Welcome back to a second chapter! As you've probably seen in the tribe, characters ran into each other but the camera often followed several characters at once until the met at the mall. In keeping with this theme, this chapter will follow two more characters before the meeting. Thank you for being patient and I hope you all enjoy reading this second installment! It's a bit longer than the last, as this focuses on two characters. Cheers!

-K.M. Thompson

Ch. 2 Ties That Bind: Joyce and Diem

If there was one thing Joyce hated, it was the rain. Not because it meant she couldn't go outside, but because it always reminded her of the day her parents had died from the virus. Truthfully she had never loved them; but she hadn't really hated them either. After all, how could she miss some one when they were never around? Her mother had always been busy researching in her hospital and her father had spent most of his time in Washington defending politicians who were trying to cover their tracks through highly paid lawyers like himself. She grimaced as she remembered once more the last conversation she'd had with her mother before she'd died.

'Joyce, I assume you've been watching the news?'

'Yes, mother." Really she'd spending most of her time painting since the rain had ceased to let up for the past three days. Joyce flipped on the TV anyways, because she knew her mother would be listening to the background. God she hated when her mother called.

'Then you know that I don't have much time left. The virus is spreading much faster than anticipated…and we haven't found a cure quite yet. I need you to make sure the penthouse is locked up alright?'

Joyce stared at the phone in complete shock, and then stared at the TV. In a red ribbon on the bottom of the screen words flashed in capital letters asking for the evacuation of all adults, and instead of her regular art program, it had been taken over by the news, where the news casters look more terrified than the people they were interviewing.

'…the carpet. Joyce? Are you listening to me?'

'Sorry, the news was on. Are they evacuating kids too?'

'I have no idea. But you need to make sure the penthouse is locked up. My diamonds are there. The spare key is under the carpet by the door, remember?'

'Yes, I remember.' She knew her tone was snappy, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Wasn't her mom worried about her? Didn't she care that the air was filled with a virus and she might catch it if she left to check on their precious apartment?

'Mother, does the virus affect everyone?'

'They won't say. It's all being kept under wraps and it's becoming exceedingly vexing. Now listen, it's very important that you hide your father's stocks. God knows who will try and steal them if we die. And make sure that you get—"

Her mother's voice was cut off as Joyce pressed then 'end' button on her cell phone. Slowly, still in shock, she sat down on the couch, trying to wrap her mind around the images that seemed burned into her eyes. The virus that everyone had said was nothing more than a hoax...Joyce looked to the TV again and turned the volume up when she heard her phone ring. With growing horror she watched the images of adults as they were shuttled off onto trains, and men and women in white suits were leading them through plastic lined halls. The reporter was crying and telling his children he loved them as he himself was loaded into the hallway lined with plastic. The last thing she heard as she left was her cell phone ringing and the insistent pounding of rain on the windows.

The dull clap of thunder overhead brought Joyce back to the present and to the reality of her life. She looked around herself and smiled a bit grimly. The concrete cellar under an old building already looted and damaged by teens was a far cry from the massive and airy penthouse she'd been living in. She'd covered the walls with shimmering fabric she'd found in an abandoned apartment and furnished it with a used mattress and several plastic lawn chairs. Thanks to a backup generator, Christmas lights kept the place cheerfully lit, making her feel more at home than she had anywhere else.

Almost a week after she'd gone to the penthouse that resided on the 89th floor all of the adults were dead, and the teens and children ran through the streets of New York in unfettered chaos. Buildings were picked apart and smashed, and Joyce watched from the large wall of windows as the bodies of kids and teens alike were left in the streets in the aftermath of the screaming and yelling. When the older teenagers had gotten a hold of guns she closed the blinds and kept them that way until they ringing shots and screaming had subsided. After that she'd left the apartment with several bags of nessessities and clothing. She left her mother's diamonds.

"I need some air."

As usual, no one responded to her answer and Joyce sighed. She might not have liked being in a crowded city, but she missed the simple pleasure of walking down the bustling streets without fearing for her life or talking to the few people she'd considered friends. Shrugging into the a thick thigh length black coat that she'd taken from her mother's closet, Joyce looked into the mirror she'd salvaged that rested on the table across from the bed. Her dyed black hair was still cut in its sleek 1920's bob that was given a modern edge thanks to the side bangs, and her slender face contained the usual slightly full lips and rich brown eyes that tilted upwards ever so slightly.

Slinging her leather side bag onto her shoulder she used for picking up items she might find, Joyce opened the metal door that kept the rest of the world away. It look heavy and broken, of which it was neither. Trudging up the two flights of stairs Joyce was pleased to note that it had stopped raining, however the clouds hung low in the sky, hiding the tops of sky scrapers and throwing a hazy gray mist around the rest of city, making it appear more dismal than it already was. It would probably rain again soon, and if it was heavy enough, she could take a shower in it. She was about two miles out of Main Street, just out of interest to most of the kids who had formed tribes and stayed in the inner city and fought amongst themselves. Shifting her bag on her shoulder she began to walk towards the stores she knew still held paints and paper. The scavenging yielded fair results and she would be able to paint a lot more than she had thought.

Picking her way through the trash she started to exit through a hole in the wall when she heard a noise coming from the ally to her right. Freezing she quickly pressed herself against the wall and listened, her heart pounding and her hair standing up on the nape of her neck. She heard the sound again, and recognized it as metallic sounding; and it was followed by a groan. Joyce closed her eyes. She had to go. If someone was hurt then that meant the attackers could come back…would come back, and there was no way she was going to get caught up in any tribe war. Pushing away from the wall, Joyce began to make her way once more through the hole, the rain finally starting to come down.

"Help me...s-someone…please help."

Joyce paused and then groaned. The voice sounded young and in pain.

'Just walk away Joyce, there's no reason to help anyone. You know you can't just take in any poor kid you feel sorry for.'

"Please…someone…"

"Dammit." Stomping her foot Joyce whirled around and headed for the ally. She was tired of not helping; of watching small children wander the streets too tired and starving and scared to even talk. She could afford one. She could take care of one at least. Her senses on hyper drive, Joyce crept down the ally, keeping as close to the wall as possible and searching for any signs of people hiding. Keeping her hand to on the knife she'd tucked into the jeans, Joyce narrowed her eyes through the mist and caught sight of a red shoe protruding out from behind a trash bin.

Seeing that the coast was clear, Joyce walked around to the side of the trash bin and looked down to see a boy badly beaten and nearly unconscious. His clothing was torn and bloody, his face streaked with dirt and scratches; not to mention bruises that looked like they were already swelling on his cheek and head. His black hair was matted and though he didn't look to be too old, it was hard to guess his age. Hesitantly she kneeled next to him and tore off the remains of his shredded shirt. He moaned but didn't complain or try to stop her, and Joyce tried as quickly as possible to check for broken bones. His arms and legs were fine, but when she made for his ribs his hand grabbed her wrist, startling her. Black eyes filled with pain looked into her and he shook his head, his lips pursed.

"Broken…a-a metal bat…"

'Poor kid can't be any older than ten or eleven.'

Joyce looked down at his ribs and noticed they were swelling and already dark. There was nothing she could do here to help him.

"I'm going to help you up, but its going to hurt. Nod if you understand."

The boy's face was scrunched in a grimace, but he nodded his head, screaming hoarsely as she pulled him to his feet.

"Shhh! I know it hurts, but you don't want them to come back do you? Stay as quiet as you can. I live about ten minutes from here. Do you think you can make it?"

Again the boy nodded his head and Joyce carefully put his arm around her waist. The rain that had started as a light rain was growing steadily worse. Next to her the boy's breath came out in hissing puffs. The ten minute walk took much longer than she though due to his slow pace, and by the time she got them both down the two flights of stairs, she understood now how the expression 'like a drowned rat' came about. Setting him on her bed Joyce stripped the wet clothes from his body and covered him with several blankets before locking the metal door and changing into dry clothes herself. Feeling warmer and infinitely safer, Joyce walked over to the boy to get a better look at him.

His skin was darker, and he was lanky in build, and judging from his slight accent when he'd spoken, she'd say he was Indian; or perhaps Indonesian. His cuts were very deep—lucky for him—and in the light his bruises weren't as dark and large as they had looked in the ally. Gently she peeled the blankets back and sucked in her breath. His skin was almost purple around his lower ribs.

"Sorry about this kid."

Knowing it would hurt no matter how careful she was, Joyce ran her fingers along his ribs to see how severe the breaks were. The boy cried out several times, making Joyce wince. His ribs weren't broken she noted with relief, but they were cracked. She could deal with cracked ribs—she hadn't been neatly groomed to become the next prominent doctor by her mother for nothing. Getting out the bandages and antiseptic she kept in a trunk, Joyce cleaned his wounds and bound his ribs. The boy groaned, but never cried, and Joyce to admit he was being a pretty brave guy. She thought about feeding him, but knew he would be too exhausted and sick to really keep anything down.

'Tomorrow is as good a time as any. And then we'll get some answer out of him.'

***

The first thing Diem realized was that he wasn't dead. The second was that he was in severe pain. Opening bleary eyes he frowned as his gaze came into focus. He wasn't in an ally way anymore, which he supposed was good—unless it meant he'd been dragged away and was going to be tortured later. He tried to sit up but it felt as if someone was squeezing his lungs and the world spun around.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, kid. You've a got a couple of cracked ribs and a bruise on your head. How are you feeling?"

Diem turned his head to the sound of a girl's voice and was more than startled to see a girl sitting in a chair, a cup of—was that tea?—in her hands.

"Fine…I think…" His voice came out harsh and raspy, and he tried to cough to clear his throat.

"Here, I got you some tea. It's not great, but it's better than nothing."

Diem accepted the cup, and winced as she helped prop him against the wall with pillows. Looking around he felt like he'd found a small oasis. Everything was so neat and clean…although it did smell a lot like paint. And judging from the canvases lining the walls, he'd guess she was the one painting them. Diem looked down at his ribs, which were bound with linen. His face felt like a thousand needles were stinging in it. The girl seemed to understand because she gave him a smile that made her look much more approachable.

"You're going to be in a little pain for about a week. Your ribs will probably take two or three though. What's your name, anyway? I've been calling you 'kid' for the past two days."

"Two days!?"

"You had a pretty high fever, and a good lump on your head. Its pretty natural forget things like time. Your name?"

"Oh. Right." Diem frowned and took a sip of the tea. It was cold. Figured. "My name is Diem. It…it used to be Dexter but my dad…."

"I understand. Its better to forget the past any ways. We won't get it back. I'm Joyce by the way. You can call me Joy if you want." He watched her fiddle with her cup and then took a sip of his own.

"So…where are you from Diem? You have an accent."

"I'm from here, but dad…he was from India. How about you?"

"Born and raised right here in the Big Apple. Why is it I found you left for dead in the ally?"

For a moment Diem saw the faces that had sneered at him, the matted hair, the blood on their clothes, and the markings. He wished he'd blacked out before he'd been surrounded.

"I was on my way out of the city, and I got caught by this gang wearing red bandan—"

"The Bulls. They're pretty nasty. Your lucky your alive."

"I guess so. If you call living in this city lucky."

"You can say that again. Where you going to go?"

Diem looked at Joyce over the rim of his cup, wondering how much he could trust her. For all he knew she could be part of a tribe as well. But she didn't look like she belonged to one; she didn't have markings and there were no signs of anyone else living here. But there was something in her eyes, the way she held herself, like she could see your every thought. Like she cared. Diem finished the rest of the tea quickly; he hated cold tea.

"I was heading anywhere there weren't tribes. The country side, if I can. I know how to plant things, and I have a bag full of seed packets to get me started. My dad…he, um…he was a lawyer for environmentalists and I got to talk with a lot of them. I learned a lot…I was going to be a lawyer too, and help my dad. But then…"

The image of his father's smiling face came unwanted, and Diem felt the hot sting of tears. He missed him so much. He missed their late night conversations, the days they went hiking, the days when he watched his father valiantly defend the rights of conservationists. He didn't realize he was crying until he felt Joyce's arms circle gently around his shoulders and he was too upset to feel embarrassed. Had it really only been six months? It felt like years ago. He wished his dad were here. He would've known what to do. After several minutes Diem pulled away, and Joyce reciprocated, sitting back down on her chair. Rubbing his eyes with the cloth she'd offered him he wondered how old she was. She acted a lot like an adult…but she couldn't be.

"I'm sorry. I just…"

"Don't worry about it. Its hard on a lot of people, there's nothing to apologize for. So you're going to be farmer huh? That's a pretty nice thing to be right now. I never really thought about leaving the city…"

Joyce's words trailed off and she looked as if she were staring at some distant land. Diem recalled it was the same look his father would get whenever he was thinking about a new angle to use in court. While Joyce was lost in her thoughts Diem looked over at the mirror laying against the wall. His skin had lost some of its color so that he looked more of light brown, and it brought out his black hair and black almond shaped eyes. Scratches were on his face and a few bruises. He felt a bit better though, knowing that his wounds weren't as bad as he'd thought.

"Diem…I have a question for you."

"Sure."

"Would it be alright if I joined you? I don't know how much longer I could live in this city before I was caught and I don't want to be forced into a tribe. I've never seen anything green other than the plants in Central Park, but I have a ridiculous amount of medical knowledge."

"I thought you were an artist. You know…all the paintings." Diem swung his arm around the room and Joyce smiled.

"I am an artist. My mother just never got the memo. She was determined that I would be the prodigy child doctor she always wanted. I can help you if you get cut or infected…and I can barter my services if we run into trouble."

"Well…"

"Take a few days to think about it. We're safe here as far as I know. Get some rest and try and heal up."

Diem nodded his head and closed his eyes, his mind whirling with ideas, doubts, and thoughts. Over the course of the next few weeks he found that Joyce wasn't nearly as silent as he'd thought she was. She was always talking or joking around with him—mainly to cheer him up, he could tell—and she wasn't a half bad cook. She was seventeen and had been about to graduate from one the top schools in New York, which surprised him. She was so laid back and unpretentious it was hard to imagine her ever going to a preppy school. To his eleven year old eyes, she was the first real adult like figure he'd met. And with that came security. She was older…she would know what to do if something bad happened.

On the third week he found he could walk without his ribs hurting, though he was a little weak from being confined for so long. Joyce had gone out earlier to retrieve his bag which he'd hidden under the trash bin, and after he'd rifted through it to make sure the seeds were there he realized that he could go. He could leave and she wouldn't stop him. Diem looked over at Joyce, who was busy painting a picture, her hair a little disheveled and silver earrings dangling. Diem suddenly realized he'd never seen her without them on.

"Joyce?"

"Yeah?" She answered him with a distracted voice, and he hoped she wasn't so focused he didn't hear him.

"Do you…did you really mean what you said, about wanting to join me?"

Her brush paused mid stroked and she looked over her shoulder, an eye brow raised and a half smile on her lips.

"Of course. You know I wouldn't say something unless I mean it."

"I know…." She was the only family he had now. And he was tired of being alone. "I…if you want…you could come with me."

"And miss out on fresh air and a life without tribes? I was ready for that two months ago."

"Then we should leave soon." He could feel the pulse of excitement, and the breath he'd been holding along with his fears that she would refuse melted away. He'd made the right decision.

"We'll leave in the middle of the day…the tribes are usually sleeping by then. Any particular day you want to leave?"

"The sooner the better. Maybe in a couple of days."

"Sounds good to me." Joyce stretched and set her brush down before looking down at him.

"And where is it you want to head to? The south is a bad bet…probably all sorts of crazies there. Well…crazier than normal any ways."

Diem smiled and then chewed on his thumb nail as he thought. He didn't want to be near any major cities where tribes might have formed.

"New England."

"New England? Why?"

"There won't be a lot of people there, I'm sure of it. Its too cold and far away for people to want to leave the big cities. But its great for farming—the soil there is really rich. And there would be tons of abandoned farms and houses stuff too probably…"

"Then we'll leave tomorrow afternoon. How does that sound? There isn't much keeping us here is there?"

"Not really…"

"Tomorrow then."

"Yeah…tomorrow."

Diem watched as Joyce smiled and took a swig of water, and for the first time since he'd watched his father pass away, Diem felt hope begin to stir in him again. Things were finally starting to look up…and he wouldn't be alone any more. Perhaps the future wasn't so doomed after all.

Perhaps.