I climb down the rock pile, ignoring her as she grumbles, “That’s it, girl. Keep on running.” I head straight for the wind wagon, which fared well in the storm and still stands proud. I pull up the slat of wood to access the storage space belowdecks. Sand slides and billows from the plank. And there it is, untouched by the bad weather: Harlie’s moonblitz. I grab a jar and gulp from it like I’m dying of thirst, blitz dribbling down my chin. The liquid burns my tongue and scorches the back of my throat. My belly hums with heat.
I collapse on the bleached wood and take another slug from the jar, a third. I drink until I can no longer feel the burn, then lie down on the rubble-strewn deck and let the sun bake my face.
If there were vultures this deep in the desert, they’d be circling overhead, waiting for me to die.
* * *
I wake shivering, my head throbbing. I think I might be sick.
I sit carefully, using the starlit deck of the wind wagon to push myself upright. To the east, I can see the horizon if I squint, the earth a deep purple blanket where it meets the pure black spread of the sky. I’m overwhelmed by the size of it, how it dwarfs me. I wonder if this was what it felt like to be at sea on a ship all those years ago, before the people that deserted us stripped the land of its resources.
The Federation, Amory called it.
I glance up at Feder in the sky, a god he invented, then Ation, another lie. Feder and Ation. Federation.
Ay-tee-on, we’ve been saying, not Ay-shun. I wonder if Amory changed the pronunciation when he dreamed up our gods, or if it changed over time. Like so much of the Old World, the answer is lost.
I wonder if they’re out there still among the stars—the people who deserted us. I wonder where their rigid-winged bird took them, how it took them. I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. I’ve uncovered so much and still know so little.
I stand up shakily, stomach twisting. I am most definitely going to be sick. I run for the rail and heave, but nothing comes up.
Rusted moonblitz. It’s the devil’s drink. Serves no purpose whatsoever beyond churning a person’s stomach into knots and rotting their brain. Even still, I find myself searching the deck for the jar. Folks say that more of the drink is the best way to banish a fogged head. Makes no sense, really, but I’m ready to try it. Anything to make my skull stop pounding.
“Looking for this?” Asher is sitting at the wind wagon’s stern, waving the jar in my direction. It’s nearly empty.
Buttoning my jacket at my throat, I stagger toward him. “Where are the others?”
“Inside.”
Where we should be. It’s cold on the wastes at night. I glance toward Eden’s dark shape, but trying to climb the rubble while my head spins sounds self-destructive.
Asher passes me the moonblitz, and I sit beside him, then take another swig. It will only wreck me further, but at the moment, that type of pain is more welcome than the truth about Eden.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
Asher sucks his bottom lip, shakes his head. He takes the jar from me and downs what remains of the blitz, then turns his gaze to the stars. His eyes gleam with tears on the verge of falling.
“They didn’t abandon us,” he says finally. “They never existed. We’re completely alone.” He turns the jar over in his hands a few times. “There are no gods, Delta. How can there be no gods?” His voice cracks, and something in my chest cracks with it. I watch a tear streak down his cheek before he buries his face in his hands.
I want to take back everything I said earlier. I want his optimism now, because this is worse. Asher, broken, is so much worse.
“Delta, I don’t know what to do from here. How can there be nothing? How can it be just us?”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been good at comforting people. That was Indie’s strength, holding me close when I had a bad dream or whispering a joke into my ear when I was upset. But a joke feels wrong now. There is nothing funny about this.
I hate Eden because of what it means for the future: that there is no Verdant, that I can’t save my pack. But for Asher, he’s lost everything. A future and all of his past, too. His faith. Everything he’s believed in.
I take his hand, and he stills as I thread my fingers through his. His eyes find mine, and I still don’t know what to say. There’s nothing I can possibly say to make this better. The future I longed for is gone. His world is shattered.
“Delta,” he whispers.
A ribbon unfurls in my stomach.
“I don’t know where we go from here,” I admit. “Maybe I can trade Reed to the General—a traitor for my pack.”
Asher’s brows dip. “You’d do that? Trade blood to save blood?”
“I thought you didn’t trust him. Wanted him dead.”
“I did, at first. But if he’s been telling the truth—and it kind of seems like he has—this is a dangerous slope to stand on. All we have is our blood.”
“I’m not your blood, and you tried to find me again. My whole pack.”
“You and I are two halves of a whole, Delta, a branded pair. And packs are their own unique bond. Bonds and blood. They keep us human.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. And though I hate that Reed didn’t help me sooner, he’s helping now. He’s risking everything to put the safety of many before himself. And if I really do have a sibling left in this world, I shouldn’t turn my back on him. A stab of guilt shoots up my side, as though the mere thought of inviting Reed into my life means turning my back on Indie.
“I can’t think now,” I mutter. “My head’s too fogged up. Maybe tomorrow, when the blitz has worn off, things might be clearer. Maybe . . .”
I stand as a movement to the north catches my eye. Along the horizon, green ribbons of light dance and twist. Signs of a coming silent storm. I don’t remember a solar flare, but maybe it happened when we were inside Eden, discovering the truth of the world.
“There’s been so many lately,” Asher says. “Squalls, dust storms, silent storms . . .”
The light dances, unhurried and fluid. If you didn’t know what followed, you’d think it beautiful. A storm means we won’t be able to leave for Powder Town for at least another day, which means our water will run even lower. We’ll have to use whatever supplies Eden has to offer and hope they’re safe, as Asher theorized.
The supplies!
“That’s it!” I blurt out.
“What?” Asher says.
I bolt to my feet, still staring at the horizon, Amory’s story repeating in my mind. I see it now: the way forward. I know how to best the General.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“We have to fire a mag-rifle,” I say.
Asher’s brow wrinkles. “Right now?”
“That’s how we defeat him.”
“But Amory said they don’t work during storms.”
“That’s exactly what I want to test.”
Fighting against the dizziness of our fogged minds, we get the deck boards back in place and double- and triple-check all the sails, making sure things are cinched tight. Then I scramble up the rubble pile and into Eden, Asher on my heels. Inside, the bunker is quiet. Reed and Harlie must be sleeping.