Chapter 25

Chapter 25

I dropthe rock into the pouch of my sling and hold it away from my body. The whoosh of the bark fibers whipping past my ear tells me when I’ve built enough momentum to release the thumb knot. Too early, and it’ll go to the right. Too late, and it’ll hit to the left. My target is a quail that sits at the base of a cactus, about thirty yards off.

The heavy rock swings easily over my head, and I release it, knocking the bird from its perch. A flap of wings kick up the surrounding dust, before it stills.

As I tuck my sling into the satchel strapped across my body, rising up from my hiding place behind the rock, a jerky movement catches my eye. The growls and clicks confirm what I already suspect. From a small abandoned shack, whose planks have rotted and decayed, a Rager stumbles toward my quarry.

“No you don’t, asshole.” I tug up my sling again and lift a large smooth rock out of my satchel. The jagged ones are nice for splintering the bone, but the smooth ones never catch on any woven fibers, making for a quick and easy hit.

Before the bastard has a chance to ruin my dinner, I swing the rock over my head and release it, nailing him in the back of the skull. The Rager drops to his knees, turning just enough for me to hurl another rock, this one larger, which slams into the side of his head in a spray of blood. He tumbles to the dirt just short of the fallen bird.

I stride toward them, exchanging my sling for the knife in my satchel, and kneel down beside the Rager. Burnt, mottled skin and protruding bones tell me he’s been roaming for a while. The bloating of his body is the bacteria causing gases to form, and no doubt, this grisly soul is one hard blow from popping. I’ve seen some of them explode from gas build up, sending a cloud of infection into the air. Once they reach Stage Three, which could take a few months for some, they’re pretty much a walking death trap.

The frequency that I’ve been seeing them on hunts indicates they’ve been moving farther out from the cities in search of food. Usually, one, or two, at a time. The hordes have died out for the most part, especially in the north, where most Stage Three Ragers couldn’t survive the frigid temps, but survivors sometimes stumble upon what are known as pockets while scavenging for food—spots where infected animals, or humans, have decayed, leaving behind contagions that leach into the ground. If disrupted, they create a plume that, when inhaled, works like the very first outbreak, and voila—an entire hive is wiped out.

With a quick slice, I drag the blade across the Rager’s throat for good measure, and the pungent odor of fermented meat that emanates from the wound damn near makes me wretch. I bury my nose into the crook of my elbow and rifle through his pockets.

Out of his coat, I slide a brown leather wallet and flip it open to pictures of what must’ve been his wife and son. Smiling faces staring back at the camera make me wonder about the day it was taken. How did it start out? How did it end? How did his family ultimately die?

Rummaging through the wallet’s folds, I find the green paper I recognize as old currency. A card inside has two overlapping red and yellow circles, with Mastercard written above a series of embossed numbers. The one behind is blue with a Visa emblem. I toss the wallet aside and try pulling the gold band from his finger, but his hand’s swollen enough, it won’t come loose. With a grimace, I nab the blade beside me, and with one quick chop, his finger pops off, and I slide the ring into my palm. Wedding bands have a decent trade value, particularly in our community, where the people continue to live in some messed up state of denial that the world beyond the wall has changed.

With new arrivals in Phase three and four, our Szolen Farms have doubled in size, which is good for farming and other commodities, but it means more assholes to contend with. Privileged idiots, who think they’ve found the holy grail of safety and security.

Security is an illusion. Which is why I prefer to spend my days out here, without the conveniences. Without the falseness and dream-like existence. Because, someday, a nightmare could come crashing in, and the only ones who’ll survive are those who aren’t afraid to open their eyes.

Not having found any keys on the Rager for my beloved collection, I gather the bird into a separate satchel, along with the other two I shot earlier, one of which I’ll trade in the market for some lavender soap.

Beneath the ever-growing currency of credits, Szolen still has a thriving barter system in its marketplace, and my hunts have scored a number of small treasures there.

I head toward a gap in the canyon, where the sun beats down on the plastic sheet I placed there days before, the corners of which are buried beneath the sand. In the center sits a rock that I set aside, and I lift the plastic to reveal a three-foot hole, housing a small tin cup buried in the brush below. My tongue puckers to find it’s mostly filled with water, and I pour the liquid into my bottle, stopping for a sip, before replacing the plastic and the rock. The cool spring months have made for extreme temperature fluctuations, and collecting water is almost too easy.

If only thirst and the occasional Rager were all I had to worry about, I’d probably make it a point to explore the landscape more thoroughly.

It’s dangerous coming out here, though. Like everything else, women, too, are scarce, thanks to the hive raids. If the Ragers don’t swipe you up and take you back to their nests, a marauder will eventually come along and do the honors. Women have become as much a means of trade as food and water—sometimes more valuable.

Szolen has eliminated a number of females, thought to carry the infection in one form, or another. Genocide mostly, and there’s no higher power to stop it. No United Nations peacekeepers, or military task force to step in. Women are hunted from all angles—killed by Legion, sold by marauders, or dragged by Ragers to their nests, where they attempt to mate them.

A shiver spirals down my spine at the thought of getting swiped up by a Rager.

I once heard about a young woman, early twenties, who got taken by one. She was tied down and raped repeatedly, until she finally ended up pregnant. The Rager tended to her by feeding her raw meat and water for weeks, and when she fell deathly ill, it ultimately consumed her. She apparently had a traveling companion, an older woman who was less appealing as a breeder, who managed to get loose and escape the Rager. Legion ultimately stumbled upon her on the road, dirty and covered in blood. Once they learned she’d been held in a nest, they killed her, of course. Even if she hadn’t been bitten, the exposure to a Rager for any extended period of time makes newcomers a threat to their precious community of the pure.

Which is why their assholes pucker every time I venture out beyond the wall. If not for Papa and his stature in the community, I’m certain they’d kick me out. In fact, I’m waiting for the day they do, or force me to become one of their Daughters, and I’ll feed myself to a Rager before I’ll let thathappen.

After tossing the satchel into the truck, I hop into the driver’s seat and fire it up, heading back toward Szolen. Along the dirt path is a wide expanse of decaying desert, and in the distance, a Rager stumbles along aimlessly. I sometimes wonder what this place was like back when civilization thrived. It’s weird to think women once roamed wherever they wanted, without something trying to kill, or mate, them.

It’s not long before I reach the cluster of tents outside of Szolen and slow the truck to a stop. In seconds, I’m crowded by small children, mostly boys, dressed in clothes barely clinging to their bodies. It’s surprising Legion hasn’t forced their families off already, but I’ve learned the squatters do a pretty good job of keeping others away, and in spite of how bold they can be to those leaving Szolen, they’re mostly harmless. Just families hoping to earn their way to the other side of the wall.

The children reach out to me, jumping up and down with excitement, for the treat I promised them on the way out. Their bronzed skin is coated in dirt and grime, stretched thin over the bones of their skeletal bodies—a sight that pisses me off. How can we deny them? How can we ignore them day after day like this?

“I told you guys I’d be back.” Chuckling, I nab my satchel from the truck, and from the front pocket, I scoop out a handful of multicolored candies. “Where’s Zahra?”

A small feral-looking child steps forward, with stringy waves of hair and bright green eyes. I worry about her in particular. Though her parents are watchful, she’d be a prize to marauders out here. Fortunately, camping so close to the wall, they earn a bit of protection from the guards, who shoot Ragers and marauders on sight. It’s at night, though, when everything shuts down that I think of her out here. I’ve yearned to steal her away with me into Szolen, but her family is made up of her mother, father and five brothers, and that many’d be difficult to sneak into the community.

With a smile, I stroke her hair and offer her the first piece of candy. One of the boys tries to snatch it out of my palm, and I grip his arm with my free hand.

“Always ladies first.”

His shoulders sag as he drops his gaze and gives a nod.

Once she’s selected her piece, I reach into the bag again and pull out one of the birds I shot, handing it off to her. “Take this to your momma, okay?”

A smile lights up her face, and she nods, running off toward the tent with the bird dangling from her fist.

The other boys choose their candies, and I offer a loaf of bread from the seat of the truck, breaking it into small chunks for each. After the food has been distributed, I toss the satchel back into the vehicle and feel a slam against my leg. I twist to find Zahra clutching me tightly. I stroke her hair and kneel down, taking her hand in mine.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise. And I’ll have new treats for you.” Pushing the hair from her face, I pull her in for a hug. “You keep yourself safe out here, okay? No wandering off alone.”

She nods, and while I have heard her speak before, she rarely says anything for the most part.

A reminder of the boy I once knew.

Zahra backs away from the truck, and I hop in, waving to the children and their parents as I head toward the gate.

As I roll to a stop in front of the wall, an older guard approaches, shaking his head.

Christ, here we go.

“You’re killing me, Wren. You feed them, they stick around. They’re just like stray fuckin’ animals.”

“Except they’re not, Denny. They’re human beings. People. Just like us.”

“Like us? Last I checked we don’t stand and throw rocks at passing vehicles. One of those bastards bit Skeeter last week. Good thing the little shit wasn’t infected.”

“They’re hungry. And scared. And to be honest, I’d bite Skeeter, if given the chance. He’s an asshole.”

Denny snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Pretty thing like you would get swiped up in a heartbeat.”

“Target practice.”

“Can’t do that shit inside the wall, with some tin cans?”

“Tin cans don’t walk around, Denny. Or chase after me.”

“You’re a tough one, Wren.” He pats the door of the truck. “But you’re killing me. Because a’you, I gotta stand out here in this shit heat.”

“You’d be standing out here whether I fed them, or not.”

His shrug turns into a nod. “All these damn rebel attacks. Hittin’ too close to home. Lost a half dozen Legion last week.”

I don’t bother to tell him that Legion soldiers are the bad guys out in the Deadlands. And even if the rebels have grown increasingly hostile, they don’t hold a candle to the cruelty inflicted by our own.

Men like Denny believe the lies and propaganda fed to them on their silver spoons, though. I’m nothing but a voice on the wind, so for now, I keep up the farce, for Papa’s sake. For the sake of finding a cure that will perhaps bring an end to the division between the civil and the savages.

“Well, good thing we have you guarding the place.”

With a roll of his eyes, he shakes his head. “Get the fuck outta here.” He waves at the guard in the watchtower, and the wall moves, allowing me passage back inside Szolen.

* * *

Once inside the wall,my muscles instantly tense. Out there, I’m surviving. But I am in here, too. Every day is an act, a charade I put on for Papa.

Following their rules, swallowing their lies.

Cars pass me on the main strip, where manmade patches of green grass and flowers give the illusion that I’ve stepped into another world. To the right of me, children, no different than the ones outside the wall, play kick ball and dangle from monkey bars on a community playground. Tall buildings line either side of the road, arranged in a way that makes it look like a small downtown, complete with a marquis that hangs above a theater, where old movies are played during the day.

From what I understand, it won’t be long before we’ll have electricity at night, with streetlights and restaurants open later than dusk.

It’s not right.

While most would kill to live here, I find it all utterly depressing. An everlasting fa?ade.

Maybe that makes me crazy. In fact, I’m sure any one of the people here would consider me bat-shit for wanting to venture outside of the wall.

Guess I just prefer to live life with my eyes open.

I park the truck alongside a curb and grab my satchel of goods. On the other side of a row of buildings, the lot opens to small tents lining either side of narrow paths that’re filled with people.

The market.

Our population has doubled in the last few years, as more people learn about the community. They come from all over the country to live here. Some have tried to emulate this place, seizing the few solar panel farms scattered about, but they just don’t have the resources, or manpower, to construct a fortress like Szolen—which existed long before the outbreak.

Weaving through the crowd, I make my way to one of the tents toward the back. Jessie smiles when she sees me, wearing her wide brimmed farmer’s hat and worn jeans, with a sleeveless flannel cut off above a dull tattoo. She’s pushing seventy, but her spirit keeps her young, in spite of her wrinkles. At her neck are three different leather chokers, each with a charm hanging off a small loop of silver. I think she might have some native in her, with long graying hair and slightly wider nose.

I’ve always thought her to be a stunning woman for her age. Maybe it’s just because she’s real. She doesn’t hide behind a mask, like the other women here. With Jessie, what you see is what you get.

“Well, look what the wind blew in.”

Spread across the table is a variety of jewelry, herbs in small poultices, and bars of scented soap—all things she makes herself. A second table holds all variety of fruit and vegetables from her garden.

“How goes it, Jess?” I slide my pack from my shoulder to relieve the weight.

“You been out in the Deadlands again, I see.”

With an unwitting smile, I nod. “How’d you know?”

She leans in, glancing around, and raises a brow. “You look happy as a pig in shit.”

I laugh at that, slipping my hand into the bag, and pull out the bird I shot earlier, handing it off to her. “I need some soap.”

“Oh, well.” She accepts the dead bird and nabs a bag from under the table that she tosses it into. “That’s a fine bird. You take whatever you need, sweet cheeks. Got a new scent you might want to check out. Sandalwood mint. That handsome Pops of yours might like it.” She winks, and I smile at the indirect flirtations she typically passes along through me. Jessie’s had a thing for Papa for a while now, but he’s so damn stubborn, he’s ignored her for the most part.

“I suppose I could forego the lavender this time.”

“Take both. And pick out a necklace. Your neck is looking bare, child.” She shuffles off toward a woman standing alongside the herbs with her three children.

My smile widens, and I nod, directing my attention down to the leather chokers she’s laid out in rows. I hold one made of brown leather, with an attached bird charm to my throat, clasping it behind my neck.

“Hello, Wren.”

Rolling my eyes, I sigh to find Damian Shaw standing beside the vegetables, in his casual clothes, holding a tomato.

Bastard wouldn’t dare throw it at me now. Not when half the town, including Damian, considers me some kind of wild mountain woman for venturing beyond the wall. Two years ago, he joined The Legion and, just like the rest of the assholes, thinks he’s the answer to every woman’s prayers. Perhaps he is to most of the girls, who fawn all over the Legion soldiers like they’re some kind of status ticket.

It’s becoming more common to see them walking around without their full uniform, some opting for civilian clothes when not on duty, so I’m guessing Damian’s on R&R, or something.

“Choker looks good on you. So would my hands.” The grin stretching his face brings a frown to mine.

Arrogant prick. “I just puked a little in my mouth.”

“You know I’ve always had a thing for you.”

I know. The man makes a point to come on to me every chance he gets.

“You have a thing for everyone,” I say, lifting the bars of lavender and sandalwood soap and tucking them into my bag. “You’d fuck that tomato, if you weren’t already trying to get into mypants.”

Setting the tomato back with the others, he rounds the table, coming to a stop way too close to me.

I back up, and he leans in. This peacock dance is getting old, the way he struts around trying to get my attention. So many other girls, stupid enough to play his game, and he wastes his time with me.

“C’mon. Meet me in the back of this building. Just one yank, yeah?”

Ugh. About a year ago, I indulged this bullshit by jacking him off in the backseat of his father’s car, and he’s been pining for more ever since.

“No, thanks. Been there before.” I wave to Jessie, signaling my leave, but the grip of my shoulder halts me in my tracks.

No one touches me without asking.

Glancing down at his hand and back to him prompts him to release me, and he backs away, lifting both hands in the air, as if in surrender.

“I know you don’t like touch. I’m sorry.” Setting his palm against the table, he leans in again, nuzzling his face in my neck, completely ignoring my warning. “I need your hands on me, though. I’d fuck you, if you let me, but all I’m asking for is one yank. Please, Wren.”

“Why me? Why don’t you find some pretty little hen to corrupt?”

His teeth nip my earlobe, and with a grimace, I jerk my head away. “Because you’re not like the other girls. You’re wild. And hard. Unbreakable.”

Biting my lip, I exhale a sigh through my nose. “One yank, and you’ll leave me alone?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. You don’t like what you see and you can walk away.”

“I’ve already seen it. And walked away before.”

His breath against my neck flinches my muscles. “I’m harder than last time. Been jacking off to thoughts of your sweet pussy.”

“You’ve never seen my pussy, so how does that work?”

“Oh, I’m certain it’s as pretty as that face. And those tits. And that tight ass of yours.”

“If we’re going to do this, lets make it quick.” I let him take the lead, following behind as I slip my hand into the pocket of my bag. Two bulging leather balls slide past my fingertips, as we round the corner of the building into a tight alley, where trashcans sit lined against the brick wall. Once out of sight, Damian backs himself deeper into the alley and unfastens his pants, pushing them to just below his balls, letting his erect cock stand up from his zipper.

Back to the wall behind him, he strokes himself in front of me, wearing a smug grin that I’d like to smack right off his face. “Imagine this up inside you, Wren. You need a man. You’re an ornery bitch who needs to get laid.”

My blood flares at that, and I clutch the leather bolas sitting in my palm. “I’m sure your wife would appreciate that, Damian.”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” He jerks his head toward me. “Show me your tits.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Fuck the deal. I want to see your tits.” His jaw hangs open as he ups the pace of his strokes.

I glance down at my shirt, where the laced strings of my sleeveless, brown leather top offer just a peek of the cleavage behind it. My breasts have grown fuller in the months I’ve been hunting meat, adding more curves to my boyish figure of before. In teasing, I slip the lacing out, one hole at a time, widening the gap.

“That’s it,” he says on a forced breath.

Licking my lips, I offer a wily smile.

In the next breath, I toss one of the bolas so it winds around his throat, while still holding the other end in my hand. The leather-wrapped stone coils three times, and his hands shoot to his neck as he drops to his knees.

With the end of the bolas in my grasp, I lean into him. “Was that one yank? Or two?”

He chokes an answer, eyes wide as his face turns an unhealthy shade of red.

“Let him go.” The voice from behind skates down my spine, and I turn to see Albert Ericsson, fully dressed in uniform, standing at the mouth of the alley.

Snarling my lip, I snap my attention back to Damian and unwind the thin woven band digging into his gullet.

He falls forward, coughing between heaving breaths. “Fucking bitch!”

I tuck the bolas into my bag and tromp through the alley toward Albert. As I attempt to pass, he steps in my path, his arm shooting out to block me.

“If you like back alley fucks, perhaps you might join the Daughters.”

The Daughters are a group of women, hand-picked by Szolen himself, to recruit talent into the community, like some sacred prostitution gang. Their method is no secret, venturing out into the Deadlands with The Legion guards, and luring the uninfected prospects with the one thing that happens to be as scarce as food. They wear frilly dresses and live in the Villas, along with all the other uppity assholes, and sick as it is, many parents hope their daughters will one day be one of the chosen, just as they wish their sons to become Legion. To secure themselves within Szolen’s fucked up fabric.

“I’d rather consume my own piss and shit for the rest of my life than become a slave in a dress.”

“Watch yourself, Wren. That old man of yours isn’t going to be around forever to protect you. Soon, you’ll be alone. Vulnerable. Desperate.”

“Go to hell,” I say, shoving his arm out of my way, and head for the truck.

Unlike Damian, Albert isn’t married to anyone but the Legion. What was once a hellion of a kid, getting into trouble with his friends, has turned into a stiff and humorless guard dog. Admittedly, he’s one person in this community that gives me the creeps, and he’s had it in for me ever since the day he attacked me.

The Ericssons are the only crack in my armor. The only part of my life that feels out of my control—a string that flits around my head, taunting me to grab hold, but I don’t want to because of the truth that lies at the end of it. It was Ericsson Senior who first yanked at my innocence, and his son Ivan, Albert’s older brother, who tore it out of my hands completely.

Thankfully, the two of them are rarely seen on this side of the wall, so it’s only Albert’s occasional acts of intimidation, and his bouts of punch-worthy gloating for having stolen the only thing in the world powerful enough to penetrate my stony heart.

Six.

I can’t even say his name in thought without the chasing ache. It was because of him that I finally learned the secrets Papa had been hiding for a good three years of my life. Memories I repressed.

I learned that my hive, in particular, had been targeted for the raids, based on it’s proximity to an old Indian reservation. The prion that caused the widespread outbreak had been harvested from the soil there, and taken to an underground lab, where it was placed into a virus to be used as a biological weapon. According to Papa, it’s the distant descendants of those natives who carry the alpha gene, along with the pheromones that allow them to walk amongst the Ragers.

None of the boys from my hive survived.

Papa still works in the lab, though much of his study is carried out at home now, due to the debilitating effects of the illness, which he’s managed to keep at bay with daily injections of the antibodies. Unfortunately, the prion changes the surface of the virus, making it nearly impossible to find a cure.

And so I wait for the day he slips into Stage Two of the illness and can no longer remember who I am. At that point, I vowed to kill him myself.

Arriving home, I park the truck in the driveway and pause before exiting. Out across the sky, pillars of smoke billow upward, off in the distance, and as the knots of guilt twist in my stomach, and I have to look away.

Sometimes, I feel like the rest of the ignorant bastards in this place who refuse to see them. They refuse to believe, or accept, that innocent people are being hurt and tortured just beyond their perfect little existence. People who didn’t ask to be removed from their families and murdered. The Szolen community views them as savages, animals. Uncivilized, and unworthy of compassion. To them, they are the monsters, no different from the Ragers, simply because they’re carriers of the Dredge.

But there is no monster more terrifying than the human being who lacks compassion.

I was a savage, before I was assimilated into the Szolen way of life. Now I’m just a prisoner trapped in their mindset. The savages disgust them because they represent a terrifying reality. Without these walls, they’d be one of them. Dirty. Starving. Infected. Struggling to survive in a harsh world.

If not for Papa, secretly toiling away on a cure in one of the only facilities left standing in this part of the country, if not the world, I’d send a fiery cocktail over that wall and burn the place down myself. He’s worked too hard, though, and his time is running out. He says he’s close, but I fear the only thing he approaches with any certainty is death.

I enter the house, storing the bird away in the refrigerator meat-box to keep it cold. After turning the temperature down in preparation for lights out, I make my way toward Papa’s study.

With a knock, I swing the door open to find his head against the desk and a string of blood dangling from his lips.

“Papa!”

I rush forward, dropping to my knees, and shake him, until his eyes flip open and he sits up from the desktop.

“Oh, God, you scared me. I thought you were ... ” Dead. I stroke my hand along his arm to release some of the panic still coursing through my blood. “Are you all right? You’re burning up!”

With the back of his hand, he wipes the blood from his lips and covers his mouth in time to capture a horrific bark of a cough into the tissue crumpled in his palm. When he pulls it away, speckles of blood dot the white paper.

“C’mon. You need to lie down.” I slip my arms beneath his and tug him to a stand. “I’ll start a cool bath.”

He stumbles, hanging off of me, until we reach the couch in his office that’s become his bed for the last six months. “Wren, I think it’s time.”

“I think you’re full of shit,” I counter, lying him down against the cushion. I cross the room to the small fridge, throw back the door, and search through the many syringes, looking for the ones not already pre-packaged. The ones with handwritten labels. “Where’s the antibody?”

“I stopped using it.” Another cough throws him upright, and he slams the tissue to his face once more. “How ‘bout you find me a syringe full of cyanide, instead? That’ll cure it.”

“Stop.” It’s an inside joke between us, but one I don’t find funny. “And what do you mean you stopped using it?” My voice carries a combination of irritation and panic. “When?”

“A month ago. I can’t … keep up with the mutations. The proteins are constantly changing.”

“So, what are you saying? There’s no cure? You’re … you’re just gonna lie down and die?”

“Thought I’d smoke a damn good cigar first.”

I scowl back at him, wishing he’d quit with the jokes.

He waves me over to him, and I kneel down at his side. “You’re the cure, Wren. It’s taken me a while to understand and accept it.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Your generation. You possess some level of resistance. However variable. Your bodies have changed, evolved with the organism. This world doesn’t belong to us anymore. It belongs to you.”

Tears fill my eyes, and I frown, casting my gaze away from his. “You’re giving up. All these years and …”

“I’m not giving up. I’m moving on. A better place, right?”

“Than this?” I say sarcastically, swiping at my eyes.

His chuckle slips into another cough, and he covers his face again. “I could find a cure, and they’d exploit it. Use it against others. Play God. This place is all that protects them from what they fail to see beyond the wall. Let them stay trapped here. You, on the other hand, weren’t meant for this place. You were meant to venture beyond that wall. To see the world.”

“I get bitten, I still turn. I’m no safer out there.”

“You risk a snake bite every time you walk to the garden. A lion every time you climb a mountain. Wolves and scorpions, and thirst and hunger. There are dangers everywhere, and you still venture out into the world.” He sets a hand to my cheek, thumbing the tear that escapes my eye. “You have to survive, Wren. You will.”

“Alone.”

“Sometimes, that’s the only way to survive.” He jerks his head toward his desk. “Fetch my journal from the top drawer. And the gun beside it.”

A new horror washes over me, and I shake my head. “I’m not ready yet.”

“The infection has accelerated. In a few short days, I won’t know your name. You’ll care for someone who views you as a stranger, and soon after that, a food source. The weakness that keeps me bedbound will subside, and hunger will eventually take over.”

“Then, I wait until that happens.”

“I won’t. What do you think it does to me, knowing that I could possibly forget you?” The sight of his eyes glistening with tears forces me to look away. I’ve never seen him emotional this way. “I need something to take with me when I leave this world for the next.”

“You don’t believe in Heaven. Or God. Remember?”

“God gave me a second chance when he brought you into my life. I’ve decided to return the favor. Please, fetch my journal.”

I do as he asks, rifling through the top drawer until I find a black leather-bound book wrapped with a rubberband, and return to his side with it.

“Everyone has a story, Wren. This book is mine. It has my notes, my findings, my observations. A lifetime of thoughts, for the most part, but you may find some useful. Things that are easier to write than say.”

His sentiment strikes me like a punch in the heart, and the ache pounds against my ribs. In the time I’ve known him, he’s kept his emotions buried deep below his skin. So much so, that at times, I’ve wondered what I mean to him. The thought of reading his journal frightens me more than never knowing, at all.

“Just don’t read it until after I’m gone,” he says. “Some of that shit’s embarrassing.”

A burst of laughter cuts through my tears, and I lift his hand to my lips, kissing the back of his palm. “I’ll stay with you. Until the last beat. And if you try to do it yourself … I’ll join the Daughters, and you’ll be sorry.”

“Daughters.” He sighs, rolling his head on the pillow. “You’ve always been a stubborn child. Besides, I can’t see you spending two seconds in those ridiculous dresses.” His gaze falls to my wrist before I can cover it up. “The bugs again?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t let this world eat you alive, Wren. It will, if you don’t keep your wits about you.”

“I promise, Papa.” Another kiss to his hand, and I smile. “I brought you a gift. From Jessie.”

He rolls his eyes and turns his head away from me. “She’s relentless, that one.”

“Probably wouldn’t have hurt to take her on a date one time.”

“No doubt, she’d have come on to me. ‘Sides, I’d have only disappointed her.”

“You’re never a disappointment.”

“Same goes for you.”

My time with him feels as if it’s slipping between my fingers, and the thought of soon being completely alone carves a hollow ache in my chest. “I’m scared.”

He thumbs the tear at my eye and gives my hand a squeeze. “Bullshit. You’re the bravest thing I’ve ever met. Only girl that ever escaped Calico.”

“Because of you.”

His lips thin, brows pinching with uneasiness. “Leave this place, Wren. It won’t be safe for you here after I’m gone.”

“Where would I go?”

“East. There’s another community, much like this one. The map is in my journal. I’d planned to go there myself at one time.”

“Before you were bitten. Because of me, you never left.”

“I don’t regret a thing.” He strokes his palm along the length of my hair and cradles my head. “When the time comes, you must go. Do you understand? Go where you’ll be safe.”

“Safety is an illusion, remember?”

“Yes, you’re right. But survival is reality.”