but it won’t do any good. The moment we’re out of sight, he’ll run
like a coward. I know he will. It’s useless to waste my breath on him.
We step off the porch into the
continuous downpour. The rain smacks against my face as I look left and right,
my wet hair slinging around. I point to the row of shacks across from us. “You
take that side, I’ll take this one, but you’ll have to lie. Tell them Hawkins
said to do it, or they won’t listen. Tell them to take nothing but food and to
run. They have to stay light, or they won’t be able to move fast enough,
especially the ones with children. It doesn’t matter how they get there, they
just have to get back to the capitol and warn as many people as possible along
the way. Got it?”
Finn nods, pushes his hair from his
eyes and sprints across to the other side. We knock on doors, warning the
Elders and their families, screaming for them to hurry, to go, to run as fast
as they can. Some of them question me at first, asking why Hawkins gave the
order to retreat, and I yell at them, tell them there’s no time to explain, and
to do what I say. I move onto the next, and the next. Other families further
down the line of houses hear the commotion and come outside their shacks,
holding babies and small children. They stare at us and wait.
It’s easier to tell them all at
once. I run to The Center and raise my voice as loud as possible. I scream my
orders until my throat burns. To my left, Finn is darting from person to
person, saying something, pointing at me. I can hear him begging for them to
listen.
Thankfully, they do. The shacks
empty and The Center fills with people shoving, scrambling, and falling into
the mud. Children are crying, and parents hurry by with worried faces and packs
of food slung across their backs.
The realization of my mistake comes
too late. I’ve created a mess. Complete chaos.
If they try to travel like this, in
a fumbling horde of bodies, it’ll slow them down. I climb up on the pedestal
that Hawkins uses to deliver his ridiculous speeches about how wonderful he is
and begin shouting for them to split up, to travel in smaller packs so they can
move faster. Some of them listen and break off, cutting through the spaces
between the homes they’re leaving behind.
Some don’t, and I begin counting
them as losses already.
I scan the writhing crowd of bodies,
looking for Grandfather’s stringy white hair. He should be easy to spot. He’s
taller than most, at least half a head above everyone else, but there’s no sign
of him anywhere.
I scream for him and get no answer.
CHAPTER ● EIGHT
Shoving through the crowd, trying to
make it back to our shack to find Grandfather, I’m met with elbows and flying
arms and terrified, panicked faces. There’s no order to this. It’s madness. I
try not to blame myself, but it’s hard. There was no time for a coordinated
exit, and it’s likely that even if we had the chance to plan how we would
deliver the order to retreat, the result would’ve been the same.
We’ve lived in fear of hearing the
war drums for as long as our stories have been told. This lunacy I’m swimming
through would’ve happened no matter what. I stop rationalizing, and instead, I
focus on getting home. I’ve lost Finn. I can hear his voice over the cacophony,
shouting instructions, but it’s impossible to pinpoint his location.
I catch a finger to my eye and wince,
trying to wipe the sting away. Half-blind now, looking through a haze of tears,
I keep pushing, pushing, fighting my way home, back to Grandfather’s pitiful
shack where I’ve lived since the day Mother and Father left.
It was Harvest Day and I remember it
well. Mother had amazing blonde hair that almost looked yellow in the setting
sun of autumn. Father’s hair was black, and I remember thinking that when they
stood side by side, their heads looked like two stripes on a bumblebee. I was
young enough to think that things like that were important.
They
like a coward. I know he will. It’s useless to waste my breath on him.
We step off the porch into the
continuous downpour. The rain smacks against my face as I look left and right,
my wet hair slinging around. I point to the row of shacks across from us. “You
take that side, I’ll take this one, but you’ll have to lie. Tell them Hawkins
said to do it, or they won’t listen. Tell them to take nothing but food and to
run. They have to stay light, or they won’t be able to move fast enough,
especially the ones with children. It doesn’t matter how they get there, they
just have to get back to the capitol and warn as many people as possible along
the way. Got it?”
Finn nods, pushes his hair from his
eyes and sprints across to the other side. We knock on doors, warning the
Elders and their families, screaming for them to hurry, to go, to run as fast
as they can. Some of them question me at first, asking why Hawkins gave the
order to retreat, and I yell at them, tell them there’s no time to explain, and
to do what I say. I move onto the next, and the next. Other families further
down the line of houses hear the commotion and come outside their shacks,
holding babies and small children. They stare at us and wait.
It’s easier to tell them all at
once. I run to The Center and raise my voice as loud as possible. I scream my
orders until my throat burns. To my left, Finn is darting from person to
person, saying something, pointing at me. I can hear him begging for them to
listen.
Thankfully, they do. The shacks
empty and The Center fills with people shoving, scrambling, and falling into
the mud. Children are crying, and parents hurry by with worried faces and packs
of food slung across their backs.
The realization of my mistake comes
too late. I’ve created a mess. Complete chaos.
If they try to travel like this, in
a fumbling horde of bodies, it’ll slow them down. I climb up on the pedestal
that Hawkins uses to deliver his ridiculous speeches about how wonderful he is
and begin shouting for them to split up, to travel in smaller packs so they can
move faster. Some of them listen and break off, cutting through the spaces
between the homes they’re leaving behind.
Some don’t, and I begin counting
them as losses already.
I scan the writhing crowd of bodies,
looking for Grandfather’s stringy white hair. He should be easy to spot. He’s
taller than most, at least half a head above everyone else, but there’s no sign
of him anywhere.
I scream for him and get no answer.
CHAPTER ● EIGHT
Shoving through the crowd, trying to
make it back to our shack to find Grandfather, I’m met with elbows and flying
arms and terrified, panicked faces. There’s no order to this. It’s madness. I
try not to blame myself, but it’s hard. There was no time for a coordinated
exit, and it’s likely that even if we had the chance to plan how we would
deliver the order to retreat, the result would’ve been the same.
We’ve lived in fear of hearing the
war drums for as long as our stories have been told. This lunacy I’m swimming
through would’ve happened no matter what. I stop rationalizing, and instead, I
focus on getting home. I’ve lost Finn. I can hear his voice over the cacophony,
shouting instructions, but it’s impossible to pinpoint his location.
I catch a finger to my eye and wince,
trying to wipe the sting away. Half-blind now, looking through a haze of tears,
I keep pushing, pushing, fighting my way home, back to Grandfather’s pitiful
shack where I’ve lived since the day Mother and Father left.
It was Harvest Day and I remember it
well. Mother had amazing blonde hair that almost looked yellow in the setting
sun of autumn. Father’s hair was black, and I remember thinking that when they
stood side by side, their heads looked like two stripes on a bumblebee. I was
young enough to think that things like that were important.
They
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