The Last Girl (26 page)

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

“Thank you.” Ian composes himself and takes a deep breath. “Helen
and I remained here as the world fell apart around us. The Dearth became
an epidemic and to be honest, at that point I didn’t care if anything or any
one else survived. My children were gone, and we were alone.”

“Were you immune to the plague?”

Ian’s silver eyebrows draw down. “Plague?”

“The virus that caused the Dearth. It killed almost everyone else. Were you and your wife immune?”

The old man studies her for a long moment. “Zoey, there was no plague. They never determined what caused the lack of female births, but there was never a plague.”

The room takes on a hazy appearance at the corners of her vision, and she pinches the skin of her forearm. “Then how did all the people die?”

“They were killed by our own military. At a certain point there was an enormous uprising by the populace. The rebel forces fought for years but were never able to gain any ground. They were crushed under superior firepower, and those that defected from the military in protest of what was happening were executed as well. Millions fled the country or died trying. The atomic blast that killed the President was a last-ditch effort by the rebels, but to no avail. By then it was too late. Over the years, many more perished by one another’s hands, starvation, illness. But it all began with genocide.”

The enormity of what Ian is saying hits her like a slap.

Lies. Everything she has ever known. Lies.

She suspected that the entire truth wasn’t being told to them for years,
that Miss Gwen and the others were twisting facts to meet their own needs, but this, this is unfathomable. If Ian is telling the truth, it means that the population of the United States wasn’t decimated from without, by an uncontrolled virus, but from within, by its own government.

“Is that what they told you?” he asks. “That a plague was responsible?”

Zoey can’t answer. She simply nods.

Ian drops his eyes to his lap. “So much lost. Not only life but truth as well. It’s unforgivable.” He glances up. “Perhaps it would have been better if there had been a plague. At least our humanity, or lack thereof, would have gone out in a graceful way. Maybe something resembling compassion would have shined through.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s so hard to understand.”

“Why? Why would they kill everyone?”

“Because they were afraid. That’s why so many kill. Fear feeds the worst in all of us. It drives the most despicable of our natures to the surface. The masses disagreed with NOA and the soldiers that came to take away the women, so they were slaughtered in fear they would overrun the powers that be, or were, as it is. Not to say the rebels were in the complete right either. People panicked and lashed out. At times there was no rhyme or reason to it.”

“
‘Hatred is blind, rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.
’
” Zoey recites from memory. She gazes into the fire and only looks at the old man when she realizes he is staring at her.

“Who gave you a copy of the book?” Ian asks, gesturing at
The Count of Monte Cristo
.

“I don’t know.”

“How did you escape, Zoey?”

“I killed,” she says quietly. “I killed and I died there.”

“How many other women are imprisoned?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Let me answer that question with another question. What were your intentions after escaping?”

Zoey blinks and looks away toward the windows. The afternoon is growing darker. Somewhere in the distance the sky chuckles with thunder. “I don’t know.”

“Were you going to go back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you want to save the others?”

“I don’t know!” She thrusts herself up from the chair, hands clenched. Dizziness assaults her and she reels with it, stumbling one step to the side. Ian is on his feet in less than a second, hands held out to help steady her. “I don’t need your help! Just—just back off!”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

She stabilizes herself against the warm stone surrounding the fire. Ian watches her, his hands still out before him. Suddenly his eyes flick over her shoulder and back.

Zoey spins, looking out through the window. Only vivid green and brown bark. But was there movement between the trees down the hill? She turns back to him.

“What’s going on?”

“Zoey, calm down. You’re stressing yourself too much.”

“Who’s outside? Is it them? Is it Reaper?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“You’re lying.” She staggers away from him, head hissing with static. She has to get out, get away from the house and off the mountain.

“Zoey, please. No one’s going to hurt you. I invited some people who want to help you. That’s where I was coming back from when you woke. They’re friends. Please calm down.”

“No, I won’t go back. I won’t.” She tries to rush down the hallway, but her feet tangle and she falls hard to the wood floor. All of her wind rushes out in a gust that leaves her empty, powerless. The grayness at the corners of her vision multiplies as she tries to rise. She falls again,
the strength in her limbs ebbing to nothing. Ian shouts something as she feels her consciousness slip away like a stone dropped in a pool, but the sound of booted f
eet on the stairs outside the house reaches her even as her pleas die in her throat and the world fades away.

27

She becomes aware of a susurrus of low voices, very much like the sound of wind in the big pines.

“Absolutely amazing that she made it this far.” Deep, throbbing bass voice.

“I’m still having trouble believing it.” This voice smoother, quieter, but still definitely male.

“You and I both.” Ian.

So, three of them. Zoey tries moving her arms and legs. They are unbound. She’ll have to be fast, they’ll all be armed, but they think she’s still asleep.

“Are you sure about her?” The softer voice again. “Maybe she came from a camp down south. I’ve heard rumblings of several girls being born there. Or maybe from the city itself.”

“We all know those rumors are just that,” Ian says, closer to her now. “Rumors. NOA would have raided them years ago.”

Zoey pauses. She has their locations in the room pinpointed and is almost ready to leap from the bed, but their conversation doesn’t make sense. They’re speaking about NOA as if they aren’t associated with it.

“Where’s our good doctor?” Ian asks.

“She’s changing clothes. Fell in a stream on the way up. Madder than a wildcat when she came out,” the deep voice says. His words are followed by rumbling laughter.

“Okay, you guys, there’s not enough room in here for all of us, and besides, we don’t want her waking up to a roomful of people. The poor thing’s probably scared enough as it is, so shoo. Get moving.”

There is the clunking of footsteps retreating from the room. When they’re gone, Zoey cracks her eyelids just enough to survey her surroundings.

A woman stands at the end of the bed. Her hair is a dirty red and is tied back from her face, which is oval-shaped and long. Her lips are crimson against her pallid skin, their edges pressed together to form a straight line. She is tall and thin, her frame covered in a pair of dark pants and a gray, button-up shirt.

The woman moves closer to her and pulls a strange rubber apparatus from a bag she carries. One end is split, with two curving metal pieces, while the other ends in a silver disc. She places the split ends in each of her ears and moves forward, the disc gripped in one hand.

Zoey snatches her wrist when she’s close enough, yanking the woman off balance. With her other hand she grasps the woman’s throat and squeezes with all her strength, which isn’t much. The woman’s eyes pop wide and she issues a quiet squawk.

“Who are you?” Zoey asks. The woman jerks away, yanking herself from Zoey’s grip. She takes a breath and begins to rub at the place on her neck where Zoey’s fingers sank in.

“My name is Chelsea Tenner. I’m sorry for startling you. I’m a doctor, I wanted to check to see how you were healing. Ian tells us that you had quite a trip.”

Zoey studies her for a long time before licking her lips. “What did you say your name was?”

“Chelsea.”

“No. You said something after that.”

“Tenner. My last name is Tenner.”

“You have a last name?”

Chelsea squints at her. “Yes, of course.” A look of dawning overcomes her features, and she shakes her head. “They never told you yours, did they?”

“No.”

Chelsea sighs and returns to the bedside, pulling the wooden chair with her. She sits, combing back an errant strand of hair that’s escaped its tie. “We mean you no harm whatsoever, Zoey. Ian told us about finding you and asked if we would come.”

“Who’s with you? How many?”

“There’s five of us, and I’ll let them introduce themselves once you feel up to meeting them.”

“Who are you people?”

“Survivors, just like you. Look, I know you’re scared and suspicious—
you have every right to be. We want to talk with you, that’s all.”

Zoey watches Chelsea’s eyes, searches for a tell in her body language that reveals a lie or even a half-truth. She sees none. Slowly she nods.

“Okay. Is it all right with you if I check you over? Make sure Ian did a good job of being a nurse?”

“Go ahead.”

Chelsea places the silver disc on Zoey’s chest. She listens and asks Zoey to take several deep breaths, moving the device around to different areas. She inspects the wound on her stomach, clucking with an apparent disapproval of the stitches. Lastly she takes a small, digital wand from the bag and has Zoey hold one end beneath her tongue. The unit beeps after only a few seconds and Chelsea nods.

“Generally you seem to be okay. You don’t have a fever, your wound is healing, though you’re going to have a nasty scar thanks to Ian’s sloppy hands, and your heart and lungs sound very healthy. You’re a little malnourished and dehydrated, but that’s easily fixable. I think you’re going to live.” Chelsea smiles, and there is something in it that reaches out to Zoey and instantly sends an inkling of appreciation through her. She’s not at all like the doctors at the ARC.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now one thing I did notice is that you smell quite rank—not your fault, of course, bathing facilities were probably scarce in the wild. You’ll find a new set of clothes that should fit in the bathroom. There’s soap in there as well. I had Ian turn up the water temperature so it should be fairly hot. Let me know if you need anything else. We’ll be waiting for you in the living room.”

Chelsea stands and exits the room, leaving the door wide open. Zoey crawls from the bed and follows her into the vacant hallway. There is a murmur of voices in the living room but she slips into the bathroom before she catches sight of anyone else.

A stack of clothing rests on a short stool inside. The pants are a tough and beaten canvas the color of sand, and the shirt is a thick button-up of faded blue. There is a folded pair of woolen socks and even underwear that feels freshly washed. She tries not to think of where the underwear came from or who’s worn them before.

Zoey strips and turns the nozzle on the shower, which produces a weak stream, so unlike the blast of hot water she’s used to, but when she steps under the flow it is glorious. She finds the bar of soap on a little shelf built into the shower surround and washes away weeks of grime. After what seems like hours, she finally feels clean. She climbs out and dries off with a threadbare towel hanging from a nearby hook. She dresses slowly, taking her time to get used to the clothing. It is much rougher than all the prior garments she’s worn but it feels good against her clean skin. An ivory-colored brush rests on the edge of the sink and she picks it up, seeing for the first time that a small mirror has been set on a ledge above the drain.

A drawn and shrunken version of herself stares back from the glass. Her cheekbones are more pronounced, and there is a strange look to her eyes that at first she mistakes for hollowness. After a long moment of staring, she sees that it isn’t a void that has taken up residence in her gaze but a sharp, feral wariness. They are the eyes of an animal.

She brushes her hair without looking in the mirror again, the tangles in it so tight she’s not sure they’ll ever come free. It takes her the better part of a half-hour to release all the knots and loops that have formed in the time since her last shower. Thoughts of meeting the others waiting in the living room send a bristling fear lined with excitement through her. She still has no idea if they can be trusted, but if she were to judge them by Ian and now Chelsea, she would have to concede they mean her no harm.

Zoey opens the door, the cool air from the rest of the house making her shiver after the warmth of the shower. She moves down the corridor and stops at the threshold of the kitchen.

There are six people in the living room and one dog. Ian, Chelsea, and Seamus she knows. Then there is a black man who looks to be only a few inches taller than she is but is broad through the shoulders and thick through the chest. His skin is twice as dark as Crispin’s or Sherell’s, almost to the point of being purple, and his eyes are deep-set and unblinking. He stands beside a stout woman of perhaps fifty. She wears a black cloth over her head that’s tied tightly in the back and her face is round and full. Her nose is unnaturally flattened, indicating that it’s been broken at least once and never fixed, while her lips are pale and almost nonexistent. In one of the chairs rests a dark-haired young man maybe a few years older than Zoey. He is very handsome, with brown eyes and a square jaw dusted with whiskers. He picks at a tear in his pants with one fingernail over and over. Behind his chair, speaking with Ian, is a tall man wearing a black vest with several pockets lining its front. He has even darker hair than the boy and it hangs lank and straight down to his ears. The muscularity and power of his body is apparent even through the clothes he wears. His arms rest languidly at his sides, but he shifts on his feet with an easy grace that suggests he could spring into action at any second.

She is about to retreat to her room to compose herself when the boy in the chair nudges the tall man’s arm and points to where she stands.

The room hushes, and the crackle of fire and gentle tap of rain against the house are the only sounds.

“Hello, Zoey,” the tall man says. “Please come in and join us.”

She steps around the wall and stops beside the hearth, the door to outside still calling her even though no one looks as if they have any intention of moving from their places.

“My name is Merrill Grayson. I’m sorry we alarmed you earlier.”

“That’s really my fault,” Ian cuts in. “I was trying to get around to telling you that they were coming, but an old man tends to wander when he begins a story.” He smiles sadly and pets Seamus’s large head with one hand.

“This is Tia Ferrone,” Merrill says, motioning to the woman with the black fabric tied on her head. “And that’s Eli Weston beside her. You’ve already met Chelsea, and this guy here we call Newton.” Merrill claps the boy on the shoulders with two large hands. Newton stares up at her with wide eyes before jerking his gaze down to the floor.

“What’s his last name?” Zoey asks, nodding to Newton.

Merrill frowns, glancing at Chelsea before tipping his head to one side. “We don’t know. We found him, or he found us a few years back.”

“Fell out of a tree and almost crushed my boy Merrill here,” Eli says, his deep voice booming easily throughout the room. “That’s why we call him Newton.”

Zoey frowns and shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”

Merrill smiles. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t have had much purpose in teaching you about gravity, would they?”

“I know what gravity is.”

Merrill nods. “Well, we’ll fill you in on the rest some other time.” He surveys her, his eyes losing some of their lightness. “I suppose you’re wondering why we came to see you.”

“Yes, I am.”

“If I may,” Ian says, glancing at Merrill. “I told you I’d enlighten you on how I knew of the ARC, but I didn’t have a chance to finish my story. You see, Helen passed away over fourteen years ago. It was cancer, though we never had a formal diagnosis. She slipped away in the night while I slept beside her. I didn’t get to say goodbye properly.” Ian’s voice falters but he clears his throat and continues. “Merrill here was my son’s best friend, and after Helen passed he came to me asking for my help. My soul was full of vengeance for the government that took away my children, because if NOA hadn’t enforced the mandatory draft of women who had given birth to females, the rebels may have never have had their uprising and all of this might have been avoided.

“Helen made me promise,” Ian continues, “to never seek out revenge on those we felt were responsible. She was a wonderful woman, my wife; strong, beautiful, and much wiser than I’ll ever be.” The old man hesitates and glances at Merrill, who pauses for a moment before beginning to speak.

“I came to him with a force of people that were like-minded. We all had lost someone because of NOA and had learned of the ARC in the eastern part of the state. There were forty of us, and we had a plan along with weapons, equipment to scale the walls, everything we thought we’d need. Ian was to be our lookout and sniper.”

“Sniper?” Zoey says, shocked though she realizes she shouldn’t be after seeing how the old man dispatched the intruder a hundred yards away in the trees. Ian nods, though there is no hint of pride on his face.

“We executed the plan perfectly,” Merrill continues. “We went in at night in boats and on land, but they knew we were coming. There was a spy in our ranks who had been keeping tabs on us for months while we prepared the assault. He tipped the soldiers off days before we attacked. They wanted to draw us out, wanted us to come to them.” Merrill swallows loudly and grimaces. “It was a slaughter. Thirty-five of our forty died, and only a few of us got away unscathed. Myself not included.” Merrill draws up his right pant leg, and Zoey blinks at the shining aluminum shaft protruding from the bottom of his knee joint. He drops the material, hiding the amputated limb and shrugs. “There’s no excuse. It was my fault. I trusted the wrong man.”

Zoey studies the group while something rises in her memory.
Her hands pressed to the glass in her room, looking out at the white streaks of fire burning in the night sky. The gunfire, explosions, distant screams. Simon bursting in with Lee, the gun in one hand. She and Lee huddled in the bathroom while something neither of them understood raged on outside the walls
.

“It was you,” she says, looking at Merrill. “That night, I remember it. It was you attacking the ARC.”

Slowly he nods. “I didn’t know if any of you girls would be able to see the flares or the gunfire. The interior layout of the ARC was one thing we knew nothing of.”

“We could see,” Zoey says. For some reason, this seems to upset Merrill. He bites his lower lip and paces away from the group before coming back.

“How many of you are there?” Merrill asks.

Zoey hesitates. The thought of revealing something about the ARC, about the other women, gives her pause. But the stricken look that’s overtaken Merrill’s face nudges her forward.

“Six besides me,” she says finally.

“What are they doing with all of you?” Tia asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken, and she has a smooth voice that is striking in comparison with her smashed nose and aggressive stance.