“Most likely.” I reach out to take the figurine.
Nettie steps close. Too close. “Better bring this back now. Don’t care how many bushels of potatoes you bring. This here’s special to me.” She pushes the figurine against my hand. “If you don’t bring it back—”
“I’ll bring it back.” I shove the thing in my pack.
“Why they always sending you out to run their errands?” Nettie glances at the mountain.
“I’m the fastest.”
Nettie doesn’t seem impressed. Her thin lips press in a straight line. “Better be on your way.”
With a quick nod, I head for home.
Nettie isn’t so bad. The woman could be sweet, could be a viper if need be. I don’t think she ever had kids; maybe that’s why she takes such an interest in me. Some women are like that; nurturing, protective of the feral children they find. At least, that’s how they are in the books.
This last stretch of land is the worst. There’s no shade on the road and the sun is nothing more than a punishment in the sky.
There’s one more house I have to pass. The man who lives there likes to be called Mister.
“Hey kid.”
I startle, didn’t notice him hiding in the shadows beneath a cluster of craggy leafless trees.
“Mister.” I keep walking.
“Where you headed so fast?”
Slipping my left hand into my pocket, I grasp the bone-knife hidden there. “Home.”
“Strange. You call that mountain home. Was up there yesterday, didn’t see a single trail, house, or garden.”
“Must not’ve looked hard enough.”
Mister pushes away from the tree, takes a step in my direction. He’s tall, feet taller than me. He’s younger than Nettie and the shopkeeper. There’s something about Mister that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. He’s a bad man.
“Was a time a kid your age was sold for a pretty penny, or a cup of coffee, warm bed.” He glances at the mountain. “Could sell you for more than a pile of scrap-metal.”
I take two steps away. “That mountain would hunt you down. They’d never let you do that to me.”
Mister looks me up and down, head to toe. “They’ll probably sell you themselves when the time comes. When you’re ripe.”
“No.” I start walking, don’t want him to see me run, don’t want him to see that he scares the shit out of me.
Mister laughs, doesn’t stop until I can barely hear him shouting, “Everyone does it. Can’t buy innocence like you anymore.”
Screw this.
I run.
I run until the meeting with Mister is nothing more that a memory, until the only thing I feel is excitement from the approaching comforts of the mountain.
There’s a howling in the distance, the sound of a pack on the run, searching. Searching just as desperately as the rest of us.
The land here’s so flat Sentinels are visible from a hundred miles away. At night they’re difficult to see but I notice the silent flicker of a red beacon in the distance.
I need to get underground.
Dropping to my knees near a slowly dying Joshua tree, I dig with my hands. Heavy sand slides through my fingers, blows into my mouth and eyes with the evening wind. I feel the sharp pang of a busted fingernail. Sliding my hands along the wood, I grip the handle and pull, slip below ground. The night wind will cover my tracks and the trapdoor access.
This space is left over from the old government. Prewar. That’s what the manuals say. Reinforced with feet of concrete, a hundred drones could be above scanning and never know what’s hidden under this mountain. Room upon room, supplies, electronics, water recycler, clothing stranger looking than the dim rags worn by the people down at the shops, a thousand feet of impeccably labeled bins with freeze dried foods, foods I’ve never seen or heard of besides on the smooth pages of the Encyclopedia Britannica from the library. Under the mountain, there’s everything a small group of people would ever need to survive a hundred years or more. If they didn’t mind living in the past.
The computerized imitation of a barking dog greets me. Gears hum, nearly-bare rubber tires slip on smooth concrete floor.
“Hi, Samson.” I pat the mechanical dog on its head.
Dim lights illuminate the hall. The generator running on min-power for years provides just enough light.
Beep. Bop. Samson follows me, his wheels squealing.
I set my pack on a chair and dig through it. I pull out the jar, bolts, and the figurine that Nettie wants my people to fix. I set everything on the workbench. Oil sloshes in the jar. I open a drawer, pull out a brush, dip it in the oil then paint it on Samson’s squeaky parts.
I NEVER CAUGHT THAT wolf. I didn’t skin it or stretch it. I pulled it off the wall of one of the rooms below the mountain. There are other animal hides in there; exotic cats, rhinoceroses with the horns intact, otter, beaver and more. Recollections of what once was wild, someone thought important to preserve. Never liked that room much. Understand the idea of hunting; there is just something creepy about filling the room with dead things.
This will be the third time I’ve been in the room.
I flip on the light. Samson is at my heels, the only sound he makes come from his nearly bare tires. A wolf hide is attached to the same wall as the coyote, creatures that are a mix of man’s best friend and fearless hunters. I pull the hide off of the wall and run out of the room. It feels haunted in there.
The wolves live on the other side of the mountain. Away from the shops and the farm and the creepy man. The wilderness side. Creatures roam free, predators that would eat their young before starving to death. The wilderness looks different; the sky is bluer, there’s grass, dust doesn’t choke the air. The humans never cross the mountain, we’re not allowed.
The wild side of the mountain still has a river, the banks thick with mud. I wait until dusk, take off all of my clothes and roll in the mud until it’s generous on my skin. I drape the wolf pelt over my head and down my back, pray that the wildlife over here doesn’t recognize me for what I really am.
At the base of the mountain is a small cave. The alpha roams not far from the opening, head down, eyes sharp. He lifts his snout to the rising moon and releases a thrilling howl. The pack takes off.
I make my move.
The cave is dark, moonlight reflects off of ten sets of eyes. They near the opening to the cave, interested in this mud caked animal. Pot-bellied and long legged, the pups amble closer. A frail squeak echoes. Out wanders the runt of the litter, half the size of the others. I don’t hesitate before reaching in and grabbing the pup. I hold it close to my chest and take off running for the mountain.
The wolf pup is warm, a tiny fire in my hands. I get home and cleaned. Samson has never worked harder in his robotic life. The wolf pup litters the floor, tears the corners off of carpets and blankets. All of that is forgotten when it crawls into my bed at night, curls up next to my side. I’ve never been so warm in my life. Never had a pet with a heartbeat.
I HAND NETTIE A BAG of potatoes. Behind the barn, off in the distance, drones are digging up the land, dredging something rusted and creaking out of the ground.
“They been working on that for two days. So heavy drones keep bustin’ their own parts.”
“What is it?”
“Old tractor. Must’ve gotten stuck in the mud eons ago.” Nettie uses her hand to shield the sun. “Slated for the smelter. Tragic really. If someone could get it running, would help turn the soil faster than them.” Nettie thumbs towards one of the fields. Two women and three men are digging.