Jo Treggiari - Ashes, Ashes

And there he was, taller than she remembered. His shaggy blond head, his red sweatshirt. He leaned against a crumbling wall that was covered in faded posters and graffiti. As she watched he threw his head back, laughing at something his companion, a girl standing very close to him, said. The girl reached up and smoothed her hand across his face. Even from this distance she was striking. Her thick black hair so sleek it looked oiled and a jumble of silver bracelets on her tanned arms that caught the light.

Lucy wasn’t sure what to do. She’d crossed miles of treacherous ground. She’d lost everything but what she carried on her back. And now she just felt like crawling away. She couldn’t imagine walking downhill into that crowd of people. Knowing her, she’d probably trip and fall. The buzz of dialogue almost hurt her ears. She wasn’t even sure if she remembered how to start a conversation. “Hi,” she said experimentally, and her voice cracked.

On the other hand, they had water, and whatever was cooking above the fire smelled good. Dusk was approaching, and the thought of sleeping out here was daunting. She could cut through the settlement to link up with the Geo Wash Bridge farther north if she meant to keep on going. Or backtrack the way she had come, across the rope bridge again, and then go miles around, and that was an unbearable thought.

She stood up, brushed the dirt from her clothes. Her hands crept up to her hair. The humidity had matted it into the corkscrew curls she despised. She spat on her fingers and dragged them through the unruly mass, but it was no good. She scowled. This was stupid. She didn’t need anybody. There was no one down there whose opinion meant anything to her. She squared her shoulders, shrugged the backpack into position, checked her knife, and took one last look around.

Suddenly she stopped in her tracks. She saw a billow of dust coming from the south along the road. Not a cyclone. This hugged the tarmac, and it moved fast and low. The cloud dispersed, and now she could see a line of vans speeding toward the square. Four white vehicles like delivery trucks, but unmarked. The same type of van she’d seen crawling through her neighborhood sixty days after the plague arrived, searching out the sick and dead, dragging people from their homes. “Sweepers” was what the TV anchors had called them. Cleaning up the mess. Her eyes darted to the thronging crowd. She remembered what Aidan had said, that the Sweepers were hunting survivors now. She was gripped by a fear so strong, it cramped her belly. She was still too far away; the vehicles were moving too fast. How could she alert them?

She waved her arms in the air. No one noticed, not even when she jumped up and down. She could yell, but her voice would be drowned by the tumult of voices below. A sound. Something unexpected. Something that would carry across the square. She pursed her lips. She was pretty good at wolf whistling, a skill she’d mastered to annoy Maggie. But her throat was too dry, and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She couldn’t whistle, but she had an idea. She filled her lungs and howled, a long wail that cut through the air like a knife.

The mournful cry seemed to echo. Down below people snapped to attention, froze for a long moment, and then the jumble of noise started up again. There was some laughter and excited chatter, as if it were a prank. Heads turned this way and that looking for the source of the howling. Then someone screamed. She heard shouts: “The Sweepers are coming!” and a dozen arms pointed at the speeding vans barely one hundred yards away now. So close that Lucy could hear the rev of the accelerators, smell the sharp odor of gasoline. They arrived in a column, the exhaust fumes and the dust boiling up along the road behind them.

And then, like an anthill kicked open, people were running everywhere, making for the alleyways, melting into the shadows. It seemed like everyone was yelling. Kids disappeared under tarps and into tents. It was chaotic, but in a way it seemed rehearsed. Aidan was lost in the tumult. She leaned forward, crouched against the ground, searching the crowd for his bright sweatshirt, and found him bent over an old woman who was frantically trying to tie the corners of her blanket together around a pile of fruits and vegetables. Shriveled apples rolled in the dirt. A child stumbled and fell, screaming when he scraped his palms on the rough surface. Aidan scooped him up. A boy and girl, eight or nine years old with identical rats’ nest hair, scabby knees, and dingy undershirts, squatted under an awning with their arms around each other. Two older kids threaded their hands through a column of bicycle tires. They could barely walk with their load. The dark-haired girl yelled at them and they dropped the stuff and scuttled off. Lucy pressed her body into the earth, lifting her head to see. She had a clear view. The square had emptied out. About fifteen or twenty people remained, and most of them seemed to be Lucy’s age. A few of them picked up rocks and sticks from the ground. Some pulled short knives and slingshots from their pockets. They spread out in a thin line. Their faces were set and grim.

Brakes squealed. The clamor of the engines seemed incredibly loud. One of the vans sideswiped the edge of a caved-in building, dislodging pieces of brick. Another plowed through a heap of pots and pans, sending them flying into the air. The vehicles slowly pulled up in a wedge and came to a stop, although the engines continued to roar. They effectively blocked the road. The front and rear windows of the vans were tinted. Heavy steel bars were welded to the bumpers. Huge truck wheels lifted them up four feet from the ground. The engines cut off simultaneously. The back doors were flung open, and a dozen figures in white hazmat suits spilled out. They wore shiny headgear and heavy, laced boots and carried small black boxes. Their hands looked like they were made of marble, and Lucy realized they were wearing white surgical gloves. Someone else appeared around the side of a van, holding the ends of several thick leashes in his black leather-clad hands. Four vicious-looking dogs struggled to free themselves from their trainer. They were powerfully built, with barrel-chested black and tan bodies. Rottweilers and German shepherds, Lucy thought, watching their noses scent the air, ears pressed flat against their skulls.

Aidan stood with the dark-haired girl and an older man, who was muscular with a shaved head and the glimmer of gold in both ears. He looked five or six years younger than Lucy’s father had been. Mid-thirties, she guessed. His bulky arms were inked with swirling blue tattoos, his calves bulged, and his back was ramrod straight. There was something military about him, as if he’d been trained for conflict. Lucy glanced from the teenagers standing in their thin line to the Sweepers who had spread out in a solid row. The Sweepers stood shoulder to shoulder, their helmets reflecting the sunlight. They looked as impenetrable as a steel wall. The teenagers didn’t stand a chance.

Lucy fought the urge to run. Adrenaline scurried up and down her spine. Things seemed to be happening in slow motion, but she knew it had barely been a minute or two since the vans arrived. The Sweepers moved forward. Aidan and the others faced them, flimsy weapons ready. The bald man raised his hand. Chunks of stone flew through the air. Lucy heard the clatter as they connected with the Sweepers’ headgear. Aidan yelled something indecipherable, but the anger was clear, and a second volley of rocks flew. One of the Sweepers broke ranks and took a wild swing at him—the blow missed his nose but connected with the side of his head. Aidan staggered and threw a punch back. The Sweeper dodged it and darted back to his line. Aidan pressed his hand to his cheek. Lucy winced. She could see the scarlet welt.