Part 2 (1/2)

”I can fire just once?”

I muss his hair. ”Sure. What Arn don't know won't kill him, right?”

When Arn never returns from town, my words haunt me all night long.

Chapter Three.

We sit around the kitchen table as the first rays of daylight bleed into the horizon. It is seven-thirty. Arn has been gone for twenty-two hours.

When I awoke this morning, I found my mama at the table with her mug of weak tea. Her red, puffy eyes let me know she'd been crying. Yet, when I sat down with her, she smiled at me, her eyes dry. Somehow it comforts me, though I know it's just a show.

One by one we gathered at the table. The kitchen window looks out on the dry, gravel path where Arn disappeared yesterday morning. For an hour we have watched, not speaking as the dust swirls in little sand tornadoes across the road.

Arn usually returns before nightfall whenever he goes to town. The road is dangerous after dark. Marauders will run cars off the road, steal their goods and kill the occupants. Arn is smart, careful and a crack shot with his rifle. It's how he's kept us safe this long. I tell myself this as I watch the red and orange hues spread across the east.

Hundreds of reasonable problems could've befallen my stepfather. The old Jeep could've died, despite his deftness at fixing it, leaving him stranded. He could've had trouble trading for enough fuel. He could've been too tired to ride the four hours back home and slept in the safety of the town walls. Yet, those aren't the thoughts that run riot in my mind as we wait. I think about someone shooting him in the back because they wanted his rifle. I think about his mangled body lying on the side of the road. I think about Arn never coming home.

I glance at my family. Auntie's face registers no emotion, but her stubby fingernails click rapidly on the tabletop. Ethan's trying hard not to cry, but any minute the dam will break. My mama sits, her face a mask of muted sorrow. Her spoon clinks around her mug, stirring tea that has long since grown cold.

I can't just sit here. Bounty moos from the barn. Arn wasn't here for her morning milking. I push up from my chair.

”I'm going to milk Bounty.” I don't wait for an answer.

My heart pounds as I reach the faded red doors. I yank them open and am flooded the raw stink of manure. Looks like I have shoveling to do. I pull my s.h.i.+rt over my mouth and walk into the dimness. Bounty greats me from her stall, blinking her big brown eyes and swis.h.i.+ng her bristly tail back and forth. I put my hand on her neck. ”I'm here,” I murmur. At least I can help someone today. I dig out the milking bucket and stool.

My mind runs as my fingers pull on Bounty's udders. The warm milk zings into the metal bucket as my thoughts tumble around. If Arn is dead ... It's gut wrenching to think. He can't be dead, but someone has to face facts. If he's dead, we'll all follow. He's the only one who can barter in town. We might be able to survive for a while on wild game I trap, but what happens if the game dry up? The canned food will last two or three months. The garden barely ekes out enough to make the labor worthwhile in this dry soil. We'd have to eat Bounty and the two pigs. And then there's medicine. Arn went into town to buy rubbing alcohol, bandages and disinfectant. I can't watch Ethan die of a little scratch that gets infected.

I tug Bounty's teat too hard and she shuffles against me, almost knocking me off the stool. I run a hand over her bulging belly in apology. Then I lay my cheek against her warmth. Arn will just have to come home. Any other possibility is unthinkable.

On the third day after Arn fails to show, my mama cries upstairs. The sound cracks me wide open. I stare at the ceiling and let hot tears trace my cheeks. My family is falling apart. Ch.o.r.es have come to a halt. Ethan straggles around the house and bursts into tears. Auntie Bell rocks on the front porch for hours. n.o.body's eaten much in three days. I milk the cow, feed and water the livestock and then crawl back into bed. I stare at the cracks in the plaster ceiling and think about how to keep my family alive.

I drag myself out of bed, dig my feet into my boots and head to the barn. Bounty moos a greeting as I walk in, but I don't stop to rub my hand along her flank. I pa.s.s several empty stalls until I reach the big expanse Arn uses as his workshop. In the dim light, I examine his projects. The kitchen chair he was mending sits upturned, legs to the sky like a dead spider. A rough spear carved out of a tree branch rests against the wall. Oily car parts lie in pieces on the table. I notice a lumpy object covered with a cloth on the shelf above. Digging through Arn's things seems wrong, but if he's dead someone will have to.

I uncover a small block of carved wood that Arn has whittled into a rough figure. I turn the wooden doll until I can make out the strong chin, the bulging muscles, the S carved with Arn's careful fingers. Superman. Ethan's unfinished birthday present.

With tears in my eyes, I slip the wooden figurine back under the cloth. That decides it. If Arn's alive, I'll find him. There's no Superman. There's only me.

I walk to the tarp-covered quad. I pull off the cover and nearly choke on the dust. Three days ago I was going to take a joy ride. Today there's nothing joyful about the ride I'll take.

I sneak back to the house for supplies. My mama and Ethan are curled up in their rooms. Auntie rocks on the porch. She'll see me go, but by then it'll be too late. I grab my backpack from the hall closet and slip into the kitchen. I tuck in canned goods, crusts of bread and a big jug of water. From the closet I grab goggles, a bandanna and Arn's thick leather jacket. I've already got my hunting knife. I snag the rifle and a box of bullets on my way out the door.

My heart hammers hard by the time I get back to the barn. If I'd eaten much today, it'd be coming back up. I got plenty to worry about on the road: bandits, animals, running out of fuel and starving to death. Then if I make it to town I have to somehow find Arn without drawing attention to myself. Arn's stories about the inhabitants have nervous sweat pooling on my palms. Town is a den of thieves, rapists and murders. A girl like me is worth a lifetime's wages. This is not my brightest idea.

Back in the barn, I check the bandages binding my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and then slip on Arn's jacket.

His scent buried deep in the collar starts a lump of sadness in my throat. I tie the dirty brown bandanna over my mouth and nose and slide goggles over my eyes. Arn's battered helmet is a loose fit, but I strap it on anyway. I have no mirror to judge, but pretty sure I can pa.s.s for a boy. That is, unless they get too close.

The fuel in the quad's tank isn't enough for a return trip. If I do come back, I'll have to buy gas or steal it. Just one more problem on my list, but the alternative is giving up Arn for dead. I strap on my backpack and straddle the quad.

Visible through the open barn door is the house. I linger over the windows that mark my bedroom, my mother's room. My fingers tremble as I urge them towards the ignition. I touch the metal key, but can't force myself to turn it. From her stall Bounty moos and blinks her big brown eyes. I get off the quad, jog over to Bounty and throw by arms around her thick, bristly neck.

”Take care of them, Bounty,” I whisper into her fur.

She shuffles and blinks.

I squeeze her once more, then hop on the quad before I change my mind. The engine's roar echoes through the barn, sending Bounty careening to the back of her stall. I don't look back. I hit the gas.

I peal into the hot morning air and fly across the yard. My eyes mark the patch of dust where I taught Ethan to ride the old ten-speed we found in the barn. I rush past my mother's little garden with the carrot tops just poking from the dry soil. I trundle over the spot where just three days ago Arn lay fixing his Jeep. I blink back tears. I look away.

The quad's tires crunch the gravel as I hit the main road. Auntie jumps up as I pa.s.s by the porch, her mouth formed into an O. She looks beautiful in her long cotton s.h.i.+ft, her hair billowing around her. I raise a hand in pa.s.sing. Then I turn my eyes away so her pleading eyes don't make me turn this quad around.

When I allow myself a look back, three people stand side by side on the porch. They lean into each other, their forms blur into one shape, a wall of mourning watching me go. Tears blear the lenses of my goggles. They think I'm foolish, rash, crazy. I hope to G.o.d they're wrong.

The open road stretches like a never-ending sea of busted blacktop. On either side, the scraggly hardpan and endless flat dirt never change. The sun has crept to her zenith and bores like a hot poker into my leather jacket. My shoulders and arms ache. My b.u.t.t feel like someone's spent the afternoon kicking it. Three hours down. Two to go.

I crest a small hill and spot a splash of color on the horizon. A few more seconds and I make out a car. It's some snazzy thing, Camero or Viper, gone to rusty Swiss cheese on the side of the road. My shoulders tighten. Abandoned cars should be the state mascot there's so many, but this one looks drivable-odd since anything that moves is s.n.a.t.c.hed up by somebody. I swallow past the tightness in my throat, let up on the gas and run my eyes over the car.

The hairs on my arms go up as my eyes fix on the lump cresting above the steering wheel. Someone's in the driver seat. Dead or alive? My insides go liquid. Most of me wants to let off the gas and turn around. Or crank the gas and fly past. But what if it's Arn? Arn, Arn, Arn, I think. I slow to fifteen miles an hour, my heart jackrabbiting beneath my leather jacket.

Wispy tufts of hair stir in the breeze, thin corn silk strands, white and fine. When I'm level with the car, I can see the dead man's face, blue and bloated. It slumps like a sack of grain as his forehead slowly fuses with the steering wheel. My eyes drag over the shriveled lips, curled back on a set of yellow teeth in a ghoulish grin. The only thing moving are the flies darting around his eye sockets.

Dead. So dead. I can't crank the gas fast enough. For an hour I see his shrunken face at the backs of my eyes.

As the sun marks four o'clock, a dark brown slash appears on the horizon. The town's outer wall blocks the road ahead. Arn's told me the battered wooden barricade is heavily guarded. I'll have to talk to a man and surrender my weapons before I can enter. If they're feeling generous, they'll give my gun back when I leave. If they're having a bad day, well, I might not make it out alive.

I pull up to the gate and squeeze the brake. The wall itself is enough to make me want to give up this whole plan. The thick wooden beams are topped with rusty nails, coils of razor-sharp barbed wire and broken gla.s.s that winks in the sunlight. The guard tower is twenty-foot wooden enclosure with a platform at the top. As I kill the engine, a burly man leans out of the tower and aims an a.s.sault rifle at my head. I throw my hands up.

”State your business!” he yells.

My voice catches in my throat and nothing comes out but a muted squeak.

The man shouts out again, his tone dangerous. ”State your business or I'll blow off that foot!”

In the last second before I speak, I remember I'm supposed to be a man. My voice comes out choked and artificial. ”I ... I'm looking for someone.”

The guard keeps the barrel aimed at my chest. Nervous sweat soaks my unders.h.i.+rt.

”Who you looking for?” he growls.

”My, uh, business a.s.sociate,” I yell up in my fake male voice. ”Arn Meemick. Left three days ago with most of our supplies. Never returned.”