A wide and swaying river runs along the side of the inn, and curves around to the back, running past a pebble-laden bank. There was once a tire swing hanging in a pecan tree. The rope still hangs there, but it rotted through, only frayed remnants of the rope remains, and the tire lays on the ground beneath it; dry rotted. She can’t see the bottom of the river, but she can see the surface moving as large fish, or some other thing swims hurriedly like an invisible arrow beneath it.
“This is the place,” says the major. We’re staying here for the night.” He throws open the doors to one of the trucks and carried in supplies, the food, and water they’ve collected along their journey. He doesn’t need to issue any orders, the green men fall in and help him unload everything.
There are Turned here. Rose can smell fleeting traces of them. But, there are always Turned, somewhere, all the time. Later the green men will form search parties, like they always do, in each new place they stop for any length of time. They’ll scout for hostiles and survivors. It’s more likely they’ll find hostiles and no survivors. In fact, they haven’t found any survivors at all since leaving Camp Able behind.
The town is beautiful; like nothing she’s ever seen before; picturesque and peaceful, but that’s the dangerous thing about places like this. It pretends to be a protective haven for road-weary travelers, with its little houses and shops, it’s fountain and stone-clad walkways, with moss growing between the pavers, all the while harboring death.
Oak and pecan trees densely cover the surrounding countryside. She picks up a pecan and holds it between her dirty fingers, pinching her soft fingertips against the shell. She knows it for what it is; a seed. She feels a strong connection to it as if she and it are one in the same. How could such a small thing grow into such an extraordinary tree one day? If planted, it will change the world around it as it matures. She kneels, feeling the dirt pressing into her knees. She scoops a handful of soil out of the ground leaving a small hole, places the seed in and covers it over.
The green men don’t trust Rose, never have, and she’s used to it, and they trust Nettle even less. Nettle’s hands have remained wrapped up for a long time. It’s hard for her to do anything, at all, for herself. They lead Nettle around, secured to the end of a long pole. A leather belt fastened to the end of it and buckled securely around her neck keeps her at a safe distance from everyone. Nettle’s neck is rubbed raw, and it’s starting to bleed. Rose doesn’t like it, and often says things in Nettle’s defense. “She can’t help what she is,” says Rose, “Leave her alone, she’s just a little girl.” The plea doesn’t help anything, and everyone continues to treat Nettle like some kind of diseased animal.
Rose is ushered, roughly, into the foyer of the inn, and right inside the door, next to where some of the supplies have been stacked, is an easel. On the easel is perched a small paper menu. It’s somewhat faded, and there’s a spot of mildew creeping along its corner, it says Hush Puppies, Tomato Aspic, Banana Fritters, and Strawberry Kiss. What must a Strawberry Kiss taste like?
Major Connors and most of his men have gone out to look for survivors, and hostiles, and supplies, just as Rose knew they would. Two green men stay behind, one to prepare the evening’s meal, and another to keep watch over their temporary base of operations, as the major calls it.
Lieutenant April, is in the kitchen, trying to formulate a recipe out of the odds and ends which have been scavenged from unlikely places, while the second, Private Nelson, strolls from room to room, from the front of the inn to the back, peering from each window for signs of the enemy.
Rose, Nettle, and Dr. Valentine sit in what used to be the dining room amidst the old, round, tables covered in dusty, red-checkered tablecloths. Big square windows open out onto the babbling river. The surface of the water glistens like shards of glass, tumbling end over end in the sun.
Dr. Valentine is particularly quiet today, she’s been different since San Antonio. Sometimes Rose catches her looking at her and Nettle out of the corner of her eye. She never says anything. Something’s changed, but Rose can’t put her finger on it.
Nettle is huddled in the corner, where she spends most of her time doing nothing but rocking gently and talking to herself. She’s always watching the windows and doorways. She’s searching for an avenue of escape, and she’ll take it too if she gets a chance. It wouldn’t take much to make Nettle want to run away from the major and the green men. She rubs her hand-wrappings against the floor and the furniture, trying to loosen them, and Dr. Valentine, when she catches her doing it, warns her not to do it anymore. As soon as Dr. Valentine is distracted though, Nettle returns to scraping the tape on anything that looks like it might tear the bandage.
Rose has found a spoon and is preoccupied, looking at her distorted reflection. Her hair is cropped short, but it’s been growing longer since there’s no one around to cut it. She asked the barber at Camp Able why the children had to have their cut so short, and he said, it’s to keep the bugs off your mangy heads. She told him she likes bugs so it wouldn’t have bothered her having a few extra around in case she ever got hungry. He never spoke to her again after that time.
Her eyes are shaped differently than Dr. Valentine’s or Nettle’s. Her skin is a different color too. “I look different than you, Dr. Valentine. My eyes are different, and my skin…”
Dr. Valentine acts as if she hasn’t heard her, but she pulls herself back to the present and answers softly, “You’re more different than you or any of us can possibly understand. Both you and Nettle and the other children back at Camp Able are very… unique. But yes, if you mean your physical appearance, you were Asian, once. The body you’re in… it has Asian traits.”
“Asian…” Rose says, trying out the word to see how it feels on her tongue. Plus, maybe saying it aloud would make her feel more Asian, and less like a monster to be feared by so many.
“You said the body I’m in was Asian. What do you mean? How could I have been something before that I’m not now?”
“Before the accident changed you, at least one of your parents were Asian. I suspect both probably were. It’s why you have Asian traits like the single epicanthic fold of your eyes, your black hair, and the coloring of your skin.”
Rose gazes into the spoon again, turning it from side to side, considering what Dr. Valentine has said. “Sometimes, I remember a woman who used to come into my room at night. She would kiss me on the cheek, but I’m not sure if it’s real or not… it may have been only a dream… or something I made up in my head.”
“I think you might be remembering your mother.”
“What happened to make us the way we are? Whatever we are,” says Rose, “Why is it everyone’s so scared of us?”
“The entire world was on the eve of a war. Everything was much different than it is today, Rose. People were fighting against tyranny, rather than fighting to stay alive. We were standing up for ideals and freedom. I was living in a place called California at the time; my daughter, Savannah, and I. We were happy, just the two of us.
Men were leaving their families to go overseas to fight. But, then something very unexpected happened. We thought the only monsters were the Germans and the Japanese. Until we looked up into the sky and found death staring back down at us.” Dr. Valentine’s voice sounds distant and haunted. “A flying-ship… It came from somewhere else and parked itself right over the city of Los Angeles. No one knew if it intended to do anything, other than just hovering there. But, I guess the military being afraid it was the Nazis or the Japs invading, well, they didn’t wait around to find out. They threw everything we had at it until they cracked it wide open and all the spirits of Hell and all Damnation came pouring out, spilling on top of our heads. We didn’t see anything of course, but it was the only possible answer for what came after.”