Clearing the aisle, I make it to Ava just before the doors open and a thick black pair of boots enters the car.
Seven brisk strides and the Guard bears down on the young woman seated four rows up to the right. With her blonde hair and tan skin, she looks nothing like us, but the Guard was no doubt ordered to scan any woman under the age of thirty. The young woman wisely puts up no fight, and I hear the sharp ping of his device meeting her microchip.
Cautiously Ava sneaks her head out from beneath the seat as the Guard examines the chip’s information. Ava’s eyes scour the car left and right, searching for the screen that shows the rail’s progress, but she tucks herself back into our hiding space shaking her head, her face pale and slack. She doesn’t know when the rail will stop.
The Guard presses forward down the aisle, his thundering steps syncing with the hammering beat of my pulse.
Ten more steps and it’s over.
Ava grips a knife in her hand.
There’s a knife in the front pocket of my bag, but I can’t reach it crushed between the bench and floor . . . There’s a soda bottle three feet from me—if I can grab it, I can throw the liquid in the Guard’s eyes before he sees us, and Ava can use her knife on him . . . Oh God . . . I’ll be able to take his taser and gun, then we can sprint down the line of cars, holding off any pursuing Guards until the doors finally open . . . My mind races through all the various scenarios in the span of two swift steps of the Guard’s boots. It won’t work. Nothing will work.
Ava grabs my hand, her lips mouthing, “We have to run.”
Where? Run where? I ask with my eyes. In either direction we face a State Guard. Panic threatens to take over.
Six more steps.
Ava points at the approaching Guard, then points to herself. She will go first. “Charge him,” she mouths.
Her eyes fearless, she gives my hand a tight squeeze before turning to face the soldier. I ready myself and move into position to follow, but just as Ava prepares to launch herself—to sacrifice herself—I pull her back. From nowhere, a man slides into view under the seats across the aisle, his mouth split open in a rotting smile.
Four more steps.
He crawls into the opening between the empty benches and pulls himself into a crouching stance. I see his haggard face clearly and identify him as the older vagrant who snuck onto the station platform in Dallas.
His sleeve pulled up, I spot the faded ink of a tattoo on his right wrist. I’ve never seen anyone marked with a tattoo before. The ink distinguishes you, makes you an easier find for the cameras. Something most citizens avoid.
He waves his index finger in a deranged greeting, then moves it to his lips in a shh signal.
Before Ava and I can do anything, the man pops out from his hiding place and shouts, “Present your wrist for authorization! You must be scanned or you will seize!” He twists his arms and legs in sickening convulsions and moves away from the soldier toward the doors of the adjacent car. The Guard rushes past us, taser gun aimed at the crazed man.
“Present your wrist immediately!” the Guard screams as he simultaneously fires off his taser.
The electric current hits the door just as it closes, and I hear the continued shrieking of the ragged man. “You will seize; you will seize!” The Guard barrels through the doors, shouting at his comrade to fire.
The rail mercifully slows to a stop, and we launch ourselves toward the exit doors just as the muffled sound of a second taser goes off. And then a third.
I close my eyes, imagining the volts finding their target, feeling the electric pain that stuns the resisting old man into submission. Why did he help us? Did he recognize Ava?
He’ll be locked away for years.
Don’t think. Move.
A handful of other passengers exit behind us, removing themselves from the scene. It takes all the discipline I have not to sprint, to match my speed to Ava’s and blend in.
Finally we reach the end of the platform and slip into the shadows of the early morning dawn.
Ava opens her umbrella, turns her head, and looks back, but I’m afraid to look behind me. I keep my eyes straight ahead—to the dangers that wait for us next.
The land is shriveled and bleached, marked by miles of crude leftover fences. The air is dry, blowing up a constant wind that tugs the canopy of my umbrella, throwing dirt into my eyes and mouth.
The gleam of the tracks serves as our guide as we move farther northwest toward Amarillo. The lines have been quiet—no railcars have sped past since we fled. Still, we keep a safe distance, afraid to get too close.
We don’t talk. If we speak our thoughts aloud, the more real they become. I don’t want Ava to confirm that we have no idea what we’re doing, that we’re all alone, and that we should be scared. I survive from moment to moment. If I let my mind linger on how long this nightmare will last, it’s unbearable. I will break. I focus only on my sister and finding a safe shelter where we can open Father’s box.
To the east I discern mounds of debris and devastation stretching parallel to our path. I swing the strap of my bag off my left shoulder, ignoring the dramatic relief this gives my upper back, unzip it, and pull out a pair of binoculars. Through the lens I witness the flattened remains of an entire town.
Hundreds of leveled strip malls and homes litter the area like landfill, their wooden carcasses twisted with furniture, streetlamps, automobiles, and waste. I remember hearing the news of a record three tornados hitting the Texas Panhandle one summer five years ago. All three counties were the victims of a Category F5.
I zoom in and spy several scavengers picking through the ruins. I track a lone woman who looks to be in her fifties, her gaunt body red and peeling from the sun. She tosses aside a tennis shoe that appears two sizes too big and holds up a piece of cloth torn from either an old window or shower curtain. She wraps her new find around her small frame as if she’s creating a protective barrier between her and the threats surrounding us, continues her hunt for a few more paces, then stops. Her expert hand dives into a pile of junk and emerges triumphant with a can of green beans. No smile for her victory, the woman resumes her monotonous slog, and I soon lose her behind the rubble.
Is this my future?
Unlike Roth, most state governors show their dedication in aiding towns like this, asserting their unwavering compassion for the millions of displaced Americans driven from their homes every year by erratic weather and perpetual superstorms. But what can the government really do? This woman’s entire life has been annihilated. Major Disaster Declarations have become the norm, pressuring the government to choose which cities are worth saving with our dwindling resources. Whether people make the choice to move to a big metropolis or take on a nomadic lifestyle drifting through the fringes, one thing is for certain: they are on their own.
I hang the binoculars around my neck and shoulder my rucksack once more. Her own binoculars still pressed against her face, Ava takes two conservative sips of water before offering me the bottle with her free hand. I suddenly realize how dehydrated I am. How hot the day already feels only twenty minutes after sunrise. My hair damp with sweat, I slide off my beanie, freeing my head from the hellish oven.
We still have half a day’s walk ahead of us to Amarillo. We need to rest. To figure out our plan.
Ava turns to me, pink indentions outlining her brows and cheekbones like oversized glasses from the pressure of her binoculars.