World After

10

IN THE END, the only thing we bring back is what’s left of the few dead scorpions that we found scattered beneath the rubble, and their one surviving victim, Clara.

When we park in front of the school, Sanjay walks with her, quietly asking her questions. I don’t have to ask her anything to know that she just wants to find her husband and kids. Everyone who sees her moves away, looking like they think she’s contagious.

When I get back to our history class, the stench of rotten eggs hits me as soon as I open the door. The windowsills are lined with cartons of old eggs. Somehow, my mother has managed to find a stash of them.

Mom is out. I don’t know what she’s doing or where she is but that’s pretty normal for us.

Paige sits on her cot with her head down so that her hair covers her stitches, and I can almost pretend not to see them. Her hair is as shiny and healthy as any seven-year-old’s. She’s in a flower-print dress, tights, and pink high-top sneakers that dangle over the edge of the cot.

“Where’s Mom?”

Paige shakes her head. She hasn’t said much since we found her.

On a chair beside her cot is a bowl of chicken soup with a spoon sitting in it. Looks like Mom hasn’t had much luck feeding her. When was the last time Paige ate? I pick up the bowl and sit on the chair.

Lifting a spoonful of soup, I move it toward her. But Paige won’t open her mouth.

“Aaand the train goes into the tunnel.” I give her a little clown smile as I push the spoon toward her mouth. “Choo-choo!” It used to work when she was really little.

She peeks up at me and tries to smile. She stops when the stitches begin to crinkle.

“Come on, it’s delicious.” There is meat in it. I had laid down the law and declared that Paige could no longer be a vegetarian as soon as we started having trouble finding food. Maybe that’s what keeps her from trying the soup?

Maybe not.

Paige shakes her head. She’s no longer throwing up, but she’s no longer trying to eat either.

I put the spoon down into the bowl. “What happened when you were with the angels?” I ask as gently as I can. “Can you talk about it?”

She looks at the floor. A tear sparkles on her lashes.

I know she can talk because she’s called me “Ryn-Ryn” like she used to when she was little, and “Mom” or “Mommy.” And “hungry.” She’s said that several times.

“It’s just us. Nobody else is listening. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

She shakes her head slowly, looking at her feet. A tear drops onto her dress.

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about that right now. We’ll never talk about it if you don’t want to.” I set the bowl on the floor. “But do you know what you can eat?”

She shakes her head again. “Hungry.” The whisper is so quiet that I barely hear it. Her lips hardly open to talk, but I can still catch a glimpse of her razor teeth.

My insides churn. “Can you tell me what you’re hungry for?” A part of me desperately wants to know the answer. But the rest of me dreads what she might say.

She hesitates before she shakes her head “no” again.

My hand comes up without me thinking about it. I’m about to stroke her hair like I’ve always done. She looks up at me, and her hair falls away from her stitches.

Crude, uneven stitches crisscross her face. The stitches that run between her lips and ears give her a forced grin that cuts her face. Red, black, and bruised, they scream for attention. They run down her neck and into her dress. I wish there wasn’t one cutting across her neck like they’d sewn her head onto her body.

My hand hesitates over her head, almost touching her hair but not quite.

Then I drop it back to my side.

I turn away from Paige.

A pile of clothes sits on my mother’s cot. I dig through for jeans and a jersey. Mom didn’t bother ripping off the tags, but she has already sewn a yellow starburst on the bottom of the pant leg for protection from the boogeyman. I don’t care so long as it’s dry and doesn’t smell too badly of rotten eggs.

I change out of my wet clothes. “I’m going to see if I can find something else for you to eat. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Paige nods, looking at the floor again.

I leave, wishing I had a dry jacket to cover my sword. I consider wearing the wet one but decide against it.

The school sits on a prime corner with a grove owned by Stanford University across one street and a high-end strip mall across another. I wander over to the shops.

My dad always said there was a lot of money in this area and even the strip malls show it. Back in the day, in the World Before, you could see Steve Jobs, founder of Apple, eating breakfast here while he was still a living resident of Silicon Valley. Or catch Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook, grabbing a bite with his friends.

They all looked like middle managers to me but my dad was into all that. Technocrats, he called them. I’m pretty sure I saw Zuckerberg digging the latrine ditch beside Raffe at the camp a few days ago. I guess a billion dollars doesn’t buy much respect in the World After.

I skitter from car to car as if I’m just a random survivor on the street. The parking lot and walkways are mostly deserted, but inside the shops, people mill about. Some are picking out clothes. This is probably as good a place as any to find a jacket, but food comes first.

The signs of burger joints, burrito places, and juice shops make my mouth water. There was a time when I could walk into any of these and order food. Hard to believe.

I head for the supermarket. There’s a line inside, where people can’t be seen from above. I haven’t been in a market since the early days of the attack.

Some stores had their shelves emptied by panicked people, while others shut down completely so no one could get in. The established gangs from the World Before took over stores as early as the day after the Great Attack when it became clear that nothing was certain.

The bloody feather hanging on the door tells me that this supermarket is gang-owned. But by the looks of all the people in here, the gang is either generous enough to share with the rest of us, or they lost some kind of fight with the Resistance.

The bloody palm prints smeared on the front door glass make me think that the gang was none too happy about giving up their treasures.

Inside, Resistance personnel give out small amounts of food. A handful of crackers, a scoopful of nuts, instant pasta. There are almost as many soldiers in here as there were during the aerie attack. They stand guard by the food tables with their rifles plainly in sight.

“This is all you get, folks,” says one food worker. “Hang in there and we’ll be able to start making meals soon. This is just to keep you going until we get the kitchens fired.”

A soldier yells out, “One package per family! No exceptions!”

I guess no one has told them about the food delivery in Obi’s headquarters. I look around and scope out the situation.

There are kids my age, but I don’t recognize any of them. Even though a lot of them are as tall as adults, they don’t stray far from their parents. Some of the girls are tucked under the arms of their moms or dads like little kids. They seem safe and secure, protected and loved, looking like they belong.

I wonder what that’s like? Is it as good as it looks from the outside?

I realize that I’m cradling my elbows like I’m hugging myself. I relax my arms and stand tall. Body language says a lot about your place in the world, and the last thing I need is to look vulnerable.

I notice something else. A lot of people are looking at me, the lone teen girl in line. I’ve been told I look younger than seventeen, probably because I’m small.

There are big guys carrying hammers and bats who I’m sure would prefer to carry a sword like the one on my back. A gun would be better but guns can be tricky to steal, and at this stage of the game, only burly men seem to have them.

I watch the men watching me, and I know that there is no such thing as a safe harbor in the World After.

For no reason, Raffe’s chiseled face pops into my mind. He has an unnerving habit of doing that.

By the time I get to the front of the line, I’m pretty hungry. I hate to think of how Paige must be feeling. I reach the distribution table and put out my hand, but the guy takes one look at me and shakes his head.

“One package per family, sorry. Your mom already came by.”

“Oh.” Ah, the joys of fame and misfortune. We’re probably the only family who is recognized by half the people in the camp.

The guy looks at me like he’s heard it all—any excuse to get more food out of him has already been tried. “We have rotten eggs in the back if you want more cartons.”

Great.

“Did she just take rotten eggs or was there some real food in there too?”

“I made sure she got some real food.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I turn away. I can feel the weight of eyes watching me walk alone toward the darkening parking lot. I didn’t realize how late it was getting.

On the edge of my vision, I see a man nodding to another, who then signals to another guy.

They’re all big and carrying weapons. One has a bat across his shoulder. Another has hammer handles sticking out of his jacket pockets. The third has a large kitchen knife stuck into his belt.

They slip out casually behind me.