Resistant a world divide.., p.3
Resistant: A World Divided, page 3
Abel sighs. “It’s too far to see who is in the boat...but it’s not too far to see how many.”
“Ok?” My heart is racing because I think I know where he’s going with this.
Abel sighs another heavy sigh, clearly worried about how I’ll take his news. “Last time the boat left with two people. It came back with three.”
“Survivors,” I whisper, my eyes wide, but even I know this sounds absurd. The Community hasn’t demonstrated concern for the well-being of outside survivors for years now.
“Then why not tell us? If there are people out there who have survived the Virus, why keep it a secret?”
Suddenly there’s movement, a flash of color from the opposite shoreline, and I make out what unmistakably is a watercraft of some sort. I hear the muffled rumble of an engine and the boat races across the river, avoiding with great speed the rocks in its path. Almost as if this crew has navigated this exact course hundreds of times.
I stare in disbelief, my mouth agape. For the first time in my years within the wall, I feel extremely exposed.
The boat slows slightly as it approaches the wall to my left, and I swear, the boat is going to head straight into the concrete barrier. My hand instinctively goes to my mouth to stifle a scream, but the boat continues through the wall.
“There must be a door we can’t see from here,” Able explains the obvious. And I back up and out of the opening and collapse against the wall, knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. “There’s something they’re not telling us,” Abel says after a minute.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” I reply, shaking my head. “Why?” I stare out into the cemetery, trying to make sense of it all. In the corner of my eye, something shimmers, and I think I see another hummingbird hovering just above a grave marker to my right.
“Why else would they make these runs? Bring survivors back? And not tell us?” Abel’s voice interrupts my scattered thoughts. Nothing about any of this makes sense.
“How often do you come here?” I ask him not able to hide the shock in my voice.
“Enough times to know that no one will think to look for us here once they’ve realized we’ve gone AWOL.” He offers me his hand, and I hesitate before I take it. My nerves are shot, and my legs unsteady. My mind is racing.
AWOL: an Old-World military term. Absent without leave. Without permission.
With Abel’s words, I am once again abruptly brought back to planet Community. We’ve broken the rules, many rules, Abel and I. Panic surges. How long have we been gone? An hour? Maybe longer. Will they come looking for us? Of course, they’ll come looking! They’re probably searching for us now! Who will they send? Wall patrolmen? No. They are far too busy vigilantly guarding the outer walls of The Community to worry about two teenage kids who skipped classes.
Or are they? Abel had just shown me that members of The Community can, in fact, come and go from The Community. To where? For what purpose? We can only guess.
But I do know they will send someone to look for us. They have to send someone. Two Community members are missing, and with the preservation of life such a priority, The Community won’t take the chances of something happening to even one of its members.
Not to mention Dr. Scott Grayson’s little girl.
I shake my head. No.
“Cat?” Abel’s voice, clearly concerned, seems a mile away and muffled.
Still, my mind continues to race, my heartbeat now a pounding, panicked drum in my chest and ears. Because I know there’s only one person who would come looking for us. He would insist on it. And it’s with this sickening realization that my hands begin to tremble. My face grows hot, my cheeks two scarlet flames. Moisture clouds my eyes, and it’s an eternity before I recognize it as sweat. I am dizzy, and the world around me spins around and around and around like I’m three years old again, riding on that ridiculous, dizzying attraction where you sit in oversized teacups.
Except I’m not three. And I certainly am not having a good time.
My head swims, and it’s not until the world has righted itself, and I see that Abel is kneeling over me that I realize I fainted.
2: Wren
The distant yet unmistakable sound of a revving motorbike abruptly interrupts what had been my perfectly peaceful morning gardening with Alice. The one chore I really don’t seem to mind. Whether it’s the quiet time I get to spend with my childhood friend or the fact that I have a hand—literally—in something so vital for our camp, I’m not sure.
Startled by the noise, a flock of birds previously resting on the surface of the reservoir to my right explodes into the air. My head instinctively jerks toward the roaring of the engine, and I knock into the basket of vegetables Alice and I only moments ago finished filling.
“Wren!” Alice’s voice has a clear note of agitation to it. “Come on!” she complains.
“I’m sorry!” I say to her, giving her the look I know she understands, and Alice rolls her eyes. She’s seen it before. She knows what’s coming. I’m poised to run, but I remain locked in place, awaiting Alice’s approval, pleading to her with my eyes.
“Seriously, Wren?” Alice’s face falls, and her eyes roll again. “You’re unbelievable,” she says, but her softened tone lets me know that she’s already given up the fight. I jump to my feet and brush the dirt from my hands, ready to hightail it out of there. My heart is already racing with anticipation. “Wren,” Alice starts again, “your mother.”
It’s a pathetic attempt on Alice’s part.
I shrug. “What she doesn’t know—?” I wait for Alice to finish.
Alice holds up her hands in frustration. “I know, I know!” she says. “What she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her.”
I smile a huge toothy grin of gratitude at Alice, who has, on more than one occasion picked up the slack where I’ve dropped it—literally—and without waiting for her to change her mind, take off running at top speed in the direction of the revving engine.
He’s done it again, I fume. But my anger is surface deep and merely part of the chase that both Ryder and I have grown to enjoy these last few months.
“Ryder!” I scream his name into the wind even though I know he can’t hear me, and there’s no denying the feigned tone of irritation in my voice. I quickly find the path through our little neighborhood camp and pick up my pace even more. I am fast, there’s no arguing that, but I know Ryder. And I know he’ll make me work for this ride. He always does. It’s Ryder’s twisted way of flirting.
Tree limbs smack at my face, but I don’t slow down, leaping over giant cracks in the old jogging trail, avoiding protruding roots that have long broken through the pavement like knobby fists angry at the condition of our current world.
And just like every other time I’ve run this route, I find myself imagining other young girls—girls not unlike Alice and me—but in their fashionable running gear jogging along this exact path. New mothers pushing strollers. Elderly couples hand-in-hand leisurely out for a walk. Everyone a picture-perfect image of health and ignorance, disastrously unaware of the rapidly approaching end of just about everything and everyone.
I exhale loudly, as though I can rid myself of such thoughts with this one breath, and push myself harder. I wind around a corner, burst through the tall gate that borders our camp, and I see him.
Ryder.
He is alone in the deserted and crumbling gas station parking lot. His gloved hands loosely grip the handles of the bike, and his body is positioned to leave, but his helmet is off, his sandy blond hair a straight-up mess.
“Damn, you, Ryder!” I yell, still a hundred yards away. He turns to face the direction of my voice and laughs a deep guttural laugh.
“I had just about lost my faith in you, girl!” he humorously shouts back, and there’s no denying the over-exaggerated hint of his almost-southern drawl, nor his obvious up-and-down as he takes in the length of my body.
So like Ryder. I roll my eyes.
Now that I know he is, in fact, waiting for me, I slow to a jog. And as I approach him and the bike, he reaches down to reveal a second helmet, smiling coyly. I am walking now, and, against my better judgement decide to play into his charades, twirling around for him even though I know it’s flirtatious and I shouldn’t encourage him.
He whistles. “Damn, girl. You didn’t think I’d go without you, did you?” His eyes twinkle, and I am reminded once again how hard it is to resist his charm. I know that’s why he sometimes talks with that silly, exaggerated accent; he thinks it impresses me. If I’m being honest, it does. So does a man on a bike.
Still, I grab the helmet forcibly and strap it on, feigning frustration, no stranger to these games Ryder plays. He knows how much I cherish these supply runs, and he doesn’t hesitate to use this knowledge against me. “You never know,” I say, smiling smugly because of course, I do know. Ryder would never ever leave me. “Alice may just kill me,” I continue as I mount the bike and wrap my arms tightly around his waist.
“Nah, you’re with me, Wren. And you know how much she loves me.” He slaps my thigh and revs the engine once more, and we’re off before I can argue.
It takes just a few minutes to reach the highway. This was one of the reasons my mother and her small crew chose our camp’s location. They weren’t naive to think they could survive on their own. Sure my mother’s an incredibly resourceful woman, and our small community has come a long way, living, as my mother refers to it, like our revolutionary ancestors. But our motorbikes and generators don’t run on solar power; thus, we need supplies.
And it just so happens that for the past few months, Ryder, my closest male ally in the camp, has been elected as the weekly pick-up man.
We soar down the interstate, weaving in and out of abandoned, rusty cars, now just metal shells where the few surviving drifters sometimes find a night or two of refuge. In the weeks following the outbreak of the Virus, they were all gutted; engines, electronics, steering wheels, seats, even windshield wipers and floor mats were taken for various uses. And the drivers? I don’t like to think about what happened to them. It makes me sick.
We fly through the unmanned toll booths—the EZ Pass lanes ironically no longer easy to navigate, too crowded with pieces of cars and debris—and I reach my left arm out and pretend to throw loose change. There’s something about pretending life is as it once was that makes me feel freer. It’s crazy, I know. But I still do it nevertheless.
The perpetual dreamer, my mother calls me.
Ryder, sensing I loosened my grip, turns to look over his shoulder. I can see his green eyes through the visor. Ok? they ask. I’m used to his protectiveness that at times smothers me; however, I also know how much my safety means to him, so I grab back onto his waist and squeeze hard. I swear even through his heavy biker jacket, I feel him relax.
Another half mile, and we’ll be at the bridge. This is where we will stop. This is where we will wait.
. . . . .
And wait.
We wait for what I believe is a few hours, the sun creeping its way left over the river that seems smooth as glass beneath the bridge. Large rocks line the shoreline closest to us, and I again imagine life before the Virus. Sunbathers. Young families. Kayakers and fishermen. A time when people weren’t afraid of what lay hidden beneath the water or in the woods. A time when illnesses were easily treatable. A time when survival simply meant getting out of bed each day.
But even now as I turn my eyes to Ryder, the unmistakable bulge near the small of his back reminds me just how unsafe these supply runs can be. And not just because of the unpredictability of who and what lives beyond the great wall that separates the privileged from the not-so-privileged, but because of the other survivors who coexist outside its doors with us.
A shiver interrupts the nervous tapping of my feet, and I realize I have moved far past the point of feeling antsy. It’s not unusual for the drop-off to be a little later than expected, but this is the longest I remember ever having to wait.
“Something’s wrong,” I say out loud before I realize it.
Ryder’s brow furrows. I can tell he feels the same way. Still, he replies, “Maybe. Maybe not.”
I jump off the hood of the abandoned jeep that I swear by now has the imprint of my ass on it. “Come on, Ry, we’ve had to wait before, but this is ridiculous. Something’s happened.”
Ryder inhales deeply and stretches his long arms up over his head in an over-exaggerated, lazy stretch. “Listen, we’ll wait for another hour. If no one shows, we’ll head back,” he says matter-of-factly, but by the hitch in his tone I can tell he’s worried. He also hasn’t been able to sit still for the past thirty minutes.
We are both acutely aware of how much we need these supplies. Without them, we’ll run out of gas, clean water, and medical supplies just to name a few of the inventories that are “volunteered” by our one contact person within what our camp has come to refer to as The Dome. Without gas, it would take days to hike down the highway. And that’s if you made it. Without clean water, we’d be forced to drink from the reservoir beside our camp. Boiling water over a fire. Without the aid of matches.
“If no one shows?” I question, incredulous. “Ryder, if no one shows—”
He walks over to me and rests his large hands on my shoulders. “Babe, Don always shows, ok?” When I don’t seem relieved, he continues, “Look, Don’s late. He’ll be here. He would have gotten word to us otherwise, Wren. Trust me.”
I nod but am still not convinced.
“You know, you don’t have to come with me,” Ryder says after a few minutes of silence as he takes a seat back on the hood of the jeep, offering me his hand. I shove it away and, placing my boot onto the fender, gracefully leap onto the car. “I’m a big boy,” he continues. “I can handle the supplies all by myself.” And now there seems to be a hint of hurt behind his words. He’s never been fond of my stubborn independence.
“We both know you like the company,” I say, playfully elbowing him in the ribs.
There’s another moment of silence between us as I stare out into the river flowing freely beneath the bridge, and I can feel his eyes on me. He’s no longer in his typical playful mood.
“Wren,” he says, “why do you like to come?”
Without looking away from the river, I respond, “Maybe I like the company.”
I feel Ryder grow tense beside me, but he doesn’t speak. So I am forced to answer more seriously. “Safety in numbers, remember?” I say. But he snorts loudly, not believing a word of it. It’s true, I do worry about Ryder’s safety on these supply runs, but that’s not why I come.
The truth is, there’s more to my curiosity of The Dome than even I understand.
And before I can stop myself, I admit aloud, “I don’t know, Ry. There’s something about that wall, you know?” I lift my head to face the immense concrete barrier that divides our world in two. On the opposite shoreline, the wall climbs steadily up, no windows, no doors that we can tell, a translucent domed ceiling too high to offer us any kind of view inside. Only once a week are we even offered evidence of life beyond the large wall. And even though we are all told that what lies beyond the wall is corrupt and unjust, every time a supply run is on the horizon, The Dome seems to beckon me like a beacon. I can’t explain it. I also can’t deny it.
“No, Wren, I don’t know.” Ryder’s voice has grown ever-so-slightly frigid.
I shrug. “It’s almost like I’m supposed to be there.” And as soon as these words pass through my lips, I wish more than anything I could take them back.
. . . . .
Agonizing hours slip past us, too quickly, like the water flowing rapidly beneath the bridge.
With every passing minute, my worries intensify. I worry about my mom, whether she’s noticed I’m not in camp. It’s true, I keep these supply runs with Ryder a secret from my mother, but it’s the one truth I keep from her. And it’s a big one. I worry, too, about the resources that might not come today and what impact that will have on our camp. I worry that I’ve pissed off Alice.
I just worry.
To pass the time and calm my nerves, I take to watching the angles of the shadows change, growing longer and more severe as the daylight hours diminish, and I allow my imagination to transform them into graceful dancers with slender, reaching arms. I am studying one tree’s particularly beguiling shadows when from somewhere in the distance finally comes the faint hum of an automobile’s engine. Immediately I am set on high alert.
I leap from the hood of the jeep, cursing loudly as my body rejects the sudden impact after sitting sedentary for so long.
“Shhh!” Ryder hisses. He turns to stare across the great eight-lane bridge, eyes shielded by his large hands. Through the haze of exhaust, a white van gradually materializes from far down the bridge. Without warning, Ryder turns and crashes into my body, sending me flying into the overgrown brush.
“Ryder, what the h—?” I start, but he cuts me off with a violent gesture then demandingly whispers, “Put your helmet back on and stay out of sight!” and runs full sprint to the start of the bridge, leaving me in his dust before I can protest.
It takes less than a minute to decide not to heed Ryder’s advice. Because something about this drop-off just doesn’t feel right.
Slowly, I crawl to the edge of the road to see the supply van come to a halt where Ryder stands arms outstretched as though asking, What the hell has taken you so long? But then his arms drop heavily to his side as not one but two men wearing black suits exit the vehicle. His right arm reaches behind to feel for his gun but then changes its mind. My chest pulses rapidly. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong; my heart beats seem to shout within my ears. But still, I stay hidden. Still, I watch helplessly as Ryder confronts these two strangers on the bridge alone.
