The Outside by Laura Bickle Page A

the left side of my face more than the right. But not enough to burn. It was growing too cold for that. Our feet made tracks in the grass where they wiped away the frost.
    I knew that we wanted to get to Canada before snow. We needed to find Alex’s family before hard winter came. We had a long way to go; if we continued to go north and avoid densely populated areas to cross the border, we might have to go as far as Sault Ste. Marie, Alex said. I didn’t know how we were going to survive that without reliable shelter. Nor did I have any idea how the rest of humanity would.
    I suspected my community had a good chance of surviving the hardships of winter. We Plain people were reasonably self-sufficient, growing our own food and raising our own cattle. One challenge would be getting enough heat; kerosene stores would be bound to dwindle. But they’d figure something out, cut firewood, tolerate the elements as our forefathers had.
    But the vampires . . . I didn’t know how they would survive them. The Darkness had been let in, and the Elders were in denial. The Hexenmeister had the power to protect them, if only they would listen.
    But, always, my horizon was today—the next sunrise or sunset. And then . . . I couldn’t see beyond
and then
. I hoped that somehow a cure to the contagion would be found, that we could return to our homes and that life would return to some semblance of normal—if we still remembered what that felt like.
    I wrapped my coat tightly around my neck. I could feel the cold air creeping in. I had kept my Plain clothes, but Ginger and Alex had taken clothing from the Animal Farm, changed into jeans and heavy sweaters. Alex had found a replacement for his old jacket among the father’s clothes, a jacket made of green oilskin. Ginger was wearing the mother’s navy blue sweatshirt embroidered with kittens. I felt even more out of step with them than when we had started.
    But I was determined to keep up as we walked along a two-lane road. I saw farmland right and left studded with a few farmhouses with metal roofs to withstand the wind that scoured over the northern part of the state. Trees around the houses nodded east, as if the west wind had pushed them for many years.
    Off to the west, I could see a forest on the flat land, with the sunlight slanting through it. I squinted at it as Alex spread open a map. It flapped against his jacket, tearing at the corners as he swore at it.
    â€œThere.” He pointed to the woods. “That’s where we’re going.”
    I lifted my eyebrows and shuddered instinctively. “It’s dark there.”
    â€œIt’ll be safe,” he promised.
    I wrapped my arms around my elbows and followed him.
    We turned west and walked down a broad paved lane bounded with chains painted white between concrete stanchions. It was surrounded on both sides by what had once been a manicured lawn. At the end of the lane, a white figure stood.
    It was a statue of a woman in a veil with her arms outstretched. It took me a moment to realize who she was. Plain people didn’t believe in graven images, but I knew her instinctively to be Mary, mother of Jesus. At the base of the statue was a sign that read WELCOME TO THE SHRINE OF OUR LADY OF PEACE . Frostbitten zinnias wilted in a flower bed at her feet.
    â€œWhat is this place?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s a Marian shrine,” Alex said. “It’s a Roman Catholic pilgrimage destination. If any place is still holy, this is it.”
    â€œI was here as a little girl,” Ginger said. “I remember. My grandmother took me. There are all these little grottoes in the woods and a church.”
    â€œIf it’s sacred,” I said, blowing out my breath and staring up into Mary’s unseeing eyes, “we should be safe.”
    â€œC’mon,” Alex said. “We’re burning