Chapter Thirty-Five
THE SUN IS HIGH IN the sky, shooting down rays of lava as we trudge down the well-beaten path toward some destination unbeknownst to me.
For November, the air is boiling. Shit, for June, the air is boiling.
Throughout my life, there’s always been spikes of heat in the winter, flashes of cold in the summer.
More hurricanes and fires than meteorologists could have ever predicted.
Greenville’s far enough inland that we’re protected from the worst of it, but with every season, the weather gets more erratic. The environmental effects of the bombs certainly didn’t help, with virus-tinged water seeping back up into the atmosphere.
Above, wispy clouds form the shape of a hand, claw-like fingers reaching toward me, desperate to consume. We’re decidedly fucked.
Zombies aside, there’s a high probability humanity won’t make it past a few years, so might as well make the best of it while we’re here. Which means getting my family to Macoby. And learning how to survive outside the Split on my own, with no man to protect me.
As we walk along the outer perimeter of the Split, the Egal watchtower comes into view. It’s not much—a small ledge built on wood legs. Just like Macoby’s. Only . . .
“Greeley, are those children?”
“What’re you on about?” she says, gazing lovingly at her new toy. “This thing’s 308 cal. You ever shoot a sniper?”
“No, I haven’t,” I say. Greeley shakes her head in disappointment and swings the gun around her back. When I’m certain she won’t accidentally (or intentionally) shoot me in the foot, I nudge her with my elbow. “Up there. Look.”
She twists her head around. “Damn! Those are kids. C’mon, let’s go give ’em shit.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
But it’s too late. Greeley’s already jogging over to the watchtower, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious what the hell was going on.
In my two years living in Egal, I’ve only ever known two guards: Terrance and Dale.
While children are assigned to ludicrous jobs—the Sick Room, sorting and stitching clothes, sterilizing water—they’ve never been assigned to guard the perimeter. I could never have imagined this.
By the time I catch up to Greeley, sweat drips down my face, and my chest heaves from exertion. I search the two kids’ faces—about ten years old, I guess—but I don’t recognize them. And based on how they’re pointing their crossbows at me, they don’t recognize me, either.
The taller boy scrunches his nose. “Who are you?”
The other boy whispers in his ear, “They’re not Egals—they only come and go in the truck. They must be Macs.” Their eyes bug out, and their fingers hover too close to the trigger for my liking.
I clear my throat and raise my hands. “We’re not—I mean, yes, we are, but—where’s Terrance?”
The taller boy says, “How do you know Terrance?”
Before I consider how much I should tell these boys about who I am, the shorter boy says, “He’ll be back from lunch in five. So I’d get out of here before he’s back, if I was you.”
Oh, to be threatened by a ten-year-old.
Greeley says, “And what’re two young gentlemen like yourselves doing on guard duty?”
The shorter boy seems more keen to reveal information. Maybe he’s younger, or maybe he doesn’t realize he should keep his mouth shut. “We’ve all got mandatory shifts now to protect our land from Macs like you.”
“Yeah! We’re protecting Egal! And we’re not afraid to shoot, so get on outta here!”
They don’t know it, but they both look utterly terrified. From the way their hands wobble holding the too-heavy weapons, they won’t shoot. They have neither the skill nor the gumption.
And they shouldn’t. They’re children.
Greeley giggles. “Okay, boys. We’ll get going, then.”
With crossbows aimed at our backs, Greeley and I walk away from the Split. When we’re out of eyesight, she leans over to me. “Can you believe that?”
“No,” I say. “I can’t. Chandler’s spouting propaganda, isn’t she? About Macoby?”
Greeley nods. “Are you seeing it now? She’s a dictator. Chandler doesn’t want what’s best for her community. She wants power.”
“And what do you want, Greeley?” This is a question that’s been ruminating in my mind: Who is Greeley fighting for?
“I want to find a cure. Sure, it’d be nice to keep myself and my friends alive.”
“Friends?”
Greeley counts on one hand. “Jasper. Sling, Bama, Clara. And myself, of course. Gotta be your own best friend.”
“Right.” I get that she hates me, but why did I hope to hear my own name on that list?
“Saving them’s all a bonus, though. I didn’t spend years of my life getting a fucking PhD for nothing.
I didn’t spend years watching Native Americans get shit on by a wacked-out president for nothing.
Didn’t spend years watching my father turn into a shell of a person because of that.
No, I’m going to find a cure. And if it turns out that President Fuckwad and his cronies are hiding out somewhere, I’ll make them all pay.
” Greeley cracks her neck and her knuckles.
Then, she flashes a smile so bright it contends with the sun.
“And that, Blondie, is why we’re going fishing.
Because I’ve got a hunch that the cure has something to do with water.
” She laughs. “That, and I’m hungry. Now let’s get a move on. ”