Not a Drop to Drink (7 page)

“Shoot them for as long as I can.”

Stebbs nodded. Lynn’s eyes trailed to his foot, her plan—labor in exchange for his guarding of the pond—seemed insulting with his mangled limb stretched out in front of her. He didn’t appear to be in need of anything, from what she could see. His skin was tan, his color healthy, his arms heavily muscled. Making the offer would only make her seem weak, the deal balanced in her favor.

After a few moments rest, Stebbs propped himself on his good leg, jerking the other one underneath him as he rose. “You gonna be okay, kid?”

Lynn kept her sight trained in the distance. “Yup,” she said dismissively, “I’m fine. Mother didn’t raise any idiots.”

“Didn’t expect she would.” Stebbs motioned toward the smoke of the Streamers’ pitiable fire. “After their smoke’s gone for a few days, I’m going over there, see if they had anything useful.”

“Okay,” Lynn said, surprised at his freedom to wander without worry. His little shack must hold nothing of value, and his source of water well hidden. She took a sideways glance at his injured foot. “It’s a decent hike.”

“Yup.”

“I could go,” she offered hesitantly. “If you’d stay and watch over the pond.”

Stebbs rotated his twisted foot for a moment, considering. “You trust me to do that?”

“You could have killed us at any time.” Whether Mother had liked him or not, Stebbs had been a constant presence that never threatened them, even when their defenses were down. “You don’t need our water.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Lynn nodded, letting the conversation drop there. To ask where he got his own would be the highest of betrayals in their world. “So, two days, do you think?”

“Two days of no smoke from the stream, and I’ll come.”

“All right.”

They nodded stiffly and parted ways, each picking their path carefully through the bloated, rotting bodies of the coyotes.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Eight

“I
can’t go right now,” Lynn argued, her arms bloody from the elbow down. A small deer carcass hung from the tree, a pile of organs and intestines underneath it. Stebbs looked critically at the jagged cut she’d made from clavicle to pubic bone. Mother’s stronger, more confident slashes had looked much neater.

Stebbs ignored her protest while he looked at the tarp she’d rigged around some green saplings, tepee style. “You going to smoke it?”

“That’s the plan. The shed’s gone, but that tarp should do the trick for now.”

“It’ll draw attention.”

“They know I’m here.”

“Don’t know you’re alone,” he countered. “If they send someone for a look and they don’t see Lau—your mother, you’ll be in a world of hurt.”

She ignored him while she skinned subcutaneous fat off the carcass. He had a good point, but she didn’t want to admit that she’d made a mistake in shooting the deer too early to freeze the meat.

“There’s another way, you know,” Stebbs said. “You can salt it, hang it in the trees to cure.”

“I don’t have enough salt.”

“I do. I’ll butcher this while you’re gone; you split with me whatever the Streamers had.”

Lynn didn’t ask how he had enough salt that he could offer to preserve a whole deer for a neighbor. The process of rotting had begun the moment the heart stopped pumping, and already the flies were gathering at the folds of the wound she’d opened.

“Go get your salt then,” she said stiffly.

Walking away from the house felt like a crime, even though she trusted Stebbs. The familiar roof looked distinctly odd from a distance, the tilted angles of the upstairs bedrooms at odds with the lightly sloping section over the kitchen where she and Mother had always camped. When it was blocked from view by trees, Lynn clamped down on the surge of betrayal that filled her gut. She pushed the ever-present worry of whether or not Mother would approve to the back of her mind, as she crossed the clover field she’d seen every day of her life but not set foot in once.

She had tucked her hair under the stocking cap, a simple gender disguise that Mother had taught her, and the cool breeze brought goose bumps to her exposed neck. They prickled down her chest and the length of her arms. Autumn was gorgeous, with the leaves changing and falling, spinning to the ground to be crushed under her boots. But their death and downfall served as warning echoes to the other living things around them: the cold is coming, be prepared.

Lynn was confident the Streamers were dead. Their meager, green fires had sputtered, then stopped entirely. Anything in a weakened state would not have survived the past two nights without a fire. She kept her rifle in the crook of her elbow as she picked her way through the long grasses toward the stream. There was no doubt that the camp of men had also noticed the passing of the Streamers. Buzzards wouldn’t be the only scavengers picking over their campsite.

In other circumstances, it would have been a pleasant walk. The countryside was resplendent with color, the sky a bright blue. The breeze shifted the grass around her, wafting the faintly spicy scent of green leaves turning brown into her face. But Lynn’s eyes saw only usefulness in these small miracles. The fading greens and yellows allowed her brown coveralls to blend nicely with the surroundings; the unclouded sky gave a little more warmth to the earth. The breeze shifting the grass covered the sounds of her movement, the slight fragrance from broken stalks masked her scent as she neared the stream.

She approached the camp from downwind, studying the area around her for other intruders. A squirrel chattered angrily and she dropped closer to the earth, aware that it was signaling distress. Lynn crept forward, ignoring the brambles that tugged at her as she moved.

The squirrel was perched warily on the opposite bank, rocked back on its haunches and regarding a straight line of acorns with suspicion. It chattered again, letting the whole woods know he was uneasy with the situation and unsure what to do about it. At the other end of the line of acorns squatted a little girl.

Her arm was outstretched, palm up, beckoning the squirrel to come closer. She was filthy, her face streaked with grime except for two clean rivulets streaking from her mouth where she’d drank from the stream. Her tattered shoes sucked at the mud as she tried to lure the squirrel closer. The sharp corner of her elbow poked through the worn crease of her sleeve.

The squirrel continued to chatter at the girl, while taking hesitant steps closer, stuffing acorns into its mouth. Lynn spotted the Streamers’ campsite thirty yards downstream. Someone had dragged a fallen tree over to a live tree with a fork growing in it, propped the dead one into the notch and stacked branches along the sides to provide some cover. It wasn’t a bad idea, but they’d neglected to put any mud or leaves over the branches. It might provide the barest shelter from the wind, but rain would drip in constantly, and it would hold no heat. A pile of half-burnt sticks lay in front of the opening.

No matter how badly it was made, the person who built it would’ve been much bigger than the child kneeling in the mud. Lynn kept her eyes on the shelter as she moved closer to the bank. Left on her own, the child would die, and soon. Even if she were successful luring squirrels, she had no way to cook meat and no source of heat. Even a stocked pantry wouldn’t save her once the snow fell. She would die of exposure, leaving a small white skeleton to be carried away by the swollen spring river.

That image caused Lynn to fire her rifle before she was aware she’d made a decision. The squirrel’s chatter stopped instantly, its body blown sideways. The girl jerked to her feet, oblivious to the fine spray of blood that flecked her pale face. Lynn crossed the stream with the gun pointing downward, hoping the girl would realize she meant no harm.

But the harm had already been done. When Lynn picked up her kill by the tail and presented it to the girl, her bottom lip shook.

“Cha-Cha.” Her tiny voice barely escaped her mouth before evaporating in the cold afternoon air. “You killed Cha-Cha.” The resounding wail that followed was much stronger, and Lynn dropped to her knees beside the child as tears started to spill forth.

“Stop!” She spun left and right, nervous that they would draw attention. “Stop, please stop.” Lynn put her hands on the tiny, sharp shoulders, alarmed at how near to the surface her bones were. “I’m sor—”

The blow came from above and to the right, knocking Lynn into the stream, her rifle spinning out of reach. She flailed wildly, gasping for air before she’d cleared the surface. A rush of cold water filled her lungs and she scrambled for the bank, where she retched it back out. She’d lost her hat; cold, wet coils of hair hung in her face and she swiped them away, searching for her attacker.

“Christ,” said a male voice. “It’s a girl.”

He was standing in front of the child, his arms spread wide to shield her, a thick branch in one hand. Lynn clutched her midsection, still queasy from the feeling of water rushing into the dark internal corners of her body. Her gun was lying in between them on the bank, but she made no move for it.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m a girl.” She struggled to her feet, alarmed at the unsteadiness in her legs.

He dropped his makeshift weapon and grabbed the child, pulling her in front of him. “Take her,” he pleaded. “Take her with you.”

“What?” Lynn crossed her arms over her chest, shivering in her soaked clothing.

The little girl recoiled, clutching at the boy and wailing incoherently. He pushed her toward Lynn, leaving small muddy ditches in the wake of her feet.

“Take her,” he repeated. “I can’t . . . I don’t know how.”

Lynn backpedaled away from his reaching arms and their struggling burden. Her unsteady legs folded underneath her, and she landed in a clumsy tangle of limbs and wet clothing. The child was shoved into her lap and instantly kicked her in the jaw. Lynn went over sideways, clutching her face.

The boy lifted the girl bodily in the air, shaking her with frustration. “You’ll die,” he screamed into her face. “You stay here with us and we’ll all die!”

A slow, building groan filled the forest, a sound so odd that hackles rose on Lynn’s neck and she dove for her gun. The boy didn’t try to stop her. His arms went slack at the noise, and the little girl puddled to the ground at his feet.

“Mama,” she wailed, fresh tears cutting paths in the grime of her face. “Mama.”

“Everything’s okay,” the boy shouted toward the makeshift shelter, and Lynn’s grip on the rifle relaxed. “It’s all right,” he said again, voice quivering with the effort of yelling. “Lucy’s fine, she’s right here with me.”

The noise subsided, replaced by the small whimpering of the child kneeling in the mud. “Mama,” she said again, peering anxiously at the tent.

“Don’t,” the boy warned her. “You can’t go over there.”

Lynn glanced at the little girl. “Is your mama sick?” She nodded vigorously in reply, but didn’t speak.

“I put her in there,” the boy said. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Is she yours?” Lynn asked, gesturing toward Lucy.

“What? No! I’m only sixteen,” he said by way of explanation. “She’s like, seven years old.”

“I’m five,” came the disgruntled retort.

“Is she
yours
?” Lynn tried again. “Your responsibility?”

“Oh. Well, I guess they both are, now,” he said, fatigue filling every syllable. The little girl scuttled to his feet and perched there, eyeing Lynn distrustfully.

Lynn gingerly probed her head where the boy had hit her. A good-sized bump was forming there; it nearly filled the palm of her hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were one of them, coming back.”

“You’ve been attacked before?”

He nodded. “Yeah, just the once though. Not an attack really, they just walked into my camp and took our food.”

Lynn’s jaded gaze swept what he referred to as his camp, and she saw him bristle even though she held her tongue.

“There wasn’t anything I could do,” he said. “They said they wouldn’t hurt Lucy or Neva if I gave them our food.”

“Neva?” Lynn asked, curiosity spiked by the unfamiliar name.

“Mama,” came the answer, from the boy’s feet. The girl, grown bored with the conversation, was drawing in the mud. “Mama’s sick,” she repeated when Lynn looked down at her. “I can’t go in there, Eli said.”

“Eli’s probably right,” Lynn answered. “Those men—when was this?”

He shrugged. “Neva wasn’t in the tent yet, so maybe three weeks?”

“What have you been eating since?”

“Not much. I caught a fish with my hands one day. We found some berries, and Lucy’s been catching grasshoppers—” His voice broke on the last word, tears that she hadn’t expected began streaming down his face, but he was past the point of embarrassment. “I told her they were to cheer up her mom, but—”

He lost control again, a sob that shook his emaciated shoulders racked his body and buckled his knees. His arms folded around the little girl protectively, but when he looked up at Lynn there was steel in his voice. “You’ve got to take her.”

Lucy trudged along by her side, tripping when the long grasses snared her knees. She refused Lynn’s offers of help, stolidly asserting that anyone who had shot Cha-Cha didn’t need to hold her hand. As the girl had gone to bid her mother good-bye, Lynn had quickly spitted the dead animal and hidden it behind a tree, explaining the process to Eli as she did so. He’d turned even paler at the sight of the sharpened stick emerging from Cha-Cha’s throat, but didn’t argue against eating him.

As they approached the house, Lynn hailed the roof with one arm. She didn’t want Stebbs to mistake her for someone else. There was an acknowledging movement from the house, then she saw his dark form clumsily descending the antennae. Lynn glanced down at the little girl plodding alongside her. Weak as she was, a grim determination made her keep pace.

Lucy had argued, fought, pleaded, and eventually thrown rocks at Eli when he insisted that she was leaving the stream. He’d taken her aside and assured her that she could return once her mom was better, although the fleeting glance he’d shot at Lynn told her how long those odds were. Eli wasn’t trained to survive and had even less experience in tending the sick.