The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(29)

“Roll on your landing,” Mira says.

I scan the lawn for a padded place and detect a thick patch of weeds a few yards away. I swing my body over the edge, hang for a moment by my fingertips, and let go. The ground comes up quick, and I tuck and roll to my side, away from the house.

I rise to my feet next to my umbrella, now completely shredded and useless. Good thing I packed an extra one, meant for Father. He’s still helping us, even in small ways like this.

Mira falls in beside me. Jaw clenched in pain, she nods that she’ll cope, and we take off down the street, lightning flashes guiding our path.

Half an hour later we haven’t found a single street sign left in the entire neighborhood, and I’m about to give up hope locating the safe house before daybreak when Mira rushes ahead of me.

“Ava, look,” she says, pointing.

I see nothing but shadows and the dark outline of houses until another bolt of lightning illuminates a slanting street sign with the name “Esmond Avenue” reflected in blocky white letters.

A renewed energy flows through my veins, encouraging my heavy legs to move faster down the street toward the man Father wants us to meet.

It takes another quarter hour of searching before we stop in front of a sad-looking two-story home with boarded-up windows. Nothing about the house distinguishes it from the countless rows of dull, mass-produced designs except the yellow color painted on the door.

The numbers 3505 hang crooked above the entryway.

Together Mira and I climb the stone steps to the porch before we separate, each moving to look through a different window.

“I can’t see anything,” she says.

I signal to her with a nod, and we loop around to the side of the house and use the collapsed fence to peer inside a group of bay windows. I see nothing but an overturned couch. No people. No signs of life. No Chapman.

“Should we knock?” Mira asks at the back door.

The idea of adhering to such a formality seems ridiculous, but I give a tentative knock anyway.

No answer.

I knock harder, and the door creaks open.

Mira and I glance at each other before we walk through the doorway, alert. We enter into a dark, still kitchen. The cabinet doors are all unlatched; several empty food cans are scattered across the countertops. Everything useful has been raided here just like at the factory.

“Hello?”

No response but the deep rumble of distant thunder.

We forage our way through each room on the lower level before we start up the stairs, every other step producing a loud creak.

“Mr. Chapman?”

Silence.

Upstairs we separate again—Mira goes left and I go right. After searching through two vacant rooms, I find my sister sitting on an old queen mattress that lies forgotten in the middle of the master bedroom. Brow furrowed, she breathes out a long, frustrated sigh.

“What if all the safe houses are empty like this?” she says.

I peer out the window. Looking to the east, I still don’t see the morning light. Storm clouds cover the rising sun, forcing the sky to hold onto the night. I close the blinds before joining my sister on the bed.

“We don’t know it’s empty. Chapman might be out on an errand or gathering food supplies,” I say. Our voices are hushed even though we know we are alone.

“Father might have made this map years ago. We have no idea how accurate the safe houses still are,” Mira says.

“He wouldn’t have given it to us if he didn’t think the route would work.”

“Or Chapman fled,” she counters, rising from the mattress toward the bathroom, where she scavenges the shelves below the sink.

“He probably ran off after he heard the governor’s threats. Who wants to risk their life for wanted criminals?” Mira continues, frustration plain in her voice. She finds a box of tampons and shoves it into her rucksack. All the previous scavengers must have been men.

I move into the small bathroom and sit on the edge of the stained acrylic tub, the corners of the map digging into my hips.

“We need to recharge. We’ll stay here today, try to find supplies, and wait to see if Chapman shows up,” I say.

Mira twists the knobs of the sink faucet but nothing comes out. She sighs and surges to her feet. What was she expecting? Mira forces the blonde hair plastered to her forehead out of her face. I miss the red already.

She looks at me with tired, bloodshot eyes. “If he doesn’t return by sundown, we set off for the next safe house without him.”

Reluctantly, I nod.

But he has to come back, I choose not to voice aloud. I don’t know if we can make it through the Texas desert without him.





MIRA

Ava lowers her binoculars.

“If we keep our distance and make it quick, no one should notice our presence,” she says.

We set out to resupply our water and are planning to make the trek back to the safe house to resume our wait for Arlo Chapman. Ava found an orphaned bicycle in the garage, the bike chain thick with accumulated rust, the brakes dubious and loose, but I had hopes this rickety vehicle could still make time shrink. We made it four miles with me on the handlebars before the front tire blew and the bike skidded, catapulting me and my misguided optimism to the ground.

One vile stray nail and now we must walk back to the house after our supply run, which will more than triple our travel time.