Kapitel 7: Chapter 7: Hideout

I exit with Poppy at my side, emerging into a dank and dingy corridor. It's relatively clean at least, if uncomfortable because of the state of its decay. Moldering drywall crumbles, exposing steel beams and old wiring, nests of insulation stained nearly black with fungus.

It makes me want to sneeze, cover my mouth, just looking at it. No one else seems to notice so I hurry on. I'm not sure if it's the concussion I'm certainly suffering from or some other affliction, but I'm finding it very difficult to focus on what I'm seeing. The world I remember superimposes itself in my sight. It's as though I walk down two hallways-one is bright, industrial, but at least clean, thin carpet cushioning my feet while panels of fluorescent light guide my way. The other is this horror, this damaged and surreal place filled with dirty kids and garbage, the very building rotting around us.

My throat tightens as emotion wells. I need answers to more questions, it seems. Fulfilling my purpose is secondary now to finding out what happened to this city.

Someone walks behind me, anger almost tangible. Before she speaks I know it's Nico. "If you bring trouble here," she hisses at my back, "I'll make sure you pay for it."

Poppy looks back over her shoulder at the girl and sticks out her small pink tongue.

"Beckett told you to buzz off." Poppy's fingers squeeze mine.

"You're putting us all at risk," Nico says in a harsh whisper, ignoring the girl beside me. "Why don't you just leave?"

Poppy rolls her eyes at me. I'm guessing it's her favorite expression of exasperation. She seems to do it a lot.

"If the Crawlers want you that bad," Nico says, "they'll come after us to get to you."

Poppy stops, turns, releases my hand. "Shut up, Nico."

Beckett stops, still scowling. It's clear he's heard every word despite Nico's attempt to keep it between us. "If the Crawlers do want her that badly," he says, "I'll do everything in my power to protect her."

Nico begins to protest, but Beckett just shakes his head. "Not to save her," he says, voice tired, but full of determination. "Just to piss them off."

He walks through an open door, vanishing from view. Poppy grips my hand and pulls me forward, going after him. I glance back as I pass through the doorway, gaze finding Nico.

She looks unhappy.

This new room has more light in it, scavenged from all over it appears. Old lamps with torn shades, bare bulbs dangling from hanging wires. It looks cobbled together and completely unsafe, but again I'm the only one who notices or seems to care.

I choose to ignore the obvious safety issue in favor of the aromas in the room. Someone is cooking and I realize only then I'm starving.

Beckett hands me a small bowl, chipped on one side, and a crooked spoon. I sniff the contents, recognize some sort of stew with beans and vegetables. A large communal pot bubbles on a rickety hot plate, the source of this meal. Beckett fills two more bowls, handing Poppy the fullest, before crossing to a small table and four battered chairs. I join him and his sister, cautious as I sit. It's a balancing act to not wreck the chair I perch on, so I don't even risk adding my weight to the table.

Beckett trusts it, obviously. He sets his bowl on the dirty surface with a clunk and hovers over the rising steam, shoveling large spoonfuls into his mouth. Poppy holds hers under her chin and scoops, hardly chewing.

I refuse to look too closely. I'm far too hungry to allow my concerns about hygiene stop me from eating, though I'm positive the bowl hasn't been washed recently.

The first mouthful is salty, the vegetables soggy, but the heat of it warms my insides and I grow quickly accustomed to the taste. By the time Beckett tosses his spoon into his bowl with a rattle, Poppy is already done, still watching me. I set mine aside, stomach full, one need met at least.

I don't have the chance to ask my first question again. Beckett gathers our bowls, taking them back to the table where the pot bubbles, returning with three dented camp mugs full of water. I sip mine, happy it is clean and clear.

"You want to know what happened." Beckett's blue eyes are sad and angry and display a whole lot of other emotions I can't process. "The world ended. That's what happened."

Poppy makes a soft sound, a pleading noise. Beckett sighs and sits back.

"The Sick." Beckett gazes into his cup of water. "About twenty years ago or so. The Sick came along and everyone died."

"Not everyone." Poppy thumps her dirty sneakers against the legs of her chair.

He nods then. "You're right, sorry. Just everyone who knew how to keep things going."

"The adults." Poppy's brown eyes are wide, moisture rising in them. "Everybody who was, you know. Middle aged. Kinda. Us kids caught it, but most of us survived it, and old people, older than sixty or so. For some reason it didn't kill them off. But everyone else..."

"The Sick killed them all." Beckett drains his water and sets the mug down with a loud bang. "I remember my dad saying something about how certain ages had the wrong hormone levels. Back when they were studying it." Beckett's tone doesn't change as he continues. "But they didn't get to finish, not before the Sick got them too." He shrugs, no big deal, even though it is, it really is a big deal. "Then the world fell apart. Because no one knew how to do stuff. The old people, they remembered some, but they died off. Left us with some knowledge, but it was too late." He meets my eyes again. "Electricity failed. Food production failed. Oil refinement." He shakes his head. "I barely know what I'm talking about. We've forgotten more than we ever knew."

"We caught the Sick too," Poppy says, voice barely above a whisper. "But it didn't kill us. Only a few. The rest... just got different."

"Different?" I look at Beckett, but he's staring at the cup in front of him like it's the source of all his troubles.

Poppy is nodding. "It affects different kids different ways," she says.

"Affects." I shudder. "You mean, it's still around?"

Her brown eyes blink quickly as she keeps bobbing her head. "Yup. Still. Not all the time, just every once in a while, it shows up and hits us again." Poppy shudders and hugs herself. "If you caught it before and were okay, you might be again. But if you never had the Sick..." She looks at her brother. "Who knows what you'll end up like."

"What do you mean?" End up like? As in what, damaged, crippled, what?

But Beckett is on another train of thought. "We've been able to pass some knowledge along," he says. "Enough we know how to rig some wiring and such. Find food. The Crawlers, they've got it all going on, tons of power, even hear they have greenhouses for fresh food." He pushes his cup with one finger, the sound grating in my ears. "We tap into their electric as much as we can."

"And food?" I look over at the bubbling pot, remember the crates in the other room.

"Canned stuff, mostly," Poppy says. "Sometimes we'll find some wild greens growing around, but if you don't know what you're pulling, you can get one wicked tummy ache."

How have they been reduced to this? I have no memory of the illness they describe. But how is that possible?

"Things are getting tougher," Beckett says. "Food sources scarce. Even though there aren't so many of us anymore, it's been over twenty years and the canned stuff is running out."

"Children?" My mind goes to babies, infants being raised in a world such as this while my heart aches at the thought.

Beckett shrugs. "Not many of those," he says. I can tell it upsets him, though he's good at hiding it. "Not anymore."

My entire body clenches in tension. This can't be. No babies means-

"It'll all be over eventually," Poppy says with such calm surety it's almost worse knowing even one as young as she is aware her race is dying out.

Will die out if things continue as they are.

I can't go there, can't consider it. The ramifications are too massive for me on top of what I'm learning, the tightness in my body building until I can barely stand it.

"Why don't you start growing food?" Yes. Better. Shy away from the loss of everything and focus on survival. It's what they must be doing, I can only imagine. And food production at least seems a logical course of action.

"Can't," Beckett says. "We have to move pretty regular. Either the Crawlers show up, or a rival group looking to steal from us. Or the Sick comes through and we lose half of our people."

I feel my emotions rise again, a thick and desperate sadness. I want to reach out to Beckett, to offer some comfort, but I have none to give. This may not be the world of the memories I'm recovering, but it's the one I'm living in now.

Beckett looks up and over and I glance back to where his attention rests. Nico is gesturing to him. He goes to her immediately, leaving me with Poppy.

"It's not so bad," she says with a small smile.

I wish I could bring myself to smile back.

***

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