Page 74 of Juniper Unraveling

As I watch him work, the lack of climax gnaws at my core.

He pauses, slamming the shovel into the dirt, and strides toward me. Wrapping his arms around me, he presses his lips to mine, and I can feel the apology in his kiss.

“I’ll be home soon.” I hold onto his biceps, rising up on tiptoes to give one more kiss, and step back, sliding the satchel that holds the poultice over my head.

The Shaws live closer to the north side of the wall, near the entrance in the newer Phase Three homes. Papa could’ve lived there, or in the Villas on the West end of the community, if he wanted, but he refused, and I’m grateful every day for that. I hate the Shaws. Particularly Damian.

It’ll take me over an hour on foot to walk there, and with the air as wickedly hot and dry as it is today, it’ll feel longer. Particularly as I have to walk it without Six to keep me company.

Strange that two months ago, I did everything on my own.

I pass Mrs. Johnston, who waves from her front porch, where she’s potting flowers beneath her wide-brimmed hat.

A visual passes through my mind, of that hat spattered in blood, as a Rager tears away her gullet, and I flinch, raising my hand to wave back.

There’s an oily falsehood behind this wall. Like a dream that fails to acknowledge the dark clouds of a nightmare on the other side. We’d never survive out there in the Deadlands—that much became clear to me the day we gathered the prickly pears for her. She’d be the first to go. A roly-poly woman, who bakes cookies for the weekly community meetings, and attends church as if the world hasn’t changed, at all.

I’ve never asked the woman if she lost anyone in the outbreak. Some talk about their lives before the wall, but others avoid it, choosing to stay locked in this pseudo existence.

Papa’s words echo through my mind. Safety is an illusion.

It’s true. Except with Six, I really do feel safe. Even in the Deadlands.

I finally reach the Shaw house, a much larger version of the three-story properties that surround it on either side. A complete waste of resources, and a total drain on the electricity, as far as I’m concerned. I hear the Villas are even bigger, mansions, but Papa won’t allow me to explore that part of the community. Not that I’d go there, anyway, with all the privileged assholes who live there.

Stood on the front porch, I ring the doorbell and step back to pull the poultice wrapped in cheesecloth from my satchel. The door swings open, to Damian Shaw. Of the three brothers I cannot stand, he’s the worst. Two months ago, he threw an overripe tomato that exploded down the front of my T-shirt, as I traded some of Papa’s herbal tea at the market. I’ve hated him ever since.

With a greeting scowl, I hold the poultice out to him, which he snatches from my hand, twisting it around to examine it.

“It’s for your brother.”

“Thanks, freak.” He slams the door in my face, and within seconds, the errand that ruined my morning is done.

I blow out an exasperated sigh and turn around, making my way down the steps toward the sidewalk.

A hum draws my attention to the left of me, where Albert Ericsson and two other boys pace my steps in their fancy electric car that reminds me of a missing roller-skate. Seeing them piled inside of it is almost comical.

Not surprisingly, Albert lives in the Villas. I only see him on the rare occasions he decides to slum it by coming to the east side. For the most part, he sticks to his side of the tracks, like all the Villa folk do, except when he’s spoiling for trouble.

“Where you going, freak?” he shouts over the low buzz. All the electric-run vehicles here make the same sound.

“Leave me alone.”

“Want a ride?”

“No.”

The other boys snicker and laugh, the tension winding tightly through my muscles.

“It’s hot out. Why’n’t you hop in? We’ll all give you a ride.”

“No, thanks.”

I round the street corner, past Mrs. Johnston, whose eyes track me and the boys that refuse to leave me alone.

Once out of her sight, I forego the main street and head toward a copse of trees ahead. The car pulls to a stop, and I expel the held breath, happy they’ve finally relented. Kicking my pace up to a jog, I slip into the forest, out of sight.

A force hits me from behind, knocking the wind from me so it blasts from my mouth, captured into the hand that slams across my face. My body is lifted up off the ground, and one of the three boys nabs hold of my feet, as I kick to get free.