Discord's Apple

“She said for me to come alone.”

“And you can’t let her have the apple.”

“All right,” she said finally. “Half an hour. But then I’m giving her the apple.”

Slowly, he nodded. “Where will you be in the meantime?”

Evie said, “Behind the office at the northwest corner of the cemetery.”

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Um—don’t you think you should change your shirt?” She pointed at him, where drying blood covered his front.

He looked at himself, shrugged. “I’d forgotten. Never mind.” He made a loose-handed salute to Evie, nodded briefly at the others, and ran down the side street along the trailer park.

Staring after him, Arthur crossed his arms. “What a strange man.”

Bruce had ten minutes to pack everything he thought he’d need for the foreseeable future—surely only a week or two—into a couple of bags. Some clothes, a first-aid kit, matches, food and bottled water, sleeping bag, winter coat. A desert island book. Or five. He spent a full minute standing in front of the bookshelves, trying to pick. He had a bunch of files on his laptop, but the battery would last only so long.

It was only for a few weeks.

Then why was his stomach in knots, and why did this feel like it was going to be forever?

Callie, her auburn hair tied up in a disheveled knot,

looking domestic in a sweatshirt and jeans, stood by the door, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She was tapping her foot, fidgeting, wanting to leave and trying to be patient, for him. Her face was pale. She kept glancing out the open door, to where James’s SUV waited at the curb, its motor running. Bruce almost dropped his bags and ran to hug her right then, if for no other reason than to make her smile.

She was his desert-island book.

He had one more thing to do. He dialed the number for Evie’s cell phone. The phone rang and rang, his stomach clenched tighter and tighter, until her voice mail clicked on.

He didn’t have time to wait for her to call back, so he left a message.

“Evie. Some of us—me and Callie, James, his roommates—are leaving the city. James has a place in Napa. It’s not safe here anymore. So we’re running. I don’t know when we’ll be able to come back. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back to work. I just wanted you to know, Evie, working with you on Eagle Eyes was great. The best work I’ve ever done. You helped me do better than I ever thought I could. Thanks. Maybe we can do it again sometime. I’ll see you. When this all blows over.”

Sighing, he turned off his phone.

Comics took up no space at all. They were flat and inconsequential. He grabbed a few copies of Eagle Eye Commandos sitting next to his worktable and shoved them into his bag.

Three hours later, they were speeding north on 1-5. Behind them, smoke towered above the burning city.

______

Hera asked the Wanderer to walk with her along one of the paths in the cemetery. They left the car parked in the middle of the grounds. Robin was in the backseat watching Frank, who’d sat stiff and silent for the last hour. They all watched for the daughter. One way or another, she would come.

Despite his withdrawn nature, the Wanderer was handsome and polished. She could take him anywhere, and his manners would do him credit. He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket and offered it to her. She drew one from the pack, and he took one himself. He lit hers with an antique Zippo, then his own. Smoking was a way to delay, to draw out time. She knew the Wanderer used it as another way to read people: how they held the cigarette, how they exhaled, did they do so nervously, or did the movements calm them. She could let him think he was reading her, learning more about her—confiding in him bound him to her. If he felt he was a partner—or even a paramour—and not simply a soldier, he’d be more loyal to the goal.

“Do you think he could be persuaded to join us?”

“Who, the old man? Walker?” he said.

“Yes. Assuming the daughter fails to cooperate, we might convince him to give us the Storeroom. For a price, of course.”

The Wanderer looked at the flat horizon and shook his head. “I don’t think he has a price.”

“Not even a cure for his illness?”

His lips curled. “His illness frightens him. But he won’t try to avoid it.”