Everland(2)

An injured expression replaces the scowl on Joanna’s face. My stomach groans with hunger, but the ache is nothing compared with the immediate pang of guilt that fills me. I wish I could take back what I said. “Look,” I whisper. “Joanna, I …”

“You were a much better sister than you are a mother,” she says softly, tracing pictures in the layer of dust on the floor with her big toe.

A stab of pain pierces my heart like the tip of a sharpened sword. A mother? I had never intended to be her mother, but the stern tone in my voice echoes like a parent chiding her children. I am about to correct her, to convince her I am still her sister, only a child like her, when Mikey, our six-year-old brother, appears, rubbing his eyes. Dirt dusts his blond hair, making it look brown. I can’t remember the last time I bathed him. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I bathed myself.

“What’s going on? Why are you guys fighting?” he asks through a yawn.

“Never mind, go back to bed,” I say too sharply.

“I can’t sleep. Bad dreams.” He takes Joanna’s bandaged hand. She winces but doesn’t complain. The blisters on her fingers have worsened over the weeks and seem excruciatingly painful. Bloody and infected, the sores haven’t responded to any treatment: warm baths, tubes of salve, bandages, or an expired bottle of antibiotics I scavenged. I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s nothing to worry about. That her wounds will heal with time. Refusing to believe that she has contracted what has ravaged the adult population and left many of the children untouched. But even through the denial, the truth still haunts me with every corpse I stumble upon.

“Come on, I’ll lie down with you. Have I told you the stories about the mermaids in the city?” Joanna says, leading Mikey by the hand.

“Are they real mermaids?” Mikey asks with curious, wide eyes.

“Joanna,” I say, gently touching her shoulder. I want to apologize, to convince her that I am just looking out for her well-being, but the words stick in my throat, filtered by uncertainty. Instead I hear myself saying, “Don’t keep him up too late with those silly fairy tales. And no pirate stories, he’ll be awake all night. It’s late. Blow that candle out. We’re leaving when I return.”

She looks away. “I wish you’d never grown up,” she mumbles. I shudder, her words twisting a sharp blade in my chest. Joanna leads Mikey to our filthy mattresses and tattered blankets. They settle into the lumpy beds, whispering under the dancing flicker of dim candlelight. Mikey giggles as Joanna waves her hands around as if she were in an imaginary sword fight.

Shaking my head, I turn back to the open window and take one final glance at England’s structural ruins. A gray haze hovers over the city like a cloak of death and disease. The blackened remains of the once-bustling town of London provide mute evidence of the carnage and destruction caused by the Marauders, the pirate soldiers sent by Queen Katherina of Germany.

Years ago, Queen Katherina ascended the German throne after the unexpected death of her husband. But it soon became clear that ruling just one country would not be enough for her. England tried to stop her, working to have the International Peace Accords signed by the world’s nations. It was meant to unify and create a utopic society for all time. It was a hollow gesture at best. Queen Katherina quickly defied the treaty, leaving the countries surrounding her kingdom in a bloodbath, earning her the nickname the Bloodred Queen.

So we are not her first invasion and certainly not her last.

I descend the fire escape to the rain-soaked streets below. Leaving my sister and brother to their fairy tales, I travel east on foot for an hour outside of our hideout before reaching a dilapidated suburban community.

A full moon casts its eerie glow through a break in the gloomy clouds, chasing away dark shadows in the alleys. The stench of death and rotting corpses still lingers in the muggy air, evidence of diseased bodies discarded into the sewage system by survivors and soldiers alike. Rumors of crocodiles let loose within the sewers to devour the dead circulated among the survivors in the days following the bombs. Even after all this time, the smell makes me want to retch. Crouching behind the rubble of bomb-shelled buildings, I watch for movement. Other than scavenging rodents, the night is silent. Most of the houses lie in ruins, casualties of the war. Those buildings still standing loom with windowless gapes and graffiti-painted walls, an indication that they have already been looted. Weeds grow tall in the front lawns and through the thick cracks of the buckling streets as nature reclaims what once was hers.

My hopes rise as I stumble upon a single-story house that appears untouched. Other than a pile of bricks and mortar from what was a chimney, the structure seems undamaged. Thankfully, the windows remain intact, a sure sign that no one has scavenged the place. Still, I know I must be cautious. Assumptions will get me killed.

I step out of the shadows and into the milky moonlight. Glass crushes beneath my black leather boots. I cringe, cursing my careless mistake. The stillness of the night air remains unbroken, at least this time. I make my way to the side of the house, slipping through a broken board in the backyard fence.

With the palm of my hand, I wipe dirt from a dingy window on the garage door. It’s too dark inside to see anything. Placing my rucksack on the ground, I pull out a small kerosene lantern and a book of matches. The cover flips open, revealing a single match.

Afraid of accidentally blowing it out, I hold my breath, run the match along the strike strip, and light the lamp. It sparks and the warmth chases away the chill from my fingers.