The Deadly Nightshade (8 page)

Chapter 16

We both wake up before dawn the next morning, me because I am eager to be on the move and Connor because he hears me stirring and still doesn’t trust me not to leave him behind. After eating a breakfast consisting of yesterday’s leftover blackberries and my last can of tuna, we pack up our things and get moving before the sun has fully risen. Despite the relaxed pace I set for us, Connor moves at a near jog, evidently eager to start learning. I can’t help but find his enthusiasm amusing, remembering when I was that keen on being taught everything my father knew.

We walk a few miles before we are fortunate enough to happen upon a small stream. I decide to follow its snaking path, explaining to Connor that bodies of fresh water such as this one make for prime hunting ground because this is where most of the nearby animals come to drink. As we walk, Connor stops and calls out to me every now and then to insist I check out some flower or shrub he finds particularly fascinating, trying my ever-thinning patience. For him, each and every plant we pass is noteworthy and merits my attention, but I fail to understand how he can find so much beauty in literally everything he sees. I suppose it would be an admirable trait if it didn’t slow us down so much, but for the most part it’s just annoying. He wants to enjoy everything—every leaf, every blade of grass, every speck of dirt, every gust of wind—and maybe that’s good for him because he might not be able to enjoy those things much longer. I, on the other hand, intend to see and feel these things everyday for the next few decades.

When we reach an area with enough foliage to hide a few traps in, I demonstrate how to make a snare using two sticks, two pieces of shoelace, and a bent sapling. I explain that the noose must be made of something strong enough to hold the weight of a struggling animal—wire, string, fishing line, metal coil, or even certain plant fibers will do. Next, I illustrate how the trigger works and teach him the importance of finding a strong young plant to use as an engine. When I have built, dismantled, and rebuilt my snare, I take it apart again and ask Connor to try. He seems unsure of himself at first, but after some hesitation he takes the materials and begins to reconstruct the trap. Although he has trouble tying the noose, everything else goes surprisingly smoothly; he wasn’t lying when he claimed to be a fast learner. I remove my last can of fruit from my bag, open it up, and place a piece of pineapple in the middle of the loop to entice whatever animals are nearby. Together we set up a few more snares throughout the area, and I remind him to keep a mental note of where we have placed each one, since it is easy to forget. Once we are done, we sit down to finish what fruit is left in the can.

“Now what?” Connor asks as he sucks the pineapple juice from his fingers.

“Now we wait.”

“Oh,” he says, seeming disappointed, as if he expected this experience to be more exciting. We sit in silence for a moment as we slurp up the last of the sugary syrup, but, of course, Connor is incapable of remaining quiet for more than a few minutes. “Hey, so while we’re just sitting here why don’t we start on those questions?” he suggests.

What
is this kid’s fascination with me? He knows I don’t give a crap about his backstory, so why does he give a crap about mine? But considering there’s no other way to pass the time other than playing the quiet game, which I know he wouldn’t be keen on doing, I agree to answer his stupid inquiries.

I expect him to take a while to come up with the questions, but he begins immediately, leading me to believe he has been preparing for this since I agreed to his interrogation last night. He repositions himself so that he sits cross-legged in front of me, his hands folded in his lap and a delighted expression like that of a schoolgirl at her first sleepover on his face.

“Alright,” he says, “let’s start with an easy one. How old are you?”

I realize immediately what a mistake it was to agree to this; if I’m reluctant to even reveal something as simple as my age, how am I supposed to answer real personal questions? But I’m too proud to go back on our deal, so after a moment’s hesitation I tell him I am nineteen.

“Huh, two years older than me and ten times more badass. That doesn’t make me feel bad about myself at all . . . So where did you used to live—you know, before all of this?”

Hm, simple enough, not
too
personal. I’ll accept it. “You mean my accent hasn’t given me away? New York—or what used to be New York.” I recall the glorious city for a moment, its towering skyscrapers, its glistening glass buildings, its bustling streets filled with people from all walks of life. The City that Never Sleeps, they used to call it—and now it sleeps eternally.

“Look at that!” he laughs. “We were practically neighbors! You know, it really is a small world.” Then, with a mischievous glint appearing in his blue eyes, he adds, “Alright, enough easy ones. Now tell me, Nightshade, what’s your real name?”

I shake my head. “Think of another one.”

“Oh, come on!” he groans. “Alright, you know what, fine. Tell me this then: how did you get your new name? Why are you called Nightshade?”

“Next question.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

Connor emits a prolonged sigh. I can tell I am irritating him with my lack of cooperation, but I don’t care. My old name died with the old me years ago. I am Nightshade now, and it doesn’t matter how I became her or who I was before she existed.

“How many people have you killed?” he asks finally. “You can answer that one, can’t you?”

For the first time since this conversation began, I feel the need to look away. Focusing my attention on the patch of grass beside me, I run my fingers through it absentmindedly. I find myself unable to answer Connor’s question for a long while—so long, in fact, that he opens his mouth to repeat it.

“More than anyone should ever have to to survive,” I murmur as I rip the thin blades of grass from the dirt and release them, watching them flutter back to the ground.

Connor is silent for a long time—longer than he has ever been for the entire time I have known him. I guess he’s finally realized what I truly am—a killer, an assassin, a monster. It’s about time. When he speaks again, his voice is much more hollow. “How did you end up on your own? Or were you always by yourself?”

“My mother died in the bombings. She was a nurse at Columbia Medical Center, so she was one of the first to go. My father had begged her not to go into work that day, what with the threats and all, but she wouldn’t hear it—felt it was her duty not to abandon her patients, apparently. I don’t think he ever forgave himself for letting her go.

“My father and I, on the other hand, we were lucky—we were on a camping trip upstate when it started, so we managed to avoid getting hit. I was with him for a little more than two years after everything fell apart. He’s the only reason I’m alive, really. After it all went down, we found this weapons shop in some shitty little town and loaded up—that’s where I got these babies,” I say, gesturing to my katanas and knife belt. “Then we pretty much just drove until our car ran out of fuel. We settled down in a little storehouse for a couple years, until the threat of gangs drove us out. After that he moved us into this abandoned insane asylum that turned out not to be as abandoned as we originally thought. He, uh, he didn’t make it.”

Suddenly I find that I have actually said too much—more than I would have cared to reveal about myself. I can tell Connor doesn’t know how to respond, but I do not look at him, choosing instead to place all the grass I have pulled out of the ground into a neat pile.

“Well, I can see I’ve lightened the mood,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Okay, last question. This one isn’t as morbid as the last two, I promise. What’s your favorite book?”

I think for a moment, recalling every book my father ever made me read. Although I loved each one of them for some reason or another, one title in particular comes to mind. “
A Tale of Two Cities
by Charles Dickens,” I say. “Ever read it?”

He shakes his head.

“It’s a really great book. When my father was alive—before we moved to the asylum—he would go out and bring me back books to read, said it would keep my mind sharp. He loved the classics, so I ended up with a lot of Hugo and Brontë and Austin and Hemingway. But for some reason
A Tale of Two Cities
was always my go-to novel. I don’t know why, really—maybe because it’s about how the whole world goes kind of crazy, like ours did, and it’s all about rebirth and how people can change for the better despite the chaos. I don’t know. It’s just nice to know that the world can turn you into one thing but that doesn’t mean you have to be like that forever.”

“And do you like what this world has turned you into?”

I stare at Connor for a long time, and for the first time since I met him I find him beautiful—not in a romantic way, but a sad kind of beautiful. His sickly ashen skin and scrawny body not only serve as a grim reminder of his former days of hunger, but also as evidence of his ability to survive on his own in the face of starvation. His large blue eyes, which shine with fire despite the misfortunes he has lived through, are proof of his resilience and stubbornness even toward death. We sit on that bank together, two tragic souls lost in a world we were not born into and have learned to navigate alone up until now. For the first time, I am thankful that he found me.

“I’ve already answered your five questions,” I say. “That’s one for another day.”             

Chapter 17

We sit in that spot for a while longer to allow ample time for prey to fall into our traps. After Connor has made sure to lick every last remnant of pineapple juice from his fingertips, he lies back on a bed of dead leaves with his arms folded behind his head and stares up at the sky. I sit a few feet away, watching his eyelids flutter and fight to stay open. He appears only a few seconds from dozing off, so I pick a twig off the ground and toss it at his face. My projectile hits him right between the eyes, successfully startling him back to consciousness. Dazed and unsure of what just happened, he jumps up in alarm, looking around wildly, and I am forced to stifle my laughter. Realizing what I have done, he glowers at me.

“Good, you’re up,” I say. “We ought to get moving. Let’s check the snares to see if we’ve caught anything.”

“See, Nightshade, that’s your problem,” he says, laying back down. “Everything with you is get on the road, never stop moving, don’t settle in one place for too long. You need to learn to be patient, to slow down, to relax and take in the scenery every once in a while—there isn’t much else to do nowadays.”

“Well my way of doing things has kept me alive on my own for four years now, so . . .”

“Touché. But, then again, what’s the point of surviving if you can’t even enjoy it?”

“I enjoy it,” I say.

Still eager to leave, I insist we check the traps. After some mild protesting, Connor grudgingly gets back on his feet and we head for the locations of our snares. Upon reaching the first, we are greeted with a fat squirrel struggling wildly to free itself from our noose.

“Look at that,” I say. “You’ve already caught something. See how easy it is?”

“So this is all there is to it? You just set up a trap, wait a while, and hope something happens to fall for it?”

“I never said it was a science. But yeah, all that’s left to do now is kill it.”

He grimaces. “Oh, God, do I really have to?”

“Yes, Connor, that’s kind of necessary.”

His expression changes to one of absolute pain. “But it has fur and paws and whiskers. I can’t kill
that
—look how cute it is.”

“Yeah, it is cute, and it’s also delicious and I intend to eat it.”

“Come on, didn’t you ever have a pet rabbit or hamster or something?”

I sigh in exasperation, then grab the thrashing squirrel and remove the noose from its torso, holding it tightly so it can’t wriggle free. “Yeah, I had a gerbil when I was seven, but that doesn’t mean I would rather go hungry than eat one of his cousins.” With one quick flick of the wrist I snap the animal’s neck. Its body goes limp in my hands. Connor shudders, but says nothing.

“Honestly, Connor,” I scold, tying the dead squirrel to my belt for later, “you act like you’ve never killed anything in your life.”

He looks at me gravely, and I realize from his measured stare that the killing of that squirrel has affected him; it’s funny—he watched me dispatch five men and that was just peachy, but the second I break one squirrel’s neck suddenly I’m a villain.

“That’s because I haven’t.”

The words sound so innocent as they flow from his mouth. He is so pure, so uncontaminated, so untouched by this world that grabs at everyone it meets with its grimy black hands until they cannot scrub the dirt from their face or the blood from their skin. I have been corrupted, there is no doubt about that; I was nothing more than a guiltless seedling when the War commenced, but I have germinated under the present conditions and blossomed into something deadly. But Connor—Connor is an entirely different animal. To have lived all this time and never killed a soul—it’s remarkable. But he cannot survive this way; if he wants to go on living he will have to kill eventually, and it looks like I will have to be the one to corrupt him.

“Go check the other snares,” I order. “If there’s nothing there then take them apart and move on to the next. If you’ve caught something and it’s not dead already, it’s your job to kill it. Otherwise you don’t eat.”

Somewhat reluctantly, he leaves to do what I have asked of him. While he is gone, I try to determine which way would be best to go from here, ultimately deciding we should keep heading west—even deeper into the woods—in order to further reduce our likelihood of running into other people. As I pace back and forth in my state of contemplation while I wait for Connor to return, the shrill cry of a bird’s warning call sounds somewhere in the distance, interrupting my thoughts. The sound of dozens of flapping wings follows, and I look above my head to find a flock of blackbirds scattering from the treetops in fear of some peril. While normally this would put me on my guard, now that I have Connor with me I know it was probably his loud, careless steps that frightened them away. I can’t help but sigh. If he doesn’t work on treading lighter, he’s going to cost us a lot of meals.

When Connor returns, he carries three dead animals by the nooses that caught them. With a look of satisfaction, he displays what his snares captured: a hare and two more squirrels—enough to feed us today and probably well into tomorrow.

“Impressive,” I praise him as I tie the animals to my belt. “It’s rare for every snare to catch something. Usually you’re lucky if even one works.”

“Well two of them were empty, so I took them apart like you told me to.”

“What are you talking about? We only set up three.”

“What are
you
talking about? There were five.”

Suddenly I remember the birds. “Connor, show me all of the strings you took from the nooses and leader lines.”

He pulls the strings out of his jacket pocket and displays them to me. Though they are similar in appearance, four of them are noticeably thicker than the others. I look around frantically, trying to determine if someone might be lurking nearby.

“Connor, we need to go. Now.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“There are other hunters here. We have to leave.”

Connor’s face breaks into a wildly excited grin. “Other people? Nightshade, we have to meet them. They could be friendly. They could help us!”

“Or they could kill us. Now are you coming or not?”

Connor hesitates for a moment, but evidently realizing I am not going to change my mind, he nods and we take off at full speed. We run side by side, hurtling over fallen logs and careening around the trees and bushes that block our path. For a moment I no longer feel like the hunter, but the prey being hunted; it is a feeling I do not like. I turn my head, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of the predator chasing us so I know what I’m up against, but there is no trace of any pursuer. I look at Connor, whose sweat-beaded face is colorless with fear—fear of the unknown, fear of the unseen, fear of whatever managed to spook the girl without fear.

We don’t stop running for nearly ten minutes—until I am sure there is a safe distance between whoever is back there and us—and even then we maintain a brisk walking pace and I continue to glance over my shoulder to check that no one is on our trail. Only when the sun begins to set am I finally sure we are safe from danger for the time being.

As we make camp that night, Connor asks me why we didn’t at least attempt to talk to the other hunters. He just doesn’t seem to get it.

“Because,” I say, my patience running thin, “maybe they could have been friendly. Maybe. But probably not. The fact is I would rather not risk my life on the off chance that they might decide not to kill us.”

“So that’s it then, huh?” he asks, his voice thick with frustration. “You just assume everyone’s dangerous and untrustworthy and don’t even give them the opportunity to prove otherwise?”

“Look, Connor, if you want to go back there and try to make friends that’s your prerogative, but I’m telling you that nine times out of ten interactions with other people don’t turn out well.”

“And what about that one in ten? That’s not worth it to you?”

How anyone who has lived in a world as cruel as this one for as long as I have can be this naïve is completely beyond me. Connor’s survival up until now is truly an anomaly if I’ve ever seen one.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re my one in ten,” I say. “Maybe after nine more I’ll consider giving that whole trusting thing a try.”