Chapter 12

After spending a frosty night curled beside a boulder, I hiked east for two hours and found a collapsed, one-lane bridge.

Fifteen feet was the only thing separating my side to the other. I tried to remember the last time I jumped so far. What was my furthest jump? Five feet, maybe? Nothing came to mind, but it wasn’t fifteen feet. Still, I couldn’t find anywhere else to cross.

The riverbank receded several feet overnight and created pockets of swirling water next to a white birch plot with cattails. I dropped my fishing line off the edge of a rocky overhang, and within an hour, I caught three of the most splendid yellow-green fish in the world. They were at least a foot long with funny mouths and thick bodies.

A backflip, a cartwheel, a twirl in the sky—I wanted to perform them all. Instead, I curtsied to my birch date, and we talked. A first meeting a century ago, with me, a southern belle, and he, a charming man with a deep voice and gentle smile.

“My, you shouldn’t have.” He brought flowers. Pink Azelia and Dogwood. Someone must have told him.

“I only wish they matched your beauty.”

I excused myself momentarily under the guise of placing them in a vase, taking out my fan, and cooling my face. When I returned, my birch branch suitor took my hand and twirled me on full display. My ball gown spread and floated down after he released me.

“Your dress is fitting of a princess. Was it imported?”

“Why yes, father bought it as a gift in France. Mother had the staff fit it for tonight.”

“You are absolutely stunning. Shall we go? The hour grows late, and I dare not allow rumors to develop.”

White carriage and white horses—the slow ride was silent, but the smiles and glances said everything.

I looped the straps on the back of my hiking bag through the gills of the fish and secured them. I’d smell, but I wouldn’t starve. Half standing and half crushed to the muddy ground, I ran my hand through the trees and peeled the loose bark.

Mom had white birch holders for Christmas—red and green candles on the fake mantle. She said Santa needed to find our tree, and since we didn’t have a chimney, we had to light the way, so he knew where to go.

Lia asked how he got in without a fireplace, and mom’s answer terrified us for years. I still avoid rear doors.

Once I collected enough bark to start a few fires, I searched for the largest fallen tree. The gap on the bridge wasn’t long, and I wasn’t heavy. The birch trees would hold. I found one caked in mud, at least six inches wide and 30 feet long; it was perfect, so I removed the branches to create an obstacle-free pole and dragged it to the bridge.

After 45 minutes of failures, I walked the tree up and flipped it over the gap.

Fifteen feet was only a few steps. Steps I had no way to walk across. I wasn’t a tightrope walker. The yellow line on the road was already tricky. But I had a six-foot rope, so I tied it around my waist and the tree, hoping an eel didn’t jump up and grab me.

In my head, sliding across the tree sounded easy. In reality, my body flipped over, and I found myself upside down. The rope caught my vest and dangled me like a piece of bait. I looked down at the river, the rapid brown water I couldn’t see through, and pulled with my essence fueled arms. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t hold myself up long enough to wrap my leg over the tree.

A cracking noise filled my ears, and I stopped breathing. My heart quit beating, and I swung my body in an attempt to catch the trunk with the back of my knee or ankle. But the center of the birch tore, and I sagged closer and closer until I fell.

The current pulled me under, but the tree didn’t move. Wedged between both sides of the bridge, it bowed, and I couldn’t break free. My helmet filled. My hands numbed. And my mind went blank. What was I supposed to do? How could I break loose? I kicked my legs, but against the flow, it did nothing. I screamed, but there was nobody to hear me.

It hurt. My lungs hurt. My arms hurt. The rope slid up my back and dug into my skin, but the vest prevented my body from slipping free. I pulled my knife from my waistband and cut. And cut. And cut. The edge was dull, my hands were cold, and I lost my grip. The river took the blade.

I pressed every bit of essence I had into my arms and yanked. My head came above water and the helmet drained. I gasped for air and coughed out the water that entered my lungs. A burn like someone filled my insides with gasoline and lit a match.

With each pull, I dragged my body closer to the birch and wrapped my arms around once it was within reach. My mind raced, and my breath fought to catch up. I needed to get out, to leave the river before I drowned or became food for something.

Hooking my arm around the tree, I slid the now loose cord until I found the knot. Tight. The rope was tight from the yanking and jerking of my weight. My numb hands struggled. My fingers wouldn’t bend the way I wanted them to, but I didn’t dare remove my helmet to pull with my teeth. My helmet kept me alive, and I couldn’t afford to lose it after losing my knife.

I used every bit of essence I had and pressed it through my arms into my fingers, warming them, but stinging them simultaneously. I didn’t have a lot, but my body was weak. By condensing the particles in my hands, I damaged them.

Slowly, I wriggled the rope loose. Three knots. The only knot I ever learned was the one I used to tie my sneakers, and three of them together sounded strong enough.

Before I grabbed it, the rope flowed down the river, and I prepared myself. Deep breaths, squeezing my eyes shut until they nearly popped, and I begged. I prayed to God because I wasn’t ready and had more to do. I hoped he would listen to me again.

With one last breath, I released my hold, and the river took me away.

Over and over, my back, legs, helmet—I tumbled through the murky current and slammed into rocks below. A tear in my arm, a fractured knee, and somewhere between running out of air and passing out, I hit a boulder that broke the surface and held me up.

I dug my fingers into the smooth stone and lugged my head above water. My body was submerged, but I could breathe. The riverbank wasn’t far. The water was shallow. And I had a way across. The river wore the stone and created a ramp over millions of years. I climbed up and lay on my back, relaxing to the point of napping.

Using the rock as a wall, I slid to the end where the river’s depth came to my knees, then trudged through the rest and fell on the river’s edge. I ripped my helmet off and vomited everything I swallowed, followed by anything I breathed. I turned to my side, convulsed, and rolled to my back after emptying my stomach.

Pecan pie and cherry tarts, candied yams with marshmallows and brown sugar. Grandma’s blueberry pie from the bushes behind her house. Lia and I picked bucket fulls. I calmed myself by thinking of the sweet foods I missed, forgetting about what happened.

Cappuccino and novels. I never liked coffee until I made friends that did. And I didn’t read much, but the owner loved books, so the best coffee shop in town was inside a bookstore. People watching became a hobby, and I acted like I cared about the novel of the month; the haunted motel and the girl who overcame an eating addiction were good, though.

Soaked again but alive, I grabbed my helmet and ran from the shore, stumbling over fallen branches and loose stones poking from the ground. Rivers were dangerous. I refused to enter one, no matter how hard it was to avoid them in New York.

After taking inventory of what survived, I was thankful for how I came out. I still had the rifle. The backpack and vest never came off, and one fish remained. Even if the food only lasted a day, I was grateful. Once I healed my wounds and steadied myself, I walked back to the highway, filling my head with thoughts of the past.

The president traveled to an undisclosed bunker before each breach. After the fourth, he never came out. Perhaps his advisors decided the world was too dangerous. The vice president still made public appearances and reassured the country that our nation’s leader had pneumonia, but would recover soon. That he’d leave the care of his physicians once they approved of his release.

After spending ten months in isolation, the president delivered a speech from his bunker in October. A failed attempt to quell the uprisings. Not long after, every top official from Congress members to mayors only gave interviews from the safety of their underground strongholds. The evening anchors maintained a straight face when they soft-balled their questions, but nobody believed their answers.

I wanted to believe the politicians locked themselves away because they turned. The government leaders transitioned into scabs and maintained order without scaring the populace. If they became scabs, then I couldn’t blame them for the bombs. How do you condemn insanity?

When I stepped on the pavement, I didn’t see any scabs, not through essence view or the rifles binocular. It didn’t matter if I saw them. Running wouldn’t happen. My mind and body were too tired to escape them. We’d have no other choice but to fight. I’d use the rifle if it came down to it. Hopefully, the water didn’t stop it from working.

Despite no cars, the highway didn’t look so desolate. The tree’s stood proud, and the river drifted from my thoughts. A rain shower, that’s all. A late summer storm got me wet. I didn’t see the orange salamanders Lia and I caught when we were kids, but it was almost autumn, so they probably hid because of the cold. Otherwise, they’d be everywhere after the rain.

Step by step, I made my way up the highway, hoping to reach the top of the hill and find a place to rest. The stinky fish called to me, begging for me to cook it. A pleasant fire with my birch tree suitor would help dry my clothes from the afternoon shower. Everything was fine. I liked the new cracked pattern many of the roads had. It must have been a modern design—taxpayer dollars hard at work.

Above the crest, I saw a place I dreamed of as a kid.

Amusement parks were expensive, but I always wanted to go down a drop tower. I found Lake George. I wasn’t far. Soon I’d be out of the woods. However, something wasn’t right. I darted off the road and knelt in the tall grass. There was movement, but not from scabs. A truck plowed through cars. Large trucks still ran; they used a different fuel that lasted longer.

I pulled the rifle from my back and removed my helmet for a clearer view. In the binocular, a scene I hadn’t expected came into focus. Close to a roller coaster in the valley below was a dump truck. A monstrous vehicle with a snowplow, ramming through street debris—loaded with people.