Hugging Sandra’s coat tighter around my shoulders, I stifled another cough. My hands shook so hard, I couldn’t cover my mouth as I walked, and my throat cried out for something to drink. Fatigue hooked its vengeful claws into me, bouts of dizziness threatened to topple me over, but I put one foot in front of the other on my way down the gravel lane between the livestock pens.
Just a little farther, and then I can rest. Just a little farther. It’ll be warm inside the check-in hut.
Of course, I knew that last bit was a lie, but it was a comforting lie, one that I repeated to myself over and over in the agonizing walk from the clinic to the main parking lot. Any other time, I would have considered the journey miniscule, but with the roots leeching every drop of energy I had, it felt like miles.
People were out-and-about inside the walls of the fort, workers on their way home, rangers changing guard shift on the walls and towers, and researchers enroute to dinner in the visitor’s center. I bent my head to avoid their eyes, Sandra’s coat enough to keep most curious gazes away from a distance. The stars were out in a clear, cold night for October, which made the journey hellish for me. My knuckles cracked and bled, my ears stung, and I couldn’t feel my toes. What would usually have been a pleasant aroma of cooked bison meat and woodsmoke on the breeze made my lungs twitch, the coughs harder and harder to smother. A pebble worked its way into my left slipper, but I didn’t stop to remove it, for fear I’d pass out if I bent down to take the shoe off. It didn’t matter, I figured, since my feet were well on their way to being numb anyhow.
As I passed through the outer limits of the main parking lot, barren as usual save for the sandbag mortar pits in the center, my ears picked up the tinkling of laughter and singing from the visitor’s center. I remembered that the workers decided to host a harvest party a few days ago and had only postponed it to today because of the ambush. No one wanted to celebrate the same day our boys were killed.
I’ll bet they’ve got more of that Port stuff. That was good, for alcohol anyway. Maybe there’s barbequed pork, or some cheesy bread . . . must be nice.
I screwed my left eye shut, the other shielded by the mask of bandages, and attempted to surmount my depression. The smell of the food set my stomach to churning, but my mind still remembered how good it was to eat. Dinner with Chris had been a short, sullen affair thanks to the patrol going out soon after, and with mutated plant-life feeding off my body, I couldn’t have anything with yeast or sugar to drink nowadays, for risk of making the infection worse.
Ahead, the lean-to roof over the crumpled hut loomed from the dark, and I sniffled in relief. Both hands moved like rubber, and I officially could not feel the pebble in my slipper anymore because my legs were numb below the ankle, but still, I’d made it.
The check-in building had tan stucco walls, fire blackened for the most part, and pockmarked with holes from shell fragments. Its once forest-green roof lay in warped tatters among the steel rafters, the makeshift lean-to style roof fashioned from old asphalt shingles that were probably stripped off an abandoned house. No doorway stood in the entrance; the rocket that struck the building had blown it clean off its hinges, and I could see a mass of cracks and chips in the threshold. However, a thin rug hung from a bar across the old doorframe, and the floor had been swept clean of ash and cinders. Through the gaps around it, I noticed the rubble was cleared away, the broken glass knocked out of the shattered windows. It almost looked welcoming, if not for the scorched walls.
A glimmer of orange twinkled out from behind the dirty brown rug.
Is that a fire?
Curious, I slipped around the musty door flap, and choked back a cough of surprise.
Just beyond the old doorway lay the foyer, where guests would have come to check in at various windows for their tours back when we had such things. While they waited, they might have wandered down the hall on my left, where I guessed there had been bathrooms, or maybe stood pondering their choices at two shattered vending machines along the right-side wall. In lieu of excited guests, row after row of cheap round candles lined the walls, and snaked in paths across the floor, some on old ledges or shelves that had enough substance left in them to support weight. They were about the size of bottle caps, and I recognized them from vendors in the market. Several tarps covered the empty windows to prevent the wind from blowing them out, which had concealed the light from view on the outside, and behind every candle stood a picture.
Men, women, and children lined the walls and the floor in neat columns of square photographic paper. A few portraits were even pinned to the rafters, where bits of wire held suspended, home-made chandeliers of candles beneath them so the light could illuminate their faces. Some wore New Wilderness uniforms in their picture, as if from a company registry, while others were clearly civilians from outside the park. Names were written on each picture in either paint or permanent marker, and many had little gifts or flowers arranged around the image, along with sticky notes covered in final messages.
I love you, John.
You were my world.
Someday we’ll meet again.
Surrounded by a sea of bygone humanity, I turned slowly on the spot to take it all in. Cemeteries had always struck me as dull, lonely places, but this was sad in a different way. Here, the faces were closer, the flames danced as though with echoed whispers of their voices, and the gifts left by the living added touches of heartbreak that rang off the walls in a silent choir. I knew the building couldn’t have been much older than myself, yet somehow it felt ancient, like the ruined elven fortresses Chris spoke of in the make-believe world of his little metal soldiers. If the church at Ark River had a holy aura to it, the check-in hut stood sacred in a morose fashion, the shadows longer, the silence thicker, the air heavier.
I was alone here . . . but in a way, I wasn’t.
Scrounging up a burst of renewed energy from my wonder, I paced through the cozy shrine, and stared into the eyes of each person. I had no idea what to look for, but at some point, I followed a line of dates under the names, until I reached the oldest ones in a far corner.
February of the previous year had been a bad one. There were so many smiling people in uniform shirts with their death day in that month, some on the same date, others only a few days apart. A few of them looked younger than me, maybe eighteen at most, and seeing their bright, hopeful grins on the plastic made my heart twinge in pity.
They never saw it coming, did they?
Randy Howard’s placard took up a special place of importance, sperate from the chronological order of the rest. His picture had a gold-painted wooden frame around it, showered with flowers and notes, as if he’d been some beloved hero in a storybook. Like most old veterans, he didn’t smile for his picture, but there was a strength in his old brown eyes, a martial fire that knew not age, nor complacency. Still, I didn’t feel or see anything as I stood before his picture, no great vision, no sudden imparting of knowledge.
With a frown, I flexed my fingers under the coat, and shivered. Had I missed something? This was the place, I knew it was. What could I be overlooking? Had my dream really been just that—a meaningless spasm of my brain, and nothing more?
I caught a flash of color to my left and the air stuck in my esophagus.
She beamed in her new black polo shirt, long hair draped over her shoulder in a casual, but pretty braid, blue eyes alight with enthusiasm. Just from the way she smiled, I could tell she was a nice person, the kind of girl I could have gotten along with in school. Her auburn tresses bore hints of red in the flash of the camera, and under her picture lay a name that snaked through my memory like streams of water.
Madison Cromwell.
Next to her, another figure stood proud in the clutches of time, his shoulders drawn back, a black trucker’s hat on his head. His face was clean shaven in this image, with no mud or scratches, but I knew him even before I read his name.
Mark Petric.
Mark. That had been the name on the sketch in Dr. O’Brian’s office, the name the girl in my dream had said, the one allegedly killed by the Oak Walker. I’d seen him in my hallucinations during the first surgery . . . or rather, Madison had seen him.
That’s why the voice wasn’t mine.
I sucked in a gasp, my body cold, but my mind on fire. It hadn’t been a dream, none of it had. Like the stranger in the chemical suit had said, they were memories . . . her memories. Somehow, I’d gained access to shards of Madison’s life, broken pieces of the night Mark died, the first casualty in the Breach’s war against New Wilderness.
Bound to the apex being, these lowly copies would have been psychically intertwined with their maker, perhaps even sharing a collective consciousness.
Like an avalanche of thoughts, Dr. O’Brian’s words tumbled through my head, and a slight wiggle in the skin over my stomach rammed the point home. A collective consciousness. The Oak Walker had used it to make the Puppets, and now Vecitorak had figured out how to mutate people into them. Perhaps that meant our memories, our consciences, ended up as part of the collective whole? It would explain how I could see her, hear her voice in my sleep, live brief moments through her eyes. But then, why couldn’t I see things from Mark’s perspective, or Randy’s, or any of the others? They’d been killed, not made into Puppets. Did that mean Madison was a Puppet? Could one’s consciousness survive that horrible conversion? What did this have to do with me?
Puzzled, I stepped closer to inspect the dusty photo, in hopes of discovering some hidden clue nestled amongst the sticky-notes from grieving colleges pasted around the frame.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Footsteps trudged over gravel outside, and my heart skipped a panicked beat. I couldn’t be caught, I was too close to some kind of monumental answer. The truth sat just beyond my reach, on the tip of my mental tongue, a few seconds of pondering from being revealed. Why oh why did someone have to show up now?
Shuffling as fast as my sore muscles would let me, I darted down the side hallway, and pressed myself into a crumbled arch where two water fountains rusted in their fastenings. With bated breath, I peeked around the corner, head swimming as my body demanded that I get somewhere warm in the next few minutes, or risk collapse.
The rug across the door rustled, and Jamie emerged into the glow of the candles.
Her green eyes were red and puffy, no smile on her witty pink lips. In one hand, Jamie clasped a brown whisky bottle, half the liquid inside already gone. The typical bleach-blonde ponytail had more slack in it than usual, and a few stray locks dangled around her somber face She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her Carhart jacket and stumbled down to a seated position on the cold tile floor, both green eyes staring in a glazed sadness at a portrait of a smiling man with blonde hair in a ranger outfit.
Bill.
Guilt hit me like a ton of bricks, and I watched Jamie take a long draw from her bottle. Distracted by my own self-pity, I’d forgotten about Jamie’s older brother, who had given his life in the earlier battles to keep New Wilderness safe. He’d been her role model, and Jamie had borne witness to his death. From the way she sat there, I could tell she was hurting, and knew that if it were me, Jamie would be there with a hug and a smile.
I lifted one foot to step from my hiding spot, but another bulge in the door-rug stopped me.
Chris pushed his way inside, a plastic Tupperware container in his hands, and a sympathetic sigh escaped his lungs as he spotted Jamie. “Hey.”
She made a weak smile over her shoulder at him. “Hey.”
He sat down beside her, and Chris placed the container on the floor by his knees. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, both staring straight ahead in deep thought.
“Beef broth?” Jamie angled her blonde head at the Tupperware box.
Glancing at the box, Chris sighed, his forehead lined with tired wrinkles. “Chicken noodle soup. Lots of iron, protein. Maybe she’ll be able to keep some of it down.”
Man, I hope so.
From where I hid, I fought the craving for that soup, just the promise of warm broth enough to make my head spin. Both knees were numb, and I had to get warmed up soon, or I wouldn’t be able to stay standing. Regardless, I stayed in my alcove, heart beating in anticipation as I watched.
Jamie picked at the label on her whiskey bottle and held the beverage out to him. “You heard about this morning?”
“Everyone did.” Chris took the bottle and gulped a mouthful, coughing at the strong liquor before he handed it back to her. “It’s all the researchers are talking about, stupid gossiping brats. Did she say anything to you before she pulled that crazy stunt?”
“Not really.” Jamie swallowed more from the bottle and winced at the sour taste. “She’s pretty well checked out, staring at the wall, not saying much. I took the razors out of her hygiene kit just to be sure but . . .”
“But it won’t make a difference.” Chris’s shoulders slumped, and he rubbed his face with both hands in exasperation.
My gut sank, and I rested my forehead against the charred wall I hid behind.
So that’s it then. Even Chris admits it. I’m screwed.
Jamie’s expression rippled with something like compassion, and she rubbed his muscled forearm with one tender hand. “It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” Chris wrapped both arms around his knees and shook his mousy-brown head. “I should have listened to you. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, if we’d turned around and gone back like you said, Hannah would be okay now.”
“There’s still time.” A pleading tone came into her voice, though Jamie’s words slurred a bit, and she bored into him with her gaze. “Isss gonna be fine. Doc will figure it out.”
“I’m not a little kid, Jamie.” Chris’s jaw worked back and forth, and he blinked in rapid-fire sequence. “Neither are you. If doc was going to find something, she would have by now.”
Crestfallen, Jamie frowned at her bottle, the alcohol almost gone. “So, what are you going to do?”
He sniffled, and Chris’s sky-blue eyes moistened, the emotion heavy in his words. “I . . . I can’t lose her, Jamie. Just thinking about digging the grave makes me sick. How do I keep going after that, after everything we’ve been through?”
Shifting closer, she nudged his shoulder with hers, both green irises pooled in mourning as Jamie leaned in. “You can’t just give up. You’re the only one who kept us from going full-Yugoslavia once Carter died. You’re smart, and capable, and strong. We need you, Chris. All of us.”
He looked at her, and something flickered in Chris’s face, something that sent my brain into a cold plunge of anxiety.
Jamie released the bottle so that it clattered to the floor and took Chris’s face in both hands.
With her fingers buried in his maple-syrup-colored locks, Jamie’s eyes slid shut . . . and their lips met.
No.
All the air left my lungs, and pain sliced through my chest, too deep and poignant to be from the roots. Tears sprang to my horrified eye, and even under the bandage, I felt thick, clammy liquid well up in the bad one. I wanted to scream, to shout, to jump up and down waving my arms like a crime had been committed. For so long, I’d convinced myself that the tension between them was platonic, that Jamie was content with Andrew, that Chris cared for me and me alone. Now, with the two of them kissing over my future grave, all those comfortable lies fell away.
Unable to bear it anymore, I clapped a hand over my mouth to smother the sobs and rushed further down the side hall, into the dark shadows of the burned-out building. Every step brought shooting pain from my wounds, the stiches weakened under the strain. Snot ran down my upper lip, the air stank of charcoal, and I tasted blood on the back of my tongue. I didn’t know where I planned on going, but it didn’t matter; anywhere to get away from that awful sight.
An outline appeared not far ahead, the faded gleam of a ragged gap in the back wall, and I squeezed through it into the short grass of the cherry grove. The Ark River cabins lay clustered nearby, most of them gone to an evening worship service, and I pivoted on one clumsy heel to try and make my way back to the clinic.
The toe of my slipper snagged a loose stone, and I lost my balance.
With the last of my strength sapped by the excruciating betrayal, I shut my good eye and let myself fall, engulfed by the fleeting hope that I wouldn’t ever get up again.