She had taught herself to bandage, to attach splints, to suture wounds—Lana wasn’t always available. And she had with great misgiving taken on a bit of dentistry. At least as much dentistry as could be accomplished with a pair of needle-nose pliers and a small vise grip.
Well, maybe if they ever got out she could look into medical school. Of course, first she’d have to go back to being a kid. Three more years of high school, then college, and then medical school, maybe.
She had “spoken” with her mom at the barrier. Her mother had wondered if she was keeping up with her school subjects. How were you supposed to even answer a question like that? She hadn’t slept a full night since . . . forever. She had been up just about every night of the last year applying cold compresses to bring down fevers, holding puke buckets, wiping up diarrhea . . . until the great plagues had come, the killing cough and the murderous insect infestation.
That had broken her. For a while. But she had come back.
Yes, she had.
Dahra rested, drank some water, wished she had some food, told herself they’d feed her at the lake, and rode on.
The sign for the Stefano Rey was still in place. Not enough people got up this way to properly vandalize it, like every other sign had been. There was even an unvandalized stop sign, a rarity in the FAYZ, where bored kids with spray paint had painted suggestions for just what you should stop: breathing, wetting yourself, and things a bit cruder.
Why was she doing this? Dahra asked herself. She was taking a risk, why? Because she hadn’t before? Because she’d stayed out of the battles, out of the wars, except to tend the wounded? Because she wanted, just once, to play the hero and not the person who bandaged the hero?
Stupid.
It was cool under the trees, but the steepness of the road soon brought back the sweat. She—
She hit the branch before she saw it. The bike yanked out from under her, and Dahra went flying. She hit the pavement hard, facedown, hands too slow to cushion more than a little of the impact.
Dahra lay there, stunned, panting into the blacktop. She tasted blood. Gingerly she checked her extremities. Legs moved. So did her arms. Her palms and knees were bloody but not broken; that was a relief. Her jaw felt funny, like it was off center, but it moved okay. She climbed slowly and only then felt the stab of pain in her ankle. She tested it, and yes, oh, definitely, it hurt.
The bike’s front tire was no longer round. It wasn’t going to be any use—not that she could have ridden it with a sprained ankle.
She fought down the panic. She was still at least four miles as the crow flies, more like five in reality, from the lake. That was a long way to hop on one leg.
She glanced around for a stick to use as a crutch. “You’d think there would be more sticks in a forest,” she said aloud, wishing the sound of her voice made her feel braver instead of emphasizing her aloneness. Her abrasions stung, and she’d have liked to wash the wounds at least, although she doubted there were too many terrible bacteria living on the surface of the road.
“You’ll be okay,” she told herself.
The dark trees and her own inner voice said otherwise.
She had felt it when she’d panicked, when she’d broken down in the aftermath of the plagues. When the plagues hadn’t killed her, she had felt then as if she had used up the last of her luck. Yet now she had tempted fate again, and now, with the end of the FAYZ perhaps in sight, here she was.
Why?
“Just to deliver a message?” Dahra asked herself, bewildered.
She sat by the side of the road and cried.
TWELVE
44 HOURS
GAIA HAD SLEPT in, seeming to both age and heal while asleep. She had gone to sleep still burned and perhaps seven or eight years old, and had awakened healed and closer to ten.
Diana had not tried to wake her.
Let sleeping monsters lie.
Alex had raved through much of the long night, had awakened several times after sunrise to cry out in pain, and then had fallen back into a restless, disturbed sleep.
Diana had tried not to look at the cooked arm, now mostly eaten but not entirely, which lay by the softly snoring Gaia.
Finally, with the sun already past its peak, Gaia had snapped awake, stood up without preamble, and stepped behind a tree to take care of necessary business. Then she had eaten the rest of the arm, down to bare bone, while Alex watched in some disturbing mix of awe and horror and hatred.
He’s going off the deep end, Diana thought. She could see it in his eyes. Too much, too fast.
“I’m hungry,” Gaia said. “Growing this body at an accelerated rate demands a lot of nutrition.”
“Gaia, no,” Diana said.
Alex made a gurgling sound and tried to run. Gaia raised a finger, and he found himself running in place, feet slipping helplessly on stony earth. “I have a . . . I . . . Wait! Wait! I have a granola bar!”
“What is a granola bar?” Gaia asked.
“It’s food! Food!” Alex cried. He let the backpack slip from his intact shoulder.
The mere mention of a granola bar made Diana’s mouth water. Hunger pains stabbed at her insides. If Gaia took Alex’s other arm, she would let Diana have the granola bar.
Take it, kill him, eat him; I don’t care.
Diana lifted the pack. It was small, more a runner’s pack than anything meant for camping. She spilled it out on the ground. A small tube of lotion. A knife. A water bottle. An iPhone with headphones and some sort of solar charger. The granola bar. A map.
Gaia moved in. “Which is the food?”
Well, maybe if they ever got out she could look into medical school. Of course, first she’d have to go back to being a kid. Three more years of high school, then college, and then medical school, maybe.
She had “spoken” with her mom at the barrier. Her mother had wondered if she was keeping up with her school subjects. How were you supposed to even answer a question like that? She hadn’t slept a full night since . . . forever. She had been up just about every night of the last year applying cold compresses to bring down fevers, holding puke buckets, wiping up diarrhea . . . until the great plagues had come, the killing cough and the murderous insect infestation.
That had broken her. For a while. But she had come back.
Yes, she had.
Dahra rested, drank some water, wished she had some food, told herself they’d feed her at the lake, and rode on.
The sign for the Stefano Rey was still in place. Not enough people got up this way to properly vandalize it, like every other sign had been. There was even an unvandalized stop sign, a rarity in the FAYZ, where bored kids with spray paint had painted suggestions for just what you should stop: breathing, wetting yourself, and things a bit cruder.
Why was she doing this? Dahra asked herself. She was taking a risk, why? Because she hadn’t before? Because she’d stayed out of the battles, out of the wars, except to tend the wounded? Because she wanted, just once, to play the hero and not the person who bandaged the hero?
Stupid.
It was cool under the trees, but the steepness of the road soon brought back the sweat. She—
She hit the branch before she saw it. The bike yanked out from under her, and Dahra went flying. She hit the pavement hard, facedown, hands too slow to cushion more than a little of the impact.
Dahra lay there, stunned, panting into the blacktop. She tasted blood. Gingerly she checked her extremities. Legs moved. So did her arms. Her palms and knees were bloody but not broken; that was a relief. Her jaw felt funny, like it was off center, but it moved okay. She climbed slowly and only then felt the stab of pain in her ankle. She tested it, and yes, oh, definitely, it hurt.
The bike’s front tire was no longer round. It wasn’t going to be any use—not that she could have ridden it with a sprained ankle.
She fought down the panic. She was still at least four miles as the crow flies, more like five in reality, from the lake. That was a long way to hop on one leg.
She glanced around for a stick to use as a crutch. “You’d think there would be more sticks in a forest,” she said aloud, wishing the sound of her voice made her feel braver instead of emphasizing her aloneness. Her abrasions stung, and she’d have liked to wash the wounds at least, although she doubted there were too many terrible bacteria living on the surface of the road.
“You’ll be okay,” she told herself.
The dark trees and her own inner voice said otherwise.
She had felt it when she’d panicked, when she’d broken down in the aftermath of the plagues. When the plagues hadn’t killed her, she had felt then as if she had used up the last of her luck. Yet now she had tempted fate again, and now, with the end of the FAYZ perhaps in sight, here she was.
Why?
“Just to deliver a message?” Dahra asked herself, bewildered.
She sat by the side of the road and cried.
TWELVE
44 HOURS
GAIA HAD SLEPT in, seeming to both age and heal while asleep. She had gone to sleep still burned and perhaps seven or eight years old, and had awakened healed and closer to ten.
Diana had not tried to wake her.
Let sleeping monsters lie.
Alex had raved through much of the long night, had awakened several times after sunrise to cry out in pain, and then had fallen back into a restless, disturbed sleep.
Diana had tried not to look at the cooked arm, now mostly eaten but not entirely, which lay by the softly snoring Gaia.
Finally, with the sun already past its peak, Gaia had snapped awake, stood up without preamble, and stepped behind a tree to take care of necessary business. Then she had eaten the rest of the arm, down to bare bone, while Alex watched in some disturbing mix of awe and horror and hatred.
He’s going off the deep end, Diana thought. She could see it in his eyes. Too much, too fast.
“I’m hungry,” Gaia said. “Growing this body at an accelerated rate demands a lot of nutrition.”
“Gaia, no,” Diana said.
Alex made a gurgling sound and tried to run. Gaia raised a finger, and he found himself running in place, feet slipping helplessly on stony earth. “I have a . . . I . . . Wait! Wait! I have a granola bar!”
“What is a granola bar?” Gaia asked.
“It’s food! Food!” Alex cried. He let the backpack slip from his intact shoulder.
The mere mention of a granola bar made Diana’s mouth water. Hunger pains stabbed at her insides. If Gaia took Alex’s other arm, she would let Diana have the granola bar.
Take it, kill him, eat him; I don’t care.
Diana lifted the pack. It was small, more a runner’s pack than anything meant for camping. She spilled it out on the ground. A small tube of lotion. A knife. A water bottle. An iPhone with headphones and some sort of solar charger. The granola bar. A map.
Gaia moved in. “Which is the food?”
