Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

“So that’s it?” I said. “You die and that’s the end. There’s nothing else?” The panic swelled inside of me. I could barely keep my voice from breaking.

I watched him try to swallow. “My mom said there was more. She called it the spirit world. She said death is just the bridge there, that souls stick around to guide us.”

That felt truer than anything could at the moment. I felt my mother’s ghost constantly. I felt it now, in the space between Chase and me.

He reached for my hand, holding it between both of his.

“Ember, I think if there is someplace like that—someplace good—I think that’s where your mom would be.”

It was instantaneous. The pain, the fear, the loneliness, all balled together inside of my gut and soured. My eyes burned, but not with tears. I wanted to cry. I’d wanted to cry for days, especially when this happened, but I hadn’t since our escape from the base. My tears had been choked off, and all that remained was anger.

Nothing felt right. My thoughts didn’t feel right. My skin didn’t feel right. Even Chase sitting beside me made me claustrophobic. I wanted to run away. Disappear. Forget myself.

I couldn’t stop the questions: Did you do enough? Could you have stopped him from killing her? Why couldn’t I stop this? Why couldn’t I see this coming?

I didn’t want to grieve my mother. I didn’t want to wonder if she’d been hauled to the crematorium outside the base like any other bin of trash. I didn’t want to remember that she loved pancakes and hot chocolate and contraband books. I didn’t want to remember her at all, because I didn’t want her to be dead .

It wasn’t fair. My mother had been murdered simply because I’d been born.

At that moment I could see exactly why someone would snipe off soldiers.

I shook Chase’s hand away. He looked intolerably sad, and that infuriated me, too. What was wrong with me? I was taking it out on him, even when I didn’t want to. She was gone and he couldn’t change that. Nothing could change that.

I shoved off the tailgate and paced around the garage.

“Maybe if you talked to me,” he suggested tentatively.

“I’m talking! We’re talking! It doesn’t fix anything !”

He was standing now, too, hands hanging limply at his sides. He moved closer.

“I don’t know if it works exactly like that.”

“What are you, my damn therapist?” I fumed, fists balled at my sides.

“No!” His hand raked through his hair, but it was so short, his hand slid back to the collar of the holey, borrowed golf shirt. “No, I’m just your…” he shrugged. “Neighbor,” he muttered, his face darkening. His eyes fixed on a particular spot of oil on the floor.

“My neighbor ?” I said, and the laughter that bubbled out of my throat sounded so evil I turned away so I couldn’t see my own cruelty reflected in his face. Not his best friend. Not his girl friend. Just the neighbor. My mind flashed to Sarah, and her once-pretty dress, and suddenly I was sick with wonder of how Chase had spent his nights in the MM.

The silence grew thin and was punctuated by another clap of thunder.

There was something in the way he looked at me then, as if he’d asked a question and were waiting for an answer. As if he were willing me to answer, but how could I? I didn’t know what we were, even if what I felt was strong enough to die for.

“We’re loading the truck,” announced Riggins from the stairs. I jumped at the sound of his voice and noticed that Cara was with him. I wondered how long they’d been standing there.

Chase pulled back, averting his gaze.

“Right,” he said.

An hour later, Cara and Tubman, in the MM uniform, took the stolen government truck filled with refugees east under the guise of delivering rations to a soup kitchen in Maryville. I prayed the guards on the freeway would see the MM vehicle, see Tubman and Cara in uniform, and usher them through without question. With or without the instatement of Article 9, they were as good as dead if caught.

AFTERthe carrier’s transport had gone, I’d crawled back into the cab of the yellow Horizons truck to wait out the night. Chase had watched me cautiously, but we hadn’t spoken anymore. There were bigger things to worry about; like how we would get back to the Wayland Inn, or whether Sean had made it safely across town and found the recruit. Still, I hated the distance between us. It left me unsettled, unbalanced. Like the good parts of myself were fading.

I wished I could talk to Beth. I missed her, and I missed home, at least the way home used to be. That all seemed a long time ago now, like something out of a different life. Still, thoughts of my redheaded friend brought a smile to my lips. The MM could ruin lots of things, but not my memories of her. As long as she kept her head down, she’d be safe. Her family was compliant, after all.

By dawn, the weather’s tantrum was over and had left the garage eerily silent. The cool air made me shiver, and when I drew my knees to my chest, the St. Michael pendant slid to the floor mat.

I went to retrieve it, hand searching blindly beneath the seat, and came up with more than just the necklace. A cartridge shell. I rolled it over my palm, curious as to why a food delivery crew would have need for this kind of ammunition. I hadn’t heard there had been any weapons fired when the resistance had hijacked the truck.

Something wasn’t quite right with this bullet. It was pointed at the end, copper, not silver, and almost three inches long. The cartridges that filled the 9mm were no more than an inch, and rounded on top. I was no weapons expert, but I’d inventoried our supplies at the Wayland Inn, and it didn’t take much experience to figure out that this was for a much larger gun than the typical resistance-issued pistol.

“We’re moving,” called Chase from the outside of the truck. I shoved the cartridge in my pocket, and with a conceding sigh, slipped the necklace over my head.

“Can’t hurt,” I said aloud, remembering what Chase had told me about protection.

CHASEstayed close as we raced west toward the resistance hideout. Both our uniforms were slung over his back in a black trash bag, but the gun, I knew, was still tucked in the waistband of his pants beneath that holey sweater. Up ahead, Riggins scouted the way for soldiers, but I remained watchful anyway. I was pretty sure my safety wasn’t his top priority, despite his show of support at the garage.

The streets were littered with storm debris. Tree limbs, broken glass blinking in the early morning sun, sopping Statute circulars. Fallen power lines that probably were out of commission in this area anyway. I could only imagine what had become of Tent City or the Red Cross Camp in the park, and again felt concern for Sean tingle at the base of my neck. The air smelled like dirt and moisture, cleared, finally, of the crematorium’s thick white smoke that hung like death over the city.

I tried not to think about that place.

My pulse didn’t slow until we crossed the threshold of the Wayland Inn. The foyer was thick with bitter cigarette smoke, emanating from a man sitting on a stool behind the counter. Orange hair, bright as a flame, leapt from his head, and his eyes were bloodshot from too much gambling with the boys.

His name was John, and he was the landlord at the Wayland Inn. I’d only seen him a couple times in the past month, as I so rarely left the fourth floor.

“Your rent’s due for next month, darlin’. Can’t hide forever.” His words flowed with a faint Irish rhythm.