Psion Gamma (26 page)

Sammy told Toad he couldn’t. “I don’t know much about it.”

“I’m sure the principles are the same, right?”

Sammy just shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s terrific! How am I supposed to learn to defend myself if you can’t teach me?” Toad picked up a rock and expertly threw it at the tip of Sammy’s shoe.

The rock didn’t hurt Sammy, but a deep and sudden urge for violence flooded his body. It rose up from that darker half of him that had been born of Stripe’s cruelty. He forced himself to think of something—anything to get his mind off it. He thought back to Byron’s earliest sim instructions and recited them over and over until he calmed down.

What’s wrong with me?
he asked himself once he was under control.
Why do I feel like this?

Toad seemed to realize that he’d gone too far and immediately apologized.

Cold winds swept across the flat plains and deserted farmlands of Mid-American Territory, dropping the temperature even at noon to cool levels. Sleep was difficult during the windy night. They walked long after dusk, following the North Star shining brilliant and high in the cloudless twilight, trudging along until their legs nearly gave out in exhaustion. Only then were their bodies so tired that even the cold could not keep them awake.

Sammy’s faith, meanwhile, was stronger than ever. It had to be. If ever he had a chance of getting home, it was in Wichita. He just knew it. Deep down, he felt a resonating assurance that the resistance would be waiting there. The fantasy of getting home became sweeter the hungrier he grew. He couldn’t perfectly remember his friends’ faces anymore without glimpses of Stripe poking in, but he wasn’t worried. Home was happiness.

By the start of the third day from Stillwater, Sammy knew they weren’t going to make it to Wichita. Their precious bag of spaghetti noodles was diminishing faster than he’d expected. Sammy blamed Toad. Twice he’d caught Toad sneaking extra noodles. Not a lot, but it didn’t matter. It really pissed him off, and all Toad had to say about it was that he couldn’t stand the hunger any more. But Sammy couldn’t complain. He’d sneaked extra noodles, too.

It was impossible to keep his mind off food. His energy was low. His stomach never seemed to stop growling, even after his small portion of noodles. The temperatures dropped even further as they walked farther north. It didn’t help that the only thing Toad wanted to talk about was the amazing Robochef at headquarters. Sammy wished he’d never mentioned it.

He kept track of how far north they were based on the highways they crossed. He knew the farther they kept away from I-35, the better off they were, and the less chance they’d come across unfriendly eyes.

That night, Toad spotted a house alongside the highway. The back wall had been torn off, probably by a tornado, exposing almost the entire interior. He pleaded with Sammy through trembling lips that it was as good a shelter as any they’d find. Sammy was compelled to agree. They hiked over to the house and found the least drafty spot to sleep.

“Can we start a fire?” Toad asked through trembling teeth and a loud sniff. “Please? We still have two matches left.”

Sammy was too tired and cold to argue. The condemned house had a fireplace, and the boys shoved anything they could find that would burn inside of it. The kindling caught well, and soon they had a crackling fire.

“If someone is following us, this might make it easier to find us,” Sammy muttered to Toad as he put his hands and feet close to the flames. “But you know what? I don’t even care right now. I’m warm.”

They munched on a few noodles while Toad told camping stories. When they’d settled down and brushed their teeth (Sammy saw no need for their supplies to go to waste), Toad quickly fell asleep. Sammy, however, did not. His mind was elsewhere.

Wichita is so close
. . .
Just a few more days.

With this musing came daydreams of his friends at headquarters. His heart longed to laugh with them again. His stomach ached to eat real food again. His body yearned to sleep in a real bed again.
And a shower would be great too
.

He chuckled silently to himself—an old man’s laugh—about the first time he had taken a shower at headquarters. He remembered something funny had happened then, but couldn’t remember exactly what.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft rustling noise coming from the damaged section of the house. It was so faint that he thought he’d imagined it. Then he heard it again.

“Hello?” he called out in a subdued tone. Toad stirred nearby, but Sammy heard no other sounds.

In his weary, lazy state, Sammy wanted to pass the event off as just some rubbish blowing in the wind. He lay on the floor, comfortable for the first time in a long while, wondering if he should investigate the noises.

Just when he decided he didn’t need to, footsteps crunched some debris across the room, alerting Sammy instantly. His movement roused Toad, who sat up like a jack-in-the-box released from its prison.

“Butterscotch!”

A gun went off in the darkness, but the bullet struck somewhere unseen. Sammy moved into a crouching position, using both hands to shield himself.

“Get behind me!” he told Toad.

The crunching steps came closer until Sammy could see puffs of breath briefly warming the air far across the room.

“Stop where you are!” Toad cried out with plenty of fear in his voice. “Okay? You don’t know what you’re doing. My friend here is deadly . . . and—and pretty crazy. Okay? It’d be best if you just turned around and left us alone.”

Into the firelight came a grizzled man dressed in a worn button-up shirt and patched jeans. His boots showed parts of his socks. He wore finger-less gloves, and both hands were clutched tightly around a small pistol. Sammy had already decided to kill him. The darker half born of Stripe was firmly in control.

He stood up and walked toward the man.

“Hold it right there now, boy!” The man’s voice wavered as he took a tenuous step backward. “I didn’t mean to fire a shot earlier. Wasn’t trying to hurt no one . . . I’m just looking to see if you have anything valuable.”

“Put the gun down or you’re going to get killed!” Toad screamed.

Sammy had one hand outstretched, generating a blast shield protecting him from any gunshots.

“I’m serious!” Toad said. He got to his feet and moved toward Sammy, but Sammy sensed this and gently blasted Toad back to the floor with his other hand. “Listen to me! Sammy, don’t kill him!”

“Stop there, kid,” the grizzled man warned. He cocked the hammer back and licked his beard-covered lips. “I ain’t messing around. Like I said, I just come to see if you have anything of worth. I got grandkids who need to eat. Can’t grow everything in a garden.”

Sammy ignored all this and kept walking toward the man who now appeared quite uncertain of his position of power. The man cursed and lowered his gun, but Sammy didn’t care. He meant to kill. Toad was yelling at him. The shabby-looking thief was now retreating like a cowardly dog. Sammy only had to decide if he should use blasts to incapacitate or just use his bare hands . . .

Just then something struck him in the back of the head. He turned and saw a small block of spare wood rolling along the floor. Toad raised another block, waiting for Sammy’s next move. Sammy turned back but the thief had fled. He glared at Toad, who glared right back.

They tried to sleep, but Sammy’s rest was fitful at best. Anytime he closed his eyes, he saw Stripe and creams and spinning lights. Then he had to fight down the urge to track down the thief and kill him slowly. On top of all that, a dull ache emanated from his stomach.

The sun had barely risen when they decided to push on. Sammy spent several minutes watching out the windows to make sure no one was waiting around the house. The early hours of the morning were quiet and still. The only sounds came from their own feet and Toad’s occasional sniffs. When they climbed out of the house and hit the ground, Toad noticed a little picnic basket in the grass.

Sammy was certain it hadn’t been there the night before. Cautiously, they approached it. Sammy used a well-aimed blast to open the lid. Inside was four slices of bread, a small square of cheese, an apple, and a plastic bag containing two strips of dried meat—about enough food for one modest meal. Taped to the underside of the basket lid was a note.

I am sorry.

“See?” Toad said with a giant grin. “When you don’t kill people, God helps you.”

They ate half the food right away. Toad compared it to manna from heaven.

Using the map as his guide, Sammy steered their route away from the highways, away from the ghost towns, away from any more delays.
Wichita
. All that mattered now was Wichita. The Thirteens wouldn’t matter there. The hunger wouldn’t matter, either. He just had to get to Wichita. The small meal and the thought of Wichita kept his mind off his stomach for most of the day, but as night fell, the hunger set in again—and set in deep.

After an hour or so, it went away, only to return again more vicious and demanding. Fatigue hit him hard that night. After munching on a few noodles, he fell asleep in a ditch covered up by an old curtain.

He woke feeling sicker than he’d ever felt. He was sure someone had come along in the night and scraped out his midsection with a spoon because the word hunger now had a new meaning. It was also the first thing Toad mentioned when Sammy shook him awake. As they munched the last of their noodles for breakfast, Toad went on and on talking about how much he wanted to eat the rest of the food in the picnic basket.

Sammy cut him off. “Did you hear me take off in the middle of the night to hunt for food? It’s all we have left. We can’t eat it yet.”

Their pace slowed. Sammy just didn’t have the energy to push it. By noon, they had to stop and take a long break. They each got a slice of dry bread to eat.

Sammy stared at the map blankly, thinking only about how much farther they had to go to Wichita.

“You know anything about wild plants we can eat?” he asked Toad.

“I know we can eat wild pizza,” Toad said dryly. He stared until Sammy got the joke.

All they could muster was a weak chuckle.

Fresh water from a stream helped revived them a little, but the day went on slowly. Twice, Toad asked if they could stop again, but Sammy forced them onward. His mind had reverted to daydreaming for comfort.

Wichita. The resistance. Returning home to headquarters in glory.

The only part of him grounded in reality was his feet. That was why Toad noticed the freeway first.

“Look!” His shouted tore Sammy’s mind away from Capitol Island and onto a six-lane road running north to south.

After fumbling with the map, Sammy saw where they were headed. “That’s I-35. If we follow it, we’ll head straight into Wichita.”

Thirty meters up the road was a sign. From their vantage point, Sammy could just barely read it: Wichita 89 km/55 miles

That’s about two days’ walk
, Sammy told himself.
We can do that. If we keep finding water, we can do that.

So the journeyers stumbled on, slowly going through the last of the food. Toad and Sammy often had to encourage each other with kind or stern words, other times with a hand literally pushing on the other’s back. Although he’d never admit it, Sammy realized what a blessing Toad had become.

“You’re the one who’s supposed to have all this extra energy,” Sammy complained to his friend. “How can you be tired?”

“I’m not a solar panel!” Toad retorted.

They stayed less than a kilometer east of the freeway not wanting to be seen by any passing cars or trucks. Sammy thanked whatever higher powers controlled the weather for a warmer night as they curled up in the grass and slept soundly.