look around at the people here and there on the street. 
We're not entirely alone, but the population seems to have drastically declined
in the last few minutes.  That doesn't make me feel the most comfortable.

He shrugs.  "Well, if you change your
mind...."  He walks away from me.

I feel every muscle in my body go slack.  I want to sit
down.  Instead, I manage to hold myself upright long enough to walk
away.  The car moves off behind me.  I make it to a wall, and sink
down against it.

A moment later, Oscar scares the hell out of me by popping up
unexpectedly by my side.  As I recover from the shock, he slides down next
to me.

"It's so strange," he says.  "You
want
to like him."

It takes me a minute to realize that he means 'you' in general,
not
me
.  "Yeah?" I mumble.

He nods.  "He's like that," he says.  "He
doesn't seem like he's a bad person."  He's quiet for a moment, his
lips pursed.  Then he adds, "Then you remember things, like how he
let your family starve, because you weren't any use to him.  Then you
remember why you hate him."

I imagine my little Oscar, sick and starving on the streets. 
I imagine being able to help him, and choosing not to.  My stomach turns
and acid rises into my throat.  There are things that set us apart. 
Things that are human.  Decent.  And humor, alone, is not a
qualifying factor.