Page 20 of Juniper Unraveling

After all, darkness is when the monsters come out.

We’d hear them, sometimes, roaming the streets, their moans and the pounding on the doors. My father would keep watch by the window until morning, with his gun lying across his lap. As frightening as the moments were, those were the times I felt most safe. When he sat nearby. Always watching.

I pray my mother is right, that my father still watches me, because I think bad things happen here.

And by the sound of those screams, these nightmares are more terrifying than the monsters.

Chapter 6

Wren

The wall presses into my back, as I sit staring through the pillars of trees all around me. An hour must’ve passed, judging by the new position of the sun in the sky, beating through the tops of the branches. I bend forward and peer through the hole again, taking in the clicking sound of the Ragers teeth and the scuffle of their feet against the dirt.

No sign of Six, though.

In an hour, I’ve climbed the sycamore at least a dozen times, and when I push to climb again, a scream catches my attention, halting me in my tracks. Peering through the hole brings two soldiers into view, where they stand on the lookout towers with their guns aimed downward.

One shoots twice, and the screams die away.

Please don’t let it be Six.

An ache in my chest throbs while I count down the seconds from my last breath. Has he been caught sneaking around? Perhaps they mistook him for an escaped Rager? A thousand different scenarios race through my mind, all at once, while I try to envision the soldier’s target. My mind settles on the singular thought that whoever it was, it wasn’t Six.

It wasn’t. It can’t be, because no one that extraordinary should die in such an ordinary way.

I hardly know this boy, if at all, and yet, the thought of never seeing him again weighs heavy on my heart for some unknown reason.

I don’t dare climb the tree for fear the guards will see me. Instead, I wait, praying that, any moment, I’ll see the profile of a boy blocking my view of the Ragers.

Another hour passes.

A sting hits my arm, drawing my attention toward the scratches I’ve dug into my skin there. What started as a crawling sensation across my bones has become an obsession that I can’t leave alone now—particularly as the skin has dried and inflamed with each scrape of my nails.

The sun is farther along in the sky now, so I push to a stand and head back. On this side of the wall, we don’t have the Ragers to fear at nightfall. And aside from walking in complete blackness when the electricity goes down for the night, it’d be a fairly peaceful hike. But night is when the Mediators roam the streets, keeping watch. They enforce a strict curfew of eight o’clock, and anyone caught on the streets is said to suffer the consequences.

I’ve no idea what those consequences are, as I’ve never broken the rule. Not for their sake, but Papa’s. I’d never disappoint him that way.

There’s still plenty of light to make it home before he gets back, though. And like the day before, I left supper to simmer on the stove. All meals have to be cooked before the sun goes down. The turbines to generate power at night require gasoline, and most of the natural resources died out years ago, so by day, we prepare the meals, and at night, we settle in for the darkness.

Even though I’m safe here, the night still gives me the creeps. Unfortunately, I don’t remember much of my childhood to know why.

It’s nearly dusk when I walk the road toward our homestead. As I pass Mrs. Miller, she gathers up her laundry from her drying line and waves. She and her husband have two kids—both young boys, who frequently dress in black capes and play Legion out in the front yard. Nice people, who mostly keep to themselves, but they’d never survive outside of the walls. Naïve as mice in a snake pit. They don’t farm, or hunt, at all. Pretty much all their food comes from the market—or Papa, when he’s feeling generous.

She’d be the first to go, no doubt. My mind conjures images of those crisp white sheets she pulls from the line spattered in blood, while a Rager feeds on her throat.

Double-blinking the thought away, I wave back to her.

Our house is the farthest out, situated on a cul-de-sac of homes arranged in a pattern that reminds me of the geometry problems in my workbooks. A, B, C, D. All some variation of the Mediterranean Revival architecture, in a palette of pale colors that don’t lend much distinction. Papa could live in the fancy Villa side of the community, if he wanted, but he says he’d be selling his soul if he did, so we stay in Phase Two. The homes are nice, but they’re definitely not the mansions that house the other physicians here.

Two empty lots separate us on either side from the adjacent houses, but the style remains consistent with the others. A red-tiled roof, with two thick pillars, makes up the entrance, accented by tall arches and wrought iron, and teaming with potted medicinal plants. I snap off the tip of an aloe leaf and ooze the clear fluid over the scratches on my arm, instantly soothing the burn.

Sometimes, I visualize baby spiders, or a thousand ants crawling out of tiny holes in my skin, which is why I scratch so obsessively. I credit that to one of Papa’s medical books, in which I happened to stumble upon trypophobia. The images on the page somehow seared themselves into my head, and I’ve been horrifically disturbed by them ever since.

Pushing those thoughts down as deep as I can, I focus on the delicious scent of boiled meat and spices that permeate from the kitchen. Not having eaten for most of the day, the scent waters my mouth as I cross through the gradually-darkening living room toward it.

A roiling cloud of steam drifts upward, as I remove the lid from the pot, inhaling the savory aroma of dinner. The bread I baked earlier sits wrapped in cheesecloth on the counter beside the stove. All the ovens in Szolen are electric, part of the community’s original design before the world went to hell.

I’ve made more than enough for Papa and me, and though we’ll store some away for lunch tomorrow, I’ll be sure to set aside a bit of it for Six, assuming he’ll show up.