Mindy McGinnis - In a Handful of Dust

Days later, Lucy pulled Spatter up beside Black Horse, no longer content with riding in silence. “How close are we?”

“To Nebraska? Close. But we’ll be crossing another river to get there, the Missouri.”

“Is it big, like the last one?”

“No”—Lynn shook her head—“doesn’t look to be nearly as big. I think the horses could swim it. The closest bridge to our route goes into a city, and I don’t like the look of it. What you said earlier is right: there’s nobody out here, so where’d they all go?”

“You think everyone is in the cities? But why would they do that, when there’s plenty of streams out here?”

“I don’t know, but the more I think on it, the more it worries me. We’ve had no problem finding water, which isn’t surprising. But nobody’s giving us any trouble about taking it, either, and that’s downright weird.”

Lucy thought of Entargo, and the rotted emptiness of its streets. “What if there was an illness like back home and there isn’t anybody left in the whole state?”

“Then I’m not anxious to hang around and get sick.”

Lucy fiddled with Spatter’s mane, her fingers burning off the nervousness that rippled through her body. “This river, you think it’ll have a strong current?”

“Doubt it, there’s not been much rain.” Lynn glanced over at Lucy and her busy hands. “It’s not as big, kiddo. It won’t make you feel so small.”

Lucy looked at her fine-boned fingers as she picked a knot from Spatter’s mane. “Doesn’t take much,” she said.

Black Horse picked up his pace, and Spatter jogged to keep up, making her drop his mane for the reins. “The horses smell it.”

They rode on, until the Missouri was spread before them like a silver ribbon coursing through the land. It was not nearly the size of the Mississippi, and Lucy’s breath left her in a wave of relief. They let the horses drink first and rest in the shade of the trees growing by the bank. The women filled their bottles as well, dousing their hair and drenching their shoulders before refilling for the road.

“C’mere, Mister,” Lynn said gruffly, pulling on Black Horse’s reins.

“Mister?” Lucy teased. “Your great affection for him is showing.”

Lynn surprised her by rubbing him between the ears after swinging up into the saddle. “He’s not a bad animal,” she said brusquely, and urged him out into the water.

Spatter followed, and the cold water filled Lucy’s boots, sliding wet fingers up through her pants and soaking her legs in seconds. Her teeth chattered, despite the heat. When Spatter’s legs left the river bottom her stomach churned, lurching along with the current that pulled him southward. She closed her eyes and clenched one fist around the pommel, the other tightly woven in Spatter’s mane. The water flowed over her, much colder than the pond at home.

She didn’t open her eyes until his forelegs hit dry ground. Lynn was astride the newly christened Mister, her pride in him overflowing into a neck rub.

“Welcome to Nebraska, little one.”

What Lucy would remember most about Nebraska was the graveyards. Some had stood before the Shortage, others were newer. The grass had succumbed to the heat and lack of rain, falling over on brittle stalks and leaving tombstones visible across the flat plains for miles. The few houses they saw Lynn did not trust, and they sought out graveyards for rest, the hulking stones offering more cover from roving eyes than the solitary trees that stood alone on the plains.

Lynn did not rest easy, and although Lucy watched her fastidiously to be sure she was eating and drinking, there was no way to force her to sleep. They kept their guns at the ready, not daring to use them to hunt, as there was nothing to stop the crack of their rifles from rolling across the empty land, into the ears of whoever might be out there.

The emptiness pulled at Lucy, as it had in Iowa. The dark fear that they were the only two people left on earth niggled at her brain, teasing her with the idea that when they reached California it would be no different; the desal plants they were so desperate to find would stand empty, Lucy and Lynn clueless as to their operation.

Halfway through Nebraska she woke from one such nightmare, an image of the ocean stretching into eternity and the empty beach beside it still imprinted on her eyes. Sweat dripped from her forehead, even though the nights had been tolerably cool. She sat up, pulling her drenched shirt away from her body and resting her head against the white marble stone she’d set her pack beside before lying down.

“You all right?” Lynn asked, her voice floating in the pitch black of the moonless night.

“Yeah. Bad dream.”

There was a rustling noise, and Lynn appeared beside her, out of the darkness. “Seems like you’ve been having a lot of those lately.”

“Depends,” Lucy said. “Not sure sleeping in graveyards helps much.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, because…” Lucy searched for an answer that would make sense to practical Lynn. “We’re sleeping on top of dead people.”

“I don’t think they mind.”

Lucy sighed. “It doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Not really. For all you know we’ve slept on top of unmarked graves many nights and never felt the different for it.”

The idea of a body lost in the dirt, not even recognized by a stone above its head, sent Lucy’s mind down paths she didn’t want to explore. “Never mind,” she said. “I’m going back to sleep.”

She closed her eyes, barely able to tell the difference from the pitch black of the night. Sleep was fraying the edges of her consciousness when Lynn spoke again.

“It helps if you look at the stones,” she said so quietly, Lucy wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear. “This graveyard is an old one. Some of the stones are smooth as river rocks.”

“What do you mean it helps?” Lucy rolled over, toward the sound of Lynn’s voice.

“I was looking at ’em, earlier. You’d already drifted off, so I walked among the stones for a bit. There’s a section that’s older than the others. Most of the stones are fallen down or worn away, but you can still read some. Those people, they lived a long time ago, but their lives weren’t so different from what you and I are living right now.”

“Poor bastards,” Lucy said, and Lynn snorted.

“It made me think though, about what you said in Iowa—the emptiness of it all. You’re right, there aren’t many people. I was looking at those old stones, and there was this one woman, buried with her children. By the dates, she wasn’t much older than me, but it seems she lost five little ones before she died herself.”

“Five?”

“Yeah. Made me think, there’s probably people like that now too. Going through the hell of delivering five babies just to lose them all and die.”

“Not sure how looking at the most depressing stones you could find is helpful.”

“Reminds me of how important it is to keep going, that you’re what’s mine to protect and keep safe.”

A lump formed in Lucy’s throat, making her voice thick when she spoke. “You never wanted any of your own?”

“No,” Lynn said. “I’d think about it, but then poor Myrtle would go and get pregnant again and I’d see her so big and awkward, she couldn’t even get her own firewood. I need my body to do the things I ask it to, and not struggle to do them. And besides, I’m not made for it.”

“What do you mean, not made for it? You’re a great mom to me.”

“Sure, and when I got you, you were half-raised already, determined to do everything on your own and not ask for help. You weren’t hard to mother ’til you got older and didn’t listen anymore.”