Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Wren

The wall pressesinto my back, as I sit staring through the pillars of trees all around me. An hour must’ve passed, judging by the new position of the sun in the sky, beating through the tops of the branches. I bend forward and peer through the hole again, taking in the clicking sound of the Ragers teeth and the scuffle of their feet against the dirt.

No sign of Six, though.

In an hour, I’ve climbed the sycamore at least a dozen times, and when I push to climb again, a scream catches my attention, halting me in my tracks. Peering through the hole brings two soldiers into view, where they stand on the lookout towers with their guns aimed downward.

One shoots twice, and the screams die away.

Please don’t let it be Six.

An ache in my chest throbs while I count down the seconds from my last breath. Has he been caught sneaking around? Perhaps they mistook him for an escaped Rager? A thousand different scenarios race through my mind, all at once, while I try to envision the soldier’s target. My mind settles on the singular thought that whoever it was, it wasn’tSix.

It wasn’t. It can’t be, because no one that extraordinary should die in such an ordinary way.

I hardly know this boy, if at all, and yet, the thought of never seeing him again weighs heavy on my heart for some unknown reason.

I don’t dare climb the tree for fear the guards will see me. Instead, I wait, praying that, any moment, I’ll see the profile of a boy blocking my view of the Ragers.

Another hour passes.

A sting hits my arm, drawing my attention toward the scratches I’ve dug into my skin there. What started as a crawling sensation across my bones has become an obsession that I can’t leave alone now—particularly as the skin has dried and inflamed with each scrape of my nails.

The sun is farther along in the sky now, so I push to a stand and head back. On this side of the wall, we don’t have the Ragers to fear at nightfall. And aside from walking in complete blackness when the electricity goes down for the night, it’d be a fairly peaceful hike. But night is when the Mediators roam the streets, keeping watch. They enforce a strict curfew of eight o’clock, and anyone caught on the streets is said to suffer the consequences.

I’ve no idea what those consequences are, as I’ve never broken the rule. Not for their sake, but Papa’s. I’d never disappoint him that way.

There’s still plenty of light to make it home before he gets back, though. And like the day before, I left supper to simmer on the stove. All meals have to be cooked before the sun goes down. The turbines to generate power at night require gasoline, and most of the natural resources died out years ago, so by day, we prepare the meals, and at night, we settle in for the darkness.

Even though I’m safe here, the night still gives me the creeps. Unfortunately, I don’t remember much of my childhood to know why.

It’s nearly dusk when I walk the road toward our homestead. As I pass Mrs. Miller, she gathers up her laundry from her drying line and waves. She and her husband have two kids—both young boys, who frequently dress in black capes and play Legion out in the front yard. Nice people, who mostly keep to themselves, but they’d never survive outside of the walls. Na?ve as mice in a snake pit. They don’t farm, or hunt, at all. Pretty much all their food comes from the market—or Papa, when he’s feeling generous.

She’d be the first to go, no doubt. My mind conjures images of those crisp white sheets she pulls from the line spattered in blood, while a Rager feeds on her throat.

Double-blinking the thought away, I wave back to her.

Our house is the farthest out, situated on a cul-de-sac of homes arranged in a pattern that reminds me of the geometry problems in my workbooks. A, B, C, D. All some variation of the Mediterranean Revival architecture, in a palette of pale colors that don’t lend much distinction. Papa could live in the fancy Villa side of the community, if he wanted, but he says he’d be selling his soul if he did, so we stay in Phase Two. The homes are nice, but they’re definitely not the mansions that house the other physicians here.

Two empty lots separate us on either side from the adjacent houses, but the style remains consistent with the others. A red-tiled roof, with two thick pillars, makes up the entrance, accented by tall arches and wrought iron, and teaming with potted medicinal plants. I snap off the tip of an aloe leaf and ooze the clear fluid over the scratches on my arm, instantly soothing the burn.

Sometimes, I visualize baby spiders, or a thousand ants crawling out of tiny holes in my skin, which is why I scratch so obsessively. I credit that to one of Papa’s medical books, in which I happened to stumble upon trypophobia. The images on the page somehow seared themselves into my head, and I’ve been horrifically disturbed by them ever since.

Pushing those thoughts down as deep as I can, I focus on the delicious scent of boiled meat and spices that permeate from the kitchen. Not having eaten for most of the day, the scent waters my mouth as I cross through the gradually-darkening living room toward it.

A roiling cloud of steam drifts upward, as I remove the lid from the pot, inhaling the savory aroma of dinner. The bread I baked earlier sits wrapped in cheesecloth on the counter beside the stove. All the ovens in Szolen are electric, part of the community’s original design before the world went to hell.

I’ve made more than enough for Papa and me, and though we’ll store some away for lunch tomorrow, I’ll be sure to set aside a bit of it for Six, assuming he’ll show up.

Ladling the soup into the bowls I’ve set out on the counter, I pause at a flash of memory that strikes me. Soup ladled into a bowl. Hunger gnawing at my stomach. A scalding sting hits my leg, so hot it almost feels cold, and I jump back as the ladle falls to the floor.

“You’ve made a mess, Wren. Be sure to clean it.”

I gasp at the voice, and spin around to find Papa standing in the doorway. His graying hair and stern face, cast in shadows from the dying light, make him look angry, even if he isn’t. His voice is calm and level, much like his personality.

“Sit. Let me look at the burn on your leg.”

After setting the ladle in the sink for rinsing, I pull a chair from the table and fall into it, eyeing the puffy red above my knee, where the burn has already settled below my skin.

Crouching down in front of me, he runs his fingers gently over the markings. “I’ll put some aloe on it.”

“I’ve got some.” From my pocket, I pull the tip of the plant I broke off and hand it to him.

He grips my wrist and turns it over, to the gouges in my forearm, and those stern brown eyes lift to mine. “Bugs again?”

I don’t tell him it was brought on by a boy who failed to show up for our unscheduled meetings in the woods. Instead, I nod.

“And the hallucinations?”

“Not as bad as before,” I assure him. “They’re going away again. Anything new on the other side?” I hate talking about what’s wrong with me, so I shift the conversation to something far more appetizing.

Releasing my arm, he sets his hands on his thighs and pushes to straighten himself. “Nothing that would interest you.”

“It would. Tell me.” I slide off the chair, nabbing rags from the adjacent drawer, which I throw onto the spilled soup.

His insistence that I never go beyond the wall is a frustration with no resolution. Certainly not worth the effort of asking again, but I enjoy his stories, no matter how mundane he thinks they are. Once I’ve mopped the broth, I rinse the ladle and finish filling the bowls with the soup.

The chasing silence makes it clear he has no intentions of telling me about his day, so I set the bowls on the table and slice two pieces of bread that I set beside them. Taking my seat, I bow my head, silently giving thanks for the meal, and lift the spoon for a taste.

The meat, potatoes and warm broth fills my stomach, and I dip my spoon for another. We’re only allowed two meat-containing meals a week, to conserve what’s stored away. Tonight’s happens to be squirrel.

“I brought you something.” From his pocket, Papa pulls a string of multicolored beads, with four white in the center that spell ‘love.’ Slipping it over my wrist, he tugs his mouth into the slightest smile. “Found it in some rubble. Thought you might like it.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say, twisting it until love sits atop my wrist. “I love it.” I chuckle, and a quick upward glance shows him staring at me, serious as always.

I’ve never heard him laugh, his smile never reaches his eyes, and I suppose that’s okay. It’s gestures like these—the gifts, the gentle care of my wounds, the inquiries of my day—that I’ve come to learn are his ways of showing his care. I’m glad he’s not overly affectionate toward me, anyway—that would feel more awkward than his lack of hugs.

“Something else,” he says, slipping his hand into his other pocket. His closed fist opens, revealing a silver key in his palm, and I quickly snatch it up, twisting it in front of me.

I collect keys. House keys. Car keys. Doesn’t matter what kind. I like knowing they unlock something, somewhere in the world. I pretend they’re the keys to someone’s story—their hopes and dreams—and I’m now the keeper of it.

I examine the ridges along the edge, and run my thumb over its teeth. “This one … it belongs to a castle. With a moat around the perimeter and lush green grass. And flowers. So many colorful flowers, you’d think a rainbow touched the ground.”

“You’ve got quite an imagination, Wren.” Setting his elbows at either side of his bowl, he lifts his spoon. “I’ve gathered some Mormon Tea to begin stocking for winter.”

“I’ll make sure it’s ground tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve noticed your chores have been completed each day.” He tears off pieces of the bread, setting the small chunks on a napkin beside the bowl. “What’s the occasion?”

Humor, though, coming from him is as dry as bone.

“Boredom.” Dipping the bread into my soup, I keep my gaze focused on the steam rising up from the bowl. “I saw smoke today. North side. Looked like it was coming from the other side of the wall.”

“What were you doing on the North side?” He’s a much more refined eater than I am, spooning the soup into his mouth without a single sound.

“Exploring.”

“Not in the woods, I hope.”

“What’s over there?” I ask, ignoring his comment.

He sets his spoon down, eyes drilling into me. “Did you go into the woods?”

“There’s an electric fence, Papa. To keep us out.”

“And it does a fine job of keeping most out. But you’re not most.” Spoon in hand again, he returns to his food, eating much faster than before. It’s clear to me that he’s doing his usual hurry-up-and-eat-before-she-asks-anymore-questions thing, before he’ll sneak away into his study, where I’ll undoubtedly have to wake him to go to bed.

“Something is there. A factory. Or a hospital.”

“Stay away from the North side. Is that clear?”

“But what is it? What’s there?”

“You’re not to return. Or there’ll be consequences.”

“Is it a hospital? Is that where you worked?”

The slamming of his fist against the table skates down my spine, as it rattles the dishes and soup sloshes over the edge of the bowls.

“Damn it, Wren! Stay away! Do you hear me? That forest is no place for a na?ve young girl!”

His eyes are cold and cruel, his lip peeled back into an angry snarl, the likes of which I’ve not seen on him before. It’s rare I test his patience, and the sudden remorse leaves me bowing my head in shame for angering him. I know its love that governs his harshness, his yearning to protect me. Tears distort the view of my hands set in my lap.

“Yes, Papa.”

Silence so thick I can scarcely draw in a breath lingers between us, and that’s when the first needle of frustration pokes at me. The mishmash swirling inside my head keeps the tears from falling, and my hands come back into sharp view with their retreat. I want to scream back at him, even if I’m supposed to be grateful for being one of the blessed. One of the privileged who live behind the wall that separates us from the ugly world we’re not supposed to be curious about.

He stands up from the table, leaving his bowl and spoon, but instead of disappearing as I expect, he returns with a flickering lamp that he sets down onto the center of the table. A soft caress at the side of my wrist, below the bracelet that covers my scar, brings me staring back at him, as he sits with his brows upturned. There have been few times when he’s angered by something I’ve done, and each time, he makes a point to stroke my scar.

“I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m merely concerned for your safety, Wren. If anything were to happen to you …” His brows pinch together, and he shakes his head as if shaking those thoughts out of his mind. “Please do not return to those woods again.”

“Okay, Papa.” I set my hand atop of his to keep him from caressing the ruined skin there. “I won’t.”