Requiem (5 page)

Hana

F
or a second night, the fog of my sleep is disturbed by an image: two eyes, floating up through darkened murk. Then the eyes are disks of light, headlights bearing down on me—I'm frozen in the middle of the road, surrounded by the heavy smells of garbage and car exhaust . . . gripped, motionless, in the roaring heat from an engine. . . .

I wake up just before midnight, sweating.

This can't be happening. Not to me.

I stand up and fumble toward the bathroom, bumping my shin against one of the unpacked boxes in my room. Even though we moved in late January, more than two months ago, I haven't bothered to unpack anything other than the basics. In less than three weeks I'll be married, and I'll have to move again. Besides, my old belongings—the stuffed animals and books and funny porcelain figurines I used to collect as a kid—don't mean very much to me anymore.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock out the memory of those headlight-eyes, the tightness in my chest, the terror of being flattened. I tell myself it doesn't mean anything, that the cure works a little bit differently for everyone.

Outside the window, the moon is round and improbably bright. I press my nose up to the glass. Across the street is a house nearly identical to ours, and next to it is another mirror-image house. On and on they go, dozens of replicas: the same gabled roofs, newly constructed and meant to look old.

I feel a need to move. I used to get the itch all the time, when my body was crying out for a run. I haven't run more than once or twice since I was cured—the few times I tried, it just wasn't the same—and even now, the idea has no appeal. But I want to do
something
.

I change into a pair of old sweatpants and a dark sweatshirt. I put on an old baseball cap, too, which belonged to my father—partly to keep my hair back, and partly so that if anyone does happen to be out, I won't be recognized. Technically, it isn't illegal for me to be out past curfew, but I have no desire to field questions from my parents. It's not something that Hana Trent, soon-to-be Hana Hargrove, would do. I don't want them to know I've been having trouble sleeping. I can't give them a reason to be suspicious.

I lace up my sneakers and tiptoe to the bedroom door. Last summer, I used to sneak out all the time. There was the forbidden rave in the warehouse behind Otremba's Paints and the party in Deering Highlands that was raided; there were nights on the beach at Sunset Park and illegal meet-ups with uncured boys, including the time at Back Cove when I let Steven Hilt put a hand on the inside of my bare thigh and time seemed to stop.

Steven Hilt: dark eyelashes, neat straight teeth, the smell of pine needles; the drop in my stomach whenever he looked at me.

The memories seem like snapshots from someone else's life.

I ease downstairs in near-total silence. I find the latch on the front door and turn it by minuscule increments, so that the bolt withdraws soundlessly.

The wind is chilly and rustles the holly shrubs that encircle our yard, just inside the iron gate. The shrubs, too, are a feature of WoodCove Farms:
For security and protection,
the real estate brochures said,
and a real measure of privacy
.

I pause, listening for sounds of passing patrols. Nothing. But they can't be too far off. WoodCove advertises a twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week volunteer guard corps. Still, the community is large, and full of dozens of offshoots and cul-de-sacs. With any luck, I'll be able to avoid them.

Down the front walk, down the flagstone path, to the iron gate. A blur of black bats skirts past the moon, sending shadows skating across the lawn. I shiver. Already, the itch is draining out of me. I think about returning to bed, burrowing under the soft blankets and the pillows scented faintly of detergent; waking up refreshed to a nice big breakfast of scrambled eggs.

Something bangs in the garage. I spin around. The garage door is partially open.

My first thought is of a photographer. One of them has jumped the gate and camped out in the yard. But I quickly dismiss the idea. Mrs. Hargrove has carefully orchestrated all our press opportunities, and so far, I haven't been an object of attention unless I'm with Fred.

My second thought is
gas thief
. Recently, because of government-mandated restrictions, especially in the poorer parts of the city, there has been a rash of break-ins throughout Portland. It was especially bad during the winter: Furnaces were drained of oil, and cars of gas; houses were raided and vandalized. In February, there were two hundred burglaries alone, the largest number of crimes since the cure was made mandatory forty years ago.

I consider heading inside and waking my dad. But that would mean questions, and explanations.

Instead I cross the yard toward the garage, keeping my eye on the half-open door, checking for signs of movement. The grass is coated with dew, which soaks rapidly into my sneakers. I have a prickly, all-over body feeling. Someone is watching me.

A twig snaps behind me. I whirl around. A ripple of wind again disturbs the holly. I take a deep breath and turn back to the garage. My heart drums high in my throat, an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling. I have not been afraid—really afraid—since the morning of my cure, when I couldn't even unknot the hospital gown because my hands were shaking so badly.

“Hello?” I whisper.

Another rustle. Something—or someone—is definitely in the garage. I stand a few feet outside the door, struck rigid with fear. Stupid. This is stupid. I'll go into the house and wake Dad. I'll say I heard a noise, and I'll deal with questions later.

Then, faintly: a mewling sound. A cat's eyes blink momentarily at me in the open door.

I exhale. A stray cat—nothing more. Portland is lousy with them. Dogs, too. People buy them, and then can't afford or don't care to keep them, and dump them in the streets. For years they've been breeding. I've heard there are whole packs of wild dogs that roam around the Highlands.

I move forward slowly. The cat watches me. I put my hand on the garage door, ease it open a few more inches.

“Come on,” I coo. “Come on out of there.”

The cat bolts back into the garage. It darts past my old bike, knocking against the kickstand. The bike starts to totter, and I spring forward and grab it before it can crash to the ground. The handlebars are dusty; even though it's practically pitch-dark, I can feel the grime.

I keep one hand on the bike, steadying it, and feel for the switch on the wall. I flick on the overhead lights. Immediately, the normalcy of the garage reasserts itself: the car, the trash cans, the lawn mower in the corner; cans of paint and extra tanks of gas stacked neatly in the corner, in a pyramid formation. The cat is crouched among them. At least the cat looks relatively clean—it's not frothing at the mouth or covered with scabs. Nothing to be afraid of. One more step toward her, and she bolts again; this time shooting around the car and circling past me, out into the yard.

As I lean the bike up against the garage wall, I notice the faded purple scrunchie still looped around one handle. Lena and I used to have identical bicycles, but she teased me that hers was faster. We were always switching bikes by accident, after dumping them down on the grass or the beach. She would hop up on the seat, barely able to reach the pedals, and I'd climb on her bike all scrunched up like a toddler, and we would ride home together, laughing hysterically. One day she bought two scrunchies from her uncle's convenience store—purple for me, blue for her—and insisted we keep them fixed around the handles, so we could differentiate them.

The scrunchie is now creased with dirt. I haven't ridden my bike since last summer. This hobby, like Lena, has faded into the past. Why were Lena and I best friends? What did we talk about? We had nothing in common. We didn't like the same foods or the same music. We didn't even believe in the same things.

And then she left, and it broke my heart so completely I could hardly breathe. If I hadn't been cured, I'm not sure what I would have done.

I can admit, now, that I must have loved Lena. Not in an Unnatural way, but my feelings for her must have been a kind of sickness. How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust—and also to make you feel so whole?

The urge to walk has drained away completely. All I want to do is fall into bed.

I turn off the lights and close the door to the garage, making sure I hear the latch slide shut.

As I turn back to the house, I see a piece of paper lying on the grass, already spotted with moisture. It wasn't there a minute ago. Someone has obviously pushed it through the gate while I was in the yard.

Someone
was
watching me—could be watching me even now.

I cross the yard slowly. I see myself reach the flyer. I see myself bend to pick it up.

It is a grainy black-and-white photo that has obviously been reproduced from the original: It shows a man and a woman kissing. The woman in the picture is bent backward, her fingers laced in the man's hair. He is smiling even as he kisses her.

At the bottom of the flyer are printed the words:
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU THINK
.

Instinctively, I crumple the flyer in my fist. Fred was right: The resistance is here, nesting among us. They must have access to copiers, to paper, to messengers.

A door bangs in the distance, and I jump. Suddenly the night seems alive. I practically sprint to the front porch and completely forget to be quiet as I slip inside the door, triple-locking it behind me. For a moment I stand in the hall, the flyer still balled in my hand, breathing in the familiar smells of furniture polish and Clorox.

In the kitchen, I throw the paper in the trash. Then, thinking better of it, I stuff it into the garbage disposal instead. I'm no longer worried about waking my parents. I just want to get rid of the picture, get rid of the words—a threat, no doubt about it.
There are more of us than you think.

I wash my hands with hot water and fumble clumsily back to my bedroom. I don't even bother to undress, just kick off my shoes, take off the baseball hat, and climb under the covers. Even though the heat is humming, I still don't feel warm.

Long, dark fingers are enclosing me. Velvet-gloved hands, soft and perfumed, are wrapping around my throat, and Lena is whispering from somewhere far away—
What did you do?
—and then, mercifully, the fingers release, the hands drop from around my throat, and I am falling, falling, into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Lena

W
hen I open my eyes, the tent is full of hazy green light as the sun is transformed into color by the thin tent walls. The ground beneath me is slightly damp, as it always is in the mornings; the ground exhales dew, shakes off the nighttime freeze. I can hear voices and the clang of metal pots. Julian is gone.

I can't remember how long it has been since I've slept so deeply. I don't even remember dreaming. I wonder whether this is what it is like to be cured, to wake up refreshed and renewed, undisturbed by the long, shadowy fingers that reach for you in sleep.

Outside, the air is unexpectedly warm. The woods are full of birdsong. Clouds skate giddily across a pale blue sky. The Wilds are boldly asserting the arrival of spring, like the first proud, puff-chested robins to appear in March.

I go down to the small stream where we've been drawing our water. Dani has just emerged from bathing and is standing totally naked, toweling off her hair with a T-shirt. Nudity used to shock me, but now I hardly notice it; she could be a dark, water-slicked otter shaking itself in the sun. Still, I head downstream from where she is, stripping off my shirt to splash my face and underarms and dunk my head underwater, gasping a little as I come up. The water is still ice-cold, and I can't bring myself to submerge.

Back at the camp, I see that the body of the old woman has already been removed. Hopefully they've found somewhere to bury her. I think of Blue, and how we had to leave her out in the snow while the ice clotted her dark lashes and sealed her eyes shut, and of Miyako, who was burned. Ghosts, shadow-figures in my dreams. I wonder whether I will ever be rid of them.

“Morning, sunshine,” says Raven, without looking up from the jacket she is patching. She is holding several needles in her mouth, fanned out between her lips, and she has to speak through them. “Sleep well?” She doesn't wait for me to answer. “There's some grub on the fire, so eat up before Dani gets hold of seconds.”

The girl we rescued last night is awake and sitting near Raven, at a short distance from the fire, with a red blanket draped around her shoulders. She is even lovelier than I thought. Her eyes are vivid green, and her skin is luminous and soft-looking.

“Hi,” I say as I move between her and the fire. She gives me a shy smile but doesn't speak, and I feel a rush of sympathy for her. I remember how terrified I was when I escaped into the Wilds and found myself among Raven and Tack and the others. I wonder where she has come from, and what terrible things she has seen.

At the edge of the fire, a dented pot is half-buried in the ash. Inside is a small bit of oatmeal-and-black-bean stew, left over from our dinner last night. It's charred crunchy and practically tasteless. I spoon some into a tin cup and force myself to eat quickly.

As I'm finishing, Alex stomps his way out of the woods, carrying a plastic jug of water. I glance up instinctively to see whether he will acknowledge me, but as usual he keeps his eyes locked on air over my head.

He passes beyond me and stops by the new girl.

“Here,” he says. His voice is gentle, the voice of the old Alex, the Alex of my memories. “I brought you some water. Don't worry. It's clean.”

“Thanks, Alex,” she responds. The name sounds wrong in her mouth and makes me feel off-kilter, the way I used to feel as a kid at the Strawberry Festival at Eastern Prom, standing in the hall of fun-house mirrors: like everything has been distorted.

Tack, Pike, and some of the others come pushing out of the woods just after Alex, elbowing their way through the weave of branches. Julian is one of the last to emerge, and I stand up and find myself running toward him, barreling into his arms.

“Whoa.” He laughs, stumbling backward a little and squeezing me, obviously surprised and pleased. I am never this affectionate with him during the day, in front of the others. “What was that for?”

“I missed you,” I say, feeling breathless for no reason. I put my forehead on his collarbone, place one hand on his chest. Its rhythm reassures me: He is real, and he is now.

“We did a full sweep,” Tack is saying. “Three-mile circumference. Everything looks good. The Scavengers must have gone in a different direction.”

Julian tenses. I turn around and face Tack.

“Scavengers?” I ask.

Tack shoots me a look and doesn't answer. He has stopped in front of the new girl. Alex is still sitting beside her. Their arms are separated by only a few inches, and I start to fixate on the negative space between their shoulders and elbows, like one-half of an hourglass.

“You don't remember what day they came?” he asks the girl, and I can tell he's struggling not to seem impatient. On the surface, Tack is all bite—bite and rough edges, just like Raven. That's why they go so well together.

The girl chews her lip. Alex reaches out and touches her hand, gentle and reassuring, and I am suddenly filled, head to toe, with the feeling that I am going to be sick.

“Go on, Coral,” he says. Coral. Of course she would be named Coral. Beautiful and delicate and special.

“I—I don't remember.” Her voice is almost as low as a boy's.

“Try,” Tack says. Raven shoots him a look. Her expression is clear.
Don't push it.

The girl draws the blanket a little tighter around her shoulders. She clears her throat. “They came a few days ago—three, four. I don't know exactly. We found an old barn, totally intact. . . . We'd been crashing there. There was just a small group of us. There was David and Tigg and—and Nan.” Her voice breaks a bit, and she sucks in a breath. “And a few others—eight of us total. We've stuck together since I first came to the Wilds. My grandfather was a priest of one of the old religions.” She looks up at us defiantly, as though she is daring us to criticize her. “He refused to convert to the New Order and was killed.” She shrugs. “Ever since then, my family was tracked. And when my aunt turned out to be a sympathizer . . . well, we were blacklisted. Couldn't get a job, couldn't get paired to save our lives. There wasn't a landlord in Boston who would rent to us—not that we had any money to pay.”

Bitterness has crept into her voice. I can tell that it is only the recent trauma that has made her seem fragile. Under normal circumstances, she is a leader—like Raven. Like Hana.

I feel another stab of jealousy, watching Alex watching her.

“The Scavengers,” Tack prompts her.

“Let it go, Tack,” Raven breaks in. “She's not ready to talk about it.”

“No, no. I can. It's just . . . I hardly remember . . .” Again she shakes her head, this time looking puzzled. “Nan had trouble with her joints. She didn't like to be alone in the dark when she had to use the bathroom. She was worried she might fall.” She squeezes her knees closer to her chest. “We took turns walking with her. It was my turn that night. That's the only reason I'm not . . . That's the only reason . . .” She trails off.

“The others are dead, then?” Tack's voice is hollow.

She nods. Dani mutters, “Shit,” and toes some dirt into the air, aiming at nothing.

“Burned,” the girl says. “While they were sleeping. We saw it happen. The Scavengers surrounded the place and just—
phoomf
. It went up like a match. Nan lost her head. Went hurtling straight back toward the barn. I went after her . . . after that, I don't remember much. I thought she was on fire . . . and then I remember I woke up in a ditch, and it was raining . . . and then you found us. . . .”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Each time Dani says the word, she toes up another spray of dirt.

“You're not helping,” Raven snaps.

Tack rubs his forehead and sighs. “They've cleared out of the area,” he says. “That's a break for us. We'll just have to hope we don't cross paths.”

“How many were there?” Pike asks Coral. She shakes her head. “Five? Seven? A dozen? Come on. You have to give us something to—”

“I want to know why,” Alex interjects. Even though he speaks softly, everyone instantly gets quiet and listens. I used to love that about him: the way he can take command of a situation without raising his voice, the ease and confidence he has always radiated.

Now I am supposed to feel nothing, so I focus on the fact that Julian is behind me, only inches away; I focus on the fact that Alex's and Coral's knees are touching, and he doesn't draw away or seem to mind at all.

“
Why
the attack? Why burn the barn down? It doesn't make sense.” Alex shakes his head. “We all know the Scavengers are out to loot and rob, not ravage. This wasn't theft—it was massacre.”

“The Scavengers are working with the DFA,” Julian says. He glosses fluidly over the words, although they must be difficult for him. The DFA was his father's organization, his family's lifework, and up until Julian and I were thrown together only a few short weeks ago, it was Julian's lifework as well.

“Exactly.” Alex stands up. Even though he and Julian are once again speaking off each other, call-and-response, he refuses to look in our direction. He keeps his eyes on Raven and Tack. “It's not about survival for them anymore, is it? It's about payday. The stakes are higher and the goals are different.”

No one contradicts him. Everyone knows he is right. The Scavengers never cared about the cure. They came into the Wilds because they didn't belong in—or were pushed out of—normal society. They came with no allegiance or affiliation, no sense of honor or ideals. And although they were always ruthless, their attacks used to serve a purpose—they pillaged and robbed, took supplies and weapons, and didn't mind killing in the process.

But murder with no meaning and no gain . . .

That is very different. That is contract killing.

“They're picking us off.” Raven speaks slowly, as though the idea is just occurring to her. She turns to Julian. “They're going to hunt us down like—like animals. Is that it?”

Now everyone looks at him—some curiously, some with resentment.

“I don't know.” He stutters very lightly over the words. Then: “They can't afford to let us live.”

“Now can I say
shit
?” Dani asks sarcastically.

“But if the DFA and the regulators are using the Scavengers to kill us, it's proof that the resistance has power,” I protest. “They see us as a threat. That's a good thing.”

For years, the Invalids living in the Wilds were actually
protected
by the government, whose official position was that the disease,
amor deliria nervosa
, had been wiped out during the blitz, and all the infected people eradicated. Love was no more. To recognize that Invalid communities existed would have been an admission of failure.

But now the propaganda can't hold. The resistance has become too large and too visible. They can't ignore us any longer, or pretend that we don't exist—so now they must try to wipe us out.

“Yeah, we'll see how good it feels when the Scavengers fry us in our sleep,” Dani fires back.

“Please.” Raven gets to her feet. A ribbon of white runs through her black hair; I've never noticed it before, and I wonder whether it has always been there or only recently appeared. “We'll just have to be more careful. We'll scout locations for our camps more closely, and keep someone on guard at night. All right? If they're hunting us, we'll just have to be faster and smarter. And we'll have to work
together
. There are more of us every day, right?” She looks pointedly at Pike and Dani, then turns her gaze back to Coral. “Do you think you're strong enough to walk?”

Coral nods. “I think so.”

“All right, then.” Tack is obviously getting antsy. It must be at least ten o'clock. “Let's make final rounds. Check the traps; work on getting packed up. We'll shove off as soon as we can.”

Tack and Raven no longer have undisputed control of the group, but they can still get people to
move
, and in this case, no one argues. We've been camping near Poughkeepsie for almost three days, and now that we have decided on a destination, we're all eager to get there.

The group breaks up as people begin to scatter into the trees. We've been traveling together for a little less than a week, but each of us has already assumed a different role. Tack and Pike are the hunters; Raven, Dani, Alex, and I take turns manning the traps; Lu hauls and boils water. Julian packs and unloads and repacks. Others repair clothing and patch tents. In the Wilds, existence depends on order.

On that, the cureds and the uncureds agree.

I fall into step behind Raven, who is stalking up a short incline, toward a series of bombed-out foundations, where a block of houses must once have stood. There is evidence of raccoons here.

“She's coming with us?” I burst out.

“Who?” Raven seems surprised to see me next to her.

“The girl.” I try to keep my voice neutral. “Coral.”

Raven raises an eyebrow at me. “She doesn't have much of a choice, does she? It's either that or she stays and starves.”

“But . . .” I can't explain why I feel, stubbornly, that she shouldn't be trusted. “We don't know anything about her.”

Raven stops walking. She turns to me. “We don't know anything about
anyone
,” she says. “Don't you get that yet? You don't know shit about me, I don't know shit about you.
You
don't even know shit about you.”

I think of Alex—the strange, stony figure of a boy I thought I once knew. Maybe he hasn't changed that much. Maybe I
never
really knew him at all.