another
reclamation site for months.” She grips the back of the seat in
front of her and sits up as the bus chugs us out of the yard and
beyond the fence onto the dirt road.
Simple pleasures.
We drive east. We wind on bumpy roads through the
forest, and all I can see on either side is green and more green.
The trees threaten to take over the road at some points, and the
bus squeals between branches and grumbles over tree roots. My
stomach lurches, and Jane leans further away from me. Just when I
think I'm about to see my breakfast again, the trees open up and a
small town appears.
It's nothing more than a handful of houses, a
grocery store, and a school. It looks immaculately preserved,
though, like the time between the Event and now never even
occurred—like the gas station where I made bread for Jack. It's
amazing the way some places are just skipped over as if they exist
on a completely different plane. I'm astonished nomads or the
government haven't found this place before.
As I step off the bus and into the gray, cloudy
light, everything has a magical quality to it. I've never seen
anything so untouched before: the windows are covered in grime, but
they're intact. There are toys still out in the yards where
children abandoned them ages ago. Granted the trikes are mostly
rust and look like they'd crumble under my hand and the balls are
all limp and deflated, but the sense of people having lived here is
tangible. It looks like they all just went for a picnic together
and they'll be back at any moment. They must have left quickly to
leave it like this.
Down the street there's a truck. A ramp leads down
from the back, and the inside is lined with empty shelves and
boxes. I'm guessing we'll be loading what we find in there.
We stand in a line in front of the bus. The agent
peers over us with small, brown eyes.
“ You'll proceed through the town and
collect anything that seems useful. You may go in twos or threes,
but no groups larger than that. If you get too noisy or too spread
out, the soldiers have orders to corral you back together and keep
you under control.”
The soldier standing next to her flexes his hands,
and I shudder. What means do they employ to keep us under
control?
“ If any of you try to run, you will
be shot without warning,” she says while looking at a digital
tablet. She doesn't even bother to look in our eyes. “You have four
hours until it is time to load back on the bus.” Then she turns on
her heel and walks away, typing into her tablet. She finds a front
porch, brushes it off with her hand, and sits down.
Madge leans in. “You, me, and Jane. Come on.”
We follow her. She has a knack for this, either that
or she's done this plenty of times before because she leads us to a
house, opens the door (it isn't locked), and parades us through.
I'm kind of weirded out because it's someone's home; someone used
to live here, and we're just going through it like we own the
place.
“ Blinds are good. The agents think
they're useful, the strings and slats and stuff. Let's start on
those.”
We were given screwdrivers. They're short, squatty
things with barely enough handle to grip; the agents probably
thought longer, more useful ones would be too weapon-like. It takes
us a while to simply unscrew the blinds with the ridiculous tools,
but we work our way through the house, making match-stick piles of
blinds.
I watch Jane and even with the stubby screwdriver,
her slender fingers move deftly, and she takes down blinds faster
than even Madge. It's like with the corn-shucking in the cannery.
Her hands fly over the task. While she's working, she almost looks
confident. Well, as confident as Jane can look. She sees me
watching her, and I expect her head to bob down, but it doesn't.
She studies me appraisingly. I want to look away, return her
privacy, but I don't. I look her straight in the eye and offer her
a smile.
For just a second the right corner of her mouth
twitches like it might just turn
reclamation site for months.” She grips the back of the seat in
front of her and sits up as the bus chugs us out of the yard and
beyond the fence onto the dirt road.
Simple pleasures.
We drive east. We wind on bumpy roads through the
forest, and all I can see on either side is green and more green.
The trees threaten to take over the road at some points, and the
bus squeals between branches and grumbles over tree roots. My
stomach lurches, and Jane leans further away from me. Just when I
think I'm about to see my breakfast again, the trees open up and a
small town appears.
It's nothing more than a handful of houses, a
grocery store, and a school. It looks immaculately preserved,
though, like the time between the Event and now never even
occurred—like the gas station where I made bread for Jack. It's
amazing the way some places are just skipped over as if they exist
on a completely different plane. I'm astonished nomads or the
government haven't found this place before.
As I step off the bus and into the gray, cloudy
light, everything has a magical quality to it. I've never seen
anything so untouched before: the windows are covered in grime, but
they're intact. There are toys still out in the yards where
children abandoned them ages ago. Granted the trikes are mostly
rust and look like they'd crumble under my hand and the balls are
all limp and deflated, but the sense of people having lived here is
tangible. It looks like they all just went for a picnic together
and they'll be back at any moment. They must have left quickly to
leave it like this.
Down the street there's a truck. A ramp leads down
from the back, and the inside is lined with empty shelves and
boxes. I'm guessing we'll be loading what we find in there.
We stand in a line in front of the bus. The agent
peers over us with small, brown eyes.
“ You'll proceed through the town and
collect anything that seems useful. You may go in twos or threes,
but no groups larger than that. If you get too noisy or too spread
out, the soldiers have orders to corral you back together and keep
you under control.”
The soldier standing next to her flexes his hands,
and I shudder. What means do they employ to keep us under
control?
“ If any of you try to run, you will
be shot without warning,” she says while looking at a digital
tablet. She doesn't even bother to look in our eyes. “You have four
hours until it is time to load back on the bus.” Then she turns on
her heel and walks away, typing into her tablet. She finds a front
porch, brushes it off with her hand, and sits down.
Madge leans in. “You, me, and Jane. Come on.”
We follow her. She has a knack for this, either that
or she's done this plenty of times before because she leads us to a
house, opens the door (it isn't locked), and parades us through.
I'm kind of weirded out because it's someone's home; someone used
to live here, and we're just going through it like we own the
place.
“ Blinds are good. The agents think
they're useful, the strings and slats and stuff. Let's start on
those.”
We were given screwdrivers. They're short, squatty
things with barely enough handle to grip; the agents probably
thought longer, more useful ones would be too weapon-like. It takes
us a while to simply unscrew the blinds with the ridiculous tools,
but we work our way through the house, making match-stick piles of
blinds.
I watch Jane and even with the stubby screwdriver,
her slender fingers move deftly, and she takes down blinds faster
than even Madge. It's like with the corn-shucking in the cannery.
Her hands fly over the task. While she's working, she almost looks
confident. Well, as confident as Jane can look. She sees me
watching her, and I expect her head to bob down, but it doesn't.
She studies me appraisingly. I want to look away, return her
privacy, but I don't. I look her straight in the eye and offer her
a smile.
For just a second the right corner of her mouth
twitches like it might just turn
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