Strikers Page 9

  I drop next to Cassi and nudge her shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

  She grimaces and flexes her feet. “Okay, I guess. Sore,” she answers.

  “No, I mean the whole thing.”

  “Oh,” she says softly.

  We’re silent for so long that I figure she doesn’t want to answer me, or maybe that she’s mad at me for what’s happened. I would deserve it, so I say, “I got you into this and I’m so sorry. I’ll do my best to make it up to you.”

  I have absolutely no idea how you make up to someone the loss of a happy family home but I know I’ll give it a try.

  When she looks at me, I don’t see any anger there. What I do see is the same girl who looks for the positive no matter what’s going on. She cocks her head to the side, draws her brows together and says, “This isn’t your fault. No one here is to blame. We’re here because things in Texas are jacked up and the situation forced our hand. People shouldn’t die because of stupid things.”

  She’s right about that part. People shouldn’t be declared habitual criminals, and suffer the death penalty that comes with such a declaration, when they don’t always even get to control whether or not they break a law. Who can keep track of them given how fast they change? And a law against leaving the Texas Republic is just stupid. I squeeze her shoulder, hoping she’ll know how much she means to me.

  Jordan tells us we have five minutes and there are moans all around. I lean back and let myself collapse onto the cold ground. After I close my eyes, I hear a whoof of noise as someone drops next to me. Slitting one eye open, I see Jovan beside me, arms and legs outstretched like he’s exhausted. Now I’m surrounded on both sides by people whose lives I am at least partially responsible for ruining.

  Jovan rolls his head to face me and grins when he see me peering at him. His grin is like an infectious disease, spreading whenever it comes in range. I return it. He touches his head and gives a dramatic wince, which functions to peel the smile right off my face.

  “Hey,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was only teasing.”

  “How is your head, really?” I ask. I do feel bad about it.

  The uncertain way he looks at me almost looks like it’s he who has reason to feel guilty. “I’m fine. Honest.”

  The awkward silence that falls between us is almost unendurable, so I close my eyes and pretend I’m resting. I’m so relieved when Jordan calls for us to get moving, I almost jump up and grab my stuff, doing my best not to meet Jovan’s gaze. Connor and Maddix head out, heads together in conversation and this time I’m the one left to bring up the rear with Jovan.

  I’m apparently never going to get over my inherent inability to simply be normal around him. As we walk, I glance at him now and then. He’s paying attention to everything around us, peering out into the darkness to either side of our track and occasionally turning around to watch behind us.

  It eliminates the need to chat with him or else be rude, but not forever. He and Maddix were speaking while they walked before. I glance up again and this time, instead of seeing him looking somewhere else, I catch him watching me. He looks away and if the sliver of moon were giving us a little more light, I’m pretty sure I would have seen him blush. It’s just something about the way he jerked his head that screamed “blush”.

  I’d like to launch into random talk and break the ice that’s built up between us. He and I have a complicated past. We were close as children but then, suddenly and without explanation, he stopped talking to me. Not the kind of drifting apart that has happened with other friends as we grew up. It was from one day to the next. And it was the day after our kiss behind the school. That makes it doubly uncomfortable and hard to simply gloss over.

  If I had just had the nerve to ask him why back then, we might not be this tense around each other all the time. But I didn’t. Instead, I was confused and hurt and then there was this giant wall between us. It was easier to pretend I didn’t miss him. Of course, I had lost more than my friend when that happened. He was my first boyfriend, my first bad kiss and then, my first heartbreak.

  Eventually, I found out the reason behind it, and that should have made me feel better. It didn’t. The wound had scarred over and it was there to stay. But it did help me understand.

  When that teacher saw us kissing, she reported us to his father. His demand that we not see each other had been followed with the threat of having my mother fired and us turned out of housing. Really, what choice did Jovan have? I only wish he’d shared the reason with me.

  Cassi breaks away from the trio and saves me from yet more uncomfortable silence by joining us. “Jordan says we’re going to rest as soon as the moon goes down. Maybe build a fire and get some food,” she says, clearly excited by the idea of being warm.

  To tell the truth, I’m pretty excited by that thought too. I’m hungrier than I’ve been in a long time and my feet are already getting sore again.

  “Good,” I say. “Any idea what we’re doing after that?”

  She shakes her head and hunches down further into her thin jacket to conserve some warmth. “Not really. He says we’ll be clear of the main part of Wicha soon and can spend the day in the outskirts. By the end of tomorrow night, we should be close to the Benton outpost.”

  Jovan starts at the mention of Benton. “Benton is manned. We have to steer clear of that.”

  Cassi just shrugs as if to say that we should talk to Jordan about it.

  By the time the moon starts to sink in the sky and the dawn is just an hour or so away, we’re walking through areas less cluttered with rubble, the buildings more intact. There’s still not an undamaged pane of glass to be found, but the rooftops look fairly straight and we passed whole rows of homes where the walls show no signs of collapse. It’s abandoned. I can feel that without bothering to look inside any of the houses or buildings. There’s a desolate feeling to the place and our footsteps are the only purposeful sounds around us.

  Jordan calls a halt and walks around while we wait in the street. He peers into gaps and examines the walls of nearby buildings with care. He even examines the ground, looking for something, though I don’t know what.

  Standing still is letting the cold seep in and I’m shivering by the time he waves us over to one of the empty houses. He clears away some shards of glass still managing to cling to the sill of a broken window, then helps each of us through before following. The way he jumps down, lightly and with perfect ease, makes me wish I’d inherited a little of that grace and confidence. I’m a klutz.

  There’s a lot of broken furniture in the house. I touch a fabric covered couch and when I do, the fabric crumbles away under my fingers. The smell is dry, but also somehow rotten. It’s all mixed in with the rank earthiness of ancient mouse droppings.

  “We could break some of this up for a fire,” I suggest, indicating the couch and the other broken furnishings.

  Jordan drops his packs, puts his hands to the small of his back and groans as he stretches his muscles. He takes in our surroundings and shakes his head. “I’d rather not use this stuff. All this was chemically treated when it was new. Let me see what I can get outside.”

  With that, he’s out of the window again and I hear his footsteps as he walks to the back of the house. Within a minute, he’s back at the window and calls in, “I need some help out here bringing in wood.”

  Everyone else is sitting and stretching out, so I wave off their half-hearted volunteering and follow Jordan out the window. The moon is almost gone and the night is growing darker by the minute. I follow the sound of a winding flashlight and then squint against the light when he clicks it back on.

  “We can use this,” he says and points to a dead tree. It’s still standing but the ground around it is littered with fallen limbs.

  We gather armfuls of the branches and I’m surprised at how light they are. They’ve been dead a long time but the air out here is so dry and rainfall so meager that they haven’t rotted, merely seasoned. We’ve b
een passing many of these dead trees, more than I’ve ever seen alive in one spot if I were to add them all together, except at the lake.

  Trees aren’t common out here on the borders of the dry lands. Some exist, but generally they are short things that tolerate drought. Even then, they’re found only on the margins of the waterways or where there is a spring under the ground to supply them. And almost never have I seen a tended tree that didn’t pay for itself by producing something of value.

  “Why are there so many trees here?” I ask. What I’d really like to do is talk to him, find out about him, understand this person who is also my father. It’s safer to ask about trees.

  Jordan stands, his arms laden with a pile of branches taller than his head. I can’t even see his whole face, just the shine of his eyes between the limbs.

  “It wasn’t always this dry out here, plus people watered them and their lawns and such,” he answers.

  There must be more to it than that so I ask, “Were these fruit trees or something?”

  He chuckles and says, “Nope. People just liked trees in their yards. It was a different time.”

  He leads me to a broken concrete area behind the house. A door I hadn’t seen while we were inside is now open and hanging askew from a single hinge. A light flares and I see Jovan, already squatting and looking at the broken chunks of concrete. He waves with his light at a spot where we should drop our wood but barely spares us another glance. I watch while he and my father create a sort of wall out of broken masonry behind which they build a small fire.

  At the first crackle, the others join us and we gather around the rapidly warming spot. With the house shielding us from the wind and the little wall reflecting back the heat—and hiding the light—it’s almost cozy. We don’t often have heat this luxuriously intense in our homes and I intend to enjoy it, even if we are running for our lives. Natural gas wells provide fuel for heating, but the cost means we use it as little as possible, mostly for cooking. Heating is reserved for the coldest days. This fire is something different altogether.

  Jordan surprises me again when he pulls out two camp pots from the assortment of bags. Soon enough, we’re all sharing a pot of greens boiled with a little jerky. I feel better almost the moment it reaches my stomach. We eat all of the greens because they won’t keep well for too much longer. For now, we’re full and warm and safe. I know it won’t last.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jordan wakes me with a finger pressed to my lips. Outside the window the sky is clear and bright, the sun high. I rub my eyes, groggy from too little sleep, and he hands me a canteen. It’s filled with cold tea we brewed before the rising sun made it necessary to put out the fire so the smoke wouldn’t give us away. The tea is like a jolt to my system it’s so good and he smiles at my moan, beckoning for me to follow him outside. It must be our turn on watch, so I pull on my boots and follow.

  Between two of the houses, there’s a wall made of concrete blocks that’s still in pretty good shape. That’s where we’ve decided to keep our watch from. A roof would be better, but they are as brittle as last fall’s leaves and not even remotely safe to stand on.

  Connor and Maddix meet us halfway, not waiting for us to make it all the way to the wall. During their watch, they sighted a single plume of dust, moving fast in the direction of the old highway but it didn’t pause or turn around. That’s good.

  I look them both over to see how things are between them, but they seem the same as they did before Maddix left. If there were any hard feelings or any emotional stuff, they’ve worked it out of their systems. They go back to the house for some sleep and we toward our perch. After a few steps, I hear Connor say my name.

  When I turn back, a hand shading my eyes against the glare of the sun, he shifts his feet like he’s not sure what he wants to say. Then he jogs the dozen steps between us and surprises me by wrapping me in a hug. Not the one-armed half-hug we like to call a “man hug” but a full-on arms-wrapped-as-tight-as-they-can type of hug.

  To say that I’m surprised would be an understatement. Connor is affectionate, but not touchy in that way. He’s not the one to initiate the physical comfort he needs. It’s always Cassi or I that reaches for his hand when we know he needs it. Not today, though. After a beat, I wrap my arms around him as well. He smells of dust and sweat, which is probably what I smell like, too.

  “Thank you,” he whispers in my ear.

  “Thank you,” I whisper back.

  It’s all we need to say. We each know what we’re saying to the other. He’s thanking me for going for broke inside the jail and I’m thanking him for giving me the courage to even go inside the jail in the first place. We’re a team.

  When we break our embrace he turns and runs to the house without looking back. I can see from the stiff posture that he’s a little embarrassed. I look at Jordan, who is already atop the wall and looking around, but he doesn’t acknowledge my little emotional moment with Connor. At the wall, he reaches down a hand for me and I barely have a chance to touch the wall with my toes before he pulls me up with apparent ease.

  There’s nothing to see, for which I’m grateful. No plumes of dust to indicate searching vehicles, no smoke from a patrol’s campfire. The only sounds are the wind through the remains of the houses and the slither of sand rubbing against itself.

  Now’s my chance to talk to him, really talk to him. I’ve haven’t had a single moment alone with him and after what he told me in his cell, when he thought he had only a few minutes in this life left to say anything at all to me, I’ve got a lot of questions.

  He seems to sense how hard it is for me to get started, because he stops a few paces from me on the wall and asks, “How ya doing, Karas?”

  “Well, I’ve lost my home, my mom and any hope of a normal life. I’m also guaranteed a hot shot and a grave if I don’t run for my life fast enough. Other than that, I’m good,” I say, my voice flat with sarcasm.

  I have no idea why I answered like that. It’s true, but it isn’t what I wanted to say at all. It’s a curse. When I’m hurt or confused or anything other than asleep, I strike out. It’s my defensive offense, according to Cassi.

  His face is calm, no hint of anger to be found in the lines of his face.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I have a mean mouth.”

  His sudden laugh surprises me. Apparently, this is my day for surprises. Or rather, another day for surprises.

  “What?” I ask, turning my palms up to emphasize my question.

  He shakes his head and takes the few steps between us with light, confident footfalls on the narrow wall. But he’s smiling and that’s probably the biggest surprise of all. If I had said that to my mother, I’d be holding my hands over my head to protect it from a blow.

  “I missed so much that I can’t get back. You’re a pistol,” he says and his eyes seem to drink in my features, memorizing them all.

  I don’t say anything to that. I can tell he has more to say so I just wait and let the sun warm me.

  “You’ve turned out so beautiful,” he says. He reaches out to run my ponytail through his fingers, and then drops it against my shoulder. “And you have a whole lot more hair. You were a very bald baby.”

  It’s a funny thing to say so I laugh. I tell him about my genius plan to sell it. The big truck that collects it comes a few times a year and they pay well. The sides of the truck are bright with pictures of people with bald heads next to pictures of them with full heads of hair.

  I’ve never heard of a disease that makes hair fall out, though there are certainly bald people, but the truck and the nicely dressed people inside it pay good money and they say it will help out the sick. Brown doesn’t fetch the premium of a true blond, but it’s enough to make me want it handy.

  He frowns and says, “Karas, they don’t buy it for ill people to have hair. They buy it for rich people to make into wigs so they can have prettier hair.”

  “What? No,” I say, thinking of some rich person walking around
with my hair on their head. “Really?”

  He nods and says, “It’s just another lie.”

  I’d like to ask him what he means by another lie but I’ve got more important things I want to know first. He takes one more look around us, searching the horizon, then sits down on the wall, patting it for me to join him.

  “Go ahead, Karas. Ask me what you want,” he says.

  “Why did you leave?”

  He points to the three strikes on his neck and says, “Three strikes. I had no choice.”

  “You could have just stopped getting strikes,” I counter. “You know, stop living a life of crime.” There goes my mouth again, so I clamp it shut.

  He nods toward the strike on my neck and says, “I suppose you got that living a life of crime.”

  I can feel my face redden and I shake my head. “Did Maddix tell you?”

  He nods, but says, “I’d like to hear it from you.”

  This isn’t a story I want to tell him. It embarrasses me that my mother is like she is and telling this story just reinforces the reality.

  “It’s okay. Just tell me,” he urges. His voice is gentle in the quiet that surrounds us.

  So I tell him. I tell him about a night not much different from any other, her drunk, me closed up in my room trying to avoid her. Only this time she wasn’t satisfied with just banging on my door a few times and yelling. This time she kept pounding and then she started really working on the door, kicking it with increasing force as her anger spiraled out of control.

  I made it out of the window and onto the roof just in time to hear the door crack. It wasn’t until much later, after I got convicted and a strike inked onto my neck, that I came home and saw the heavy garden spade on the floor of my room amongst the shards of wood that remained of my door.

  “I heard the crash and knew she was really worked up so I had to clear out. I usually just go to Cassi’s when that happens. Normally, I just hop a few roofs, come down where I know she won’t see me and then hoof it over. No problem.” I pull up my pant leg and show him the long scar on my shin. It’s healed into a shiny pink line. “Only this time, I fell through someone’s roof. Destruction of state property.”