“Hey! You!”
Grace turned. Loudmouth was headed straight towards her. Her stomach lurched, as it always did, but she held her ground and stared dully at a spot in the center of his chest. It was a trick she’d perfected in the past several weeks: Not quite making eye contact. Eyes were too recognizable, and she’d been far too close to his, too many times.
Loudmouth stopped in front of her and grabbed at the bottle clutched in her arms. “Whatcha got there, Stinky?”
Grace resisted for a moment, hanging on, then let him jerk the half-full bottle away. She sniffed loudly, and swiped at her perpetually streaming nose with a filthy forearm. “Whiskey. Found it in a doctor’s office down on Circle. I was just gonna take it to –” Her mind blanked for a second, and all she could think was “Bean Counter” – the name she’d given the gang’s clip-board-carrying accountant. “To Mr. Watts.” She sniffed again, swiped again, then snuck a grimy forefinger up one nostril. “He said we could get double rations if we brought in alcohol.”
Loudmouth curled his lip at her, then averted his eyes in disgust. “So, what – you thought you’d save this back ‘til then? You been hoarding it?”
“Nuh-uh! Found it this morning, I swear! Give it back,” she wheedled, her voice a nasal whine. She grabbed at the sloshing bottle. “I walked all day to get it here! I’m hungry!”
Loudmouth let her grasp the bottle, let her pull on it, then ripped it free of her hands and shoved her in the same motion. He cackled as she sprawled in the dirt and was already walking away when Grace sat up. Grace stared after him, mouth hanging open – but not far enough to reveal the cotton pads that disfigured her cheeks and lower lip – wearing an expression of dull anger.
“Not fair,” she whined, for the benefit of anyone watching, and because she never, ever broke character. Under the act, though, she felt a rush of adrenalin that bordered on euphoria. It happened every time she interacted with that blowhard, paraded right under his nose, and left him none the wiser.
As far as these people were concerned, she was a scrawny prepubescent boy with a hack-job haircut, a boy whose nose ran constantly, whose eyes were always red and diseased-looking, and who smelled so awful, people gagged if they got too close. A not-too-bright boy who breathed noisily through loose lips and stained teeth, who scuttled around the fringes of things, always looking for a handout. Grace inhabited the character so completely, she sometimes forgot she had ever been someone else.
She struggled to her feet, rubbed her rump, then hurried away, shoulders slumped in dejection. A glance to the west decided her course; she only had a couple hours of daylight left. She didn’t check over her shoulder – to do so would show too much street-savvy for her character – but she did throw all her senses open, feeling for eyes on her, skin prickling as her awareness expanded. When alarms didn’t sound, she headed north, clinging to the cover of the trees that ran along the western edge of what used to be Monument Valley Park and was now part of the new gang stronghold.
It had only taken her a few days to find them, watching from a series of high vantage points at night, looking for the lights and the fires. Logic told her they would have moved by now, and she’d been right. They had taken over the Colorado College campus, as well as many of the mansions on Wood Avenue to the north. The dorms and nearby apartments were occupied by what she’d come to think of as the “dumb masses,” with higher-ranking individuals occupying some of the beautiful old fraternity and sorority houses. She estimated there were at least a thousand people living inside the gang’s territory.
Monument Creek supplied them with water, and the park, which ran for several miles along the river, had been haphazardly planted with gardens and small patches of crops. Some of the larger open spaces were now crudely fenced. She had seen horses and goats, but no cattle. Patrolled borders were maintained from the far north end of Monument Valley Park, south to Colorado Avenue, and to the east, ending at Nevada. I-25 formed the western border, and it was a busy one, between patrols and scavengers. Outside those borders, people were left alone, unless they had something the gang wanted.
The nightly keep-‘em-in-line show was now staged at Washburn Field, with roaring generators powering the stadium lights. Grace had forced herself to be seen at a few of these events, but it tested her right out to the ragged edges of her play-acting abilities. They had expanded their entertainment options; the rapes were still going on, but death had now been added to the repertoire.
From what Grace had gleaned, people who broke the rules or displeased the leadership in some way were forced into the gladiator-style, kill-or-be-killed spectator events. On a beautiful spring evening ten days ago, she’d watched a pair of sobbing, terrified women hack at each other with machetes, alternately shrieking in rage and begging for mercy, until one of them finally inflicted a killing wound. Grace had been completely incapacitated for two days afterwards, unable to close her eyes without seeing them, unable to keep even a sip of water in a stomach that wouldn’t un-cramp. Already dangerously thin, she knew she couldn’t afford another episode like it. Greater than the physical toll was the mental one; her mind could only tolerate so much horror, so much fear. She was right at her outer limits on both. But she had a job to do.
When she had first started to observe the group, Grace couldn’t figure out what made people stay. Why would these people subject themselves to this kind of fear and brutality, day in and day out? Her prior contact with the group had been limited to the leaders, and in spite of the terror of her circumstances, she’d wondered that even then. She had listened to the reports, listened to the men talk amongst themselves about the “sheeple” that kept them fed and supplied with luxuries and vices, and she hadn’t been able to come up with a single incentive to stick around.
Now that she’d been studying them from a different perspective, though, she was beginning to understand. The people here were more frightened of being on their own than they were of arbitrary violence. Just over a year ago, they’d been citizens in a society with rights and protections, but they had let fear strip them of those ideals. Someone was in charge, and that was all that mattered. At first, it had disgusted her. Now, she just felt pity.
One simple truth had begun to emerge from the disparate puzzle pieces she’d been clicking together: Fear was the gang’s only strength. They wielded it like a weapon, with full knowledge of its destructive power. That weapon, though, could cut both ways. She didn’t have it all figured out yet, her ideas half-formed at best, but she knew her fingertips were brushing answers.
A faded scrap of red cloth wrapped around a rock marked today’s crossing point. Still feeling for watchers, Grace stepped out of the cover of the trees, scurried across the railroad tracks, then hopped the barrier at the edge of the parking lot that was I-25. She crab-walked through the still, silent vehicles, keeping low, then stopped and counted to 50, feeling, feeling always. Then, a scrambling leap onto the hood and roof of a pick-up that had collided with the rosy-pink granite sound wall, creating a slim, broken gap for her to slip through. She dropped lightly to the ground on the other side, then ran for her first hidey-hole. From the attic of a nearby house, she watched her back trail through a cobwebby window until she had counted to 200.
She had seven crossing points, all of them with hidey-holes so she could watch and be sure she wasn’t followed. She rotated among them daily, never using the same one twice in a row, varying her pattern and keeping track with innocuous objects like empty soda cans or rag-covered rocks. “Lucky seven,” she murmured, as she always did, and headed on her way. There was a pedestrian cross-walk just south of here, and farther to the north, Uintah Street crossed under the interstate, but she couldn’t imagine being stupid enough to try those routes. Predators were everywhere, packs of both humans and dogs, and they hunted the easy, obvious paths. Grace’s paths weren’t safe – nothing was safe – but she wouldn’t get picked off for being foolish or lazy.
It took her a full two hours to travel four miles, hiding and checking her back trail repeatedly as she made her way. The sun was just touching the top of the mountains as she slid out of the neighborhood bordering Garden of the Gods and sprinted across the open space for the cover of the scrub oak that abounded in the park. She hid there for a fifty-count, then climbed the ridge, heart pounding more from anticipation than from exertion. When she reached the high point, she retrieved a pair of binoculars she’d wrapped in a garbage bag and hidden between two boulders. She climbed onto one of the boulders and crouched there, meticulously quartering the trail she’d just traveled until she had counted to 1,000. There was no way she would risk bringing danger to this place. Finally, finally, she turned and trained her binoculars on the tiny, barely-visible cabin.
A thin trail of smoke from the chimney simultaneously weakened her joints with relief and made her stomach clench with anxiety. They were still here. Why were they still here? Quinn knew the danger – why hadn’t he left for Woodland Park as they’d discussed? She was afraid she knew the answer to that question, and it added another layer to the crushing load of guilt she already carried.
Shifting to a more comfortable position on the boulder, she scanned the whole area, checking for anything out of the ordinary, finding nothing. She returned her binoculars to the cabin and settled in to wait. She didn’t always get to see them, which would bring her back the very next night in spite of the danger of routines. She only allowed herself to visit every third night, as long as she at least caught a glimpse of them.
Luck was with her tonight. There was still plenty of sunlight left for her to see easily when Quinn rounded the corner of the cabin, walking stick in one hand, the other resting on the baby sling across his chest. He strode down the trail towards the paddock and barns, no doubt headed for his evening chores. Then, he stopped. His head lifted, and Grace lowered the binoculars, hiding her face against her knees. He couldn’t possibly see her, but she was sure he felt her. He almost always did. She closed her eyes and counted to 25, listening to the sounds of the gathering dusk around her – the rustle of a breeze in last year’s dry leaves, the flitter of wings as birds found home, the occasional skritch and skitter of an animal in the underbrush. When she lifted her head, Quinn had resumed walking, though the binoculars showed her the watchful frown on his face. He walked with swift purpose to the barn, looked around once more, then ducked inside.
Grace lowered the binoculars again. It usually took him about thirty minutes to do what needed doing, and she used the time to repeat what she’d learned this day, reinforcing the information in her memory. She didn’t dare commit anything to paper, not until she had learned all she needed to and was well away, ideally in Woodland Park with her father. She didn’t permit her thoughts to dwell on her dad, on the safety and security he represented, lest she lose heart. The task she’d set for herself was one only she could complete, and complete it she would.
Grace knew the gang, probably better than any other person alive. She knew the leaders: the sounds of their voices, their individual cadences and word-preferences, the very smell of the breath that carried those words. During the time she’d spent as their captive, she’d begun to understand their psyches as well, both individually and as a group. She had recorded everything she had learned in the document Quinn had hated, had recorded facts, and augmented them with carefully labeled hypotheses and speculations. She had read and re-read that document right after she’d run away, desperate for the distraction, vaguely aware that she was punishing herself with it.
Those had been terrifying, fuzzy days. Weak from so recently giving birth, she ran an on-again-off-again fever and her breasts were so swollen and painful, she could hardly stand to move. But move she’d been forced to do; she had taken only enough food and water for a couple of days, and Quinn had been methodically raiding the nearby homes for supplies for months. She had trudged from house to house the first two days, disappointed over and over. Late on the third day, out of food and low on water, she’d lucked out in an office building in Old Colorado City. She’d been looking for a safe place to stay the night, and she’d found a break room that contained intact vending machines. Breaking into them had taken the rest of her strength, and she’d holed up there for over a week, eating junk food and drinking cans of soda, growing steadily stronger in spite of the abysmal nutrition.
During that time, she had studied what she had written and had recognized the document for what it was: A months-old record of reconnaissance that may or may not be accurate any more. She needed updated information. How many people still supported the gang? What of their plans to relocate? Were they still interested in Woodland Park? Had they sent spies there already? What about the routes – Highway 24, Rampart Range Road, Old Stage Road? Were they open? Did the gang control them? And finally, what of the men she’d been brutalized by, the leaders? In a violent regime, coups were common. Was the leadership structure still the same, or had it changed?
In the weeks that followed, she’d gathered an abundance of information, though she still had critical questions to answer. In her guise as a ragged, smelly boy, she’d learned that the refugee camp on Fort Carson no longer existed. She’d learned that the gang now controlled what was left of the mountain post, in particular the helicopters that had been part of the combat aviation brigade, though rumor was they didn’t have someone who could pilot them.
She’d learned that someone had freed many of the animals from the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo; people still spoke of the giraffe that had been served up at a mid-winter feast, and on still nights, you could hear lions roaring to the south. She’d learned that the barter system she’d observed before was still in place. People could bring in scavenged items in exchange for food rations and the "protection” of the group, such as it was. The penalty for hoarding food, alcohol, drugs or other highly-valued commodities was a slow, horrifying death under the stadium lights, while the penalty for theft was a merciful, on-the-spot execution. All other crimes were ignored as irrelevant, up to and including rape and murder.
Outsiders, people unfortunate enough to stumble into the gang’s territory or stupid enough to try living nearby, were either assimilated – if they were determined to have some kind of value – or given to the stadium games. Grace had slithered in on the fringes, bringing carefully chosen goods to barter – valuable, but not too valuable – and she was now tolerated as a stray dog might have been, regarded as harmless as long as she didn’t get too close. And therein lay the problem: To answer her remaining questions, she needed to get close to the leaders, and she hadn’t figured out how to do that yet.
She’d seen all of them but one – the man she had called Sleeper – but had only had contact with Loudmouth and Bean Counter. There had been eight men before – six leaders, and the two Trigger Fingers that never left The Boss’ side – but the group had expanded. There were fourteen of them altogether now, and she hadn’t figured out how the new group functioned. Once, she’d snuck onto the roof of a nearby building with her binoculars, planning to watch and analyze during the nightly show. No more than ten seconds after she’d sighted in on the group, The Boss had looked up sharply, right into her eyes, she would have sworn it. Grace had lost control of her bladder on the spot. She had spent the whole night on the roof, too scared to move, too scared to watch, sure they were coming for her any minute. Finally, dawn and the end of their revels had released her, and she hadn’t yet found the courage to try again.
Below her, the barn door opened, and Quinn stepped out. Grace snapped the binoculars to her eyes, drinking in the sight of him. A hundred times, she had decided to go back, and hundred and one, she’d talked herself out of it. Not until she had gathered all the information she needed. Not until she had something valuable enough to make up for what she’d done. He wouldn’t see it that way – she knew that with absolute certainty – but it wasn’t his conscience she was trying to appease.
He was smiling, and his lips moved as he talked to the baby snuggled in the sling across his chest. As Grace watched, a little arm encased in bright yellow burst out of the sling to wave and pat. Quinn laughed, and caught the tiny fist, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. Grace felt tears burn her always-red, always-irritated eyes. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d heard Quinn laugh. He looked so happy, not at all the haggard boy he’d been in the weeks before the birth.
She dropped the binoculars to her lap and wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking, rocking, trying to ease the awful hollowness in her chest. Maybe they were better off without her. They certainly didn’t need her – that was obvious. She endangered them every time she came here. She should leave a note for Quinn in the barn, tell him not to wait for her, tell him to head for safety before he and the baby were discovered.
The gang’s scavengers had been through this area already, but they patrolled everywhere. Where they would, they roamed, and she hadn’t figured out the pattern yet. It was just a matter of time until this beautiful little haven caught their interest. She should leave the note, now, tonight, then go. Go, and never come back.
Just the thought made her feel like she was dying inside. She fumbled the binoculars back up to her eyes, clinging to the sight of Quinn’s back until he rounded the cabin and disappeared. She waited, knowing she wouldn’t see them again tonight, but watching until full dark dropped over her, just in case. When she finally re-wrapped the binoculars and stowed them back in their hiding place, she was stiff with cold and shaking with hunger, but a part of her had been filled and sated.
Guided only by the light of the rising moon, she ghosted along trails she now knew by heart, trails she loved in spite of what her life had become. The red monoliths rose above her, their silent majesty reminding her that they’d be here long after she was gone, long after the members of the gang were dust, long after the troubles of this age were memory and myth. Remembering that kept her sane.
The night was crystal-clear and cold with it, and she was glad tonight’s den was close by. She traveled via the same easy, light-footed lope that had made her hopeful for a shot at state in the 3200 meter – sometimes, she remembered things like that, and it was as if she’d read about that girl, that Grace, in a book long ago. She slowed her pace when she hit the neighborhoods that bordered the park, flitting from shadow to shadow, every sense she had wide-open.
In minutes, she was as safe as she ever got, in the attic of a house inhabited only by the dead. They didn’t smell anymore, the withered corpses that were everywhere, and only the little kids bothered her. There were none of those here – just a man who had died in his bed, and a woman who had collapsed on her way back from the bathroom, a dusty water glass still clutched in her desiccated hand.
Grace had become intimate with the attics and closets of many homes; she couldn’t sleep unless she was hidden where no sane person would choose to sleep. Nor could she risk discovery of the tools of her disguise: the cotton pads that dried her mouth out but disfigured her features; the hair gel and bucket of dirt she used to keep her hair and exposed skin filthy; tea bags to stain her teeth; and finally, the can of black pepper, which she had always been mildly allergic to, and which kept her eyes and nose constantly streaming. People were far less clean these days, but bodily fluids still repulsed. Top it all off with the clothes she took off corpses and some garlic-enhanced mouth breathing, and people kept their distance.
In the beginning, she’d stripped down and washed each night, but she’d soon figured out she slept better if she just stayed in the disguise. “Stinky” had become her protector as well as her alter ego; his stupidity was her shield, his foulness her sword. After checking that her belongings were right where she’d left them, ready to be transported to tomorrow’s location in the morning, Grace curled up on the pallet of blankets she’d tucked between neatly labeled boxes of taxes and school records, feeling exhaustion press her down like a heavy hand.
Nights were the worst. So quiet, without the sound of Quinn’s breathing. She had never known before, that loneliness could make your bones ache. She knew it now.
This hadn’t been her plan, when she’d walked away from the cabin over a month ago. She hadn’t had a plan then, had just needed to get away. Then, as the reality of what she’d done had begun to sink in, the idea had taken root. Punishment. Atonement. A voluntary descent into Hell, to make up for the fact that she’d deserted her newborn daughter and the boy-become-man who had never, ever left her. She didn’t know if she could ever balance the scales, but she had to try.
If she could get the information she needed, she would permit herself to go. She whispered the questions she still needed answered out loud to herself; it helped keep her mind organized, and the sound of her own voice comforted her. She knew what she needed to do, and the thought made her sick with dread. At least once, she needed to hear what she’d heard night after night after night last summer: The reports the men gave to The Boss. Those reports would contain the pieces to complete her puzzle, she was sure of it.
Then, if Quinn and the baby were still here, she would take them with her to Woodland Park, to her father, to safety. Not even in her darkest moments could she admit that there might not be safety even there, that her father might be dead. That way lay madness, and Grace lived too close to that state already, each and every day of her life.
Soon. She needed to finish this, before she ran out of strength, courage, sanity or luck. She whispered the word aloud to herself, to reinforce it. “Soon.”