The Escape Page 2

  Think. Think.

  There were several thin wooden tables around, covered in tablecloths and candles. She carefully set a bunch of empty candles on the floor and took the tablecloth, setting it aside for later. Her escape from Grand Central had happened so quickly, she hadn’t had any time to prepare. The cloth would work well as a shawl or blanket when it got chilly.

  The table looked naked without its dressing. With a grunt, Jenna kicked it over onto the hard marble floor, hoping that it would splinter into pieces she could use as firewood. The clatter seemed to ricochet off the walls, but the table didn’t even dent.

  “Fuck me, are you kidding?” she shouted.

  Her curse echoed back to her in the empty room.

  She stilled, straining to hear something, anything that would indicate her shouts had brought on the soldiers. But no. Maybe they weren’t even after her. They probably figured she’d die out there, on her own.

  Unless Emily was right about there being a radio. That she’d heard that America was rebuilding, communities of survivors popping up all over the place and starting fresh. If that was true, then she could survive.

  And they would come after her.

  There would be plenty of time to worry about that soon enough, though. Now, she needed to boil the water and drink it while she could.

  The table leg that lay on the ground, still attached to the table, would have to do for firewood. Bunching some of the newspaper around it, she lit a single match, lighting the edges of the paper, softly blowing on it until the flames licked the wood.

  The wood caught fire quicker than she’d expected, maybe because of whatever varnish had been on it. The smokiness of it filled the air and made her cough.

  What now? She couldn’t hold the glass over the fire like she’d planned; it was too hot. Finally she just set the glass into the flames and watched. The glass turned black with soot immediately, but after a while the water began to simmer.

  Yes!

  Without another moment of guilt, Jenna filled as many of the candles as she could with holy water and set them all down into the flames. They soon bubbled, fiercely, but she kept them there, letting them boil for as long as her thirst could stand it.

  Finally, she took her white tablecloth, wrapped it around her hand like a mitten, and pulled one of the glasses of water away from the flames. It had barely stopped bubbling before she brought it to her mouth, desperate for a sip.

  Then another sip. And another. Running from the army was thirsty work. But she’d wait for the rest to cool.

  What she needed was a way to transport the water, like a canteen. But she had nothing, not even a way to seal the water into one of the glasses. It was getting time to get out, for real now.

  Jenna drank every glass down, saving only one, still filled to the waxy brim with water. In her haste, one of the candles shattered on the floor, leaving glinting pieces of broken glass strewn about.

  One shiny piece seemed to call out to her. It could be a weapon, that long, thick, curved piece. Like a knife.

  Jenna picked it up carefully, holding it with an edge of her tablecloth. Strange how the cathedral’s tablecloth had become her own, just by her deciding it was so. But wasn’t that the way it was now? People took what they needed, however they could.

  Everyone was a thief now. If they weren’t, they were already dead.

  With quick cutting motions, Jenna made a tear in the opposite end of the cloth, and tore free a long strip. She wrapped that strip around the bottom half of her glass-shard knife, making a handle.

  One more torn strip, and she used it to shove into the top of the water glass. It wasn’t a proper lid, but it would have to do for now. The glass she slid into her waistband, easy to do now that she’d lost so much weight, and she kept the “knife”—yes, it was her knife now—in her hand. She took a few tentative steps, testing the security of the glass in her pants. Not so bad.

  I don’t want to leave.

  It was scary out there.

  But she had to.

  She wrapped the torn tablecloth around her shoulders and set back out, past the looted gift shop in the annex to the bronze front doors.

  Before she walked out, she turned around, looking behind her at the once-majestic cathedral.

  “. . . God?”

  The word came out sounding strange, as if she expected him to call back to her.

  But the cathedral was silent, and so she left.

  Grand Central

  People at Grand Central were still buzzing from the execution yesterday—still whispering amongst themselves about what the dark-haired girl, Taryn, had said.

  About the radio.

  Barker was on guard duty. Colonel Lanche had given a disturbing speech after dinner rations last night—saying that the girl was delusional, psychotic, and a murderer. A danger to everyone there. That everyone was safer now that she was gone.

  But that wasn’t the disturbing part. There was usually some sort of statement after an execution.

  The part that bothered Barker was when the Colonel said, “Anyone heard speaking about this will be considered in collusion with her, and their fate will be the same. We have no room for dissidence here. Consider yourself warned.”

  So that was it. The official story was that there was no radio, that America was not, in fact, rebuilding, and that Grand Central was the only place to be safe. Only place possible to live. Under Lanche’s martial law.

  But . . . Barker had heard about a radio before, so . . . it did exist. Some of the higher-level soldiers, the ones who ran the Colonel’s private missions and black ops, talked about it, albeit quietly.

  Last Barker had heard, from two men talking who thought he was asleep in his bunk, was that the Colonel had a working hand-crank radio. He’d kept it safe from the threat of an EMP or solar flare by keeping it wrapped in flannel and inside a cardboard box, and that was inside a sealed metal container, but not touching the metal. He’d kept it grounded so that if a nuclear strike ever hit, it wouldn’t be fried by the Pulse.

  Apparently the Colonel had been waiting for a catastrophe so he could find his moment of glory. Fortunately for them all, the nuclear device didn’t hit the city. Everyone assumed that it went off high in the air, causing the Pulse and not much else. Still, not having electricity, running water, or any means of communication killed most of them off anyway. They were back in the Dark Ages.

  The men who left on scouting missions never came back. Rumor had it that the entire country had been hit by the Pulse, and people were dead or dying everywhere.

  There were other secret things the Colonel had kept in Faraday cages like the radio, but word among the soldiers was that all those secret things required power. Only the hand-crank radio worked.

  And someone else, somewhere in the country, was broadcasting.

  Come on, Barker, get with it. He had never heard the broadcast himself, and officially it didn’t exist. There was no point thinking about it, especially if talking about it carried a death penalty.

  A lone radio signal was hardly proof that America was rebuilding. He’d also heard rumors that it was just some other prepper nut-job in his mama’s basement spreading false hope.

  Who knew what was real anymore?

  Colonel Lanche passed by him, and Barker saluted.

  Lanche shook his head. “At ease, Barker.”

  “Sir.” Barker dropped his hand.

  “Have you heard anything?” The Colonel had a fruity smell to his breath, as if he’d been drinking. Probably one of the disgusting bathtub brews some of the men made illegally.

  Why should it surprise him that Lanche considered himself above the law? The only law around the camp was what he said it was.

  “Heard what, sir?”

  “About the fucking radio, Barker. Are people talking about it?”

 
“There’s nothing for anyone to talk about, Colonel. No radio has survived the Pulse, everyone knows that.” Barker paused, hoping Lanche wouldn’t hear the insincerity in his voice.

  “Good.” Lanche started to walk by, but then stopped. “Private Barker.”

  “Sir.” Fuck.

  “I don’t need you standing here on guard duty right now. We have four other soldiers doing the same fucking thing on this wall. Go find that crazy bitch’s friend, Jenna. She didn’t sleep on the Tracks last night, and didn’t sign for her morning ration. I want to . . . interview her.”

  Jenna was missing? Barker scanned the room, hoping her gleaming blonde hair would stand out in the main terminal. No.

  Barker’s stomach tightened. An interview with Lanche was not a good thing. Maybe he could coach her on what to say, what not to say, before she spoke to him. “Is she . . . Did she do something, sir?”

  Lanche lowered his voice. “Between us, soldier, she’s dangerous. She wasn’t found naked under Private Andrews’s corpse for no reason. She was involved in his murder, and she’s as delusional as her dead bitch friend.”

  Barker couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “Sir, I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do. She would have shot the guy herself if Taryn hadn’t grabbed the gun and done it first. I didn’t realize she was in on it until the soldier gave his testimony—”

  Testimony. More like a witch trial. Or no trial at all.

  “—but,” Lanche continued, “just as I was about to order her to tell us what really happened, she fled. I had to handle Taryn and no one’s seen Jenna since.”

  Barker shook his head. No wonder Jenna ran, with the Colonel’s rifle pointed at her heart. She’d been around long enough to know that there would be no trial. She’d have been found guilty and executed next to her friend within minutes.

  “Sir,” Barker said, trying to phrase his question properly, without being insubordinate. “I’ll go find her. Um . . . I’m honored that you’re trusting me with this mission. I’m not sure I’m the best choice, though. I’ve never done anything like this, not like the others.”

  “That’s why I picked you, Private.” Lanche furrowed his brow. “You’re one of the few men here who doesn’t visit the Tracks. Jenna was a popular little whore. All the men know her a little too well to be trusted with a mission such as this one. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” The thought of Jenna having been with the type of soldier Lanche usually picked for his secret missions turned Barker’s stomach. Those men were ruthless. Did Lanche actually think any of them had a soft spot for a woman they had abused?

  No. Something else was going on.

  “Jenna’s not in the camp,” Lanche said, “at least not according to any logs or sign-ins. No one’s seen her. She’s on the run. You’ll need to pack a two-week supply and find her before she gets too far.”

  Barker frowned. There it was. He was being sent because he was expendable. “No one ever comes back after they leave Grand Central, sir.”

  “I’m not sending you on a suicide mission, Barker. Man up. Jenna is a dangerous, murdering whore, and she needs to be brought in for justice, or no one will sleep well knowing she’s out there. You’ll be doing your country a service.”

  Yeah right. Like anyone was afraid of little, unarmed Jenna. Then again, no one had been afraid of Taryn, either—and look what she’d done. And with Jenna at her side, or so it seemed.

  But Barker didn’t like the idea of running after her, especially if she was as dangerous as Lanche said. Even if he never found her, leaving the camp alone was a suicide mission.

  If he were in a dangerous situation, like being attacked by a gang of scavengers, there’d be no way to radio for help. He’d die alone on the street. Then again, so would she.

  The Jenna he’d met on line for rations three months ago didn’t seem to match the crazy killer that Lanche was describing. Maybe he could find her, and convince Lanche to let her live.

  “Will she be executed when I bring her back, sir?”

  Lanche frowned, as if he was about to tell him to mind his own fucking business. But then he shook his head. “She’ll be questioned. I need to know what she thinks she knows. If she knows nothing, and if she had no part in the murder after all, then she’ll be free to go about her business.”

  The Colonel smiled, and Barker wanted desperately to believe him. Wanted to believe that there was still some semblance of law and order in their post-Pulse world. Wanted to believe that the Colonel wasn’t really sending him away, alone, because he didn’t give two shits if Barker died trying to follow his orders. And he wanted to believe that Jenna was innocent, and everything would go back to normal.

  “Does that ease your mind, Private? I’m not asking you to bring a lamb to slaughter. Bring her home for questioning, and I’ll take it from there.”

  Home. As if anyone considered Grand Central their home.

  “Barker, think about this for a moment. You’re a smart guy. Lawyer, right?”

  Barker nodded almost imperceptibly. Being a lawyer meant nothing when there were no trials, and when the Colonel was judge, jury and executioner in one.

  “Jenna’s always been a good girl, before she got caught up with Taryn. I happen to have a . . . a soft spot for her myself.” Lanche frowned. “What if she tells us that Taryn went psycho and killed Andrews, and that Jenna had been trying to save him? Tried to stop Taryn? I couldn’t possibly fault her for that. I just need to know what happened, that’s all.”

  “I thought you said she was a murdering whore who wasn’t found naked under Andrew’s dead body for no reason,” Barker said softly. “Sir.”

  “I forgot who I was talking to,” Lanche laughed, his voice friendly. “Forgot that you’re like me, you like to hear things out before making up your mind. Isn’t that right, Private?”

  Barker didn’t respond.

  “All I need is to talk to Jenna, to find out her side of the story. We owe that to Private Andrews, don’t you think? And to Jenna, as well. She’s probably running scared out there, in terrible danger. She could die out there alone, not realizing that I would welcome her back to Grand Central with open arms. As long as she’s innocent.”

  “And if she’s not?”

  “Well . . . that’s why you need to be careful. We don’t know who to trust these days, do we?” The Colonel smiled sadly. “Bring her in for questioning. You won’t be killing her by following orders, soldier. You’ll be saving that poor girl from getting robbed, raped, and killed out there on those dangerous streets. She needs to be here, where it’s safe.”

  Barker let out a deep sigh, not even realizing he’d been holding his breath waiting for the answer. He’d just have to bring her in for questioning, nothing more.

  If Jenna was innocent, then she’d be fine.

  “I’ll bring her back, sir.”

  Emily and Mason’s cabin, upstate New York

  Emily Rosen smiled up at Mason. “Any luck?”

  Mason held the box for her to see. “Another rabbit. I’m gonna add him to the pen with the others.”

  Emily sighed, pushing her long dark hair out of her eyes. “Mason, please, can’t we just eat him? We have six others in the pen. I don’t think breeding them is working, so why should we starve?”

  Mason shook his head and walked out with the box, dropping the rabbit off with the other rabbits, no doubt. Hoping it would make a lady friend.

  Emily ran out after him. It was a beautiful day. They had peace and quiet, except for the quacking of the geese on the lake. When she’d first met him, after she’d escaped Grand Central, he’d been adept at hunting, breeding, and killing rats for food. But now that they were far outside of civilization, his biggest fear was that they’d hunt out their own land and starve.

  “Better to be a little hungry now while nature r
eplenishes our stock, than to die later.” He picked her up, holding her against his muscular chest. “You know I’m right.”

  “I know.” She gave him a kiss. “It’s just hard to see all this meat walking around.”

  Mason laughed and set her down. “Let’s dig up some potatoes. You’ll feel better.”

  When they found the abandoned cabin, the vegetable garden had been overgrown and filled with weeds. With care, it was doing well. But whoever had lived there before hadn’t meant for the place to be a full-time residence. Together, Emily and Mason kept replanting seeds, using minimal firewood, and giving the fish, geese, and rabbits time to reproduce so they wouldn’t be without a source of food.

  Emily dug her hands in the moist earth. She’d rather be doing this any day, with Mason, than be stuck on the Tracks.

  “You have that look on your face again,” Mason said, coming up behind her. “Which bad memory is it? The Tracks, or the cannibals?”

  He knew her so well. “I just worry about her, that’s all.”

  She didn’t need to say who she was talking about. Her only friend on the Tracks, the one person she’d been willing to risk Mason’s life for so he could go back to the camp and tell her friend the truth about American Victory Radio.

  “You tried your best. Jenna didn’t want to hear it, that’s all. It was too much to believe, and there was too much to risk. She was okay living at Grand Central—and she’s okay now.”

  A dirt-covered potato popped up out of the dirt, and Emily set it aside before digging for another. “It doesn’t matter how many times you tell me that, I still don’t believe anyone living in that hellhole is okay.”

  “You got out. We’re alive. That’s all that matters.” Mason picked up the potatoes and took her hand, not seeming to care it was covered in dirt. “And I love you. That matters too.”

  Emily nodded. “I’d better make potato soup before I eat this thing raw.”