Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

But up close, Cass could see the large patches of skin that had been chewed down to tendon and muscle and bone. One of the Beaters no longer seemed to have the use of one of its arms, which appeared to be missing several fingers and was gnawed nearly through at the elbow. It had also apparently chewed away most of its lips and its ears were crusted black knobs where it or something else had torn the flesh away.

“Oh, God…” Cass breathed. She moved the binoculars, her hands shaking, until she found the two of them on the ground and focused. The one who was being chewed on was, she saw now, twitching spasmodically, the remains of its chewed fingers jerking almost rhythmically. She moved the binoculars up its thin, t-shirt clad body until its head came into view. It, too, had suffered mutilation-its own work or that of others, impossible to know. Gouges in its neck and cheek were crusted with blood and its mouth was a gaping black hole. It was nearly bald and its head was covered with scabs.

But it wasn’t until Cass moved the binoculars to take in the one crouched next to it that she understood what was happening. The other Beater had chewed through a vein, or an artery-something big, anyway. It was bleeding out, nearly dead, so far gone as to be indifferent to its fate. Both their faces and shirtfronts were covered in blood.

The others had noticed what was going on in the flower bed and were lurching over and crouching down next to their dying companion, shoving each other out of the way.

“What’s going on?” Lyle demanded, and held out a hand for the binoculars. He looked only for a few seconds before lowering them.

“Oh,” he said heavily. “They’ll do that sometimes, nowadays, when they haven’t had any fresh…you know. When they haven’t caught anyone for a while.”

“The blood,” Cass said weakly.

“Yeah, well, they don’t prefer it, but in a pinch I guess they get desperate.”

Cass remembered the times, during the Siege, when she’d seen one of the Beaters who’d been cut with a blade when someone managed to get close enough during an attack.

Their own blood fascinated them. It stopped them in their tracks even if they were seconds away from snagging a victim, and they would let go of a person’s arm or t-shirt to stare at the blood as it ran from their bodies. They would pat at it like a child with finger paints, seemingly oblivious to pain, spreading it around on their clothing and skin. They would taste it and suck it off their fingers, but tentatively, not thirstily.

It was that fascination that sometimes saved people. It was the reason the children had been taught to use the blades. Cut a Beater deeply enough and it would bleed out like a citizen. But even if the wound didn’t kill it, spilling its blood would distract it enough so you could get away.

It worked for a while. It probably wouldn’t work anymore.

But Cass closed her fingers on the handle of the blade in her pocket anyway.

IN THE EVENING LYLE LIT CANDLES. THERE WAS canned soup and snack packs of Oreo cookies, the kind kids used to have in their school lunches. The soup was cold, but it tasted delicious. Afterward, Cass helped Lyle with the dishes. They were chipped stoneware with an ugly design of brown owls winking against an orange sun. These dishes had no doubt been purchased by one of the wives who’d come and gone.

Strange, to think about what people held on to. What brought them comfort.

That thought was still in Cass’s mind when she and Smoke set out again after nightfall. Lyle shook Smoke’s hand and gave her a hug, a crushing, lengthy one, and told them they were always welcome, and stood in his doorway watching them make their way down the street.

In Cass’s pocket was a crystal suncatcher that she’d stolen from Lyle’s house. It had been hanging in the window in what had once been the dining room. She was sure that if she’d asked, he would have given it to her with his blessing.

But Cass couldn’t ask. She had to steal. She didn’t know why, and wondering wouldn’t help.

It wasn’t all that hard to keep the image of the Beaters-swarming across the street, feasting on their dying comrade’s blood-out of her mind, Cass discovered.

Because now all she could think about was Ruthie.

Cass held her blade in her hand as Smoke held his. They walked side by side, down the center of the street. It was a cool night and a few leaves had fallen from the sycamores lining the asphalt. The sycamores had survived the bioattacks that had decimated so many of the trees of Before. Cass had never cared for them because despite their vigorous spring leafing, by late summer they grew dispirited and started to shed yellowed and drying leaves. They seemed, to Cass, to lack resolve.

Now, though, she felt a kinship for them. They, too, were survivors, and that meant something.

Cass traced their route in her mind. Three blocks down Arroyo and then a right and a straight shot down Second for a quarter mile or so before it dead-ended in the wide lawn in front of the library. A few years ago there had been a fund-raising campaign to remodel the place, for new carpet and shelves and furniture, new computers and an updated catalog and checkout system. To pay for it all, personalized bricks were sold and laid in a meandering walkway to the front door. Mim and Byrn had bought bricks. Two of them: one said “Gina and Byrn Orr,” the other “Ruthie Haverford.” It hurt Cass that her own name didn’t appear on the bricks, even though she wanted nothing from Byrn and she herself was responsible for the chasm between her and her mother. And it also hurt that they insisted on using Haverford for Ruthie’s last name, because Cass had changed her own last name to Dollar legally the day she turned eighteen, and so Ruthie’s real name was Ruthie Dollar.

Despite these hurts she knew exactly where the bricks were. Ruthie was only a baby when the walkway was put down, but Cass had brought her there in a stroller and showed her where hers was, near an oleander hedge. Later, Cass held her little fingers and traced the shapes of the letters in her name. She had been glad Ruthie had a brick, so that someday she could bring her friends and show them that she was someone.

Cass thought about telling Smoke about the brick. But she wasn’t sure what words would make him understand, and she just wanted to get to Ruthie. Her hands were hungry to touch her, her arms longed to hold her. Her entire body felt infused with the frantic energy of longing for her baby.

She was alert to the sounds of the night, listening for the wailing and snuffling that would signal that they had not been lucky enough. She stayed close by Smoke’s side, her fingers in her pocket brushing against Lyle’s crystal teardrop, and her thoughts chased each other in circles as she tried to focus on her breathing, the way that flight attendant in her meetings had constantly been harping about. The woman carried with her an air of wounded resentment that made it hard to pay attention as she described how you were supposed to inhale hope and possibility and exhale expectations and disappointment and fear.

But now Cass breathed with everything she had, and after they had walked in silence for what felt like a hundred miles, the library finally appeared ahead in the gloom.

“We need to go around to the side,” Cass said, trying to cover up the dizzy combination of relief and anticipation that flooded through her. “At least that’s where-”

“Okay,” Smoke said.

He matched her pace as she sped up, barely able to keep herself from breaking into a run. But then she stopped short, several yards from the door, apprehensive.

“You have to knock,” she whispered. “When they see me, they might think I’m…you know.”