Lung-rot might not kill people anymore, but decades of quarantine killed plenty. Violence boiled over in the hot months, and exposure and fires ravaged the dwindling population in the cold. Chem killed, making dull-eyed fiends out of anyone who tried to numb the pain of starvation.
A flutter ran through Nate’s belly—fear or excitement or hunger. These days, it was hard to tell the difference.
The weight of his errand nagged at him. His gang was hungry.
And they were waiting.
Though she outpaced him, Val lingered. Her gaze darted to his trembling hands. “Haven’t I seen you around Victory Park?”
A prickle ran down Nate’s spine. He’d lived in that neighborhood once. Years before. She had no way of knowing that.
“No, I live by the market on 53rd.” Unsettled by her interest in where he lived, he forced himself to smile through the lie. “Always have.”
“My cousin’s family lives in the library over there. You know the place?”
Folks had converted the huge library into family housing decades ago, after the books had gotten torn up for bedding and kindling. It was one of the safer places to live—full of people raising little kids.
“Yeah, I see it every day.” Nate hadn’t seen it in months. The gang stayed away from that side of town. They didn’t steal from families.
“Maybe I’ll see you around.” A crooked tooth caught against her lip when she gave him a sly smile.
“Walk well, old lady.” Nate swung down a ladder, knowing Val wouldn’t follow if she really had somewhere to be. And if she did tail him, he’d lead her in circles until he passed out or she died of boredom.
“Gods watch you, Nine,” she replied easily. The roar of a passing train drowned out her laughter as she braced herself for the next blast of exhaust. The scorching air stung Nate’s skin.
When the cloud of dust and smoke faded, she was gone.
Nate skirted a tent city crowded in the bombed-out shell of a building. Some days, the people who lived there got fired up and strung out on chem and hurled rocks at the passing trains.
It was quiet today, colorful tarps sighing in the breeze. A handful of Servants in drab robes walked from tent to tent, murmuring prayers in hushed tones and asking after those frail with age and sickness. Nate had always been fascinated by them. They believed in the Old Gods, a mythology that, for most, had long been overtaken by science—by the things people did to each other with no help from the makers of the world. He longed for the simplicity of believing in something good.
He’d seen too much of the bad to have faith.
Still, the Servants intrigued him. They alone gave aid to the sick and suffering in the Withers. Those who were chosen by the Servants to join their ranks left behind their families and vowed to care for those who could not care for themselves. They lived together in sick-dens, helping anyone they could.
Feeling one of their gazes, Nate ducked his head automatically. Attention was rarely a good thing in the Withers, and he’d learned a long time ago to stay small and quiet. A short Servant with white hands and a face hidden by her hood stopped to watch him stumble along. She continued to study him too closely, and he let his hair fall into his face and hurried off—wary of questions. When he glanced over his shoulder, she was still watching him, her face shadowed by her hood.
Whatever she thought she had to offer, it didn’t matter. Servants’ prayers and salves couldn’t help him.
Two scrawny children chased a chewed-up plastic ball around in the mud and paused, watching Nate closely as he shuffled by. He offered a wave and earned a pair of scowls. A grin tugged at his dry lips. They were smart to be suspicious. It would keep them alive longer.
Nate approached the bustling heart of the Withers. The quarantined island had once been known as Winter Heights—the largest of the chain of islands that dotted the wide sludge-channel that ran through Gathos City.
Here, in the oldest neighborhood on the decaying island, the musical sound of voices echoed between crooked buildings. Nate crammed into a narrow alley, avoiding the crowded main street, his boots squelching through muck and filth on the pavement. It wasn’t easygoing, but at least he wouldn’t get flattened by a train or trampled.
He shook with exhaustion and braced himself against a rough brick wall to catch his breath.
The smell of rendered fat overtook the alley’s musty stench. His stomach rumbled, but he knew better than to fall for the oily scent of grease. Most street meat in the Withers was a mixture of guts and gravel.
And he couldn’t eat until he’d sold the gang’s haul and picked up enough food for all of them to share.
He might have enough time. The sun winked down at him between the slats of rusted fire escapes. As long as he kept this pace, he could make it to Alden’s for Remedy and over to the market before sundown. He wouldn’t be able to sell the fishing line there, but he could sell the rest.
Val’s words itched at him. He’d never liked the common prayer:Gods watch you.
Nate wanted to believe in the Old Gods—ancient makers of thunder and dirt and blood, according to Servants and old folks. But he knew where he came from.
Not from the deep jewel sea or the tall trees that had once stood against the storms that battered the islands of Gathos in the summer. Not from the gray sky or the green shadows of dusk. Not dropped from the beak of a fat gull, the way children sang when they pointed at the birds that rode the smog-breezes high overhead. In the Withers, babies were plenty—and died plenty too.
