something bitter. “What about your mother?”
“What about her?”
“I would hate it if something had to happen to your mother.”
“Be quiet.”
“Death might actually be a favor. It’s not as if she knows whether—”
“I said, shut up!” With that Lewis kicks the tray and it splashes into the bath and the grubs dirty the water and a small wave rolls into Thomas.
The two men stare at each other for a long moment, and then Thomas’s severe expression breaks and a bright laughter overtakes him. The water ripples around him. “You know what I love about you? I can always count on you to speak your mind. That’s what I love about you.” He climbs out of the bath and water trails off his body and makes a silvery path on the stone floor. He pulls a towel off a shelf and wipes himself dry. He is a short man, the top of his head coming to Lewis’s shoulder. Though he is lean, he is also soft, cushioned, not a bone on his body visible. “You’ve heard about the rider?”
“I have.”
“A girl. Amazing. They say her eyes are as black as night.”
“So they say.”
“She’s a mutant. She’s poison. And when everyone hears about her—when they begin to dream about other worlds and doubt the wall—what then?”
“It has nothing to do with doubting the wall . This is what we’ve been waiting for. This is why the Sanctuary has survived. Hope.”
“You’re wrong. The Sanctuary has survived by keeping people afraid.”
“You’re worried they’ll leave. Maybe they will. Shouldn’t that be their choice?”
“We’re talking about the survival of the human race. Forty thousand people. I am responsible for them.”
“The rider proves there are others. Maybe your responsibility isn’t so great after all.”
Thomas throws the towel over his shoulder and goes to a window and looks out it and heaves a sigh. Lewis joins him there. From this high vantage, in the center of the Sanctuary, so much of the city can be seen, the topography of streets and buildings arranged around the Dome as if they have begun to orbit around a drain.
Thomas lays a damp hand on Lewis’s shoulder and says, “Something bad has been coming for a long time, old friend, and I’m worried it’s finally here.”
Chapter 3
O UTSIDE THE HOSPITAL a crowd gathers. Their low muttering is like the thrum of a hundred wasps’ wings. Their hats shadow their faces and their expressions twist through a range of emotions—dread, hope, disbelief, curiosity—refusing to settle on a single one. They want to know if the rumors are true. They want to know if a rider has come out of the Dead Lands.
“Is she sick? What if she’s sick? They shouldn’t have let her in.”
“Someone said her eyes were black. Like a doll’s eyes.”
“They shouldn’t have let her in.”
“You know what this means, of course? This means there are others out there. We’re not alone after all.”
“Wherever she came from, it must be worse off than here. Otherwise, why would she leave it? Maybe she’s the first of many. People looking for help when we don’t have help to give. This is the beginning of some trouble; I can feel it. They shouldn’t have let her in.”
Far from all these voices, deep within the hospital, in a stone room with no windows, she sits in a wooden chair. A lantern hangs from a chain and presses the shadows into the corners. Her face is hard-edged, sunbaked. She wears a doeskin vest and leggings, but no shoes, her feet as thick and gray soled as hooves. Her skin is deeply tanned, filthy except where her wounds have been dressed, the dirt and sweat and blood wiped away from her shoulder, her hand, her stomach, wrapped with cotton bandages. Her wrists remain bound. What looks like a white scarf is tied around her throat. A rose of blood blooms from it.
There is a scarred metal table before her. On it Clark sets a bowl of salted sunflower seeds and a mug filled with water murky and warm, but the girl doesn’t seem to mind as
“What about her?”
“I would hate it if something had to happen to your mother.”
“Be quiet.”
“Death might actually be a favor. It’s not as if she knows whether—”
“I said, shut up!” With that Lewis kicks the tray and it splashes into the bath and the grubs dirty the water and a small wave rolls into Thomas.
The two men stare at each other for a long moment, and then Thomas’s severe expression breaks and a bright laughter overtakes him. The water ripples around him. “You know what I love about you? I can always count on you to speak your mind. That’s what I love about you.” He climbs out of the bath and water trails off his body and makes a silvery path on the stone floor. He pulls a towel off a shelf and wipes himself dry. He is a short man, the top of his head coming to Lewis’s shoulder. Though he is lean, he is also soft, cushioned, not a bone on his body visible. “You’ve heard about the rider?”
“I have.”
“A girl. Amazing. They say her eyes are as black as night.”
“So they say.”
“She’s a mutant. She’s poison. And when everyone hears about her—when they begin to dream about other worlds and doubt the wall—what then?”
“It has nothing to do with doubting the wall . This is what we’ve been waiting for. This is why the Sanctuary has survived. Hope.”
“You’re wrong. The Sanctuary has survived by keeping people afraid.”
“You’re worried they’ll leave. Maybe they will. Shouldn’t that be their choice?”
“We’re talking about the survival of the human race. Forty thousand people. I am responsible for them.”
“The rider proves there are others. Maybe your responsibility isn’t so great after all.”
Thomas throws the towel over his shoulder and goes to a window and looks out it and heaves a sigh. Lewis joins him there. From this high vantage, in the center of the Sanctuary, so much of the city can be seen, the topography of streets and buildings arranged around the Dome as if they have begun to orbit around a drain.
Thomas lays a damp hand on Lewis’s shoulder and says, “Something bad has been coming for a long time, old friend, and I’m worried it’s finally here.”
Chapter 3
O UTSIDE THE HOSPITAL a crowd gathers. Their low muttering is like the thrum of a hundred wasps’ wings. Their hats shadow their faces and their expressions twist through a range of emotions—dread, hope, disbelief, curiosity—refusing to settle on a single one. They want to know if the rumors are true. They want to know if a rider has come out of the Dead Lands.
“Is she sick? What if she’s sick? They shouldn’t have let her in.”
“Someone said her eyes were black. Like a doll’s eyes.”
“They shouldn’t have let her in.”
“You know what this means, of course? This means there are others out there. We’re not alone after all.”
“Wherever she came from, it must be worse off than here. Otherwise, why would she leave it? Maybe she’s the first of many. People looking for help when we don’t have help to give. This is the beginning of some trouble; I can feel it. They shouldn’t have let her in.”
Far from all these voices, deep within the hospital, in a stone room with no windows, she sits in a wooden chair. A lantern hangs from a chain and presses the shadows into the corners. Her face is hard-edged, sunbaked. She wears a doeskin vest and leggings, but no shoes, her feet as thick and gray soled as hooves. Her skin is deeply tanned, filthy except where her wounds have been dressed, the dirt and sweat and blood wiped away from her shoulder, her hand, her stomach, wrapped with cotton bandages. Her wrists remain bound. What looks like a white scarf is tied around her throat. A rose of blood blooms from it.
There is a scarred metal table before her. On it Clark sets a bowl of salted sunflower seeds and a mug filled with water murky and warm, but the girl doesn’t seem to mind as
Similar Books
