ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND
Continued from before
Hermione swept the bathroom with her eyes, unsure where to begin. Her gaze halted at the sight of her reflection. She moved forward until she was almost nose-to-nose with the full-length mirror and her eyes smarted at what the unforgiving glass revealed.
She wasn't sure if her own mother would have been able to recognize the old Hermione underneath the wild exterior. Her hair was worse than she had thought. It was all rat tails and tangles and dust. Dirt and broken leaves were interspersed everywhere. Christie was too kind, Hermione realized for the umpteenth time, in shock. How many people left on this earth would not have mentioned the state of her hair while she was cooking their dinner? Her clothes were not as bad, since she hadn't been wearing them very long, but they hung off of her more than she had ever realized. She was nothing more than skin and bones. She had scratches and scars all over her skin, skin that was deep brown and almost leathery in appearance. Her cheeks were red and chapped. Her eyes...they were much darker than before, the whites bloodshot and yellow-tinged, and she had prominent dark circles underneath them.
She took a few steadying deep breaths and began to rifle through the top right drawer for a pair of scissors. Christie had said they might be towards the back. She found them and pulled the large black scissors out, the dull metal heavy in her hand. Most of her hair was so stiff, it wouldn't move and would prove impossible to cut through. She brought the scissors next to her scalp, wedged the scissors in, and began cutting. It was a slow, awkward process and in the end there was a huge pile of hair and debris on the tiled floor.
A hand-broom and dustpan hung on a hook on the back of the bathroom door and Hermione used them to clean up the mess she had made. Afterwards, she avoided looking in the mirror and instead approached the shower and turned on the water, making sure it would be quite hot. She was still trembling when she climbed in, but groaned in relief at the powerful spray. Gratitude overwhelmed her and she leaned against the shower wall. She lowered her face down into her shaking hands and cried.
Hermione felt like a brand-new person by the time she towelled off, clipped her nails, brushed her teeth for five minutes straight with a spare toothbrush, and dressed in a pair of pyjamas and thick socks.
Christie had been married for a short time, he'd told her, and he still had many of his dear Laura's clothes in a chest in one of the spare bedrooms. He had given Hermione the room and told her to use everything, not to feel hesitant at all. 'She'd have wanted ye t' have them, sure enough, and I'm that glad I never got rid of the lot, to be sure,' he'd said. He'd left her to it and Hermione had run her fingers over the smooth dresses and slacks, overwhelmed. Everything was soft and feminine, old-fashioned, with edges of yellowed lace on some and small pearl buttons on the rest.
The pyjamas she now wore were a soft, flannel fleece, long sleeved and buttoned down the front. Hermione fingered the edge of a sleeve as she studied the mirror for the second time. Her very short hair was curling against her scalp. While it looked so wrong, it was a vast improvement, and she would grow used to it in time.
Hermione turned and unlocked the door and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Her bedroom. She tried not to give in to hysterical laughter—it was almost too much to take in. What a turn her life had taken.
She left the light off as she went in, exhaustion wearing on her bones. She pulled back the layered quilts and duvet one at a time and her hand sunk into the soft mattress. Her breath hitched. She eased onto the bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Her whole body almost hurt from the relief it felt. She stretched, popping her toes and her kneecaps and her back, and then lay limp under the radiating warmth of the covers. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks, but she was too tired to wipe them away. Her eyes closed of their own accord, heavy with drowsiness, and she drifted off.
THE EASTERN SEABOARD, UNITED STATES
Two years after The Fall
Rule number one: never go anywhere alone after dark.
It amazed Sam there were still idiots who did just that. She didn't have the time to stop and feel sorry for the kid slumped over near the edge of the alley, throat cut and eyes blank. Jackals, the strongest cob in Boston, had spray painted an X over his face. In a sick flaunting of their dominance, they always marked their victims.
The boy was stripped, his shoes, if he'd been cocky enough to have a pair, ancient history with the rest of his clothes.
Sam turned away from the body, tucking her chin-length black hair behind her ears, and was grateful Beth had stayed at The Hole.
Besides the corpse, there was no one in sight — which was why she went diving at first light. She approached a dumpster and braced herself on the edges, pulling herself up and over the top. She no longer noticed the smell. Ignoring the decomposing scraps, Sam sat on her knees and sorted through the trash. She lifted an old, torn newspaper and froze, her hand still holding the thin newsprint.
She could hear it now, a soft whining. Sam stared at the baby and it stared back. The thing was tiny. There was still blood in its hair and around the sides of its face and the poor thing was naked, with nothing to keep it warm. Sam started shaking. With trembling limbs, she pulled herself out of the dumpster and stumbled down the alleyway. She had to get away. Stopping after a few steps, she leaned against the side of the building. Her ears were buzzing and her stomach roiling. With a shudder, she leaned over and, still holding onto the wall for support, she threw up, then dry heaved, her throat burning.
Her shaking didn't stop. The baby's cries were weak and she could only just hear them, but they pierced her straight through her gut and she dry heaved again.
Sam wiped her mouth and forced herself to head back to The Hole. She made it as far as the front of the shop and stared at it, still shaking. Her fists clenched and unclenched as the baby's eyes floated before her vision. She stood there for a long time. Longer than she would ever want to admit to anyone. The chipped paint of the metal door swam before her eyes and for awhile she thought she might be sick again.
There was no conscious decision, one minute she was standing there and the next she was retracing her steps, breaking into a sprint. She climbed back over the edge of the dumpster and stared down at the newborn for a long moment and then picked him up, holding him close. He was cold. Sam slipped him under her sweater, trying to keep him as warm as possible. She climbed onto the edge of the dumpster, swinging her legs over with great care, and then hopped to the ground, holding him tight so he wouldn't be shaken.
Beth would never get over it if he didn't make it. She probably wouldn't either. But she couldn't do nothing.
