Broken Lands (Benny Imura 6)
Sombra wagged his tail.
Gutsy changed into her darkest pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and a navy-blue vest. Black socks and sneakers, too. She filled the pockets with items from the rows of mason jars mounted floor to ceiling in her bedroom. Spools of wire, matches, water-purifying tablets, first aid stuff, small folding tools, and more. The bottom drawer of her dresser had dozens of different knives in it, ranging from boning knives for fishing to deadly fighting knives scavenged from long-dead soldiers. Gutsy strapped two different-size fighting knives to her belt and slipped a folding lock-knife into a pocket. She had no firearms and wasn’t a fan of them anyway. Too noisy. In the end, she opted for a twelve-and-three-quarters-inch crowbar that weighed a little over a pound. Very tough, but light enough to swing fast. It was useful as a tool and a weapon. She slid it through her belt.
After patting herself down to double-check that she had everything she needed, Gutsy went to the kitchen, filled a canteen, and put that, along with some jerky and a bag of nuts, into a backpack, and padded them with a waterproof nylon poncho for warmth and in case it rained. The last thing she took was the field hockey stick from the umbrella stand. It was sturdy and dangerous.
Then she paused and looked down the hallway toward the closed door to Mama’s old room. Empty now too. It would always be empty. Even in the unlikely event that Gutsy came back here, even if she used that room for something else—a workroom, maybe, or storage—it would always be Mama’s room, and it would always be empty of her. The heartache, which simmered constantly beneath the surface, threatened to bubble up, and Gutsy almost stopped. And stayed. It was still possible.
Maybe.
That lie tugged at her, wanting her to believe it. Gutsy felt herself leaning toward it, needing to believe that everyone would be okay, that this was silly, that she could wish things back to the way they had been because accepting the truth was just too big.
But she shook her head. Even the most appealing lie can never be made real by wishing it so. That was how people broke themselves. Maybe Karen believed a lie because she had her daughter to think of. Maybe she had to. Maybe some of the town council believed they were doing what was best for everyone. That was the lie—or maybe warped truth was more accurate—the scientists in the lab told the soldiers. How many of them knew the real truth? How many of them believed the adjusted truth because it was the only way they could survive emotionally?
Did Mama know the truth and accept a lie in order to protect Gutsy?
The memory of her words came back harder than ever. Mama had known something. How much she’d known was uncertain, but Gutsy had to accept the truth that Mama knew about the Rat Catchers. It made her feel sorry for how she’d treated Karen. How many mothers—and fathers—in New Alamo knew the truth and lived a lie in order to keep their children safe?
Even the Chess Players had known something was going on.
Everyone seemed to know something except her. No . . . except the kids. The little ones and the teenagers like her and her friends. Was that how it always was? Did parents hide harsh truths from their children and in doing so accept injuries and shackles and pain? Gutsy thought back to the things she’d learned in history classes. People living in fear, living in war-torn countries. How, after all, had parents felt during the Second World War and the Vietnam War all those years ago, knowing that when their sons came of age the draft would be waiting to whisk them away? What lies had Jewish mothers been forced to tell their children while boarding the trains to the death camps? How had Mama’s parents rocked her to sleep when she was little, knowing that at any minute immigration police could kick their door in and send them back to poverty and starvation?
How?
How was any of it possible? How could anyone bear it?
Gutsy thought about what she would do if she ever became a mother herself. The world was a horror show. If she held a child in her arms while dead hands beat on the door, what lies would she be willing to tell to make it all okay?
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
“It’s the way it is,” she said out loud. Her voice sounded loud and hollow and false in the empty house. And even though those words were true, she realized she’d said them to convince herself of a lie. That lie was so subtle, so tricky. By saying that things were the way they were, by trying to stand on solid logical ground, Gutsy was trying to build a case for herself—Miss Practical—to be able to deal with whatever.
Lies were sneaky like that.
Sombra whined softly, needing comfort. Like a child who did not know the truth. And yet as Gutsy knelt to pet him, she felt the sca
rs of tooth and whip. Sombra knew. But, like her, he didn’t want to know. Not really.
Not unless he could actually, truly do something about it.
“I don’t think we’re ever coming back here,” said Gutsy to the house. Sombra opened his eyes and looked up at her. She bent and kissed him and he licked her nose. It made her laugh, but the laugh was thin and fragile and the empty room drained it away.
Gutsy wasn’t taking Gordo and the wagon, so that would simplify things. She knew a dozen sneaky ways to get through the walls, and at least three of those would work for Sombra as well.
Fine.
“Come on, boy,” she said, and Sombra trotted over. “Let’s go hunting.”
The dog wagged his tail.
Gutsy and Sombra went out of the house by the back door, took a cautious route through back alleys to the stables, and slipped inside unseen. It was dark in there and she had to search by feel, but there in the back of the wagon was the leather collar she’d removed from Sombra. She held the collar out to Sombra, who was nearly invisible in the darkness.
“Find them,” said Gutsy.
Sombra’s response was a low growl of nasty intent. His tail wagged with excitement.
Gutsy and the coydog left the barn and ghosted their way to Cargo Town, slipped through one of the hidden exits, and were gone into the Broken Lands.
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