Kristen Simmons - Article 5

There was an eerie, graveyardlike silence in this place. A deserted stillness that made my skin crawl. This had been one of the evacuation routes when Baltimore had gone down, or maybe DC. I’d seen it on the news once, years ago after the first attacks, from an aerial view. That was when reporters could still use helicopters, before nonmilitary aircraft were banned from the skies.

The mass evacuation. Then, the streets had been packed with cars and frantic pedestrians, who slept on roadside cots at Red Cross stations when an accident or an overheated vehicle blocked traffic. I remembered the news capturing fights and victims of heat exhaustion. Kids wandering around looking for their parents.

Some of the cities had started to rebuild, but after eight years, this highway had been forgotten.

Chase eased off the pavement onto the bumpy soil and steered around a broken dining room table. Most of the dull yellow stalks immediately off the road had been trampled by scavengers or vehicles too impatient to wait in line during the evacuation. But beyond those there was heavy cover, enough to hide me when I disappeared.

With a pained grunt, Chase slammed the shifter into park.

My anxiety notched higher. It was almost time.

He’d be angry at first; I remembered his begrudged promise to my mother. Hopefully he wouldn’t look too long. After a while he’d probably figure I’d gone to the carrier and be relieved that his burden was lifted. Then he’d go on with his life. Just like he’d done before. He’d lost his military career, but I couldn’t feel guilty about that: The old Chase had never wanted to be drafted anyway. The old Chase had hated the MM.

We both stepped outside from our respective doors. I was moving too cautiously, watching him out of the corner of my eye to see if he was watching me. He jerked the bench seat forward with his good arm, muttering something about a first-aid kit.

Just go. Why was I stalling?

Because it’s your fault he’s this way, a small voice inside of me said. I could rationalize that this was not all true, but the bare fact remained that I could have changed everything.

I could still see him waiting in my driveway beside his motorcycle, the rain dripping from his hair and his chin and his sopping clothes.

Ask me not to go.

His eyes had burned then, so many conflicting emotions, but I’d been only afraid. Afraid that they would come after him and punish him, and that it would be my fault because I couldn’t let him go. Afraid that if I wasn’t strong enough to say good-bye, my mother would be left there alone.

The letter quaked between my trembling fists. I didn’t shelter it from the rain. I wanted those words to wash away, but every reading yielded the same results.

“Chase Jacob Jennings: In accordance with Section One, Article Four of the Moral Statutes of the United States, you are hereby ordered for immediate induction into the Federal Bureau of Reformation. This is your third and final notice.”

The look on his face ripped my heart clean in half.

“One word, Em. That’s all. Tell me you want me to stay.”

If I had, he never would have gone to the draft board. He never would have arrested my mother. I never would’ve known Rick and Stan, Brock or Randolph, Morris. Or what it was like to ache every day for him.

It had begun to rain, just a drop here and there, a tease of the oncoming storm. In the distance I heard the ominous crack of thunder. While he was distracted I reached into the cab and grabbed the chocolate—sustenance should I not immediately find a local soup kitchen.

I had some money, food, and clothing. It was as good as I was going to get with the circumstances as they were.

I looked at Chase one last time. His hair was streaked with sweat, likely from the pain he was in. It brought forth a staggering sense of helplessness, something I knew I could not indulge now.

He’d be all right. He was a survivor. And now I had to be one, too.

“Good-bye,” I said, knowing that my voice was too soft to hear. I forced myself to ignore the sharp pang of regret as I took a step back, away from the truck.

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” My voice cracked.

“Go,” he grunted, still consumed with peeling off his shirt. “But stay close.”

I nodded then turned quickly and walked through the rows of corn in a straight line away from the road.

MYplan was to get as far away from the truck as possible before turning parallel to the highway. I walked fast, glancing behind me often to see if Chase was following.

The high yellow stalks surrounded me on all sides, the scent of rotted corn permeating my senses. When I could no longer see any traces of the truck, I made a hard left turn, but the rows weren’t as even in this direction. I had to loop around clumps of plants and weeds to continue my forward momentum. My line ceased to be straight.

I lost my bearings.

The cornstalks were too high, and I continued to cross curving paths left by vehicles, which threw off my sense of direction even more. I looked up, but the sky was a consistent pewter. Even if I knew how to find my way by the placement of the sun, I was at a loss now.

The rain came, soft at first but then with sudden vigor. It clattered off the sheaths of dried corn, growing in volume until I could barely hear my own footsteps as I tromped through the weeds.

I wiped the hair from my face and the pouring water from my eyes and tried to control my breathing. I was reluctant to raise my hood for fear that I’d miss some landmark or clearing that would show me the way back to the road. I spun in a circle, but even my tracks became distorted by the rain. There was no turning back. Everything looked exactly the same.

Panic clawed its way up my spine.

“Pull yourself together,” I said out loud. But I was acutely aware of each passing second. I had to make it to Winchester soon. To catch a bus and find the carrier. I didn’t have time for this.

I could feel my mother slipping away.

Spooked, I began to run, needing to escape from the prison walls that reached two feet above my head. I thrashed my arms to clear the way in front of me, but the plants had sharp edges, which sliced into my exposed skin. Every time I knocked down a stalk, another sprang up in its place.

Slow down, I told myself. Breathe. Think!

But my body didn’t listen. I couldn’t see the highway back to Winchester. I couldn’t even find the truck. The fear stabbed deeper into my chest. I ran on, feeling the sweat mingle with the mocking rain from the sky above. Where was the road?

I fell once, slapping into a puddle of mud that splashed onto my face and into my mouth. I spit out what I could, choking, and ran again.

Finally, I spotted a clearing ahead. Without pause I steered toward it. I didn’t even care if I’d backtracked to the truck, just so long as I figured out where I was. As I drew closer, I could see more clearly and grasped my knees, gasping for breath but exalted that I was no longer alone.

Ahead was a double-wide trailer, the same dull yellow as Rick and Stan’s skin and eyes. It was covered on one corner by a strip of aluminum where the weather had worn down the siding. Below huddled three large plastic drums, transparent enough for me to see the liquid that sloshed within — water, presumably. Several wind chimes swung violently from the front door’s awning. I couldn’t hear them over the pelting rain.

On the square cement step, a woman sat in a rocking chair watching the storm. The sweatpants she wore bagged around her calves, and a knit shawl the color of plums was wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She looked like she’d been heavyset at one time but had grown suddenly thin and been left with too much extra skin. I could see such a pouch hanging from her chin, and more on the exposed areas of her forearms. A big yellow Lab lay on the ground beneath her feet.