Ashes, Ashes Page 7

  The terrain was unpredictable, and in most places sharply inclined on crumbling slopes made up of equal parts soil and man-made materials. Cinder blocks, sandbags, and planks of wood shored up the various levels like a humongous ladder. She followed the track—so narrow a goat would have had a problem with it. She went slowly, testing the ground, which was loose and studded with rocks. She kept her eyes open for people. Scavengers. Bands of roaming thieves who scoured the streets for anything that could be reused or resold. Rumor was they stole the fillings out of the mouths of corpses.

  Suddenly Lucy was conscious of a hum not far ahead, down the next hill. She unclasped her knife, making sure it slid freely in the sheath, and pulled her leather jacket tighter around her body. It was too hot for leather, but it gave her confidence. She hoped it made her look tough. She walked slowly toward the noise, unable to tell if it was machinery, music, or the buzz of human voices. A guide rope was fastened to stakes where the edge of the hill dropped precipitously, with white flags of cloth tied onto wires to make the way clear. Wooden pallets were laid over deep puddles. She stopped. A curve in the trail along the edge of a crag revealed a view of the settlement below: tents clustered like mushrooms, lean-tos made of rough pieces of plywood. She was barely fifty feet above the source of the jumble of noise. She ducked down, feeling nervous all of a sudden. Lying on her belly in the loose dirt, Lucy peered over the edge. A few pebbles rattled down the slope. Just ahead, the path dropped down and opened onto a crowded square.

  A wide road, which had somehow escaped devastation, rose high over the canal and ran southward; small walking alleys radiated in all directions, leading to more plywood shacks and, farther up, to the other suspension bridges she had seen from a distance. The central area had been part of the big street. You could tell because it was relatively flat and by the broken white line running down the middle, but the surface of the tarmac was cracked and uneven, giving it the appearance of large black paving stones. Reappropriated awnings and large lengths of canvas were slung on poles around the edges as protection from the sun’s heat and the rains, but the middle circular area was clear.

  More people than she’d seen since she left the emergency shelter massed in small groups. They seemed to be mostly children and teenagers, with a sprinkling of gray heads, which didn’t surprise Lucy. It was the middle-aged population that had suffered from the plague the most. People like her parents.

  She heard the hubbub of human voices. They sounded excited, happy. And unexpectedly she heard music. A guitar, she thought, and a few singers. People jostled and bantered; some pushed wheelbarrows piled high with broken appliances, and others lounged cross-legged on long benches. Smoke gusted from a massive fire pit. A large black pot steamed above it. Lucy scanned the crowd for Aidan, unable to stop herself from feeling a jolt of excitement at the thought of seeing him again and ruthlessly reminding herself that she didn’t like him.

  And there he was, taller than she remembered. His shaggy blond head, his red sweatshirt. He leaned against a crumbling wall that was covered in faded posters and graffiti. As she watched he threw his head back, laughing at something his companion, a girl standing very close to him, said. The girl reached up and smoothed her hand across his face. Even from this distance she was striking. Her thick black hair so sleek it looked oiled and a jumble of silver bracelets on her tanned arms that caught the light.

  Lucy wasn’t sure what to do. She’d crossed miles of treacherous ground. She’d lost everything but what she carried on her back. And now she just felt like crawling away. She couldn’t imagine walking downhill into that crowd of people. Knowing her, she’d probably trip and fall. The buzz of dialogue almost hurt her ears. She wasn’t even sure if she remembered how to start a conversation. “Hi,” she said experimentally, and her voice cracked.

  On the other hand, they had water, and whatever was cooking above the fire smelled good. Dusk was approaching, and the thought of sleeping out here was daunting. She could cut through the settlement to link up with the Geo Wash Bridge farther north if she meant to keep on going. Or backtrack the way she had come, across the rope bridge again, and then go miles around, and that was an unbearable thought.

  She stood up, brushed the dirt from her clothes. Her hands crept up to her hair. The humidity had matted it into the corkscrew curls she despised. She spat on her fingers and dragged them through the unruly mass, but it was no good. She scowled. This was stupid. She didn’t need anybody. There was no one down there whose opinion meant anything to her. She squared her shoulders, shrugged the backpack into position, checked her knife, and took one last look around.

  Suddenly she stopped in her tracks. She saw a billow of dust coming from the south along the road. Not a cyclone. This hugged the tarmac, and it moved fast and low. The cloud dispersed, and now she could see a line of vans speeding toward the square. Four white vehicles like delivery trucks, but unmarked. The same type of van she’d seen crawling through her neighborhood sixty days after the plague arrived, searching out the sick and dead, dragging people from their homes. “Sweepers” was what the TV anchors had called them. Cleaning up the mess. Her eyes darted to the thronging crowd. She remembered what Aidan had said, that the Sweepers were hunting survivors now. She was gripped by a fear so strong, it cramped her belly. She was still too far away; the vehicles were moving too fast. How could she alert them?

  She waved her arms in the air. No one noticed, not even when she jumped up and down. She could yell, but her voice would be drowned by the tumult of voices below. A sound. Something unexpected. Something that would carry across the square. She pursed her lips. She was pretty good at wolf whistling, a skill she’d mastered to annoy Maggie. But her throat was too dry, and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She couldn’t whistle, but she had an idea. She filled her lungs and howled, a long wail that cut through the air like a knife.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SWEEPERS

  The mournful cry seemed to echo. Down below people snapped to attention, froze for a long moment, and then the jumble of noise started up again. There was some laughter and excited chatter, as if it were a prank. Heads turned this way and that looking for the source of the howling. Then someone screamed. She heard shouts: “The Sweepers are coming!” and a dozen arms pointed at the speeding vans barely one hundred yards away now. So close that Lucy could hear the rev of the accelerators, smell the sharp odor of gasoline. They arrived in a column, the exhaust fumes and the dust boiling up along the road behind them.

  And then, like an anthill kicked open, people were running everywhere, making for the alleyways, melting into the shadows. It seemed like everyone was yelling. Kids disappeared under tarps and into tents. It was chaotic, but in a way it seemed rehearsed. Aidan was lost in the tumult. She leaned forward, crouched against the ground, searching the crowd for his bright sweatshirt, and found him bent over an old woman who was frantically trying to tie the corners of her blanket together around a pile of fruits and vegetables. Shriveled apples rolled in the dirt. A child stumbled and fell, screaming when he scraped his palms on the rough surface. Aidan scooped him up. A boy and girl, eight or nine years old with identical rats’ nest hair, scabby knees, and dingy undershirts, squatted under an awning with their arms around each other. Two older kids threaded their hands through a column of bicycle tires. They could barely walk with their load. The dark-haired girl yelled at them and they dropped the stuff and scuttled off. Lucy pressed her body into the earth, lifting her head to see. She had a clear view. The square had emptied out. About fifteen or twenty people remained, and most of them seemed to be Lucy’s age. A few of them picked up rocks and sticks from the ground. Some pulled short knives and slingshots from their pockets. They spread out in a thin line. Their faces were set and grim.

  Brakes squealed. The clamor of the engines seemed incredibly loud. One of the vans sideswiped the edge of a caved-in building, dislodging pieces of brick. Another plowed through a heap of pots and pans, sending them flying into the air. T
he vehicles slowly pulled up in a wedge and came to a stop, although the engines continued to roar. They effectively blocked the road. The front and rear windows of the vans were tinted. Heavy steel bars were welded to the bumpers. Huge truck wheels lifted them up four feet from the ground. The engines cut off simultaneously. The back doors were flung open, and a dozen figures in white hazmat suits spilled out. They wore shiny headgear and heavy, laced boots and carried small black boxes. Their hands looked like they were made of marble, and Lucy realized they were wearing white surgical gloves. Someone else appeared around the side of a van, holding the ends of several thick leashes in his black leather-clad hands. Four vicious-looking dogs struggled to free themselves from their trainer. They were powerfully built, with barrel-chested black and tan bodies. Rottweilers and German shepherds, Lucy thought, watching their noses scent the air, ears pressed flat against their skulls.

  Aidan stood with the dark-haired girl and an older man, who was muscular with a shaved head and the glimmer of gold in both ears. He looked five or six years younger than Lucy’s father had been. Mid-thirties, she guessed. His bulky arms were inked with swirling blue tattoos, his calves bulged, and his back was ramrod straight. There was something military about him, as if he’d been trained for conflict. Lucy glanced from the teenagers standing in their thin line to the Sweepers who had spread out in a solid row. The Sweepers stood shoulder to shoulder, their helmets reflecting the sunlight. They looked as impenetrable as a steel wall. The teenagers didn’t stand a chance.

  Lucy fought the urge to run. Adrenaline scurried up and down her spine. Things seemed to be happening in slow motion, but she knew it had barely been a minute or two since the vans arrived. The Sweepers moved forward. Aidan and the others faced them, flimsy weapons ready. The bald man raised his hand. Chunks of stone flew through the air. Lucy heard the clatter as they connected with the Sweepers’ headgear. Aidan yelled something indecipherable, but the anger was clear, and a second volley of rocks flew. One of the Sweepers broke ranks and took a wild swing at him—the blow missed his nose but connected with the side of his head. Aidan staggered and threw a punch back. The Sweeper dodged it and darted back to his line. Aidan pressed his hand to his cheek. Lucy winced. She could see the scarlet welt.

  The black-haired girl erupted into a barrage of curses. Another volley of stones flew through the air, followed by a hail of garbage: old tin cans and bottles. It had no effect from what Lucy could see. Slowly Aidan and the others were forced backward against a wall. Lucy stood up. No one was paying any attention to anything that was happening outside the square. Anxiety coursed through her; she felt ill and riled up all at the same time. She had a clear view from where she stood. The Sweepers looked like white chess pieces in their close ranks. Two of them were sidling to the right, trying to flank the kids. Lucy pursed her lips and howled again. Aidan shouted something and another volley of garbage spattered against the dark visors. The Sweepers reformed into their solid line. Lucy couldn’t understand why the kids didn’t just rush them. They seemed to approach no closer than ten feet. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see more clearly. The slim black boxes that the Sweepers carried looked like old-fashioned transistor radios. She didn’t notice any weapons.

  Suddenly the bald man rushed forward with a roar. Eight of the Sweepers closed around him. The remaining four faced Aidan and the rest of the teenagers. They stood locked in some kind of staring contest. Lucy couldn’t understand it. Only the bald man did anything, and he was a blur of motion. He jabbed a punch, ducking low and driving up with an uppercut that struck a Sweeper under the chin and sent his head snapping back on his neck. Another Sweeper rushed him from behind. He pivoted, kicking out with one leg. His booted foot connected with an arm. Lucy heard a crack like the snapping of a twig. His momentum carried him forward. He spun again and slammed his boot into the chest of the nearest Sweeper who fell to his knees. The bald man skipped backward, keeping a safe distance. The teenagers cheered.

  Aidan picked up a discarded length of metal pipe. “Leo,” he shouted, darting into a clear space. Leo ducked a blow and raised his arm high. Aidan threw the steel bar. Leo caught it and swept it around in a circle. The men fell back. Leo swung the bar as if it were an ax, catching a Sweeper behind the knees and bringing him down. Moving so quickly that his hands were a blur, he brought up the pipe like a spear and jabbed a second man in the back and another in the belly. His breath was coming in gusts now, and his broad chest was heaving. His movements slowed, but they were no less deadly or accurate. The five or six Sweepers who were still on their feet circled him warily. He held the bar easily in one hand, his head swiveling to clock their movements, but there were too many of them.

  Aidan and the teenagers moved forward with their rocks and pieces of wood. The Sweepers moved back.

  And then, all of a sudden, the dogs were among them, loosed from their leashes, advancing slowly, the fur raised along their spines, tails curled against their flanks. Even from where she crouched, Lucy could hear the rumbling growls, and, terrified, she buried her face in her arms.

  Could they smell her from here?

  The Sweepers broke ranks, two remaining in place while the dogs circled, growling continuously, keeping the teenagers at bay. A red-haired boy, not much older than Lucy’s brother, darted forward, screaming and stabbing the air with a heavy stick. The dog trainer made a gesture with one hand, and immediately one of the German shepherds was on the kid, hurling him backward, its jaws clamped on his forearm. The boy screamed, an awful high-pitched noise. The trainer shouted something and the dog released the arm, but settled its weight across the kid’s chest, pinning him on the ground. Its jaws were inches from the boy’s pale face.

  Leo dropped his weapon and stepped back. His eyes were on the boy and the dog. None of the teenagers moved. It was as if they were frozen.

  The hazmat-suited men dispersed; only the dog trainer remained where he was. Making their way around the perimeter of the square, the rest of them conducted a search, shining powerful flashlights into the tents and plywood huts.

  Lucy heard a patter of voices and an excited yell from inside one of the shelters.

  “Hold your ground,” Aidan shouted. At his side, the dark-haired girl tossed a stick from hand to hand. Her face was turned toward his, and Lucy could see the rage disfiguring her features as she argued with him.

  “No, Del,” he yelled, putting out a hand, which she smacked away.

  Leo shook his head at her, barked a command and then held up one arm, keeping the teenagers back. A bottle flipped end over end through the air and smashed in front of one of the dogs. A volley of growls erupted, but the dogs stayed in position as though they were tethered by invisible lines.

  None of the teenagers moved, as two grimy children were pulled from their hiding places and thrown over broad backs like they were bags of potatoes. A woman with drooping shoulders was shoved forward with such force, she staggered. An old man with a shapeless cardigan and a fringe of mousy hair followed, as though he were sleepwalking. A cluster of seniors with their arms around one another were forced through the open double doors and pushed down onto the floor of a van. The men Leo had hurt were helped to their feet and bustled away. The dogs, summoned by a whistle or gesture that Lucy didn’t notice, returned to the trainer, who placed his black leather-clad hands on top of their rough heads before ordering them into a vehicle. The German shepherd was the last dog to be summoned. The dog moved slowly off the prone redhead and backed away. Del rushed to the boy, kneeled on the ground, and helped him up. Blood dripped from his arm, and it hung limply at his side.

  A fat drop of rain splattered on Lucy’s cheek as she watched in horror. In the next second, the sky had cracked open with an explosive blast and the rain poured down in a solid sheet. Lucy wiped the water from her eyes in vain. She was almost blinded. Engines started up, wheels screeched, and the column of vehicles drove off. And now people moved. They ran after them, yelling and throwing stones.

&nbs
p; The rain fell in heavy sheets, reducing everything to slippery mush. The path was a treacherous mess of mud and rushing rivulets of water. Lucy didn’t know what to do. Part of her wanted to disappear. She stood there, shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide. Aidan looked up, spotting her. Lucy cringed—too late to duck down. She should have remembered that she’d be silhouetted against the sky and that he’d be wondering who had made the signal. He frowned, but then his expression cleared. He raised his hand, and after a moment she waved, too. She felt the rocky soil slide under her boots as she made her way carefully down to the square. She pulled the collar of her leather jacket tight around her throat. Why hadn’t she joined the fight? What would Aidan think? Chances were he already considered her some kind of coward, hiding in her camp, ignoring the reality of life outside her safe acres.

  But when Lucy finally reached the bottom of the path and stood there, water streaming down her neck and filling her boots, at a loss for anything to say, he pulled her into a hug. She buried her nose in the shoulder of his sweatshirt, smelling a clean, fresh scent, like lemons mixed with his sweat. Her heart gave a little skip before she realized that all his concern was for those who had been taken. He probably just needed someone to hold. His arms tightened around her, but she made herself step away, ignoring the confused expression in his eyes.

  “Hi,” she said. Her voice only cracked a little. Inside her pocket, she dug her fingernails into her palm. She felt herself flush. She had to stop this. It was ridiculous. He clearly had feelings for that Del girl.

  “Lucy. I should have guessed it was you.” A hint of the crooked smile appeared on his face, but it vanished quickly. He scraped his hand through his wet hair and steered her under an awning. Others slowly appeared from their hiding places, assembling in small groups under the shelters. Lucy glimpsed more people who hovered in the shadows at the perimeter. Too scared to come out even now, she thought. The murmur of subdued voices rose. Brightly striped umbrellas went up around the fire pit, shielding it from the rain. They seemed too cheerful in contrast to the stunned atmosphere, a splash of color in a scene as monochromatic as an old postcard.