Sophie Littlefield - Rebirth

“I need you to make him live,” she said quietly. “Medicine, antibiotics, whatever you have. I’ll do anything for you. Anything.”

Ralston sputtered a protest, something about the next hour, and she placed a hand on his arm to quiet him. “I remember our bargain,” she said steadily, before turning her focus back to Jimbo. He was watching her carefully, his wiry gray eyebrows knit together.

“I’m an outlier,” she said, waiting to make sure he understood. “I’ll have certain privileges. Freedoms. I’ll be able to come and go…to come to you. As long as you keep him alive, you can have…”

She shrugged off her coat, letting it hang at her elbows, and for the second time that night she strained against the thin fabric of the nightgown, hoping the light from his small flashlight would illuminate the shape of her breasts, of her taut stomach, her hips. She cupped one breast, lifting it for his appraisal. “You can have anything you want,” she finished, and then she couldn’t help looking to reassure herself that Smoke was still unconscious, because even though she could give herself away, could give away every last cell of her body, every wracked corner of her soul, he could never know. This would be her gift to him: he would never know that his life was what she bought with her trade.

“You’d like that,” Ralston said, and for one confusing moment Cass mistook his tone for jealousy, for anger that she was so quick to offer what she’d just given him, down on her knees on the cold ground, but when he seized her wrist and twisted it so that she had to bend double, Cass realized that she had made two important misjudgments:

First, she’d forgotten that-just like in the Box-the most important positions were given to those who’d done the security jobs Before: the cops and Marines and highway patrol, the prison guards and gangbangers. The hard men.

And second, that even a man who thrusts against you with the strangled cry of an adolescent, who shudders as he spills his seed inside you, unmindful of his momentary vulnerability, his shaft already going soft between your teeth, will forget all that when he believes he’s been wronged.

“You can see your murderer boyfriend all you want in detention-if he lives that long,” Ralston spat.

“I never stood against the Rebuilders,” Cass protested, but already they were leading her down the hall, forcing her to go too quickly, so that she stumbled and nearly fell, her arms yanked cruelly as they pulled her along, and when they passed the staircase and continued into a little room, a closet where brooms and supplies were stored, Cass knew with horrifying certainty that they meant to deliver her their version of justice-and that she’d brought it on herself.

But she’d done worse. And she’d no doubt do worse again.

DOR RUBBED THE METAL BOX, RUNNING HIS thumb over the smooth silvery surface, before slipping it back in his pocket. He sat on the edge of the bed Cass had left. Ruthie, sensing his closeness in her sleep, had rolled closer to him and hooked her small hand over his leg.

Ruthie was an odd child in some ways, cautious and easily spooked, but at times Dor caught glimpses of the mischievous spirit hidden within her. Subdued, maybe, but not quashed. At times it seemed that even Cass could not detect the sly little grin that flashed across Ruthie’s pretty features when she had played some tiny trick for her own amusement, some clever gesture just because she could. A mother, tasked with protecting her child from birth, exhausted from the dangers and heartaches, could easily miss such moments.

Not long ago, Dor had come across Ruthie in the Box with Feo, playing a game they’d invented that involved Feo standing on a gentle berm where Cass had planted pine seedlings. The boy stood patiently, whistling. The object of the game seemed to be for him to pretend he was all alone and for Ruthie to try to sneak up on him. There was something desperately sweet about the boy-tough and disrespectful to most adults, his face generally wary and mistrustful-whistling with his hands in his pockets until Ruthie, over and over, came charging at him from behind the little trees, slamming her little body into him, and every time he acted as though she had taken him completely by surprise and fell to the ground. They rolled together, Feo yelling in pretend terror, Ruthie shaking with her soundless laughter, until she disentangled herself and went running off to hide again.

Dor figured Ruthie would be fine. After all, he’d been through fourteen years with Sammi; fourteen years of heart-stopping terrors and humbling corrections, the usual drill for a first-time parent. He’d overprotected, sure, but at least he’d been wise enough to let Sammi go when she needed to test herself. That was something Jessica had not been able to do. Jessica smothered-she was a great mother, at times, but now Dor could only pray that some of his lessons had taken root, that Sammi understood she had the strength inside her to face whatever was happening to her.

Tomorrow he would find her. He didn’t know how, and he didn’t know where. But he would find her.

Tonight he had to find Cass.

He knew something had gone wrong. Sensed it the way he observed coming changes in the weather, the moods of his people or the stores coming in for trade. Dor was so finely attuned to the energy around him that it was painful at times. That was why he lived apart, in the trailer that was little more than a tin prison; it was better than being in the midst of all those lives being lived around him. The static could be almost unbearable on days when he was weakened by a lack of rest or a too-strenuous workout-all those people, their tempers and desires and jealousies on display for anyone who looked.

Well, for people like him, anyway. And he’d sensed the change in Cass immediately. He just didn’t know what it was. Still didn’t. But in the time she’d been gone in the afternoon and come back, something had changed. Something at the Tapp Clinic had stripped her of her fragile strength, hardened and wounded her.

Dor scooped Ruthie up in his arms. She was so light, hardly a burden at all. He hated bringing her. She should stay and sleep, but it wasn’t safe yet; he didn’t know who to trust. That had always been his strength, choosing those he could trust. But now he had only himself. So Ruthie would come.

It would be awkward and it would increase the danger for both of them. But what other option did he have? Waiting it out, waiting for Cass to come back, might be the smartest thing to do; after all, he was here for Sammi. Venturing out would require him to use resources that were meant for her. He would risk showing his hand, alerting the Rebuilders that he wasn’t who he pretended to be. In the worst case, he would endanger his own mission, and his chances to get Sammi back.

Nothing mattered more than his daughter. He would trade any living soul for her without hesitation-even Cass’s, if it ever came to that.

But leaving Cass to an uncertain fate was not an option, either. He had always told Sammi that she had to stand up for the things that mattered. And Cass, despite their awkward relationship, despite the things they had done-or maybe because of them-mattered.

There was no other way. He put the silver box back in his pocket, careful to make sure it was properly closed first, protecting the soft rubbery ball with its cells of gel and powder separated by the thinnest membrane. He shifted Ruthie so that he could hold her in one arm. In the other he held one of the darts he’d smuggled in the hidden pocket along with the silver box. And he set out down the darkened hall.

The way the tree had grown, struggling for purchase on the slope behind the fence that marked the far end of the park, made a perfect saddle in which Cass could sit with her legs dangling above the creek. The creek was dry in all but the few rainy months of spring, dotted with stones submerged in cracked earth, tall dead weeds, jackrabbit warrens. It wasn’t much to look at, certainly not compared to the park, which the developers had situated at the end of the broad avenue that ran through the neighborhood, so that you could see it from the entrance and the mouth of every cul-de-sac. They’d made it nice, nice enough to justify the prices they charged for what were just glorified tri-level tract homes.