The Elves of Cintra (Book 2 of The Genesis of Shannara)

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help these kids. He did.

But they were slowing him down. He could get to where he needed to go much faster on his own. He could travel more quickly and in greater safety. Every decision he made was affected by their presence. He wasn’t used to this kind of responsibility. He had lived alone since Michael’s death, and he had developed habits and patterns of behavior that improved his chances of surviving. Of necessity, much of what he had come to rely upon had gone by the wayside since he had taken on the burden of responsibility for the Ghosts.

Leaving them sounded callous and unfeeling. But this was a world where thinking too much about others could get you killed.

He put the matter aside that night after burying the Weatherman and settling in, thinking that he wasn’t ready to make the decision to leave, no matter the arguments in favor, no matter the risks of staying. The timing just didn’t feel right, and he would let things be for now.

But by the following morning, Fixit and River had both come down with a severe fever and were showing symptoms of the same form of plague that had claimed the Weatherman.

“I don’t have enough medicine left to treat them for more than a few days,” Owl advised him in confidence, her plain, no-nonsense features lined with worry. “We used most of what we had on River’s grandfather.”

He had just finished placing both kids on stretchers in the back of the Lightning, taking it upon himself to secure them, using his own store of blankets to help keep them warm. They were flushed and coughing, their throats scratchy and dry. The first telltale signs of purple splotches were starting to show on their necks. River was much worse than Fixit, her breathing harsh and irregular. But then she had been exposed to her grandfather for longer than the boy. Logan was already dreading the ride ahead, shut away in a plague-infested space that even a steady influx of fresh air might not help. He was not afraid of demons and once-men, but ever since the sickness that had almost killed him at sixteen, he was deathly afraid of plague.

He looked off into the distance, past the knot of kids watching, past the bleak landscape with its wintry, dry vistas and empty spaces, past everything he could see to what he could only envision. It would be so easy to leave them.

It would be the smart thing to do.

They found an old hay wagon sitting out in a field not long after they setout, and they abandoned the shopping cart and loaded the wagon with all their supplies and themselves, as well. Only Panther preferred to walk, striding out ahead, keeping a steady pace. Owl rode inside the Lightning with Logan so that she could watch over Fixit and River, insisting that she would share the risk, that she had survived contact with plague all her life.

Logan was impressed. Not many in her place would have done so.

They made better time that day and the next, covering a much greater distance, traveling all the way south to the next city down. Logan didn’t know its name; all the signage had long since been torn down. Owl produced one of her tattered maps and told him it was called Tacoma. By nightfall, they had reached the outskirts and found a field sheltered by a small copse of withered spruce in which to make camp. There were some buildings and a few pieces of rusted machinery, all of which helped hide and protect them against the things that prowled the night. River and Fixit had not improved; if anything, they were worse. Logan had already decided to go looking for the medicine Owl needed to treat them.

“Write it out for me,” he asked her. “Describe what I’m looking for, especially the container. I’ll take the Lightning and have a look in the city. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find some medical supplies.”

He didn’t think he would, but it didn’t serve any purpose to tell her that.

Most of what might help had long since been picked over and taken by others.

Drugs of any sort were rare, but especially those that protected or cured the various forms of plague.

“It’s called Cyclomopensia,” she told him, handing him a scrap of paper with the name carefully printed out. “It will come in large white pills with CYL-ONE imprinted on each.” She handed him a plastic container. “This is what the ones I have left came in.”