Horizon

Chapter 11

SAMMI AND SAGE ran, taking the shortcut behind a little row of prefab houses. There was a small crowd clustered around the quarantine house, Dana and Zihna conferring on the porch, Earl visible through the front door that Sammi had never seen open before. Phillip stood with his back against the house, under the overhang a few feet from Dana, looking as though a strong gust of wind would blow him away. Phillip looked smaller, standing there. How many times had Sage gone on and on about how buff he was? Even Sammi had to admit he was the best-looking boy on the island, his blond, blue-eyed good looks saved from being too perfect by that nose of his, which had been broken in a ski accident. Now, though, he was wearing a paper mask on the lower half of his face, the sort that the dental hygienist would wear back when Sammi went in every six months with her mom.

“Phillip!” Sage burst ahead of Sammi and broke through the crowd. People stepped out of her way, but before she could get to the porch, Old Mike grabbed her arm and she flailed in his grasp, grunting and pushing off of him.

Sammi caught up to her and took her other arm. “Sage, stop.”

“They think he’s got the fever, Sammi, they’re gonna lock him up—”

“Calm down, you have to, just listen to me, come here a minute....” Sammi talked fast but softly. The way Zihna talked to the girls when they were upset. The way Valerie sometimes talked to her, which she hated, but Sammi didn’t have a lot of experience with trying to calm people down, though she did know one thing, and that was that Sage could not win this one.

Sage’s eyes welled with tears and she was leaning out of Old Mike’s grip, trying to use her body’s weight as leverage. But Old Mike—who wasn’t really all that old but still rather older than Fat Mike—was stronger than he looked. He used to be a mechanic at the airport, and his stance said he was determined to hold his ground.

Earl stepped out onto the porch and looked out at the crowd. Saying nothing, he put a hand on Phillip’s shoulder and pushed him back into the doorway. The boy went mutely, shuffling, and now Sammi could see that he was trembling. He didn’t look sick, though with that mask on she couldn’t see much. He just looked scared, scared as shit, and since his mom had died in the first round of fever and his older brother and his girlfriend had set out for Sacramento in December and not been heard from since, he didn’t have anyone to come to his aid.

Except for Sage. They’d been together since before Sammi got to New Eden, and it was as serious as any couple she knew about, even if they were young. They sat together during Red’s crazy homeschool sessions, and both worked part-time in the laundry so they could spend their work hours together, too. Phillip was always trying to make her laugh, and he gave her the best parts of his meals and took her plate to the washtub. They had been close enough that occasionally Sammi felt left out, and on those occasions she just hung out with Kyra and told herself it didn’t matter, not everyone had to be her best friend all the time, except some days were so lonely that she would have traded everything to have a best friend and on those days she would have picked Sage, if Sage wasn’t obsessed with Phillip and didn’t already have someone more important in her life than Sammi, just like everyone had something more important to them than her.

Like a certain parent who couldn’t even be bothered to be here now. If he was, he would know what to do, Sammi thought and then immediately felt angry. Well, her dad used to be in charge of a whole town or whatever, to hear the way Cass talked, and Cass said he was fair and brave and took care of things and even set up a whole system of commerce and laws and shit. Which, if she really admitted it to herself, Sammi had felt secretly proud of. But where was he now? When there was a real crisis, when Phillip needed him—when Sammi needed him—when someone had to step up and take care of things, and it was so stupid with New Eden having this whole collaborative-governing shit. No one was ever really in charge and whenever the least little thing went wrong it was like this with all the adults standing around staring at each other and no one doing anything that would actually make things better.

“Let him go!” Sage screamed, her voice wild and unfamiliar. “He’s not sick, just look at him, he didn’t do anything, you just want to throw someone in there to make it look like you’re doing something—”

But Sammi caught her breath, because Phillip was looking back at them, his hand on the doorjamb to steady himself, most of his face obscured by the white mask except for his eyes, which were frightened and beseeching—

—and his pupils had almost disappeared.

Tiny black specks in the sky-blue of his eyes. And his skin… Phillip was fair, so fair he wore a big straw hat to avoid getting sunburned during the day, and it looked like a woman’s gardening hat so that Shane and Kalyan sometimes called him Ladyhat.... His skin was not so pale today. It had a burnished-gold tone, and there was a sheen to the skin above his eyes, that faint perspiration that made a person seem to glow.

A person with the fever glowed that way.

Sammi dug her fingers more tightly into Sage’s arm and yanked her back.

“Ow, Sammi, stop, you’re hurting me,” Sage wailed, as Earl spoke quietly to Phillip, and Phillip stepped back, disappearing into the house. Earl closed the door and Old Mike let go of Sage so abruptly that she fell against Sammi and they almost stumbled to the ground together.

And Dana took the key out of his pocket and locked the door.

Zihna did her best with Sage but in the end it was Red who finally got her to sleep, on the sofa in front of the fire. They almost never lit fires in the fireplace. The rule was that fires were only for the public space, both for conservation and safety. There was no way to put large fires out besides an old-fashioned bucket brigade, and everyone had seen city blocks consumed by fire during the worst times and remembered just how quickly it could reduce a building to nothing.

But one of them must have gone around quietly spreading the word to the neighbors, because an hour after dark Red laid the twigs and some crumpled comic books under the dry kindling and soon he had a roaring fire going, one that reminded Sammi of long-ago nights before her dad left, when they’d end a day of skiing by picking up ribs from Mountain Smokehouse, and her mom would open a good bottle of wine and they’d all curl up in front of the fire. That fireplace had been beautiful. The stone was faux, but Sammi’s mom had had it installed all the way up the two-story wall, with the oil painting that she’d paid a fortune for hung above it and iron candleholders arranged on the mantel. Sammi always grumbled about having to stay home with them instead of going out with her friends, but she secretly loved these evenings, cuddled under a quilt watching the fire while her parents drank wine and laughed about ridiculous stuff on the couch.

This fireplace was junk, a metal box with a brick hearth and a strip of molding for a mantel, on which Zihna had lined up pretty rocks she found while out walking. It didn’t draw well at all and the house quickly filled up with smoke, but Sage stared into the flames and drank the weak tea that Zihna gave her, the rest of them on the carpet, except for Red, who sat with his arm around Sage and she let him, soundless tears leaking slowly down her face while he mumbled words that only she could hear, dad words, and Sammi thought angrily that he was more of a father to Sage than her own father was to her.

She wasn’t moving back in with him. He and Nathan came straight to the quarantine house as soon as they heard that Phillip had been locked up. Valerie must have told him, and Sammi was pissed at her, too. All she wanted was to be here where Sage needed her, though if she was honest about it Sage hadn’t given her and Kyra a second look since they all came back.

Phillip was all alone in that dark little place. Sage knew he wasn’t sick but Sammi had seen his eyes. Sage said she would stay right outside the house so he could talk to her but maybe she forgot that, or maybe they made her leave, because not long after Sammi came back here, Old Mike and Earl brought her home. Later, when Red and Zihna went to bed, Sammi would ask Sage if she wanted to go back near Phillip, they could take sleeping bags, a tarp. It would be cold, though, unless they took the blankets from the beds.

After the fire had burned down to glowing embers, and Sage had fallen asleep in the corner of the couch, Red got up and tucked the blankets carefully around her. To Sammi he whispered, “Let’s let her sleep here for now. If she gets up, she can come upstairs, but this way she’ll be nice and warm.”

“I can sleep down here with her,” Sammi whispered back. “I don’t mind.”

Zihna got her a stack of blankets and a pillow and then the two old people went to their room, leaning into each other, Red moving slowly because of his bum hip that always seemed to be worse late at night and in the morning. Sammi made herself a pallet, but she didn’t get in. She sat with her arms around her knees and watched the fire for a while as the last of the logs burned low and the embers snapped and popped. The heat felt wonderful, reaching into her bones in a way like nothing had warmed her lately. She was both sleepy and oddly awake, stealing glances at Sage, who had bunched the blankets under her chin like a child.

“Sage,” she whispered, feeling guilty that they were comfortable here when Phillip was alone, and no doubt frightened. But Sage didn’t stir, didn’t so much as twitch in her sleep, and Sammi lay down—just for a moment—and closed her eyes and felt the warmth on her face and let the thoughts and worries dribble out of her mind like pebbles through a grate until all there was was empty.

When she opened her eyes again the sky outside the sliding glass doors was starting to lighten to a midnight-blue edged with pale pearl-gray. The air smelled of smoke, but not in a nice way like last night.

On the couch, Sage had pulled the blankets up around her face, leaving her ankles and feet exposed. It was cold, cold like it always was, the kind of cold that made you wish you could stay in bed until the sun was high in the sky. Sammi crawled over to the couch and tugged the covers down, but Sage murmured in her sleep and her eyes blinked open before Sammi could finish.

“Hey,” Sammi said, giving Sage what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

Sage pushed herself up on her elbows and frowned. “Is it tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, morning?”

“Barely. We’re the only ones up.”

Sage struggled the rest of the way up and yawned, pushing back her hair. In the middle of the yawn she jerked her mouth closed and her eyes widened in horror.

“Phillip—”

“I know,” Sammi said quickly. “Look, I would have gotten you up earlier but I thought you needed your sleep. We can go over there now. No one will see us, and they wouldn’t care anyway. I mean, all we’re going to do is talk, right? Talk through the door?”

“They can’t lock him up like that, Sammi, it’s not right! He’s not fevered, I saw him, he was just like he always is—”

“Don’t worry,” Sammi cut in, gathering up the blankets and folding them quickly, sloppily. Don’t worry—it was a stupid thing to say, it was what everyone always said even when the shit was about to hit the fan. But what else was there?

It nagged at the back of her mind, this unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling of being the responsible one, the one who had to lie to her friend to keep her going.

She raced upstairs and grabbed her own coat that she’d thrown on the floor, plus Sage’s blue puffy one. She had to help Sage put it on, urging her to hurry while she fumbled with the zipper. She practically dragged Sage out into the cold of the morning. A fine drizzle was falling, more mist than rain, but Sage didn’t even seem to notice it.

There were a few women at the green latrine, one of two that served the island. This one had gotten its name from the fact that it had once been a green-painted detached garage. Sammi and Sage and Kyra always used this one because it had a big mirror that they could all three look into while they did their hair and, occasionally, their makeup, when the raiders brought some back. At this hour it was too dim to see much at all in the mirror, and the women looked sleepy and bleary, no doubt on their way back to bed. Some people used jugs and buckets at night so they wouldn’t have to venture out in the cold, but most still made the trip, dressed in flannel pants and winter coats.

They didn’t talk on the way to the quarantine house. Only now, approaching from across the island, did Sammi notice how it was situated as far as possible from the nearest structure. In between were the buildings that were used for the sports-equipment shed, the library and the storehouse. The thought gave her an unpleasant shiver—they were trying to isolate people like Phillip as much as possible. The only way to set them farther apart would be to build a house on North Island, which was mostly wild with a couple of decaying shacks and acres of bramble.

Only when they reached the house and were making their way around to the front, where the windows were open a crack, did they see the figure crouched there. He or she was doing something at the window, either pulling out or pushing in a dark, lumpy something. As they got closer, Sammi saw that it was some sort of fabric, a bedspread or clothing of some sort, and that the person was definitely trying to push it through the slot. Her feet crunched on the gravel and the figure turned toward her, her jacket hood falling back a little to reveal Valerie’s tired, anxious face.

“Oh!” Valerie said, her hands going to her throat as she scrambled to her feet. The object hung from the slot. What looked like sleeves hung limply to the ground. “Sammi? Sage? Is that you?”

“What are you doing?” It was Sage who answered, her voice shrill. She stalked forward and grabbed the thing from the slot and yanked it savagely out. It caught on a splinter or a nail and ripped, curling lengths of knit fabric tumbling down the wall, and Sage yanked even harder and the sound of the tearing echoed in the still morning as the thing came away in her hands and all three of them stared at each other.

Then Valerie sighed, her hands falling useless to her sides. “It’s his favorite shirt, Sage,” she said unhappily. “I was fixing a torn seam for him…please, give it back. I’ll mend it again.”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Sage said, in that same thin, high voice that didn’t sound like her. “He’s not sick.”

But she allowed Valerie to take the shirt. Sammi and Sage watched her shake it out and squint at the damage, a long rip in the underarm, before folding it with care and stuffing it in the bag she carried over her shoulder.

“I brought a few other things for him,” she said quietly. “Some socks. A…book. I’m going to put them through now.”

Sage didn’t stop her this time, and Valerie crouched down again to slide her gifts through the slot. Sammi saw that the book was a Bible, a small one with a flexible blue plastic cover. It made a muffled slapping sound when it hit the floor inside.

Sage knelt down next to her and tried to look through the slot, but all she saw was darkness.

“I was here earlier,” Valerie said softly. “Around midnight. I stayed with him until he fell asleep, Sage.”

Sammi knew that Valerie was trying to comfort them, but she felt guilty. They’d been in their house, drinking tea and warming themselves at the fire, while only Valerie had come here for him. Was that going to be his future, to be forgotten and left alone each night as people found excuses to be elsewhere?

“Did he ask about me?”

Sage kept her face pressed against the house, so she didn’t see the way Valerie pursed her lips, the sadness that came over her expression. But she didn’t answer the question.

“You must not blame Cass,” she said instead. “This could be anyone’s fault. No, I mean, it’s no one’s fault. The blueleaf could have been so young it was hard to detect the signs, or it could have been from the roots they’ve been drying—they’re throwing out the whole batch now—or it could have been from dried flour, even, or beans from last summer.”

But Sammi had stopped listening. “What do you mean, blame Cass? Why would we blame her?”

Valerie’s eyebrows pinched together, making a line between them.

“No, you know something.” Sammi stared at her face, trying to find the answer in her silence. “What happened? Come on, I’m going to find out anyway—you know I will. What did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything, Sammi, other than her job. You know how hard Cass works, she’s out there every day that she isn’t watching the kids, and that’s hard work, bending down between the rows. I mean, I tried it and I couldn’t keep up. It’s hard on your back, and it’s just way too hard to keep staring at the plants and looking for something out of place. It could have happened to any of them—”

“Cass picked the blueleaf? Is that what you’re saying?” A horrible thrill of understanding made Sammi go cold. “But nobody ate it, did they? That couldn’t have made Phillip sick—”

“He isn’t sick,” Sage wailed, crumpled against the house as though she was trying to embrace it.

But Sammi was remembering all the times they’d hung out on North Island, the long lazy afternoons when, if they got hungry, they just ate handfuls of kaysev. They were careful…mostly.

Valerie held up her hands, palms out, as though defending against Sammi’s anger, against Sage’s anguish. Sammi noticed that she had on a blouse with a scalloped collar, like something a nun would wear, something that should have been thrown out twenty years ago. How did she do it, how did Valerie keep finding things to make her look so virginal, so pure, long after everyone else had resigned themselves to dregs and spoils, the Aftertime battle fatigues? She’d smoothed her shiny hair under yet another headband, this one covered with plaid fabric, and somehow that made Sammi all the angrier.

“Why do you always defend her?”

“Who?”

“Cass. Why do you defend Cass? She’s not your friend.”

“Of course she’s my friend,” Valerie said, but the line appeared between her eyebrows again, and Sammi knew that Valerie suspected, deep down, maybe buried so far that she didn’t even know that she knew something was wrong. “I think the world of Cass, she’s overcome so much, and she’s such a great mother to Ruthie and—”

“She’s not your friend. She fucks my dad!”

Sammi hadn’t meant to yell, but the words rang out sharp and clear on the chilly morning. Sammi watched the puff of her breath on the frosty air; it dissipated and was replaced by another and another. Breathe in, breathe out. Everyone kept breathing, kept living, and what was the point? Everyone betrayed everyone else—was that the cost of survival?

Something interesting was happening to Valerie’s face—it was crumpling in on itself, like a pretty tissue-paper flower splashed with water, wilting and fading before her eyes.

“Sammi…”

“She is. They’ve probably been doing it ever since they got here. Hell, probably before that. I saw them. Down on the dock, they were like—like—he had his hands inside her clothes, Valerie. I don’t know how he can even look you in the face every day, but that’s my dad.”

Valerie had a hand to her throat, her narrow fingers twitching against her perfect pale skin, like she was going to faint or something.

And still Sammi couldn’t shut up.

“He left my mom, did you know that? Even before everything got fucked up. He went off to find himself or whatever and just showed up when he felt like it. I hardly ever saw him—” the lie rolled easily from her lips, to Sammi’s surprise; lying shouldn’t be so easy “—and he never even tried to find us after. He had his business, I’m sure he told you about it, right, and that’s all he cared about.”

“No,” Valerie said in a choked voice. “He loves you. He always did. He told me he sent people to check on you, your safety meant everything to him—”

“You know what he sold in the Box, right?” Sammi felt the thrill of forbidden knowledge; she only knew this because she’d heard it from Colton, who overheard it from a couple of the raiders who used to go up to the Box for medicine trades. They’d stay there for a few days and party, and then return to the shelter they were in before coming to New Eden. “Drugs. Booze. Sex. Like, as in prostitutes?”

She spat out the last word, making it as ugly as she could, curling her lips around the syllables—and still there was a little thrill to the revelation. She realized that until now she had been trying not to believe it, trying to explain it away. She’d told Colton to shut the fuck up, that her dad traded food and medicine, that he protected people, helped the ones who needed it. But of course that was a lie. Just another one of her father’s lies.

“Kind of funny,” she said, making her voice as bored as she could. “My dad’s a pimp, and Cass, well, since she’ll fuck anyone, I guess that makes her his whore.”

Valerie’s arm shot out so fast that Sammi didn’t have time to duck. The slap was more shocking than painful, hard and stinging and making her head whip around. She bit her lip, and tears stung her eyes. She put her fingertips to her mouth and touched blood.

“Oh my God, Sammi,” Valerie said, horrified. “Oh my god I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean, oh, please—”

But what Sammi felt was victory, a mean and hungry victory, and she bared her teeth in a snarling grin. The hot, stinging impression on her cheek where she’d been struck meant that she had won. “No worries. I’d be pissed too. I mean, you’ve been so nice to my dad. Look at you, in your little skirts and all, and with your sewing, you probably thought you could make a home for you guys, with curtains in the window and a hope chest or whatever, right?”

Valerie made a horrified sound in her throat, a convulsion of shock and grief. Sammi knew she was hurting her, but she’d been hurt so many times and it wasn’t like anyone was very concerned about that, was it? Valerie—with her mended dresses and inspirational quotes and wind chimes—was just pathetic. Sammi was doing her a favor. She’d either deal with this or not; she’d get over her dad or she’d sink like a stone, and then she’d be the one who wasn’t careful when she ate her salad, or who went on the mainland without a weapon, or who walked into the water until it filled her lungs. Whatever. It wasn’t Sammi’s fault.

“I mean, I guess you could still do that,” she muttered. “Get dad to build you a little picket fence. You’ll just have to move Cass in with you, so you guys can share him.”

Valerie had been backing away from her, little stumbling steps, her sneakers too white, as though she’d found bleach and soaked them. But now she turned and ran, weaving and unsteady, heading for the path that led to her place, the sound of her wailing eerie and heartbroken.

“Sammi,” Sage cried. Sammi had almost forgotten she was there, on her knees in the dirt, up against the house. “Sammi, look.”

Jammed through the slot in the side of the house were fingers, the nails torn and bloody, deep gouges in the skin.