Our Home is Nowhere (The Borrowed Land, Book 1) (16 page)

25

The freezing water of the Slushland river went to his ankles, rising as he took each step over the rocks and sludge, until it was up to his crotch. Joe cast a quick glance back at his motorcycle parked at the water’s edge beside a clump of small bushes. Holding the pistol above his head with one hand, he swam with the other.

As he got closer, he could see the full extent of the city’s destruction. Tall buildings roared with flames like great sizzling logs, lame sentinels unable to stop the destruction of their city; fire sparked menacingly on the broken bridge. Everything looked haunted, as if it was some weird ghost world. Yet the auto shop remained untouched. Were they saving it for last? Maybe they were lying in wait for Joe and Zeb to return.

Something swam by Joe’s leg—he kicked out, sending ripples through the dark water, and swam harder, searching the shoreline for movement. He found none. Everyone must be out on the streets, murdering, looting, destroying. He didn’t understand what the Arm wanted with a burned-down city. Phillip and Zeb said that the Arm’s goal was to break the Slummers’ will, but what was the point of torching the city in the process? The Slummers’ will was already broken, that was obvious enough.

He arrived beneath the shop’s back deck elevated above the water. Clinging to one of the wooden pillars, Joe caught his breath and listened for any noise from inside. He remained in the water for…he didn’t know how long.
Five? Ten minutes? He watched through the floorboards for any sign of life and listened so hard his ears hurt.

Reassured that no one was there, he slid the gun up onto the deck. Then he grabbed the bottom of the deck and hoisted himself, dripping, up to the railing and scrambled over. His boots squelched against the wood, leaking water. He slipped them off and silently poured out the river water, then put them back on again. He picked up the pistol and crept through the backdoor of the shop.

Inside it was dark but with just enough light speckling through the front door to allow him to grope his way around. He felt like he’d wandered into the shop as it would look in a different time period, as if a hundred years had passed since he’d last been there—abandoned, dusty, dangerous; a useless relic of a lost generation.

He went into the side room and bent down in front of the safe. He spun the wheel, muttering the combination under his breath. On the final click, he jammed down the handle and pulled open the six-inch-thick metal door. There was only one thing inside: the blueprints. Just as his fingers wrapped around the green tube, the front door shook and voices filled the shop. Joe silently swung the door shut, locked it, and backed up nervously.

Footsteps wound around the shop; voices; laughter; breaking glass. Joe tensed as someone tried the side room door, found it locked, and gave it up for a bad job. Wind funneled through the shop as someone opened the back door to take a look.

Then he heard the sound of splashing liquid, which began to flow under the bottom of the door, lapping against his boots. The smell of gasoline filled the air.

Soon, the voices left and he could see flickering red and yellow light between the cracks in the door, and could feel the heat through the wood. Joe grabbed the warming doorknob and swung it inward. Fire ate away at the door, and the floor spurted plumes of red towards him. The flames skittered around the cuffs of his jeans.

He barreled through the flames, shielding his face with the blueprints. Fire raced up his legs to his chest as he burst like a juggernaut through the backdoor and flung himself over the railing, a flailing, spiraling ball of flame, somehow remembering to keep the green tube of blueprints high in the air. When his face hit the water it felt better than anything he’d ever experienced. He sizzled, smoke rising from his body and hair as he panted out over the water, coughing silently, feeling the river water cool the burns branded onto his legs.

26

Zebulan and Phillip jerked upright on the porch when Joe pulled up to the house. He dismounted from the bike, flipped open the side satchel and grabbed the green cylinder, then limped across the gravel road to the steps. His jeans were burned up to his kneecaps, leaving tattered cloth hanging limply from his legs; the exposed skin was pulsing bright red where it was peeled and charred. He felt as if his legs were still on fire, right through to the bone.

Joe tossed the cylinder up to them. Zeb caught it with one hand and handed it to Phillip, then ran down the steps to examine Joe more closely.

‘Joe. Oh, shit.
What the hell happened to you?’

‘Got the blueprints,’ Joe answered dreamily. Zeb’s face flickered in and out of his vision. He could still smell the smoke and gasoline, hear the voices, the laughter,
feel the water and wind on his face. His eyes felt heavy.

‘Shit.’ Zeb turned to Phillip. ‘Help me get ’im up there. He’s in bad shape.’

Zeb propped Joe up under one arm, Phillip took the other side and together they helped him up the steps. Joe’s head slumped back and he stared momentarily at the stars, remembering when he and his father would search for constellations before the war. He’d shown him Orion, Draco, Cassiopeia, and the Big Dipper. He also recalled his father teaching him
Follow the Drinking Gourd
, a song slaves used to sing that gave coded instructions on escaping to the North. He began mumbling the words he could remember.

When the sun comes back
…

Zeb and Phillip pushed open the door and carried him inside.

When the first quail calls
…

They lowered him slowly onto the couch. A ceiling fan spun above him, blowing cold air against his face, throwing curved shadows on the walls.

Follow the drinking gourd
…

‘What’s he talkin’ about?’ he heard Zeb whisper to Phillip.

Phillip shook his head and said, ‘He’s delusional. Let’s care for these burns. You get him comfortable and I’ll get some antibiotics.’

Zeb lifted Joe’s head and propped two pillows beneath it. ‘Stay with us, Joe. You did a damn brave thing tonight. Stupid as hell, but
brave all the same.’

‘I got the blueprints,’ Joe said as a chill went through his body. Zeb saw him shudder and yelled at Phillip to hurry. Then a female voice said something. Joe didn’t catch the words, but he recognized the voice.

‘Amanda!’ he said, looking at Zeb. ‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’

Zeb glanced up at someone behind Joe and then looked back down at him. ‘Yeah, she’s pretty.’

‘When you see her, tell her about the thing I did. You gotta tell her.’

‘I’ll make sure she knows. But you oughta worry about getting some rest now. You can tell her the story yourself.’

Joe smiled. ‘It’s a good story.’

Phillip returned and bent down beside the couch with a brown bag full of medicine that he laid out on the coffee table. ‘We need to get his pants off without scraping the
burns,’ he said. There was a pause for a moment before Phillip slid both hands beneath Joe’s buttocks and lifted him up. ‘Undo his belt and take the pants off. Make sure there aren’t burns further up.’

Zeb undid the belt buckle and unzipped Joe’s jeans. He pulled them off as carefully as he could. Joe groaned as the cloth dragged over his right thigh. Zeb apologized, sweat beading over his forehead. Finally the pants were off and Joe lay on the couch in his boxers and t-shirt, filthy with dirt and river water.

Phillip looked relieved to see that most of the burns were around Joe’s knees. Some blisters were forming around his ankles but they didn’t look severe. He took a basin of cool water and poured it over the burns. Joe let out a relaxed breath, a reminder of how he’d felt when he’d hit the water outside the shop—an instant explosion of relief. But the pain returned when Phillip dabbed at the blisters with soapy water, and intensified when he cleaned them with Polysporin. Joe screamed and cursed, tears streaming down his cheeks. His hands tightened into fists and he tried to lash out, but Zeb held them down. Behind him, Amanda’s voice soothed him: ‘It’ll be okay, Joe. Just think about telling me the story when you’re better.’

Joe’s muscles relaxed. He did his best to shut out the pain by picturing Amanda, her sandy blonde hair cut short and jagged, her wounded blue eyes that knew more than she let on. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he muttered haggardly. ‘I’ll tell you.’

.........

He woke to the sound of voices. Looking to one side, he saw a window with the blinds open revealing silhouettes of trees in the blackness. He wasn’t on the couch anymore. They had moved him to a bed. He was lying on top of the comforter, shirtless, wearing only his boxer shorts. A fan spun above him. Joe shut his eyes, savoring the cold air against his scorched body. The events of hours earlier barely seemed real. But he felt proud. He’d never done anything so brave. He knew now how his father must have felt.

Joe turned his head the other way and saw Phillip and Zeb in silhouette outside his door; Phillip was drinking and Zeb was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.

‘He’s coming along fine,’ Phillip said. ‘You made the right choice with this one. I knew he was a good kid, but this—I never expected anything like this.’

‘T’be honest, neither did I. It’s not my call, but I think he’s proved himself enough to be told about Ararat,’ said Zeb.

‘You’re damn right he has. If anyone deserves to know, it’s him.’

‘When d’you think?’

‘Tesh is coming to Midland in a couple weeks,’ Phillip said, taking a drink. ‘I’ll see if he and…’

The voices trailed away as they moved off, heading down the stairs, their flat, oblong shadows warped against the wall.

Joe shut his eyes, mouthing the word ‘Ararat’. He’d never heard of it. But that didn’t particularly concern him. All that concerned him at that moment was sleep. The sooner he slept, the sooner he could tell Amanda about what had happened that night, see the fear and excitement in her eyes.

He pictured her lips. He pictured kissing them. And then he slept.

27

Some days later, Joe woke up to spears of sun shining through the window over his face. He groaned and swung a hand to his eyes, turning away.

How long have I been out? What day is it?

Lifting up his head, he glanced at his lower legs. They glistened; the skin was bright red and purple, and wrinkled like old paper. Joe pushed himself further up on the bed and leaned his head back on the headboard, watching the fan make its endless rotation.

When he finally got to his feet, he realized how badly he needed to relieve himself. Someone had laid out a pair of blue gym shorts, which he grabbed before heading to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, he stood in the center of the room with the shorts on, touching the skin around the burns, wondering how long it would take to heal. He hadn’t got a good look at his injuries that night; in fact he hadn’t got a good look at much of anything. He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to make it back to Midland. All he could remember after hitting the water was climbing out of the river and hauling himself, wet and sopping, to his bike. After that, his memory broke down into disjointed fuzzy snippets: him flying past trees that blurred into pasty green; and the moon and stars that looked more like Christmas lights; and then there was singing—did he sing that night?

Joe needed to shower, but his empty stomach groaned, telling him a shower would have to wait. Out on the landing, he examined himself in a circular mirror. He had dark bags under his eyes, his skin was sallow and oily, and his lank, greasy, dark hair was pushed to one side of his head. Grimacing at his own reflection, he turned and made his way slowly downstairs  to the kitchen.

‘Hello,’ Joe called out, peering down the hallway leading to Phillip’s room.

Movement outside the window caught his eye. Amanda was rocking back and forth on the front porch swing. She immediately set aside her book and ran across the porch, a smile splitting her face. She was wearing jeans and a loose blue shirt. Her hair was still wet from showering.

‘Welcome to the world of the living,’ she said and hugged him, careful not to touch his legs. ‘I’m so glad you’re okay.’

‘How long’ve I been out?’ he asked, his head over her shoulder.

‘Three days. You didn’t make a sound.’ Amanda pushed him back and grinned at him. ‘A baby doesn’t sleep that peacefully.’

They crossed the porch and sat together on the swing. It was a beautiful morning. A cool breeze came down from the mountains, rustling through the field of tall grass spread out before them. A strange scent filled his nostrils, some kind of flower that he’d never smelled before.

‘Where’re Zeb and your dad?’ Joe asked.

Amanda began rocking the swing again with the tips of her toes. ‘They left for Dustmouth a few hours ago to get some work done. They should be back by the afternoon. How’re the burns?’

‘I’m no doctor, but they look like they’re healing okay.’

‘Do they still hurt?’

‘Only when I move.
What’re you reading?’ He cocked his finger at the open book, its spine arching upwards.

‘Wallace Stevens.
Poetry. My dad’s tutoring me, since the prospect of going to college is pretty much bust. This is part of the English curriculum.’

‘Since high school, I’ve only really had time to take care of my mom. I wish I had more time to read, but staying alive comes first, y’know?’

Amanda marked her place in the book with a blade of grass and slid it beneath the swing. ‘Is your mom still in Hell Paso?’

‘Yeah.
With her boyfriend.’ Joe wanted to tell Amanda that he hadn’t willingly abandoned his mother; that he’d left because he had to. ‘There’s more for me here. Once I’m on my feet, I’m going to go back for her. Hell Paso isn’t safe.’

She watched Joe with eyes full of understanding. ‘You want some breakfast?’ she said. ‘I learned a thing or two working at the Queen.’ She stood up and walked past him. ‘Turns out that place
wasn’t a complete waste of my time.’

For a moment, Joe got a glimpse of Phillip in her—that strange mix of weariness and wisdom. But Amanda had something Phillip didn’t have, some kind of strength—the ability to put the past in the past? Nothing seemed to weigh her down, unlike her father whose fetters were practically crippling.

They went inside where Amanda made some coffee and eggs, and they sat at the kitchen table watching the sun lift over the hills. Joe scarfed down four eggs before getting up to scramble some more. As he cracked an egg against the side of the counter, he asked, ‘Have you heard of Ararat?’

‘Like from the Bible?’

‘I didn’t know it was from the Bible.’

‘Yeah, it’s the mountain that Noah’s Ark—or was it Moses? Whichever one of them had the Ark—landed on after the flood.’

Joe recalled the story from his childhood when his parents dragged him to Sunday
School: a story about a flood, a bird, and a rainbow. It was odd, the tidbits you remembered. But it still didn’t help him understand why Phillip and Zeb had been talking about it.

‘Why do you ask?’ Amanda said.

Joe flipped the eggs around, watching them sizzle in the pan and wishing they had bacon. ‘I heard it mentioned a couple days ago.’ He slid the eggs onto a plate.

He came back to the kitchen table and sat beside Amanda, wondering if he’d actually meant what he said about getting his mom out of Hell Paso. When would be the right time to do that? He was too involved here now. He wanted to know about Ararat, and he’d agreed to help with the Cloudhorse. Joe chewed a mouthful of eggs and tried to shut off his mind, if only for a moment.

‘I never really thanked you for what you did,’ Amanda said. ‘When you stood up for me back at the diner.’

Joe fought back a smile. ‘It was nothing.’

‘Really, though, I want to do something to repay you. Have you heard of Northern Lights?’

Joe shook his head.

‘It’s a restaurant in Almost Sunny Springs, the last nice one they’ve got. Would you like to go? My treat obviously.’

Was she asking him on a date, or was this just a gesture of thanks? Joe was suddenly aware of how grimy his body was and how he must smell of three-day-old river water.

‘Of course,’ he replied. As long as Amanda was involved, he didn’t care either way.