“Fuck,” Wright murmured. His hands went slack. “Fuck . . .”
Naz sank down next to her sister. The shot had gone wild, un-aimed, just a spasm of Wright’s fingers as he’d lost grip on the tip of the arrow after pulling the string too tight during the fight, but it had somehow still found Rojan. Out of the top of one of her thighs, a long, slim shaft was sticking straight out, like a flagpole.
“Oh no,” Rojan squeaked. The ground everywhere was red with thick syrup. Naz could see her going into shock. Her face was as white as the moon, bathed in a sweaty sheen.
“Pressure.” Naz’s hands trembled as she ripped off her belt and tried to wrap it around Rojan’s leg. “We have to, pressure, to stop the bleeding. Have to stop it.”
“You just should have given—you shouldn’t have fought—” Wright stammered in the background.
“Naz,” Rojan murmured.
“Pressure,” Naz repeated.
“Naz,” Rojan said again, lips trembling.
Naz turned around to follow her sister’s unsteady gaze. Wright was clutching the bag, staring in horror at what he’d done. The bow and quiver were on the ground at his feet, arrows scattered all around.
Wright and Naz both realized he was unarmed at the same time. They lunged, grappling in the dirt—and Wright miscalculated again that they were still much too close to use the bow.
But Naz knew. She used just an arrow.
AFTER THAT, SHE AND ROJAN MOVED MUCH SLOWER. TO WALK carrying all the bags and propping her sister up was hard. They stopped a lot, because Naz was so delirious from trying not to sleep so she could keep watch with her bow, and because Rojan was so weak. They went back to not making fires.
They never made it to New Orleans. Washington, D.C., was as far as they got.
Orlando Zhang
ORY CROSSED ROOSEVELT BRIDGE AN HOUR AFTER WAKING. Almost to D.C. Almost to Max.
But when he reached the other side of the long, silent walk, he didn’t recognize anything at all. Washington, D.C., looked nothing like Washington, D.C., anymore.
What remained was a city that had been lit on fire down to the last crevice and then doused with winter death. Black scorch marks covered everything. The roads, the earth, the sides of buildings, the roofs were all the same burnt darkness. And from the sky, a perpetual rain fell, a kind of freezing drizzle that felt heavier than water as it settled on him. The city would have glimmered, charred onyx overlaid with diamond, if not for the dark gray clouds that trapped all light.
He was a tourist at the end of the world.
JUST BEYOND THE KENNEDY CENTER, THERE WAS A GROUP OF women camped out in what once had been a luxury apartment complex’s ground-level garage. The door was either gone or rolled up, and they were standing at the edge of it, chatting quietly as they adjusted the blankets draped over their shoulders for warmth. Three shadows, four pairs of feet. The shadowless one was huddled with them, describing something that caused the rest of them to nod thoughtfully. She was short and wiry, with wild hair so red it was almost orange. In another lifetime, it would have been beautiful. Now all Ory could think was that it made her a target.
One of them said something, and they all laughed. Three shadows. This might be it, he thought nervously. They might have seen Max. They might remember. The fabric under his armpits was so damp he could feel it squelch.
Ory made sure the knife was pushed as far back on his belt as possible, out of view, and the barrels of the shotgun—the thunderstorm—were cracked open to show they were empty. Here goes nothing, he thought as he stood up.
“Hello,” he called. “I don’t mean any harm. I’m looking for my wife. Her name . . .”
That was when the small, sharp rock whizzed past his right temple.
Ory ducked. The next rock hit the ground just in front of him and splintered against the concrete.
No, no, no, this was not right at all. A searing burn erupted on his shoulder, and a tiny section of his shirt folded open to expose a sharp crimson split. The blood began to ooze. Ory snapped his arms up in front of his face for protection as he scrambled back. The two women in the front were pulling stones filed into barbs from purses strapped to their waists, flinging them with deadly aim as the other two scrambled for heavier weapons deeper in the garage. The shadowless one cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted. “Mike! Jim! Intruder at the front!” Another rock struck the ground next to Ory’s boot, and then he heard what could only have been the rev of a motorcycle engine from somewhere deeper in the crumbling complex.
He turned and sprinted with all he had.
WHEN HE COULDN’T HEAR THE GASOLINE ROAR ANYMORE, Ory crawled into the first hovel he could find and poked gingerly at his shoulder. The slice was deep, but he hoped it didn’t need stitches. He didn’t have stitches anyway. He tried to squeeze the two sides of skin together over the meat beneath, but they peeled back open like eyelids over a red, swollen eye.