Once An Eve Novel

two



HARRIET PEDALED AROUND THE BEND. “THIS IS WHY WE HAVE A plan,” Quinn said, speeding alongside me so I could hear her. She glanced sideways, a few matted black curls blown in her eyes. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I don’t feel fine,” I said, turning so she couldn’t see my face. My chest was tight, each breath short and painful. I’d been discovered. The King was close, and coming closer still.

Quinn leaned into a sharp turn. The edge of the pavement, a crumbling cliff fifty feet high, was only a few feet away. I held tight to the handlebars, now slippery with sweat, as we climbed the road to the bridge. It was rumored that the regime knew about the community of women nestled in the hills of Sausalito. They believed it to be a small group of female Strays, not a hidden depository for the Trail. The last time they had come through to check on the settlement was nearly five years ago, and the women had scattered into the hills, hiding out for the night. The soldiers had passed their houses and apartments, not noticing the shelters camouflaged by blankets of overgrown ivy.

The bridge came into view ahead. The towering red structure had been the site of a huge fire. It was piled with burned cars, debris from fallen beams and cables, and the skeletons of those who’d been trapped there while trying to escape the city. I held onto Quinn’s words: This is why we have a plan. If troops were spotted, Quinn and I would leave Sausalito, not stopping until we were deep in the labyrinth of Muir Woods, where an underground bunker had been built years ago. I would stay there, relying on stockpiled supplies, while the soldiers swept through Califia. The rest of the women would move west, up toward Stinson Beach, where they’d wait out the invasion in an abandoned motel. They’d be in enough danger if the settlement were discovered … much more if the soldiers found out they’d been hiding me from the King.

“There’s movement on the other side,” Isis called out from Califia’s entrance, hidden behind a patch of dense shrubs. She was leaning over the stone ledge, her black hair tied back with a bandanna, a pair of binoculars in her hand. We let the bikes fall and gathered around her. Maeve was perched over the trapdoor behind the ledge, doling out extra rifles and ammunition.

Maeve pressed a gun into Harriet’s hands, then handed another to Quinn. “Line up against the wall.” All the women followed her lead. She was one of the youngest Founding Mothers, and the most vocal about what was expected of everyone in the settlement. Tall, with ropy muscles and braided blond hair, Maeve looked exactly the same as she did the day I’d first met her, standing outside Califia’s entrance. She was the one who’d turned Caleb away. I’d accepted the room in her house, the food and clothing she’d given me, the post she’d found for me at the bookstore, knowing it was her way of saying what couldn’t be spoken: I’m sorry, but I had to.

I took a rifle and joined the rest of the women, feeling the cold weight of the gun in my hands. I remembered what Caleb had said, back when I was staying at his camp: Killing a New American soldier is an offense punishable by death. I thought of the two soldiers I’d shot in self-defense. We’d left their bodies on the road beside their government Jeep. I’d held the third soldier at gunpoint, forcing him to drive us toward Califia, his hands trembling on the wheel. Caleb had slumped against the backseat, his leg bleeding where he’d been stabbed. The soldier had been younger than me—I let him go when we were right outside San Francisco. “Maeve, do we need the guns? We shouldn’t use—”

“If they discover the escapees they’ll drag them all back to their Schools, where the girls will spend the next years pregnant and on so many drugs they won’t even remember their names. That’s not an option.” She walked along the row of women, pressing each of their shoulders forward to adjust their aim.

I looked down the barrel, out across the bridge and the gray ocean, trying not to dwell on Maeve’s omissions. She didn’t mention what would happen to me. Instead, the statement had the slight tone of an accusation—as if I had personally invited the soldiers here.

We kept our eyes ahead. I listened to the sound of Harriet’s breathing as the figures made their way over the bridge. From such a distance I could only see two dark shapes, one smaller than the other, moving between the burned cars. After a moment, Isis set down the binoculars. “There’s a dog with him,” she said. “A Rottweiler.”

Maeve took the binoculars. “Keep your aim, and if there’s any aggression, don’t hesitate to shoot.” The two figures moved closer. The man was hunched over, his black shirt camouflaging him against the charred pavement.

“He isn’t wearing a uniform.” Quinn eased her grip on her gun.

Maeve kept the binoculars to her face. “That doesn’t mean anything. We’ve seen them out of uniform before.” I studied the figure, looking for any resemblance to Caleb.

When he was less than two hundred yards away he stopped to rest beside a car. He squinted at the hillside, searching for signs of life. We crouched further down behind the ledge, but the man didn’t look away. “He sees us,” Harriet hissed, her cheek pressed against the stone. The man reached into his knapsack and pulled something out.

“Is it a weapon?” Isis asked.

“I can’t tell,” Maeve replied. Isis moved her finger, resting it lightly on the trigger.

The man stalked forward, a new resolve in him, and Quinn aimed her gun. “Stop!” she yelled out to him, keeping low so he couldn’t see her behind the ledge. “Do not go any further!” But the man was running now. The dog was right beside him, its thick black body heaving with the effort.

Maeve inched forward, whispering in Quinn’s ear. “Don’t let him get off the bridge. No matter what.”

Her eyes betrayed no feeling. The day I came across the bridge with Caleb, we were unbearably tired, the past weeks weighing us down, making every step difficult. His pant leg was soaked through with blood, the fabric stiff and wrinkled where it had dried. Maeve had stood at the entrance to Califia, an arrow aimed at my chest, the same hard expression on her face. No matter what threat this man posed, at that instant he was only guilty of trespassing—nothing more. I took the binoculars from Maeve’s hands.

The man was quickly approaching the end of the bridge. “Do not go any further!” Quinn yelled again. “Stop!” I steadied the binoculars, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Then, for only an instant, he looked up. His face was like a corpse’s, with sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks. His lips were gray and chapped from days without water, and his hair was cropped close to the skull. But I felt the pull of recognition.

I looked at Quinn’s gun, and then at the figure racing toward the end of the bridge, moving steadily around overturned cars and piles of charred debris. “Don’t shoot!” I yelled.

I started down the hill, the thick brush scratching my legs. I ignored Maeve’s shouts behind me. Instead, I tucked the rifle under my arm, my eyes on the figure as I moved closer. “Arden,” I whispered, my throat choked. She had stopped, one arm resting on the hood of a truck, her back hunched from the effort of breathing. She looked at me and smiled, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You’re here.”

The dog lunged at me but Arden held it back, whispering something in its ear to calm it. I ran toward them, not stopping until we were together. I wrapped my arms around her frail body, enveloping her. Her head was shaved, she was twenty pounds lighter, and her shoulder was bleeding—but she was alive.

“You made it,” I said, squeezing her tighter.

“Yes,” she managed, her tears soaking my shirt. “I made it.”