E (17 page)

"Fine," I say quietly as we reach the Rustler's door and
walk inside.  "Help from over there."

She glares at me as though she might strike me down with just that
look.  But she takes a seat on a barstool away from the door.  I have
the feeling that she's trying to hide herself in plain sight.

I take an empty chair at the card table.  The others mumble
low greetings.  None of them meet my eyes.  I look around the table
and calculate the pitiful sum of money I might make.  There's not a lot in
front of any of the men who are playing.  I sigh, and watch the round play
out.  Jacob and Taylor join us from a table at the back, bringing their
whiskey with them.  They nod and smile at me, polite as can be.  I
frown at them in return.

My one silver buys me a bad hand.  I bluff my way
through.  I have the feeling that Jacob has a good hand, but he folds
along with the others, leaving me the pot.  I narrow my eyes at him as I
take the money.  He feigns confusion.  I consider playing another
round, but suddenly, I can't.  I want a fair game, not a favor.  Not
a favor from one of Matthew's men.  I stand and toss a handful of coins
back at Jacob.

"Thanks," I say, "but I can win on my
own."  I head toward Miranda.

Her eyes are wide, looking at me like I'm a crazy person. 
"What's going on?"

"Nothing."  I nod toward the door.

"Nothing," she repeats.  "Then why did you
give that money to Jacob?  And why is everyone being all deferent to
you?"  She notices more than I give her credit for.  She narrows
her eyes at me.  "Did you
do
something?"

"Oh yeah," I say, grabbing her arm and dragging her to
her feet.  "I slew the giant and all that.  Killed the
dragon.  Nuked the monster.  Now all the townspeople are afraid of
me."

She digs her heels in.  "They are," she says
slowly.

I roll my eyes.  "C'mon."  Again, I nod toward
the door.

Matthew walks in.  He glances around, sees me, and heads
straight for me.  I peek at Miranda, only long enough to determine that
she's gone phantom white.  I shove her onto one of the bar stools before
she can pass out on me, then watch Matt stride across the room.  His
footsteps are the only sound in the bar now, which adds to the archetype. 
He is God stepping down from the heavens to punish or destroy, to bless or to
smite.  We mortals await him, mouths slightly open, bodies vibrating with
anticipation and horror.

He stops in front of me, holding something out.  "I
believe this belongs to you," he says, smiling cockily.  I finally
notice the object in his hands.  He has carried it into the Rustler and
across the room.  He held it when he came in.  That means he knew I
was here.  It means he came here expecting to find me.  It probably
even means he was waiting for his men to report to him that I was here and he
interrupted whatever else important godlike business he had, to come and see
me.

I eye my knife, then take it.  It is mine, after all. 
It's not exactly a favor.  And I can't really be without it.  Nor can
I refuse it.  "Thanks," I say, and leave it at that.

He leans casually against the bar beside me. 
"Anytime," he says.

We stand and look at each other.  I let my eyes fall on
Miranda.  "She's still a bit wobbly," I say.  "I
better get her home."

Miranda's jaw tightens on what could only be an acid
comment.  She flushes, but looks a bit unsteady.  I'm not even sure
if she's faking it, or if it's real.

Matt looks at her for the first time, giving me the impression of
a lounging cat noticing an ant crawling by.  "Of course," he
says, and straightens.  He brushes my elbow with his fingertips as I begin
to move past him, then catches my hand.  He turns it to examine the back,
where my cut is no longer covered in bandages.  Satisfied, he lets go and
smiles at me.  "Looks better."

Miranda peers at my hand now.  No one at home has noticed or
commented on my wound.  We've had bigger things to worry about.  I
ignore her, and toss Matt a smile that will hopefully tide him over. 
"Almost as good as new," I agree, though, truthfully, it still has a
way to heal.  "If you ever need someone to sew you up...." 
I let the words trail off and saunter toward the door like the world is
mine.  Like I'm not carefully holding myself back.  Trying not to
run.  I emerge outside, blinking in the midday sun.  How is it still
so cold with the sun shining like this?

Miranda is beside me, keeping pace as I widen my steps.
 "Matthew sewed your hand up?" she sputters.  "Are you
crazy
?  Do you have any idea who he is?"

"Shut up," I say, not kindly.  "You can't hide
in your rabbit hole all the time, expecting everyone else to look after you,
and then freak out when they do."

"What?" she says.  She's jogging to keep up with me
now.  "It's not--"  She stops, midsentence, and sucks in a
deep breath.  There's a pause, then she says, "The meds.  You
went to Matthew for them."

I glance at her in annoyance.  "No," I say. 
"Matt just happened to get thrown into the mix.  It doesn't
matter."

"Doesn't matter?" she gasps.  "Do you--"

"Would you rather I let you die?"  I snap. 
"I can make a note of that, for next time."

She gapes at me wordlessly.  Finally, she shakes her head. 
Her eyes, fixed on me, are filled with concern.  This, coming from
Miranda, is unnerving.  "Eden," she finally says, her voice
soft, echoing the sentiment in her eyes, "you have to be careful. 
Matthew....  You can't just play hard to get with him forever.  It
might work for a while.  Until he gets bored.  But--"

I really don't want to hear the rest.  I stop and turn on
her.  Startled, she throws on the brakes, narrowly avoiding slamming into
me.  "Look," I say, "I don't need or want your
advice.  I'm not an idiot.  I don't need you to tell me what I
already know.  Sometimes, you do things because you have to.  Because
you have to survive."

She stares at me, and my words echo in my mind.  I've heard
them before, but I can't place it at first.  Then, suddenly, I think of
Jonas.  I think of Jonas, and here I am looking at Miranda.  I don't
want to see her and think of him at the same time.  My insides are trying
to claw their way out of me.  My face flushes red.  I can't untangle
my knot of emotions enough to see any of them.  I turn, and walk
away.  She follows me.  I try to block her existence out of my
world.  I try to pretend that there never was a Miranda.  But still
she follows me, haunting my steps.  What have I done to deserve the feel
of her always behind me?  As I walk toward home, I consider the
possibility that I have been, in my previous version of life, evil.  What
if I was evil?  What if I am still?  Could a machine erase that from
me?  Make me whole?  Make me something new?  Or is my path set
forever into darkness?

At home, Jonas is sitting up in bed, talking with Apollon, who is
still on the couch.  Miranda comes in the door behind me, sees Jonas, and
shoves past me to throw herself at him.  He shrugs her affection off--
something he does a lot, not just when he's sick.  I try to ignore the
little feeling of satisfaction that trickles through my veins.  But
teasing me, in the back of my head, is the fantasy that Miranda has never
recovered from the illness, and we're a little sad at losing her, but... not
all that much.  I slump into the chair by the table and look away. 
Yes, I think.  I am evil.

I shove a bowl of soup into Jonas' hands, then take the bowl with broth
only and sit carefully on the sofa next to Apollon.  Lifting his head, he
suppresses most of a groan while Oscar stuffs my jacket under him.  His
face is pale-- too pale.  I'm worried that he might be taking a turn for
the worse, but he insists he's on the mend.  Neveah, as always, says
nothing about it.  The others speculate, but I don't trust their knowledge
enough to place any stock in their predictions.  Quietly, I spoon the warm
liquid into his mouth, and wipe dribbles away with my thumb.

"What
is
this?" Jonas asks.  He looks down
into his bowl and chases the chunks around with his spoon.

"Good for you," I answer flatly.  "Eat
up.  The rest of us don't get any."

Miranda, from the kitchen chair, makes a noise and pouts.  I
ignore her.  It's
my
soup.  I feed Apollon another bite of
broth.

Jonas chews a bite of meat thoughtfully, then says, "It
tastes like cat."

Apollon opens his mouth for another bite.  After he swallows,
he says, "Tastes like something that
rhymes
with cat."

Jonas pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth.  He glances
at me nervously.

Apollon winces in pain as he suppresses his laughter.  He
closes his eyes and doesn't breathe.  Then he takes very careful, slow
breaths.  He avoids looking at my face.  Slowly, the corners of his mouth
uncurl and relax.

"That's disgusting," Miranda says, recovering from her
shocked silence.

I narrow my eyes at her.  "I thought you wanted
some."   

She makes a face at me, but glances at the bowl.  The smell
is quite enticing.  It's been a long time since we've eaten meat. 

"It's protein." I look at Apollon, whose mouth is
open.  I feel like a momma bird feeding her young.

Jonas shrugs and keeps eating.  "Protein is
protein," he concedes after chewing.

Miranda, however, proves she's not to be so easily
dismissed.  "I'm sure you could get something better from
Matthew," she says lightly.  As if it's some simple, casual thought
that just occurred to her.

My face darkens as all three of the boys look at me.  None of
them comment, so I take the opportunity to snap at Miranda.  "Or
Donegan, maybe.  What do you think he'd give me in exchange for you?"

She pales, mouth open.  Tears shine in her widened
eyes.  She actually trembles. 

Guilt rushes at me.  I've gone too far, but I can't bring
myself to take it back.  I turn back to Apollon, shoving another bite at
him.  He only just manages to get his mouth open in time to avoid the
broth spilling down his front.  Still, a bit of it trickles over.  I
wipe his chin with the bottom hem of my shirt.

"Enough," he mutters, turning his face away. 

I set the bowl aside and climb to my feet.

"For god sakes, Eden," Jonas mumbles, but I ignore
him. 

I leave.  It's cold outside.  Bitter cold.  And my
jacket is still tucked under Apollon's head.  I don't have anywhere to go,
so I walk around back and stand in the sunshine.  The wind whips its chill
straight through my bones, and between bursts, the sun makes futile attempts to
warm my skin.  I stand there and shiver, wrapping my arms around myself,
turning my back against the wind.  My hair flies in my face, tendrils
waving and jerking, dropping briefly before beginning the performance
again.  I close my eyes.

I don't hear Oscar coming, but somehow I know he's beside
me.  I open my eyes and turn my head toward him, sighing.

He looks up at me, and says nothing.

Finally, I ruffle his hair, pacing a few steps away before turning
back.  "Is she OK?"

He shrugs, gazing down at his feet.  Then he moves his big
brown eyes to my face and says, "You shouldn't have said that." 
It's a simple statement.  I shouldn't have.  He means to help me
learn to be better.

I cross my arms again, but it's only because I'm cold. 
"I know,"  I start to lean against one of the barrels, but it's
icy, so I stand straight again.  "I was angry."

"Miranda shouldn't have said what she said
either." 

I blink, studying his face.  Sometimes, he understands things
I don't expect him to.

"She was being mean, too," he says.

I try not to allow the word "too" to sink in too
deeply. 

"I just wish you could be nice to each other."  He
sighs, and looks wistfully away toward the concrete wall that separates us from
the outside of the Outpost.  Then I see it.  He looks tired, and
sad.  He looks like half of his family has been beaten down by the world
and the other half is at each other's throats. 

I purse my lips and nod.  "I'll try," I say. 
And I mean it.  I think Oscar really does help me to be better.

The smile he beams at me solidifies the idea even as it's just
beginning to form.  I smile back.  He runs to me and throws his arms
around my waist, tilting his head back to look up at me.

I squeeze him back.  "Go inside and warm up," I
tell him.  "I just need a little time to think."

He hesitates, but does as I ask.  As I watch him go, I shiver
from the cold, but somehow, the wind's bite doesn't sting as much as it did
before.

***

No one talks much that evening, at least not after I come
in.  Pride makes me wait until I think Jonas and Apollon are dozing, even
though it means apologizing in front of Neveah.

So I wander over to Miranda, who is sitting in the kitchen chair,
nibbling on a piece of old bread.  I stand close to her, which makes her
look up at me.  Her eyes are a touch wider than usual, like she's
alarmed.  Maybe she thinks I'm mad at her.  That I mean to threaten
her.  It makes me feel guilty all over again.  There's no other seats
nearby, so I sit on the floor and cross my legs.  Now I have to look up at
her.  She looks wary, and confused.

"I'm sorry," I say.  My voice is hoarse, and cracks
as I struggle to push the words out.  I force myself to continue. 
"What I said--"

She turns suddenly away.  Before her hair falls across her
eyes, the expression I read is full of discomfort and pain. 

I hesitate, then consider abandoning the apology all together. 
If apologizing only makes her feel worse, then what's the point?  To make
myself feel better?  I rub my hands on my knees and rock forward to get
up.

"OK," she says suddenly, before I can actually climb to
my knees. 

I settle back down and look at her. 

After a moment, she turns back to me, but her face may as well be
set in stone, completely emotionless.  We stare at each other
blankly.  She does not apologize to me.

"OK," I say, realizing that she will not
reciprocate.  Realizing that I hoped she would.  It would have been
easier to make amends, then.  To do what Oscar needs me to do.  My
humiliated goodwill turns to hollow gloom.  I nod curtly and rise.  I
want to go outside.  Instead, I curl up next to Oscar, against the
wall.  He gives me a smile that makes the corners of his mouth pucker into
holes instead of pulling upward.  My return smile probably looks much the
same.  I sigh, and lean back against the wall, closing my eyes.  I
want to run.  Instead, I hold myself completely still, and barely allow
myself to breathe.

***

We're perfectly civil to each other, but the coldness underneath
has not changed.  Miranda seems to sense that we can't allow our petty
differences to make everyone else feel bad, so she's been nothing but polite to
me.  I think I preferred when she was snapping.

"You're sure this is entirely necessary?" she asks as we
walk toward the Rustler, Oscar between us.

I nod.  This is the third time she's asked, and I'm trying
very hard not to say something I will regret.

"We have to eat, right?" says Oscar, sparing me.

Miranda just nods, staring straight ahead as we continue our
journey.

The Rustler's not very full, and there's no game.  Taylor is
at a table in the back with two men I don't know.  Lloyd and Sumter sit at
the game table alone.  Maybe they're waiting for the opportunity to win
some money as well, but when they see me, they shift uneasily in their
seats.  I wave them off and walk to the bar.  Miranda and I sit on
stools there, and Oscar stands by us, crossing his arms as he turns toward the
barroom.

Arthur Adner is behind the bar.  When he sees me, he pulls
out a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey.  I shake my head at him, but he
fills the glass and sets it down in front of me anyway.  "On the
house."

Frowning, I down the drink, then twist around and sit with my back
to the bar.  I scan the faces gathered here, wondering if there's any
money to be had.  Things are getting worse.  Soon, there will only be
rats to eat.  We need to leave this place.  No question.  But
we're not fit to travel.  Miranda's still weak, and though Jonas is
recovering quickly now, he can barely walk across the room.  Even if Jonas
could make the journey, I don't think Apollon will be able to travel for some
time.  Perhaps we could make a litter to carry him on, but that would slow
us down and make us all easy targets on the roads.  Put us all in greater
danger.  The only other option is to leave Apollon behind.  Leave him
with his wound to fester or die slowly of starvation.  I won't do that,
and I don't think the others would either. 

I consider all this as the burn from the whiskey is still making
its way down to the pit of my stomach.  Now, with it, is a hollow,
semi-nauseous feeling.  We have to stay.  That means something has to
change.  We can't go on like this, scraping life from the ground with our
broken fingernails.  That leaves very little in the way of choices.

My eyes flit to Taylor, who is talking jovially.  He looks
well-fed, and in contrast, even Sumter is looking a little lean.  Strange,
because I doubt there's any shortage of bodies to butcher.  Maybe he's
afraid of the sicknesses that have been passed around amongst the poorest
Outposters.  I snuff air through my nose and focus on Taylor again,
pondering the possibilities.  Even Matthew's men will eventually suffer
this fate, if things continue as they're going.  I have no idea what kind
of plan Matt has, if any, to restore our food supply and keep us all from
starving to death.  Considering how expendable most of us are to him, I'm
not sure I want to know.  Working for Matthew comes along with other
unpleasant possibilities, too.  I'm only considering it because my options
are few.  Few, but not solitary.  There's another option.  I'll
talk with Jonas and Apollon before I make my decision.

I'm about to swing my feet onto the floor when I notice Coyote Dan
in a corner, head bent over with Sarah, the girl who wanted to knife me. 
Her hand is still a mound of wrapped bandages, resting on the table as she
talks.  I wonder if she'll ever use it properly again.  Since I don't
exactly feel sorry for her, I discard the automatic pity and make my way to
their table.  When I show up beside her, she looks angry at first, then
her eyes go wide.  She goes quiet.

"What's going on?"  I kick an empty chair out and
join them.

Sarah shakes her head and abandons her seat in a flash, leaving
with only a quick look of alarm.

Dan shrugs it off in his normal easy manner, and grins at
me.  "What's up with you, darlin'?"

I level my eyes at him, leaning in.  "I asked
first."

He looks mildly amused, and a bit annoyed.  He tilts his head
back and regards me through half-lidded eyes.  "Better you don't
know," he drawls, "what with your allegiances and all."

I raise my eyebrows at him, jerking my chin downward. 
"Allegiances?"

His glance flits sideways to the table where Taylor sits, then
back to me.  That's enough.

"Look," I say, my voice quiet, but edged, "my only
allegiances
are to my family.  To staying alive.  So if you have some sort of
information, share it, and maybe someday I'll return the favor."

He watches me for a moment, then sighs.  He leans toward the
table.  "I'll tell you what she said," he concedes, "but
don't take it like the words are mine.  I was just listening.  Got
it?"

I nod, resting my elbows on the table. 

He hesitates again, looking off across the bar.  Sarah is
gone now.  She must have left as soon as she fled our table.

"She said," Coyote Dan begins carefully, "that it's
getting harder and harder to survive."

I frown.  "Really."

His eyes narrow a touch.  As he continues, his words still
come out slowly, evenly measured.  "She's not very happy about the
way things are being handled.  Thinks, maybe, we're being let die and
nobody's too worried about changing it."

I roll the words around in my brain, along with their
implications.  Matt's not too worried about letting us all die.  Is
he even doing anything about it?  Will he, so long as he has enough to
sustain himself?  I can't really answer any of these questions. 
Instead, I form more questions.  Like, is it Matt's job to look after the
whole Outpost, just because he has the most power?  He's not really our
leader.  He's just someone who knows how to survive... really well. 
But the more you have, the more you have to lose.  I believe he'll fight
to maintain what he has.  The question is, how many of us are necessary
for him to maintain his lifestyle?  And how many of us are expendable
enough to die?  Sarah, it would seem, believes the two answers are
weighted in the wrong direction.