Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

Why did he care about her?

Why would he risk his own safety to protect her?

They turned left, toward a water tower in the distance that rose up in the sky over a residential neighborhood. “We’re headed for a house near the edge of town. The bike’s in a shed in the back. I’ve got an address.”

“And you know how to get there?”

“I memorized it. This way a quarter mile, right on Jackson, left on Tendrick Springs. Number 249. White house, green shutters.”

“Wow,” Cass said. “I don’t think I could remember my own birthday with everything…you know. Just, everything.”

They moved in silence. Cass stayed close to Smoke, bumping against him from time to time. She wasn’t used to looking to anyone else for reassurance. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, but she also wasn’t about to question it, not now.

“When is it?” Smoke asked as they turned onto Jackson Road.

“When is what?”

“Your birthday.”

Cass didn’t say anything for a moment. It was January first; she had been the first baby born in Contra Costa County that year. But she hadn’t celebrated her birthday in years. Her mother always sent a card, signed-in her mother’s hand- “Mim and Byrn.” No “love,” nothing but their names.

She’d spent more than a few of her birthdays hung over. Or drunk by noon.

On her best days she told herself she would start celebrating again when she got Ruthie back. She would make a cake. They would wear hats made from sheets of newspaper.

“Is it a big secret or something?” Smoke asked. “Come on, why won’t you tell me?”

“January.”

“January what?”

“Does it really matter? I mean, do you think people are still going to be keeping track by then? Tell you what, if-if we’re still alive I’ll tell you the date then.”

What she meant was, if they were still together…not together together, because it was crazy to imagine such a thing, to give their brief acquaintance significance that it didn’t have; but if after Cass got Ruthie they ended up sheltering in the same place. Something like that.

“Deal,” Smoke said and slipped his hand around Cass’s and squeezed, letting go before she could react.

And the last of her mistrust of him slipped away.

Smoke had proved himself over and over. He’d believed in her innocence when she arrived at the school with her blade pressed to a child’s neck. He’d come with her, voluntarily, to the library. Now, his best course was to run in a different direction, to go where the Rebuilders wouldn’t pursue him, but he’d come with her anyway.

And there was the other night. In the cool, clean sheets at Lyle’s place. In the breeze that reminded her of Before.

But that didn’t count. That couldn’t count, and Cass pushed it from her mind, pushed the memory hard into a small corner where it would be protected and preserved. Still, that left last night when he’d faced down the Rebuilders without hesitation, and today when he’d waited for her to join him at the back door.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“For coming with me. For being here.”

Smoke shrugged. “I can’t go back to the school now-I don’t want to lead the Rebuilders there. No matter where I go, they’ll come after me, but if they think I’m with you, at least they’ll leave the school alone.”

Cass thought she understood. The people at the school had been strangers not long ago. But now, Aftertime, they were all he had.

“I hope they’re fine,” she said softly, thinking of Sammi and her mother, of the women at the bath trough, of the children playing with the plastic animals. Of Nora, with her intense dark eyes and choppy haircut.

Wondered if Smoke was thinking about her. Missing her. Wishing he could be with her.

She almost asked him, but then she didn’t. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. “So what do you know about the Convent?” she asked instead.

“I’d heard rumors about it, but Herkim filled me in,” Smoke said. “They started the Convent a few months ago. All women, no men allowed. Set it up in Foothill Stadium, of all places. Home of the Miners-you ever been there?”

Cass had. With her father, in fact, when she was eight years old. It was a ridiculously balmy Tuesday in May, when it seemed like it would never rain again, and every day would bring some new and splendid surprise, because her daddy was home from touring with his band and he wasn’t working at the construction sites like he usually did, and he wrote a note saying she was sick and she didn’t have to go to school. They didn’t tell her mother, who had gone off to work as usual, because it was sort of a surprise. And her daddy bought her a souvenir pennant and a second bag of peanuts just because she asked and the next week he was gone and she never saw him again.

“No.” Cass mumbled the lie. “Don’t think I have.”

“Well, it’s not the worst place in the world for a bunch of bat-shit crazy women to hole up, I guess. They’ve sealed off the entrances, got some system for figuring out who they let in and out, not that they’re coming out much, that’s for sure.”

“And they have Ruthie there?”

“That’s just what someone said . You got to be careful here, Cass. You can’t go believing everything you hear. Everyone who talks to you, you got to wonder what angle they’re working, what you could provide them with that they can’t get some other way.”

“But it was Elaine who said it. We were friends .”

“Okay,” Smoke said. “Sorry. I’m just trying-”

Something clattered behind them, metal on pavement, and Cass whirled around. Smoke turned, too, his hand tight around hers.

A block away, half a dozen clumsy forms stumbled around a cluster of trash cans, tripping and trying to disentangle themselves from each other. It was almost impossible to make out any details at this distance, now that the sun had slipped behind the horizon and evening had laid down its hazy blue gloom.

But the moans that started up when they found their footing and sniffed the air and scented Cass and Smoke-those were unmistakable.

The Beaters had found them.

CASS WATCHED THE THINGS SHOVE AND KICK at each other with frustration as they got in each other’s way. One was knocked to the ground, where it howled in fury, rubbing a crabbed hand at its face, as the others stumbled toward Cass and Smoke.

Smoke raised the gun and fired. But the Beaters were too far away, and the gun kicked in his hand. He fired a second time, and a third, hitting nothing.

“Stop,” Cass yelled. “You only have a few more rounds.”

“In the pack-” Smoke seized her hand. He knew what she did: even if he made every shot, he couldn’t hit them all, and the odds of killing even one were pretty low. Besides, there wasn’t time to reload.

They ran, but Cass knew they could never outrun the Beaters. For a while, sure. Cass and Smoke were strong and fit, and adrenaline would give them a boost. But within a quarter mile their pace would drop and the Beaters’ speed would surge.

The maniacal frenzy of their hunger could not be tempered by any obstacle. They’d run across glass, across hot coals, across this terrible scorched earth that was the end of the world if it meant fresh, uninfected flesh. They were body eaters, after all, and that was all they lived for. They would close the gap, their voices raised in a horrifying chorus of grunts and moans, and Smoke-of course it would be Smoke, because he would put himself between her and them, there was no question in her mind now-Smoke would feel their grasping bone-hands on his clothes, his back, his arms as they took him down.