There were the impression of letters, she could just barely make them out: RONALD MCDONALD. The name seemed familiar; Savina decided it must have been an American president of about a hundred or so years before.
When the sun was just settling to the horizon Savina spotted a small group of deserted metal structures, just big boxes of rusted corrugated steel. It looked like a good shelter for the night, but before she could reach them she had to get across one last aqueduct and this one didn’t run under the road. There was a plank 8 inches wide and about 25 feet long which served as a bridge. She decided to crawl instead of doing a high-wire act; it wobbled and shook but she took her time and reached the other side. She paused there, staring into the water. The concrete sides were green with algae but the water was crystal clear. She scooped some with her hands and tasted it. It was sweet, and after her first mouthful her body realized it was thirsty. It took her several minutes to quench it.
Sated, she turned to the metal buildings – which looked like old aircraft hangers – snuck up on them in case they weren’t as deserted as they looked. She almost hoped to find someone because she was getting hungry again; maybe two dollars would buy her a meal out in the new wilderness.
The place was silent save for the calling of birds and the rustle of wind in the oak trees. Inside the building she scared a few pigeons – they flapped and jumped to new perches where they could keep an eye on her – but other than the pigeons she owned the place. It was just as well. Her weariness outweighed her hunger and she was content just to find a pile of old rags in a corner and collapse.
Another night on my own, she thought. I’m going to have a lot of stories to tell Dodd. A giant yawn escaped her, taking with it most of her energy. She lie there staring up at the dark, oiled timbers supporting the corrugated roof, her eyes half-closed, her heart beating in her ears. It seemed like she could hear the blood rushing through the veins in her head. The rags smelled musty but she was beyond caring about that. The sky outside deepened in color. The pigeons flapped restlessly in the rafters, nervous of her presence; she tried to see them, but it was getting too dark and she could only make out dull grey blobs.
She remembered another time she had spent lying in a quiet old ruin, felt the ghost-memory of Greg’s hand running lightly up her bare thigh. Involuntarily she hugged herself, remembering Greg hugging her. Loneliness welled up, mixed with a feeling of emptiness and frustration, and turning her head to one side Savina began to cry. For a while her tears flowed freely, but as the sky darkened her whimpers grew softer then faded out altogether, being replaced by slow, rhythmic breathing, and later when the sky was completely black the deserted building echoed with the sharp rasping sounds of snoring. Savina was in a deep sleep all night, a sleep without dreams, and in the morning she awoke in a patch of dawn sunlight which streamed in through a gaping, glassless window. Her muscles were stiff, sore. Her stomach was a gaping, empty pit.
I’ll pick up breakfast at the vendor on the way to school, she thought. Then she realized where she was. Images of a quick, neat breakfast died in the black pit of impossibility. She felt a longing for home where food was not a problem.
She stood up, stretched, and pulled twigs out of her hair.
Looking out the window she saw fields of wheat. Bread was made from wheat, she thought. If I had a phone I’d access the school library and find out how wheat turns to bread. It had something to do with grinding it, but that’s all she knew. Somewhere out there was a form of food she could eat without preparing, there had to be.
The pigeons above her cooed, and she looked up to see them staring down at her. She’d heard of squab, but never tried it. She might be able to hit one with a rock, but … what then? Savina had never been the kind to carry a pocket knife, and she had no idea how to clean and skin a bird – or any animal, for that matter. On the rare occasions that this problem would come up at home the kitchen autochef and its robot arms would take care of it.
She walked outside, looking around to make sure she was alone, then picked her way to a secluded clump of bushes and disappeared among them for a while. There were no public toilets out here. When she was finished she went to the aqueduct and washed up as well as she could, then moved upstream a ways and drank. When she looked up she saw a ground squirrel racing across the open toward its hole, pausing for a moment to look at her before diving in head-first. I guess that’s edible, she thought.
If it’s not diseased or something.
Not only did she not have a knife, she didn’t have a lighter either. How would she start a cooking fire? Rub sticks?
Savina was beginning to feel hopeless.
The morning was bright and cloudless, the air clear. Savina limped along with stiff legs down the path she’d followed the previous afternoon, still heading north, gazing hungrily off to the east and looking for something, anything, besides wheat. Then she stopped. It wasn’t because of something she saw, it was something she smelled. Burning wood and roasting meat. Spices. Her mouth started watering, and she spun around, sniffing, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It seemed to be from the west, back toward the city.
Savina followed the scent into the ruins of the perimeter.
There was a large building that had burned and crumbled away over the years to form a small mountain of rubble; on its slopes grew skinny trees and tufts of brush. In the shadow of its west side, amid oaks and gutted brick dwellings, was a man sitting in a folding chair next to a large barbecue. On the barbecue was what looked like a rabbit turning on an automatic spit. The man was wearing a business suit with rips in the legs and dirt matted into the material; on his lap a small portable terminal with a cable leading to a headset on his head. Beside him was a large hole in the ground. Every second or so a mass of dirt would come flying out of the hole, landing to the other side away from the man in the chair. In the background was a pair of tents and a Mitsubishi 4WD land cruiser, the kind sold with a water-conversion engine.
Savina pulled the two dollars out of her hat and walked out into the open, heading toward the man in the chair.
The man smiled at her. “You own me money?”
“I want to buy some breakfast off you.”
The dirt abruptly stopped flying from the hole and a black-haired man with a beard peeked over the edge. “What the hell?”
“We have a visitor,” the blond man said.
“Kid, this isn’t a restaurant,” the bearded man with the shovel told her. He climbed out of the hole and pulled a rag out of his pocket. He used the rag to wipe the sweat off his brow.
“I don’t eat much,” Savina said. “I’ll pay for what I take.”
“Put your money away,” the blond man said. “You can have some when it’s done.”
“Wiley,” the bearded man said.
“Oh relax. She’s hungry, we can share some food.”
“Are you alone, kid?” asked the bearded man.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’re traveling pretty light.”
Savina nodded. “That’s the way it turned out.”
“Do you live out here?”
“For now, yes.”
“Been out here long?”
Savina shrugged. “A while.”
The blond man was still smiling. “You’re a runaway, aren’t you?”
Savina began to feel defensive. “Not necessarily.”
“Not necessarily?” The blond man laughed.
“You look like one,” the bearded man said. “I’m thinking that someone wants you to look like one.”
“Who?” Savina asked.
“Don’t listen to him,” the blond man said. He took off the headset and stood up, putting the computer on his chair. He unfolded another chair and offered it to Savina. “My name’s Wiley and his is Aaron. Here, sit. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” She sat. “My name is Savina. I’m really glad I found you guys out here. What are you doing, camping?”
“Let’s set some ground rules straight here,” Aaron said. “You don’t ask us what we’re doing here, and we won’t ask you what you’re doing here. Fair enough?”