World Of Shell And Bone (15 page)

Just when I feel like I can’t take anymore, the nurse’s voice rings out from somewhere behind us.

“Lunch time, everyone! Come gather outside the tent! Lunch time!”

The Asylum kids are obviously used to this routine. They lurch to their feet; those who are already standing shuffle, limp, or walk to the big tent where I’d seen Jasper. Ceres gets up and starts to walk off without me, but Lynx threads her fingers through Ceres’s hand. She pulls on her till my sister stops walking and then we all walk together.

I find myself hoping she’d been able to do this for Ceres inside the Asylum, too. Seeing someone actually looking at her like a human being makes this horror seem slightly less horrific than it is, somehow. Perhaps I’m only looking to console myself.

I’m quiet as I walk with them, watching the river of children swarm around us and part like water around a boulder in the riverbed. They gather around the nurse who seems to have a limitless supply of patience. When they tug at her, reaching for the strips of dried meat and handful of fruit she’s handing out of the canteen, she simply pushes their hands away gently and resumes doling out the food. When everyone has a plate, she reaches into a large pot and ladles out a light brown soupy drink into their glasses.

“It’s a high-energy drink,” she explains to me. “Would you like some?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine with water.”

She smiles, and after fixing a small plate for herself and me, joins Ceres, Lynx, and me on the grass.

“How do you do it?” I ask. “Fix them meals, sing to them? Doesn’t it distress you?”

She shrugs, looking into the distance as she chews. “I had a Nukehead sister. She ran away into the streets when I was a young girl. When I heard of the bottleneck and the brutality at the Asylums, I left my work as a medical nurse and fell in with the Nukeheads. They wanted to establish a refuge for all those vulnerable to the government’s atrocities, and they needed someone with medical knowledge.

Taking care of these kids, it’s my way of apologizing to my sister, if she’s alive. We’ve torn them down, anyone who’s not like us. How do you ever pay for taking away someone’s life, their dignity?” She shakes her head. “You don’t. You just do the right thing, whatever that happens to mean to you. For me, being here for them when they want their mothers feels right. So I do it.”

I consider this as I eat. Penance. I suppose I can understand her need for it. I look at Lynx and Ceres, a few feet away. Lynx is chattering to my sister, while Ceres is having a conversation all her own. She isn’t rhyming words anymore, but I can’t really tell what she’s saying.

“What happened, in the Asylums?” I ask softly. “All I know is that the Rads were revolting strongly because of especially poor treatment.”

“I don’t know all the details,” the nurse says. “But I dressed their wounds when they first arrived. Electrocution marks to the groin, the buttocks. Weeping sores that hadn’t been treated for so long, I had to sedate the child with alcohol and cut off a finger.” She bites her lip, takes a deep breath. “Whatever it was, it was hell on earth. These children are survivors of a magnitude we can’t even begin to understand.”

I swallow my mouthful, nauseated. A picture tries to wrestle itself into my mind, a picture with Ceres and a woman with an electric prod, but I push it out. I cannot begin to think that way or I might curl into a ball and cry for weeks. “Do you know much about how they first arrived? How did they escape?”

“All I know is it’s the work of Rad groups along Eastern New Amana. We don’t get much other information here.” The nurse shakes her head. “Those are brave men and women.” Glancing at me, she asks, “What about you? You must have quite a story. You’re wearing that Guard uniform, but you’re here, in a refugee camp, and you told me you were part of a Rad group.”

“That’s right. I was with the Ursa Rads,” I reply. “We were on our way to the Toronto Asylum to free the children, but we got ambushed on the bus. I escaped, but…I don’t know what happened to the rest.”

The nurse frowns. “Yes, I heard whisperings about your group. It was the other part of your group that went ahead with your plan anyway, or so the rumor goes. You likely have a hand in the kids sitting here.” She smiles and squeezes my arm. “You should be proud.”

“Yes, but the other Rads on the bus…do you know anything of what’s happened to them?”

Already she is shaking her head. “I’m sorry, dear, but from what little word we got, all the people in that shootout perished.”

I nod and look away.

Perished. Shale, perished. It’s that simple, that easy to decimate someone. In spite of myself, I think back to Shale pushing me off the bus, telling me to run. The weapon in his hand. The crack of gunfire. I close my eyes, dam the tears.

“…ashes, ashes, we all fall down.” Ceres’s singsong voice floats toward me on the gentle breeze. She’s singing an age-old nursery rhyme about people who died in the plague. I set my plate down and begin to walk.

The children float around in their own universes. After I’ve been there a day, I broach the question I have tried to resist, because knowing might be worse than not knowing. But after seeing Ceres, after realizing I will never know exactly what happened to her, I decide I can’t tolerate any more darkness.

After lunch, Nurse Carina comes to sit with Ceres and me. Her face is irrefutably kind. As I watch her watching the kids, the sun’s weak rays light up the dusting of wrinkles on her face and across her throat. She is much older than I’d initially realized.

“What’s the plan for all these kids?” I ask. “You can’t sustain them immeasurably. Where will they go when resources run out?”

Nurse Carina sighs, lies back in the sand. “The idea is to get them out of here. Now, this is all information the Nukeheads get through their contacts, so make of it what you will. But I’ve been told there are more sympathetic people in this country than you would think. And some of them are quite high up in the ranks. The last I heard, the Sympathetics and the Rads were speaking with China about sending stowaways on the ships going East. But there’s been no movement on that front as far as I know. Then again, everything is highly secretive, so we might not know till the day we leave. It’s safer for us all that way.”

I sit back and look at the children. There are thousands of them, without counting the Nukeheads, who keep to themselves in another part of the compound. There are dozens, scores of them, too. How will we get everyone on one ship? If we get them on several ships, won’t the government catch on to what we’re doing?

Ceres looks over at me, her eyes roaming my face as she studies it. My heart stutters for a moment, captured in that gesture.

“If I wanted to stow away on a ship, what resources would I need to tap into?” I continue to watch Ceres. My voice is casual, as if this is an everyday question.

Nurse Carina is silent for a moment, and when she replies her voice, too, is nonchalant. “Well, you’d need transportation to Toronto Harbor, for one. Ships usually arrive at the Harbor on the second Tuesday of every month. From this camp, the only way to get to the Harbor is to get a Nukehead to take you. They have a reliable system of taxis, but as you might imagine, they’re fairly reluctant to help us Flockers. Then you’d have to find a way to get on board; usually the middle of the night is the safest time. You’d need someone on board who was bribed or sympathetic to your situation.” Another pause. “It’s not easy, and you’re likelier to end up dead than free, Vika.”

I nod at her warning, but I’m already turning over her words in my mind. The second Tuesday of every month—that’s only twelve days from now. If we miss that opportunity, we’d have to wait another month for the next ship. Ceres needs help now. I wonder how I can talk the Nukeheads into giving us a ride. We can’t afford to wait around for a Rad ship that may or may not come. My sister has been through enough.

Days drift by like ash settling on concrete. It’s not easy to see as it happens, except for the odd piece of grit in your eye. Then one day you look around and everything is black, covered in grime, unsalvageable. You yourself will never be clean again.

I try to approach the Nukeheads on the few occasions when they’re in our part of the compound, but I am pointedly ignored. They only communicate with Nurse Carina, and then only about supplies she needs or illnesses with which they’d like help. My mind shrieks at me that our time is dwindling; we have to be on that ship soon. There are less than ten days left. But I know forcing myself on the Nukeheads will only make them pull further back. And so I continue to bide my time.

I watch Ceres, too, hoping arrogantly that my presence will trigger something in her. I wait for a glimmer of the past to seep through, for a chink of light to cut through the haze in her eyes. But there’s been nothing.

Today we’re sitting in the grass at the base of the big hill where I first saw her. She’s picking wildflowers, the weedy kind that have somehow survived in spite of the radiation and drought.

“Do you remember how we used to pick those flowers behind our house when you were very small?” I know there is little chance of this, even if Ceres was not emotionally scarred from the Asylum. She was only about three when we did it.

She continues to pick the yellow flowers, muttering to herself.

“You’d name them all because I told you they were alive. And then, when they died, you’d scream and cry and insist on giving them a proper burial.” I laugh even as tears spill over my bottom lashes and cascade down my cheeks. “I’d tell you to stop naming them, but you wouldn’t listen. And they were so beautiful that you couldn’t stop picking them either.” I laugh so hard, I begin to hiccup. “You always were a lost cause.” I watch her jerky motions as she pulls on the flowers, destroying them with her clumsy touch. “But I guess so was I.”

I stand up and stretch in the watery gray light of the late afternoon, the sun obstructed by concrete-colored clouds. There is no distinction between horizon, sky, and sand.

“I’m going to take a walk. Is that okay, Ceres?”

She doesn’t look up at me.

“Will you miss me while I’m gone?” I ask quietly.

There is no response.

I head up the hill, to the very top, hoping for a single moment of utter peace, just one moment in which my thoughts might quiet and all can be still within my soul.

It occurs to me as I stand there on the edge, feeling the wind rush past my face and hair, that we have come full-circle, Ceres and I. I am here now, someone the government is desperate to get rid of, someone who is a drain on society’s resources.

I think about Shale, the day we met. How I thought of him as complacent and not exceptionally intelligent. About the day little Onyx was taken, how he’d been the only one of the two of us who’d wanted to do the right thing. I think of the day I found the picture of Ceres—the day I realized everything I knew about him was a lie. I think about the copper pots and pans in our kitchen. By now, the government would have raided our apartment. Would they have taken Shale’s gifts to me? I think of a copper pot on its side, alone in the silent apartment, and a pang of sorrow wells up in me, leaving me breathless.

I step closer to the ledge so I can see the other side. Hardened sand crumbles, pebbles dance and twirl over the edge and hit the earth below. I put my hand on my stomach. What world am I bringing this new life into? Am I wrong for doing it in spite of what I’ve seen society do to its children? We birth humans and batter them into human-shaped pulp; empty nothingness housed by crumbling shell and bone.

“Flowers…go to heaven.”

I still. My blood stops its circuit through my body, my cells fail to age for a full minute. I turn around. She is hard to see through the wall of my tears.

“What did you say?” The words stick together, come out in a clump.

But she understands. “Vikki said…” She stops for a moment, as if to hold on to the thought. “Flowers go to heaven.”

I smile and take a step toward her. “You’re right. I used to say that, didn’t I?”

I said it so Ceres, in her toddler innocence, would feel better about them dying. Even though heaven was a forbidden concept to speak of, I wanted her to have something to believe in. I wanted my sister to be able to hope.

She remembers.

I go to her and envelop her in my arms. She pats me on the back stiffly.

I lie awake in the tent where Ceres and I have been situated side-by-side. There are about a dozen little girls and older teens in there with us. Nights have an eerie quality here; they are never silent, never a respite from the day. The girls are tormented by whatever demons hang over their shoulders even as they sleep. The night is a discordant harmony of moans, groans, mumbled warnings, and the occasional spine-chilling shriek. I’ve given up trying to sleep through it all. I must bear the burden for the hell I sent Ceres to, if only to bear witness to it under the cloak of darkness.

Ceres begins her muttering and kicking, and I pat her hand like I have been doing every night. Her protestations get louder, and I’m waiting for them to ebb when I realize she’s speaking words as she hardly ever does during the day.

“Oh, my baby,” Ceres mutters. “My poor, poor baby. My baby. Dead. Red. Said.” Her words fade away and then I can’t understand her anymore.

I lie there with her hand in mine, frozen. Ceres was pregnant? I close my eyes against the onslaught of images I do not want to see: Drew on me, Drew’s hand on my stomach. The scene changes, and now I am watching from above as Drew forces himself on Ceres. Blood flows from between her legs, thick and warm. I gasp and open my eyes. Tears puddle under my head. I turn on my side and reach for my little sister. I try to infuse her thin, cold body with some of my heat, but she continues to shiver.

As soon as the sky creeps from black to gray, I roll up my mat, prop it in the corner, and head out of the tent. I want to check in with Nurse Carina, to begin making a plan for how to get the Nukeheads to assist in transporting Ceres and me to the Harbor.

But the moment I get within sight of the main tent, I can see there’s trouble.

A cluster of Nukeheads are right outside, talking animatedly. A few of the women cry, while the men look positively murderous. When I walk up to them, they fall silent and eye me with so much hostility, it makes my cheeks burn. I wait for them to part so I can pass through to inside the tent, but they remain in their positions. Just as I’m about to call for Nurse Carina, one of the women spits on the ground and steps aside.

Inside, Nurse Carina’s doing her best to coax a spoonful of oats into a little girl’s mouth. I see that her eyes are red and swollen, as if she’s been crying.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

Her eyes fill as she looks up at me. Sighing, she puts the spoon back into the tin bowl and stands. “Philip’s been captured.”

Philip. The young boy with the sweet face who drove me to this camp, who helped me reunite with my sister. Fingers of fear begin to claw at my scalp. “How?”

Nurse Carina wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “He was driving his taxi near Ursa, and he was stopped for an inspection. The Escorts took him late last night.” I see that she’s trembling. “You know what could happen now, Vika.”

“They’re going to make him talk. He might give away the location of this camp.” The fear recedes to a point of excruciating pain in the center of my forehead. We have to run. There’s even less time than I’d thought. We have to get out of here, make our way to the Harbor and hide there until the ship comes.

I have to win over the Nukeheads, or Ceres and I won’t make it out alive.

The Nukeheads call us Flockers—the seemingly perfect people of whom the government approves, and who flock to appease the regime. The reason for their hatred and anger is not entirely a mystery. After all, we were all in the same nuclear war together. They just happen to carry the scars right on their bodies. Still, as a group, they tend to be caustic and too ready to fight to the death. I suppose that’s what happens when someone feels like they don’t have much to lose.

I’ve seen the Nukehead part of the compound on my walks with Ceres and alone. They mainly keep to the very front, close to the gate. After Ceres has eaten breakfast and is washed and playing, I check in quickly with Nurse Carina to let her know where I’m going. Then I’m off.

I keep up a good pace. Now that I am eating regularly, even though the portions are meager, I find that I do not get as dizzy or weak as I did when I first got here. I reach the Nukehead compound fifteen minutes later.

A few of the men stand in a group talking. As I approach, they stop to glare at me as they did earlier, outside the big tent. I am a Flocker, of no use to them. They tolerate me, I know, because Nurse Carina seems to like me, but I’m taking up space and eating food that could be put to better use.

They are a disconcerting sight: two of them have foreheads that take up half of the length of their faces, one of them has no ears or eyebrows, and the last one—the one closest to me—has skin that looks like red tree bark. Their eyes follow me as I walk, and there is complete silence. It is only broken by the
crunch-crunch-crunch
of my footsteps on the sandy path. .

I head to the cluster of tents five yards away from the men and wait for a few moments. I hear the Nukeheads talking inside, but no one seems to be coming out. I clear my throat. “Hello?”

On cue, a child begins to cry. From the way its shrieking crescendos, I can tell it is being forced to do something it does not want to do. Finally, the tent flap is jerked back and a woman’s face appears in the gap. She is sweating with heat and exertion, and the knobby pustules on her face seem to throb with every pulse.

“What is it?” She swipes at her forehead, and without meaning to, I cringe for fear that one of the pustules will break. She smirks at my reaction.

Excellent. I haven’t yet said anything to her, and I’m already off to a bad start.

“I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment.”

She pushes the flap open farther so I can see in. There is a little boy of about three, with a misshapen skull. He arches his back as another woman tries to feed him breakfast. The woman cajoles him, then yells, but nothing seems to work. “As you can see, we’re too busy to stand chatting with a Flocker right now. Boy won’t eat, third day in a row. He’ll be dropping dead soon. Go away.” And she closes the flap in my face.

I turn around in wonder at the rudeness I have just experienced. I’ve never interacted with the Nukeheads before unless I had to, but it grates on me that every rumor I’ve heard about them seems to be true. And yet, I need them. Ceres needs them. I cannot afford to make enemies. So I say nothing, just head back the way I came, wondering if there is another way. As I pass the group of men again, they chuckle.

“Flockers not the bosses in refugee camp,” one of the men says with a twang I cannot place. “Now you one of the commons.”