Broken by Susan Jane Bigelow

Author:Susan Jane Bigelow [Bigelow, Susan Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Candlemark & Gleam
Published: 2011-01-21T16:00:00+00:00

[CHAPTER 16]

Michael and Monica sneaked out of town under the cover of darkness, trying to avoid police, Black Bands, and anyone else who might be feeling nosy. They stuck to back roads and traces of trails, bearing generally south and west as much as they could. Fat, powerful hoppers and light, skinny zippers streaked constantly overhead, searchlights emanating from their metal bellies.

"Think they’re looking for us?" Monica whispered.

"Maybe," Michael said. "Or just looking for anybody."

They dodged into a wooded area, and lost themselves between the trees. They could still hear aircraft overhead, but they couldn’t really see them anymore. Once, a searchlight passed directly over them, but they held still and were not seen.

"Jesus, help me now," Monica said softly.

Michael stared at her as if she had grown another head.

"What?" she snapped.

"Nothing," he sighed. "Let’s keep going."

They trudged on through the snow and the thick undergrowth.

"So, what, you’re anti-religious?" Monica said, voice a little shaky.

"No," Michael soothed, trying to make peace. "No, nothing like that. I guess I just didn’t figure you…"

"Well, I’m not. Not really. I was a Catholic, when I was a little girl. But that was a long time ago, and I don’t really ever go to church, so…"

"…So?"

"So? So what? Who cares. Let’s keep going."

They walked in silence for a few more minutes.

"Hey," Michael said. "Look. My, uh, grandfather believed in God. He thought Val Altrera had a connection with God. He was sort of a Valenist, I guess."

"What, that crap about seeing the future? I heard about that. No one can…"

She trailed off. Michael spread his hands wide, grinning sheepishly.

"Yeah," she grumbled, "Well, you’re not very good at it."

Michael deflated. "I never thought what I can do comes from God, if that matters to you."

"Why should it? Who cares where it comes from?"

"Monica, I’m sorry—"

"Shut up, okay?" She sped up, and he had to struggle to keep up with her. Ian, snug in Michael’s pack, started to wail and moan.

"Monica, stop—I need to change him or feed him or something…" He knelt down in the snow and removed Ian from the pack. The kid didn’t stink; he must be hungry. Michael took a bottle of formula out from inside his coat where he’d been trying to keep it warm, and pressed it to Ian’s mouth. He slurped noisily, dribbling formula on Michael’s jacket, pants, and shoes.

"Monica!" he called. No answer.

"She’ll come back," he told Ian. "She’s just pissed. No, I don’t know why, either."

Ian looked up at him, dark eyes wide. Michael ignored the rush of possibility, and just held the little boy .

An inescapable sadness washed over him. Didn’t mothers always talk about how magical their children were? Was this what they meant?

Ian sucked contentedly on the bottle. The formula sloshed around and drained little by little. The night was cold, but Michael cradled the baby in his arms, keeping him warm.

"For right now," he said to Ian, "You’re my son. I’m never ever going to have a son of my own, so I hope it’s all right if I borrow you for a while.

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