“What if there’s someone down there?” I say.
“I guess now’s the time to find out,” Ryan replies.
He heaves open the trapdoor and we descend into the darkness. The underground bunker is a small room with bedding and pillows. It looks a bit like a nest. Certainly big enough and cozy enough for us.
“Let’s get the others,” I tell Ryan. “I think this would be a great place to rest up.”
We head back toward the camp to fetch the others, relieved that we won’t have to dine on fire-roasted vulture tonight.
But as we draw up toward the spot where we left the others, something unusual catches my attention. I recognize the silhouettes of my friends milling around, but there is someone else there, someone unfamiliar.
I catch Ryan’s arm. “Who’s that?” I say.
He squints, trying to make it out. “A stranger.”
We give each other a wary look. We’ve been lucky so far with the survivors we’ve run into but I’m always on edge, always on the lookout for danger. That the stranger seems to be amongst the group calms my nerves a little; they’ve clearly deemed him safe.
We start to draw toward the gang. The stranger who has joined them is an older man, rake thin, with long white hair. He has a rasping laugh that I can hear even from this far away. Jack sprints up, yapping away, and runs in circles round the man’s ankles, making him let out another one of his thick, mucusy laughs.
“Well, well, well, who’s this then?” I hear him say as he crouches down and pets Jack. Then he looks up and sees Ryan and me approaching. “Well, howdy,” he says, straightening up and extending one of his grubby hands.
I take it and shake. Ryan, cautiously, does the same.
“I’m Brooke,” I say. “Who are you?”
“Craig,” he replies, squinting against the sunshine. “Craig Merryweather. Your friends here told me you’ve traveled all the way from Quebec.”
I nod. “And you? Where are you from?”
He shrugs. “Here and there. But mostly here.” He grins, showing off a row of rotten teeth.
Bree looks up at me. “Did you find something for dinner?” she asks. “I’m hungry.”
I look at Ryan, trying to judge whether to reveal our find or not in front of the stranger. He gives me a slight nod, as if to say he thinks it’s safe.
“We did,” I say. “There’s a shack up there with supplies in it.”
Craig suddenly lets out one of his croaking laughs. “That’s my shack!” he cries, slapping his knee like I’ve just said the punch line of a joke. “But you can all come along. Stay the night. Get some rest.” He eyes the collar round my neck. “Looks like you’ve been through the wars.”
I catch Ryan’s eye, silently asking him whether we ought to go or not. But really, we have no other choice. We’re too exposed here and we have nothing to eat. We can eat and sleep in the bunker. Plus, there’s more of us than him. He’s far too outnumbered to try anything.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Let’s go.”
Everyone takes it in turns to eat a pickle out of a jar. Then we use the medical supplies to patch ourselves up. I hadn’t realized how badly wounded I was by the whip. There’s a huge gash across my chest and another across my back. Molly cleans them both and sews them up, but I’m probably going to have scars. The adrenaline must have stopped me from feeling any pain. I’m also covered in bruises from the car crash. I look like a state.
“How did you guys all meet then?” Craig asks as he offers around some canned peaches for dessert.
“It’s a long story,” I say, scooping one up with my fingers and plopping it in my mouth. It’s sweet and sticky, and so delicious.
“It’s nice you’ve got each other,” Craig replies. “I’ve been alone for years.”
I feel sorry for him. At least on Catskills Mountain we had trees around, and animals. The desert is completely barren. It’s the sort of landscape that could drive you mad.
“Why did you settle here?” I ask.
Craig shrugs. “Good a place as any.” Then he laughs again, wheezing as he does. “I mean there’s nothing around for miles and miles.”
For someone who has been alone for so long, he seems strangely jovial. I can’t help but think of Emmanuel in the castle on the Thousand Islands. Being alone has driven him crazy, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe because being crazy has made it possible for him to survive.
There’s ample space in the bunker part for everyone to get a place to sleep, though we leave our stuff upstairs in order not to crowd the room. We all huddle up together, full after eating jar after jar of provisions. Knowing we’re so close to Houston—just an eight-hour drive—has made us throw caution to the wind. We all know that once we wake up tomorrow morning, we’ll head out on the open road and reach our destination. With the radio to help guide us, there’s no way we can fail. That doesn’t stop me whispering a prayer under my breath. This world is brutal and unpredictable and I know that between now and tomorrow evening, anything could happen.
For the first time in a long time, we feel like we can relax, let our guards down just a little bit. The bunker feels so secure, not to mention being in the middle of literally nowhere. But feeling secure gives our minds the chance to process what’s happened. One by one, our emotions creep up on us. Zeke and Stephan are dead. So are Rose, Flo, and Logan. We’ve all lost so much, seen so much, fought for so long.
“Hey, Molly,” I say when I realize sleep won’t come to me. “What did you mean when you said we all had pasts?”
I hear her sigh in the darkness. “I meant that I was a bit of trouble when I was a kid. The hotwiring cars kind. My parents were going crazy because of me. I was always in trouble. Then the war came and they died. There’s nothing like being orphaned to make you clean up your act.”
Her words hang in the air. Silence falls in the cabin as we all process what she said.
“I lost my parents too,” Ryan says. “During one of the first airstrikes.”
I roll onto my side and look over at where his disembodied voice is coming from. It’s so dark that I can’t even make out his silhouette. I wonder if that’s the reason for his sudden candidness. In all the six months we were together in Fort Noix, Ryan never spoke about anything personal like his family or life before the war. I never asked because I figured he had a reason not to.
“But it was when my sister died that it was the worst,” he finishes.
“What happened to her?” Bree asks softly.
“She had an asthma attack. Can you believe it? With the war and the slaverunners and nuclear destruction it was her own body that killed her. She’d run out of medication and that was that. She was six years old.”
Six years old. The same age as Trixie.
“My brother was killed by slaverunners,” Ben says.
His voice is as clear as a bell. It’s the first time I’ve heard him truly admit his brother is dead. For a long time, he was clinging onto the hope that he was alive, but it seems that he’s finally accepted reality.
“You had a brother?” Ryan asked.
I think it’s the first time I’ve heard Ryan and Ben behave cordially to one another since they first met back at Fort Noix. Finally, they have something in common, something that can make them realize they’re not so different from one another, that they’re both on the same team.
“I did,” Ben says. “It’s how Brooke and I met. We were chasing the car that had Bree and my brother in it.”
“He was brave,” Bree said. “Right up to the end. He didn’t let the slaverunners hurt me. And he loved you. He said you would come for him.”