Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

“With what? ” Cass demanded.

“I don’t know, but people are resourceful. I mean, the Chinese were able to build a wall seven hundred years BC, and all they had was what they could dig up out of the ground, mostly rocks and dirt and existing mountain ridges. And I don’t need to tell you that there’s probably a hell of a lot of unemployed and very motivated guys ready to work out East, especially if they understand what’s going on over here.”

“What you said, back at Lyle’s…about that guy from UCSF? The scientist? How he didn’t think the Beaters could live up north?”

“Yeah. I don’t know, Cass. I mean, it made sense to me, but look how they’re evolving. If they can figure out complex strategies, learn from their mistakes, refine their attacks, what are the odds that they can’t figure out how to put on a fucking coat?”

Cass wondered. It was true that the Beaters were evolving, that their hunger was driving them to adapt to their circumstances-but they were still so primitive in their responses. They couldn’t walk ten feet without tripping and stumbling over each other, but they hadn’t learned to put any distance between them when they went out roving. They were like children in their frustration, raging and screaming in impotent fury when they were denied. When they were hurt they were hypnotized by the sight of their own blood, so deeply fascinated that you could come close enough to fire at them point-blank before they remembered you were a threat.

One thing was sure: if a border had been built, retreating east was no longer a possibility once she found Ruthie. And to the south were the Rebuilders. Cass thought of Evangeline, of her cruel beauty, of the effortless power she wielded over the people in the conference room. She had no trouble believing that Evangeline was capable of using her for research-and other things she couldn’t even imagine.

“What’s to stop them from coming after us?” she asked. “If they have the means to do something like this.”

“They didn’t know about the motorcycle. They don’t know about the resistance-well, I’m sure they’re aware that not everyone welcomes their presence at the library, but from what Herkim told me, they don’t know who’s acting and who’s just grumbling. They won’t know who helped us escape, and they’ll be forced to assume we’re out wandering around town. My guess is they’ll send out a party, check with squatters, sweep town and when they don’t find us, figure we were either taken, or…or I guess, maybe that we got incredibly lucky and made it out of town on foot.”

Smoke eased the motorcycle forward, weaving carefully between the bark and twigs and dirt clods left by whoever had cleared the road. When they’d passed the last of it, he increased their speed, but kept it slower than they’d been going before, about twenty-five miles an hour. Night had nearly descended, and the motorcycle’s headlight lit up an eerie landscape of the black nightmare outlines of stripped and downed trees against a purple-gray sky. The occasional abandoned or wrecked car loomed like a hunkering ogre, the beam glinting off metal and glass. Maybe it was Cass’s imagination, but it seemed to her that Smoke sped past these cars as though he couldn’t get away from them fast enough, before easing back in the long uninterrupted stretches of empty pavement. Cass held tight to his waist, unable to relax her grip, afraid they’d hit something, afraid she’d fall, afraid of everything she couldn’t see in the shadows of the forest.

The roar of the bike’s motor was the loudest sound Cass had heard in a long while-if you didn’t count screaming. She had grown accustomed to silence Aftertime. Once you took out the sound of traffic and the buzz of streetlights and televisions blaring through open windows and fire engines and police sirens cutting through the night, and even the soft hum of everyday electronics, it was possible to hear what lay beneath-the sigh of the wind, the murmur of water flowing in a creek, the calls of the birds that survived and the rustling of species starting their return to the underbrush. In her days of walking, Cass had retuned her ears to these subtle sounds, and now the whine of the motor cutting through the night stillness was nearly unbearable, winding her nerves tight and keeping her fear simmering.

The odds of encountering Beaters along this unpopulated stretch of road were slim. Cass held on to that thought and let it calm her as she watched the ribbon of road flashing silver in front of them, Smoke following the center line. The air rushing past was cold, and she snuggled into Smoke’s shirt, pressing her cheek against the warm fabric. After a while she allowed her eyelids to drift slowly closed, and breathed deeply of the night. Kaysev and mountain sage and cool earth. Cass thought she could ride like this for a long, long time, clinging to the illusion of safety, grateful for someone else taking responsibility for the future.

Smoke’s soft exclamation put her on instant alert. She sat up straight and blinked at lights in the distance, a glow highlighting a massive dark structure. They had arrived at the edge of San Pedro, and the black shadows of houses and mailboxes and cars lined the side of the silent road. Gravel skittering under their tires, they narrowly avoided the corpse of a large dog lying stiff and mangled in the middle of the road, and Smoke corrected by swerving onto the shoulder, cursing under his breath. When the bike was righted, Cass was left with adrenaline surging through her body, and she had to force herself not to dig her fingers into Smoke’s waist.

The stadium was lit from behind by a hazy glow. The effect was that of a ghost ship on a night ocean, as though it had been conjured by her desperation. It was even bigger than she remembered, and the memory of walking up the curving ramps with her father all those years ago danced at the edge of her heart, trying to get in, but she pushed it back.

That long-ago day, it had been bright with banners and advertisements and the big digital scoreboard, the bright red and silver-Miners’ team colors-worn by the players and fans. Now, the once-colorful edifice, like her memories of that day, was washed out and dull.

When they drew closer, Cass saw that someone was moving around the edges of the stadium, and she felt a combination of excitement and dread in her gut. They weren’t moving like Beaters. Whoever it was-friend or foe-it was a citizen.

Smoke slowed again, and they came to a stop several blocks away from the stadium. A warehouse of some sort hugged a sprawling, fenced lot to their right; on the left were apartment buildings, low-slung brick six-flats with their first-floor windows broken out. The abandoned buildings could easily house Beater nests, especially the warehouse, which probably had loading bays on the back side of the building.

Cass pressed closer to Smoke. “Shouldn’t we keep moving?”

She could sense the tension in Smoke’s body.

“I know,” he muttered. “Only…I just wish I knew what was ahead. I don’t like that they’ve got people outside like that. Makes me think they’re armed, and I’d kind of like to know what their agenda is ahead of time. Here, let me have the pack, okay?”

Cass slid it off her shoulders, feeling the pain in her shoulders where the straps had cut into her flesh. The pack was too large for her-a man’s pack.

Smoke dug inside and handed her a water bottle. “Thirsty?”

Suddenly, she was. She twisted off the cap and drank deep, barely even minding the silty, earthy taste. Creek water: you could never boil the taste out of it. She let a little dribble down her chin, down her throat, wetting the collar of her shirt, before holding the bottle out to Smoke.

And saw that he was holding the gun, weighing it loosely in his hand. He ejected the spent magazine and rooted in the pack for a fresh one. “Sometimes I guess it pays to be famous. Infamous,” he corrected himself.