Page 18 of Crossed (Matched 2)


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“What about a rebellion?” I ask as we reach the edge of town. “Does anyone out here ever talk about something like that?”

“No,” the boy says flatly. “We don’t. ” He stops. “Take off your coats. ”

We stare at him. He laughs a little as he pulls off his coat and loops it through the strap of his pack. “You won’t need it for long,” he tells us. “You’ll get warm fast enough. ”

Indie and I pull off our coats, too. Our black plainclothes blend with the night.

“Follow me,” he says.

Then we run.

After a mile, only my hands are still cold.

Back in the Borough I ran barefoot on the grass to try to help Ky. Out here I wear heavy boots and have to run around rocks that threaten to turn my ankle and yet I feel lighter than I did back then, and lighter by far than I ever felt running on the smooth belt of the tracker. I’m filled with adrenaline and hope; I could run forever this way, running to Ky.

We pause to drink, and I feel the icy water thread through me. I can trace its exact path down my throat to my stomach, a trail of cold that makes me shudder, once, before I twist the lid back onto the canteen.

But too soon I start to tire.

I trip on a rock, dodge a bush too late. It sinks its teeth, its prickly seeds, into my clothes and my leg. Our feet crunch in frost. We’re lucky there is no snow; and the air is desert-cold, a sharp, thin cold that tricks you into thinking you aren’t thirsty, because breathing is like drinking in ice.

When I reach up and touch my lips, they are dry.

I don’t look back over my shoulder to see if anyone chases us or swoops through the night to hover over our shoulders. We have enough to watch out for straight ahead. The moon gives sufficient light that we can see, but we risk the flashlights now and then when we come to shadowy places.

The boy turns his on and swears. “I forgot to look up,” he says. When I do, I see that, in our struggle to avoid little ravines and sharp-edged rocks, we have begun to turn around.

“You’re tired,” Indie says to the boy. “Let me lead. ”

“I can do it,” I say.

“Wait,” Indie tells me, her voice tight and tired. “I think you might be the only one who’ll have enough left to run us in at the end. ”

Our cloth

es catch on tough spiky bushes; the sharp smell in the air is distinct, dry. Could it be sage? I wonder. Ky’s favorite smell from home?

Miles on, we stop running in a line. We run side by side. It is inefficient. But we need each other too much.

We’ve all fallen. We all bleed. The boy’s injured his shoulder; Indie’s legs are scraped; I fell into a small ravine and my body feels battered. We run so slow we almost walk.

“A marathon,” Indie breathes. “That’s what you call a run like this. I heard a story about it. ”

“Can you tell it to me?” I ask her.

“You don’t want to hear it. ”

“I do. ” Anything to keep my mind off how hard this is, how far we still have to go. Even though we draw closer, any steps at all begin to feel like too many. I can’t believe Indie can talk. The boy and I both stopped miles ago.

“It was at the end of the world. A message had to be delivered. ” She breathes hard, her words grow choppy. “Someone ran to deliver it. Twenty-six miles. Like us. He made it. Gave the message. ”

“And then they rewarded him?” I say, my breath ragged. “Did an air ship come down and save him?”

“No,” she says. “He delivered his message. Then he died. ”

I start to laugh, which isn’t good for saving breath, and Indie laughs, too. “I told you that you wouldn’t want to hear it. ”

“At least the message got through,” I say.

“I guess,” Indie answers. As she glances over at me with a smile still on her face, I see that what I have mistaken for coldness in her is actually warmth. There’s a fire in Indie that keeps her alive and moving even in a place like this.

The boy coughs and spits. He’s been out here longer than we have. He sounds weak.

We stop talking.

A few miles still out from the Carving, the air smells different. Not clean, like the plant smell from earlier, but dark and smoky, like burning. As I look across the land, I think I see glimmers of embers, shifts in the light, bits of amber-orange under the moon.

I notice another scent in the night—one I don’t know well, but that I think might be death.

None of us say anything, but the smell keeps us running when almost nothing else would, and for a little while, we don’t breathe deep.

We run forever. I say the words from the poem over and over to the beat of my feet. It almost sounds like someone else’s voice. I don’t know where I find the air and I keep getting the words wrong: From out our bourne of death and space the flood will wash me far but it doesn’t even matter. I never knew that words might not matter.

“Are you saying that for us?” the boy gasps out, the first time he’s spoken in hours.

“We’re not dead,” I say. No one dead feels this tired.

“We’re here,” the boy says, and he stops. I look at where he points and I see a group of boulders that will be difficult, but not impossible, to climb down.

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