The best result of their shenanigans for the day was the large bag of food in their possession, at least half of it edible. And another bag apparently buried in the dirt behind the hut. Newt intended to retrieve his clothes and journal before sunset, but first he wanted something to eat. He and Keisha had been digging through the canvas bag.
Newt held up a can of pre-cooked chili. The label was faded and the expiration date had passed but he didn’t care. In the apocalypse, beggars can’t be choosers. He wanted chili. He wanted chili bad.
“This,” he said. “This is our dinner. Please tell me that as you burgled half the neighborhood, you also burgled a can-opener.”
“Didn’t need to, smarty pants. I’ve got one of those fancy pocket knives that can do one-thousand-and-one things. Believe it or not, it even has a knife!”
She cackled at that one, thinking she was pretty damn clever. Newt liked to see it.
“Does your magical pocket knife also have some matches?” he asked. “I’m completely willing to suck down this chili cold, but if we can heat it up, I’ll be one happy Newt.”
“No, but I have flint and steel. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to do that or this whole thing is off. Surely, in this world of ours, you can start a fire without any matches.”
“Duh. Of course I can.” He couldn’t. They’d always had matches in the Glade.
“Good. Let’s gather some wood. I’m starving.”
* * *
Later that night, after he’d written in his journal and long after the sun went down, Newt lay curled up in the same corner he’d slept the night before—which seemed like a gazillion years ago. All was dark and all was quiet. Mostly quiet. Crickets chirped outside and Keisha was back to her soothing ocean-sound snore. Dante’s snore was also soft; Newt could almost believe a little puppy slept on the other side of the room. Weariness pulled at him like a sinking tide.
What had he gotten himself into? He didn’t regret what he’d done, what he’d promised Keisha. In fact, he cringed at the thought of not having done it. His mind kept going down rabbit holes of alternate endings to the day’s events. Chickening out. Keisha saying no. Not getting to Keisha in time, before she attempted bribing her way past the guards. Of course, the day could’ve gone a hundred disastrous ways—Crank Palace, apocalypse, all that. But they were alive, and they had a goal. He felt good.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t bloody nervous. Nervous as hell.
But a good nervous all the same.
When he’d written that curt, heartless note to Thomas and the others inside the Berg, telling them he was going to live with the other Cranks, he’d thought he had a plan. What an idiot. What did Minho always call idiots? Slinthead. That’s what Newt was and always would be.
But now he did have a plan. His plan even had steps. Find the man with the greasy hair. Jonesy. Tell him what he wanted. Figure out how to do it. Then do it. Simple as that. Save Keisha and Dante and then what happened after that, who cared. If that little family could—
A sharp pain stabbed Newt right behind the eyes. He heaved himself off his back, rocked forward, curled into a ball, grabbed the sides of his head with both hands. The pain didn’t stop, kept slicing back and forth inside his skull, as if someone were trying to saw his brain in half. He muffled the cries that wanted to leap from his chest; on some misty level of awareness he didn’t want to wake Keisha, didn’t want to alarm her. He squeezed his head, rubbed at his temples, prayed to all known gods that it would go away.
The pain lasted a minute at most. Probably more like 30 seconds. But then it faded, quickly descending into a dull ache, and then going away completely. He sat up, pushed his back into the corner, tried to catch his breath without being too loud. Holy hell, that had hurt. The relief from its absence was about as blissful a feeling as he’d ever had. He blew out a heavy huff and closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall. It had something to do with his memories, the Swipe. The virus had attacked it, maybe.
The episode had been triggered by those thoughts of Keisha and her kids. A mom, a son, a daughter. A mom, a brother, a sister. Newt didn’t understand the why’s or how’s or what’s. This is what he knew—he’d been stabbed with pain, and then the pain had vanished. And now…
Mom. Dad. Sister.
Newt remembered a little more.
Just enough to make him sad. Just enough to confirm that he needed something to keep him occupied or he would sink forever into the darkness. Sink and never see the light again. Yes. He had to keep occupied. Had to keep busy and leave a last tiny mark on the world.
Which is exactly what he planned to do.
Tomorrow, he’d talk to that Jonesy guy.
Part 2
Light at the End of the Freeway
