Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

“Anyway, how are we supposed to tell Wallace we’re taking his truck if the radios are out?” Riggins asked.

“Wallace and I have a little deal worked out,” Cara said suggestively, making him howl. She turned back to the carrier. “Come on, Tubman, please? Pretty please? Don’t make me ask three times.” She batted her eyelashes. Her playfulness dug under my skin.

Tubman laughed dryly, then stopped short and blinked, as if he’d just remembered something. “Yeah, all right,” he said. “We’ll go through Virginia. Say we’re delivering supplies to one of those boarding homes for Sisters and keep our fingers crossed they don’t search the trunk. If we go while the radios are down, they can’t call their friends. We could be back home by tomorrow night.”

“What about curfew?” I said.

“Curfew doesn’t apply to soldiers,” said Cara without looking up.

“These are people’s lives!” I snapped. “The carrier in Harrisonburg died because he wasn’t careful!”

I remembered how it felt, slipping on the blood that coated the kitchen floor. My face buried in Chase’s arm as he hid my eyes. I remembered the copper smell that permeated the air. I could smell it still.

Cara stopped rummaging through a donation bag and tilted her head curiously toward me.

The four feet of Tubman’s chair came to rest on the floor. “He died because he got caught,” he said.

The grease pit seemed to grow smaller, and my chest tighter. The infant was crying—a soft, low cry, that didn’t at all sound healthy. I wished the mother would make it stop, and that Sarah would stop staring at me with her swollen, frightened eyes.

I glared at Cara. She may have Tubman, Riggins, and everyone else at the Wayland Inn charmed, but not me. Her recklessness was putting us all in danger and if she wasn’t careful, someone was going to get killed.

Chase approached and stood beside me, waiting for me to speak first. I rubbed my thumb over my scrunched-up brows, and finally blurted, “We should stop them. The highways aren’t safe.”

“Nowhere is safe,” he said. “At least this way gives them hope.”

Clearly Chase thought this was valuable, but I wasn’t so sure. Hope made you infinitely more devastated in the face of disappointment.

CLOTHINGfrom the donation bags was distributed. I was given a sweatshirt and some old-fashioned cargo pants that were large enough to fit Chase. After our escape I’d had to start fresh with whatever was lying around.

Because my head was now pounding with too many memories and unanswered questions, I grabbed my things, told the others I’d take first watch while travel arrangements were made, and headed back upstairs into the garage. Chase watched me go in silence.

The noise from the storm helped to distract me some. I hid behind the MM truck, setting a flashlight upright on the bumper, and began to peel off the navy skirt and blouse. The angry weather had soaked me straight down to the marrow.

But I was still alive.

We’d accomplished our mission, despite derailments. No one had tried to kill me; no civilian but the woman in Tent City even recognized my face, and she had treated me like some sort of hero. Like someone who could lead an uprising. My mother would have loved that.

Hopefully the woman had started spreading the word throughout the Square that she’d seen me. Seen the sniper . How many others would believe her? It occurred to me that maybe the real sniper would be angry that I’d stolen his glory; maybe he liked the attention. I wasn’t sure though; if I were the sniper, I’d want all the help I could get. Maybe he’d even hear how I helped Sarah, and the people downstairs, and want to work together or something.

Which of course I’d politely decline, because he was obviously off his rocker.

“Oh. Hey. Sorry.”

I jumped straight back into the humiliation of reality, acutely aware of my ratty bra and cotton underwear. Some watch I had been keeping. I hadn’t even heard Chase climb the stairs until he was standing in the shadows, eight feet away.

If I’d been cold before, I wasn’t anymore; my skin was practically glowing with heat. I tried to pretend I didn’t care, that now that we’d finally slowed down I wasn’t remembering how he hadn’t wanted us to come on this mission, or how we’d been separated in the Square, but pretending made my movements so jerky that I ended up tying both sides of the fly into a knot rather than zipping up the baggy cargo pants.

“It’s just me.” Chase had quietly faced the opposite direction while I finished.

“You just scared me,” I said. That was truthful at least.

He began checking the exits; the doors, the garage window, mostly blocked by a black trash bag but for a peephole in the corner.

“I said I’d take the first watch,” I said, more harshly than I intended. He clawed at his scalp with one impatient hand and scowled.

“Wait,” I said as he headed back toward the stairs. “Stay?”

He turned slowly, a small smile taking the edge off my nerves.

A necklace fell out of my folded skirt pocket and bounced off the oil-stained concrete floor as I hoisted myself into the open bed of the Horizons truck. He picked it up on his way back before sitting beside me. Our legs were close enough to touch, but didn’t.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked, using the flashlight to discern the details.

“It was a gift from the lady hiding Sarah.” I forced a yawn; my jaw had grown tight.

“You should hang on to it.” He handed it over, his fingers lingering in my palm a few seconds longer than necessary. His skin was always so warm, like he had an internal furnace, and his touch made the hard angles of the world soften, like a shadow at dusk.

“I don’t even know what it is,” I said, withdrawing my hand.

“It’s Saint Michael. The Archangel. He led the good angels in the fight against evil.”

I didn’t remember hearing about Saint Michael at the mandatory Church of America services. Chase must have learned this before the War.

Thunder struck again, and I ducked reactively. I felt the rough edges of the contraband silver pendant, watching the light play across the tiny winged figure and the chain shift over my skin. As the seconds passed it grew heavy, but I couldn’t seem to put it away.

“Do you believe in heaven?” I asked.

I didn’t know if I did. I’d accepted it before as a reality; just as blindly as I’d believed in Santa Claus as a child. But since my mother had died, a festering desire to know the unknowable had gnawed at me. I wanted so desperately to believe in something concrete. I wanted to know that somewhere there was peace.

Chase leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face hidden in the shadows.

“You mean, is it just for the reformed ?” The last word was bitter and drawn out.

I cringed, imagining the angels at the pearly gates checking our compliance status before letting us through. Redemption can only be found through Reformation. Redemption can be earned through rehabilitation . That’s what the Church of America ministers liked to preach. The FBR, the president, they all gave the same message: you aren’t good enough the way you are.

Every Sunday, as we walked home from service, my mother would make a point to tell me the opposite.

My chest tightened.

“For anyone,” I asked again. And when he hesitated, I said, “Well, do you?”

He picked at a frayed spot on his jeans.

“I believe bad things happen to good people. And good things happen to bad people.”

He was evading. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

“I know,” he said finally. His shoulder jerked up, reminding me of the boy he’d once been before the world had hardened him. “I used to believe if you were good, good things would happen to you. I don’t know what I believe anymore.”