Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

The children’s caretakers were trying to herd them down the steps but the growing chaos slowed them down, the girls clutching each other in fear. And still none of them made a sound. Cass pushed through the line toward the back of the platform and there she was, the woman who’d carried Ruthie, crouched at the back edge, as though she was about to jump. It was at least a dozen feet down but she looked scared enough to do it-but where was Ruthie?

Cass fell to her knees beside the woman, grabbed her arm, shook her. “Where is she?” she demanded, but the woman fought her, scuttling sideways out of reach. “Where-”

The woman jumped, the sound of a bone breaking followed by screaming and she lay on her side, her leg bent unnaturally. A second woman jumped, narrowly missing the first, though she was luckier; she managed to get to her feet and staggered away, limping.

All through the stadium women panicked. Some crawled under tables. Some crowded the exits to the stands, pushing and shoving to get out. The platform’s stairs were jammed with children, and Cass glimpsed a guard trying to find a shot at her between them. She glimpsed a hand clawing at the bars of the cage, but whether it was Hannah’s or the Beater’s, she was too far away to tell.

Cass crawled behind the line of children, their white dresses making a billowing wall. Two of the oldest girls picked up the younger ones to carry them to safety, and suddenly Cass saw Ruthie crouched down next to Monica, her small hand on Monica’s ruined face as though trying to fix it.

Cass threw herself the last few feet and swept Ruthie into her arms. Monica stirred, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Monica, you have to move! ” Cass screamed, hooking her free hand under Monica’s arm. Monica stumbled to her feet and nearly fell again. Cass wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her toward the stairs. The last of the children, and the one or two adults who had not abandoned them in the melee, were descending the steps, leaving them alone and exposed, Monica stumbling against her as though she was drunk.

Cass scanned the exits, knowing that it would be next to impossible to get there in time, especially as she saw a guard edging around the Beater cage and another sprinting along the edge of the crowd toward her. Cass froze at the top of the stairs. The minute the children were out of the way, the guards would shoot, and she couldn’t risk Ruthie’s life-but she couldn’t leave Monica behind, either.

The air cracked with gunfire and Monica slumped against her. Cass looked down to see a jagged hole in Monica’s throat beginning to fill with blood and knew the impossible decision had been made for her.

She hitched Ruthie up tightly against her as Monica’s body slumped at her feet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, bending to touch Monica’s cheek, already clammy and lifeless. Then she ran to the back of the platform, hunched low, as the guards fired again and again. On the ground below, the injured woman was curled over her shattered leg, rocking with pain, but Cass didn’t hesitate. She hit the ground at a tuck and rolled twice, shielding Ruthie as well as she could with her body. The turf scratched and burned her skin and she didn’t care, and she came up running.

The move had bought her a mere second or two but she made the most of them, joining the crowds rushing for the edge of the field. Unlike the others, who fought to get to the safety of the corridors, Cass broke away at the last minute and slipped behind the planters lined up along the long side of the field. She pried Ruthie from her neck and pushed her through the bars separating the stands from the field, and then swung herself up, arms burning with the effort, and levered her body between the bars.

Ruthie’s eyes shone with unspilled tears. She raised her arms to be picked up and Cass swung her up and ran, her feet pounding the metal benches as she zigzagged her way up the stands, eyes on the skyboxes, running as fast as she ever had, knowing no one could catch her now.

THROUGH THE SKYBOX, INTO THE STAIRWELL, down the stairs, careening off the walls rather than slowing to take the turns, and then she was in the anteroom. She didn’t recognize either of the guards, who gaped at her and reached for their weapons as she burst into the room. The sounds from inside the stadium were muffled here, but she could make out voices and screaming and more gunshots.

“There’s been an accident!” Cass panted, out of breath, her arms aching from carrying Ruthie. “The Beaters got out and it’s chaos in there. You’ve got to let us out, let me get help.”

“What happened?” the guard at the narrow window demanded. She pushed a pair of thick-lensed glasses up on her nose.

“A reckoning,” Cass said. “It went all wrong. This child was hurt, and-”

“She doesn’t look hurt.” The other guard, a leathery-faced woman wearing a thin lavender blouse with heavy black boots, hesitated with her hand on her holstered gun.

“A Beater got her. They shot it like four times. It went down but I think it bit her first. I need to get her some help, in the Box.”

The guards exchanged a glance. The one wearing glasses backed away from Cass.

“What makes you think she’s bit?” the other one demanded. “Is the skin broken?”

“You want to take that chance?” Cass demanded. “I saw it myself-it had its mouth on her. Listen to me, there’s Beaters running around loose in there, you really want to stand around here chatting?”

No one said anything for a moment and Cass held her breath.

If they were true believers-if they shared Mother Cora’s faith-they would never let Cass go. They’d just send Ruthie back to be prayed better. There was no reason for them to believe Cass, a stranger, not even a full-fledged member of the order.

The first guard backed up even farther. “Keep her away from me,” she muttered.

“Just let us leave,” Cass said, edging toward the door. “I’m going now. You can come with me if you want. You might want to think about what’s going to happen if things get worse in there. Across the street, they can still lock that shit out .”

She put her weight against the heavy latch, pushing it open, half expecting one of the guards to stop her. Ruthie’s body was sweaty and hot against her, but she clung tenaciously. The door opened onto a brilliant morning. Cass staggered out onto the sidewalk and stood blinking in the sun. Seconds later she heard the sound of the door being bolted shut behind her.

“Cass!”

A man broke away from a small group of people gathered across the street and raced toward her.

Smoke.

He ran as though he didn’t intend to stop, as though his life depended on it, depended on her -and then he stopped short, seeing that she held Ruthie in her arms. His hands hung useless at his sides. He looked from Cass to Ruthie and back again, eyes wide, breathing hard.

Ruthie clung tight; she still hadn’t made a single sound. She pressed her tear-streaked face against Cass’s neck, and though Cass had barely any feeling left in her arms, and her back burned from the strain, she gripped her precious child even tighter.

“This is my daughter. Ruthie.”

“Ruthie,” Smoke repeated, and her daughter’s name on his lips was, to Cass’s surprise, a sound she had always wanted to hear.

Hearing Smoke say her name, Ruthie twisted in Cass’s arms and peeked out at him curiously, then leaned her head on Cass’s chest and kept on looking at him, long-lashed eyes wide.

“She’s…”

“Bald. I know,” Cass said. “It’ll grow back. They did it to all the kids, symbolized being scoured clean or something.”