World After

The school sits on a prime corner with a grove owned by Stanford University across one street and a high-end strip mall across another. I wander over to the shops.

My dad always said there was a lot of money in this area and even the strip malls show it. Back in the day, in the World Before, you could see Steve Jobs, founder of Apple, eating breakfast here while he was still a living resident of Silicon Valley. Or catch Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook, grabbing a bite with his friends.

They all looked like middle managers to me but my dad was into all that. Technocrats, he called them. I’m pretty sure I saw Zuckerberg digging the latrine ditch beside Raffe at the camp a few days ago. I guess a billion dollars doesn’t buy much respect in the World After.

I skitter from car to car as if I’m just a random survivor on the street. The parking lot and walkways are mostly deserted, but inside the shops, people mill about. Some are picking out clothes. This is probably as good a place as any to find a jacket, but food comes first.

The signs of burger joints, burrito places, and juice shops make my mouth water. There was a time when I could walk into any of these and order food. Hard to believe.

I head for the supermarket. There’s a line inside, where people can’t be seen from above. I haven’t been in a market since the early days of the attack.

Some stores had their shelves emptied by panicked people, while others shut down completely so no one could get in. The established gangs from the World Before took over stores as early as the day after the Great Attack when it became clear that nothing was certain.

The bloody feather hanging on the door tells me that this supermarket is gang-owned. But by the looks of all the people in here, the gang is either generous enough to share with the rest of us, or they lost some kind of fight with the Resistance.

The bloody palm prints smeared on the front door glass make me think that the gang was none too happy about giving up their treasures.

Inside, Resistance perso

“This is all you get, folks,” says one food worker. “Hang in there and we’ll be able to start making meals soon. This is just to keep you going until we get the kitchens fired.”

A soldier yells out, “One package per family! No exceptions!”

I guess no one has told them about the food delivery in Obi’s headquarters. I look around and scope out the situation.

There are kids my age, but I don’t recognize any of them. Even though a lot of them are as tall as adults, they don’t stray far from their parents. Some of the girls are tucked under the arms of their moms or dads like little kids. They seem safe and secure, protected and loved, looking like they belong.

I wonder what that’s like? Is it as good as it looks from the outside?

I realize that I’m cradling my elbows like I’m hugging myself. I relax my arms and stand tall. Body language says a lot about your place in the world, and the last thing I need is to look vulnerable.

I notice something else. A lot of people are looking at me, the lone teen girl in line. I’ve been told I look younger than seventeen, probably because I’m small.

There are big guys carrying hammers and bats who I’m sure would prefer to carry a sword like the one on my back. A gun would be better but guns can be tricky to steal, and at this stage of the game, only burly men seem to have them.

I watch the men watching me, and I know that there is no such thing as a safe harbor in the World After.

For no reason, Raffe’s chiseled face pops into my mind. He has an u

By the time I get to the front of the line, I’m pretty hungry. I hate to think of how Paige must be feeling. I reach the distribution table and put out my hand, but the guy takes one look at me and shakes his head.

“One package per family, sorry. Your mom already came by.”

“Oh.” Ah, the joys of fame and misfortune. We’re probably the only family who is recognized by half the people in the camp.

The guy looks at me like he’s heard it all—any excuse to get more food out of him has already been tried. “We have rotten eggs in the back if you want more cartons.”

Great.

“Did she just take rotten eggs or was there some real food in there too?”

“I made sure she got some real food.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I turn away. I can feel the weight of eyes watching me walk alone toward the darkening parking lot. I didn’t realize how late it was getting.

On the edge of my vision, I see a man nodding to another, who then signals to another guy.

They’re all big and carrying weapons. One has a bat across his shoulder. Another has hammer handles sticking out of his jacket pockets. The third has a large kitchen knife stuck into his belt.

They slip out casually behind me.

I HAD pla

I head for the open parking lot, ducking from car to car as we were instructed to do.

The guys behind me do the same.

My World After instincts scream at me to break into a run. My primal self knows I’m being stalked and hunted.

But my World Before brain tells me they haven’t done anything threatening. They’re only walking behind me, and where else would they go except to the school across the street?

I’m back in a semi-organized group of people. I can’t behave like a savage, like I’m a paranoid schizophrenic.

Right.

I break into a sprint.

So do the guys behind me.

Their feet slap faster and closer to me with every stride I take.

Their legs are longer and stronger than mine. It’s just a matter of seconds before they’ll be on me. My center of gravity is way lower than theirs so I can zigzag like nobody’s business, but that’ll only buy me a few more seconds.

I run by several people who crouch behind cars on their way back to the school. None of them looks willing to help.

The standard advice against muggers is to toss away whatever they’re after and run like hell because your safety is worth so much more than your purse. That’s a no-brainer. Except they’re either after me or Raffe’s sword. I can’t give up either of those.

My adrenaline is pumping and fear is screaming at me. But my training kicks in and I automatically run through my options.

I could scream. Obi’s men would be out here in a second. But so might the angels if there are any within hearing distance. There’s a reason why we need to be quiet and stay out of sight. I’d be putting everyone at risk by screaming, and the soldiers might shoot all of us with their silencer-enhanced guns to shut me up.

I could run into Obi’s building. But it’s too far away.

I could stop and fight. But my chances are pretty poor against three men with weapons.

I don’t like any of my options.

I run as fast and as far as I can go. My lungs burn and I’m getting a stitch in my side, but the closer I can get to Obi’s building, the better the chance that Obi’s men will see us and stop the attackers.

When my back prickles, telling me they’re getting too close, I turn around and pull out my sword.