After the End

I have to prove myself. I know how Juneau thinks better than these play-it-by-the-rule subservient goons of Dad’s do. As soon as I can get away from them, I’ll continue the search for her on my own.

I ride the rest of the way in silence, trying not to think about her honey-colored eyes.

41

JUNEAU

I’VE PACED MYSELF AT A FAST HOBBLE ACROSS THE pastureland and stay as close as I can to the clumps of trees so that I’m not an easily spottable lone figure wading through the seas of knee-high grass. I see up ahead that at the base of the mountain there is a curtain of trees. Hiding will be easier once I am among them.

I look up at the position of the moon and find the constellations. It’s around midnight.

Setting my sights on a small stream that flows out of the wooded mountainside, I do my hop-limp-hop toward the water. When I reach it, I follow it just past the tree line, and, once hidden among the evergreens, slump to the ground and scoop several handfuls of water to my lips. It is ice-cold and delicious. Filling my canteen, I allow myself a few minutes to recover but know I can’t stay here for long.

I lie back, nesting my head in a pillow of leaves, and close my eyes. I am deep-breathing, trying to restore myself enough to be able to trek for a few hours, when I hear the crunching of boots on twigs. I shoot up into a sitting position, grab my bag, rifle through it, and in three seconds am on one knee, pointing my crossbow in the direction of the light that bobs toward me through the woods.

How did Whit’s men manage to get so far in front of me? I didn’t see anyone else on the pastureland leading up to the mountain. I kneel there, one eye closed, the other peering through my crossbow’s metal sight, when I hear a woman’s voice.

“Don’t shoot. I’m totally harmless.”

I keep my finger on the trigger, ready to fire, and watch the flashlight approach until the person stands five feet away. The light points straight into my eyes, “Yep, it’s you,” she says, and then angles the light up at her own face. “See?” she says. “I’m just a woman. Not an ax murderer.”

I grab my improvised crutch and use it to push myself up into a standing position as the stranger approaches, but keep the crossbow pointed in her direction.

“Looks like you’ve hurt your foot,” she says, staring at the crutch. “Well, we better get you back to my house. Would it be easier if you put an arm around my shoulder?”

“Who—who are you?” I stammer.

“My mom named me Tallulah Mae, but you can call me Tallie.”

I stare at her. Who is this woman who just appeared out of nowhere? I don’t think she’s with Whit—I never saw any women with him in the Readings. And from the way that she waits, arms crossed, for me to say something, I can tell her attitude is impatient rather than menacing. She throws off her hood and a cascade of elbow-length red curly hair springs free. “See. A normal, unthreatening, thirtysomething woman. Not a serial killer bone in my body, I swear.” And she gives this grin that wipes any lingering doubt from my mind.

“There are some men after me,” I say, half whispering, and dart an anxious look over my shoulder toward the pastureland.

“Yeah, I kind of figured that,” she says. “It’s okay. I’m ninety-nine percent sure they won’t follow us, and my house is just five minutes upslope. Now come on, let’s get you indoors.” And she drapes my arm around her shoulder and helps me hobble much more quickly than I could on my own.

As we follow the stream uphill, I don’t see anything slightly resembling a house or any sign of civilization. And then, all of a sudden we are approaching a large log cabin. “Wow, I didn’t even see that coming!” I exclaim.

“Camouflage,” she says proudly. “I’ve planted trees strategically around the place so that even if lights are on, you can’t see them from the base of the mountain.”

We come around a clump of bushes and I get a full view. It stops me in my tracks. “Your house is built over the stream?” I gasp.

The main section of the log cabin is two stories high, but there’s a windowed room—like a closed-in balcony just as wide as the house—that stretches over the rushing water and is supported by stilt-like wood columns on the far bank.

“Yep. You’d think it was just whimsy, but in fact it’s terribly practical to have ru

“Let’s see about this foot now. I’m going to be really careful,” she says, and eases my te

She leads me into the space, which I see is one big sparsely furnished room lit brightly by a half-dozen oil-burning lamps.

She eyes me merrily. “Don’t usually like guests. But you’re a special exception.”

“Why’s that?” I ask. I hobble my way across the room and lower myself onto the couch, swinging around to prop my hurt foot on the cushions.

“Because I was expecting you,” she says matter-of-factly, staring straight at my right eye.

“But why?” I ask. “And how did you know where to find me?”

“Do we have to share all our secrets right away?” she asks, and pulls a metal box from a corner cupboard. She starts rummaging through it. “Let’s see. Ace bandage might come in handy. Skin’s not broken, so we don’t need disinfectant. Ah, here,” she says, and pulls out a plastic pouch the size of a paperback book and begins squishing it in her hands. She presses it against my ankle, and I gasp in surprise.

“It’s ice-cold!” I say, and put my hand on the first-aid box to see if it’s some kind of refrigerator. But no—the metal is room temperature.

“You’ve never seen an ice pack?” Tallie says, a grin stretching across her lips.

I shake my head.

“Okaaaaay,” she drawls. “I thought you were supposed to be from the future.”

“What?” I ask, mystified.

“Oh, nothing,” she says. “By the way, I told you my name. I still don’t know yours.”

I sit staring at her. What is going on? Who is this stranger who claims to have been expecting me? If she’s not with Whit, how did she know I was coming? Her body language suggests friendly, not dangerous. But I’m still wary.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’ll just pick a name. Hmm . . .” She leans her head to one side, considering. “How about Frederica? Fred for short?”

I can’t help myself. I laugh. “I’m Juneau,” I admit.

Tallie nods approvingly. “Suits you better than Fred. Goddess or city in Alaska?”

“Alaska,” I say, wondering how many times I’m going to have to clarify that. In my clan no one questioned our names. The children were all named after Alaskan towns. It bound us to the past. “You are your own little cities of the Promised Land,” my father used to say. “The hope for the future of the earth.” My chest constricts as I remember this—just one brick in the wall of lies they built to keep us from discovering the real world. I still don’t understand, I think, and exhale deeply before noticing that Tallie is watching me with a concerned look on her face.

“Are you tired? Hungry?”

“Both,” I respond.

“Let me see what I can get together,” she says, and heads toward a door on the river side of the house. As she opens it, I hear flowing water. I turn and lean over the couch to see that the room over the river is the kitchen, with a sink and counters, cupboards, and a wall full of knives and utensils. Tallie opens a trapdoor in the floor and winds a crank beside it, pulling up a metal cage filled with food.