Three (Article 5 #3)(22)

“We found supplies in the last town,” I started uncertainly. “I—we—thought that maybe someone else could have put them there. Someone who survived the blast.”

Jesse’s gaze was heavy, and unconsciously I moved closer to Chase.

“No one else survived,” said Sarah bleakly.

“There are rumors of a settlement down the coast,” said Jesse finally.

Stunned silence.

“It’s old,” continued Jesse. “I’m not sure it’s even still there.” He stared forward, as if mesmerized by the flames. “Tomorrow we’ll head further south. If we don’t find them in two days, you’re free to take your team back to the safe house. Or what’s left of it.”

“We’re free to?” snorted Jack. “What makes you think—”

“Two days?” interrupted the girl whose brother was still missing. “What about the people you left behind? My brother needs—”

“What do you think?” I whispered to Chase while the others began to argue again. “We’re supposed to be back by then.”

He nodded, rubbing a crease between his brows with his thumb. “But if we find a settlement, that could mean food, medical supplies…”

“Three,” I said. He nodded.

“Maybe Three.”

As guilty as I felt about stranding the injured, the prospect of finding Three was too big to pass up.

“Just two days,” I said. “If we haven’t found a radio by then, we go back. Agreed?”

Jesse’s eyes traveled from Jack to Chase and lastly to me. He didn’t look to his people; maybe he already knew they’d follow his lead.

“Fine,” said Jack.

“Agreed,” said Jesse.

*

WE left at dawn.

The morning was much like the days before, only now we weren’t looking for empty cans or footprints, we were looking for signs of a permanent settlement, and there weren’t just nine of us, there were twenty-six. We could spread out, cover ground faster. With so many to offer protection, we even took our chances on the highway that ran down the coast toward Charleston, South Carolina. There Rebecca and Sarah could walk with more ease, and Jack, nursing the knife wound in his thigh, could hobble slowly behind them.

I watched Rebecca as closely as I could. Something told me not to leave her alone, and every time she branched from the group, I was there, keeping her company. If she noticed what I was doing, she didn’t say anything about it.

Jack and a few of the others from Chicago rallied in the back. Their whispering did not go unnoticed. More than once when I neared, their conversations ended abruptly. I worried they didn’t mean to keep their word—that they’d attempt to take control, or simply disappear, and after the way we’d been received by the survivors, we couldn’t risk more dissension. The silence frayed my nerves. Today’s path had been quiet, but there was a prickling at the base of my neck. It felt like we were being watched.

In the early afternoon the bright scent of oranges drew us into an abandoned grove. The trees were weighed down with fruit, and below on the grass were the rotting remains of those that had fallen.

We weren’t the only tenants. Squirrels, mice, deer, and cats fled when we approached. In the sky, hawks circled. Hunters, watching from above.

Chase had spent the morning scouting our path, but found me once we stopped. As he approached, I busied myself picking oranges, still keeping one eye on Rebecca across the lane, dozing beneath a tree. In our search I’d been able to distract myself from what had happened last night with Rat, and what had happened before in the woods. But now those things hung between us, heavy and impossible to ignore.

He stood just beyond the reach of the tree, fiddling with something in his hand, as if waiting for me to stop. When I did, he took a quick breath, like he was about to dive into cold water, then stepped beneath the shade, having to adjust his position until he found a place he could stand without hitting his head on the branches.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For which part?” I hadn’t meant to be snide, but the words still came out that way. When he slumped I placed the oranges I’d gathered at my feet and wiped the juice off my hands onto my jeans.

“The part where I was an idiot,” he said, clearing his throat. “I don’t want to scare you. Ever.”

He opened his hand, and in his palm was a yellow flower—like a rose, but smaller. When I looked at it, he unfurled my fist and placed it within.

I prodded the tender petals—those that had survived his grasp. Most were bent or torn, but it was still beautiful. Something fluttered inside when I imagined him finding it and carrying it for me.

“I think I might be broken.” He didn’t look up.

I moved closer, feeling his sadness wash over me.

“We’re all broken,” I said. “We just have to put each other back together.”

My loose fist holding the flower came to rest in the center of his chest, locked between us. He leaned down, his forehead touching mine. His eyes closed.

“What if I’m too far gone?”

“Then I’ll find you,” I said. “And I’ll bring you back.”

*

HE told me about the first time he’d had to steal food, and the days after Jesse had left him in the wreckage. Stories from the War. At first he didn’t release my hand, and eyed me cautiously, waiting for some sign to stop, but after a while the words began flowing more freely, and as we split an orange he told me funny things, too, about the doomsday prophesiers and the all-night card games he’d play with the other kids at the Red Cross Camps. Before long, we’d polished off another orange, and then a third. We were laughing when Sean ducked under the branches. I shot to my feet, realizing I’d lost track of the time.