Chapter 2: Famine

 

Even the inside of the Hive seems changed by the flare, as if the atmosphere itself has somehow adjusted to the tone of its populace. Where once the ruined shell of the North Pleasance Mall felt like an abandoned castle, everything on the inside now seems so much lighter.

The powdered cement and debris coating the floors doesn’t seem quite as forlorn. The dust hanging as motes in the air, in the right light, could seem like wisps, like little sparkles. Even the day fires are burning brighter. But mainly it’s the way that everyone seems to be smiling more.

Every level that Jarod and Gabriel traverse people nod at them, quiet smiles on their faces, even the sick and the infirm, or those struggling with ferrying heavy supplies up and down the stairs. Jarod’s even comfortable enough to let Gabriel take his hand. It’s interesting to see, considering just a few weeks ago so many of these same people were howling for Jarod’s blood.

And all this positivity, it could almost be too much, but Jarod takes it for what it is: a boost in the Hive’s general mood. If it means that it helps the residents go about their day to day with less of that hovering aura of depression that’s taken over Pleasance, flare or not, rescue or not, the benefits far outweigh the problems.

Somewhere along the way, as they descend the stairs, Gabriel’s fingers unlace themselves from Jarod’s. Nothing personal, clearly, just that Gabriel needs to keep his balance, or grab on to a bannister, or something. Still Jarod feels the absence. It’s silly to think, but his hand feels colder.

As cheerful as the upper levels were, as glowing as the sun bearing down on the rooftop itself, things are even more lively down in the atrium. It’s where the Hive has literally come abuzz with activity. The atrium doesn’t seem quite so gray anymore. The sunlight streaming in through the high windows even seems the faintest notch brighter.

The residents moving here and there aren’t quite as listless as they were weeks ago, transferring sacks of grain and supplies, transporting planks of salvaged wood and zinc to reinforce the barricades. Everything’s going smoother, quicker than before. People are smiling a little more, their spines a bit straighter. It gets Jarod thinking of how he used to put on a face back when he worked at the facility, how he wore an invisible mask and pretended to be fine with his everyday.

It’s hard to shake off this feeling, that there’s something creeping and lurking in the corners, this dread that’s waiting to strike just when no one’s expecting it. Being reminded of Vertex, of the gleaming white enormity of the research facility, that doesn’t really help much at all. Somehow just the thought of the company that created Paragon is enough to wear away at the confidence Jarod was trying to maintain.

In spite of the radiance practically spilling out of the courtyard, there are still some very visible pinpoints of doubt, or at least resistance still lingering in the atrium. Like eyes of a storm, still and somber while the atrium swirls and vibrates around them.

Just by the pantry, Tyler Torres is splayed out on a bench, one hand busily rubbing a whetstone against what looks like an enormous blade. Even from this distance Jarod can tell by body language alone that even the Hive’s strongest, quickest hunter has doubts about these recent events. Tyler pushes his hair angrily out of his eyes, finally tying it back, then smashing a baseball cap over it to hold it all in place.

A couple of benches down sits the matriarch Jarod knows only as Esther Prime, the Hive’s de facto leader, and a terrifyingly energetic creature considering how she has to be pushing seventy. Her face is dour, her jowls hanging even lower as she grimly sorts through canned goods for the pantry. In the garish hot pinks and leopard print of her jacket and leggings, Esther should, by rights, be the brightest thing to look at in the entire atrium. Yet even her perpetually coiffed beehive of hair looks a little lopsided.

The two sit several feet apart, but there they are, busy at separate things, a pair of black holes, twin vortices silently but efficiently sucking up the joy from out of the atrium. Just like that, the last few grains of hope Jarod was clutching slip through his fingers. He narrows his eyes and spots another bench between them in the dim light. There. That’s where he belongs. He could sit there and steep himself in whatever the two of them are feeling.

It’s strange, he knows, having such a different opinion of things considering how positively he felt about the Hive’s situation just minutes ago, when they were up on the rooftop. Maybe part of his brain is trying to play devil’s advocate, to show him the unsavory side of things should the worst case be true and the flare really didn’t mean anything at all.

Maybe it’s trying to prepare him for the grimmest possibility, that no one is coming. It bothers Jarod that he hasn’t truly decided where his heart lies in all this, whether in expectation or expectant disappointment. More than that, it bothers him that his brain seems to have already settled on giving up.

“Samuels,” Esther croaks from across the atrium. “Anderson. Over here.” She waves them over, her expression unchanged.

Jarod ambles over cautiously, with Gabriel in tow. His muscles are still sore from putting up that metal giant up on the rooftop, and it’s been a long day. Looks like it isn’t over just yet.

“Be a good pair of boys and help Esther out with the sorting.”

Jarod sighs, and Gabriel makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a grumble. Esther fixes them with a look, but it hardly wilts them. She heaves.

“I know you’re tired, but we need all the help we can get just now.” When neither of them budges, she adjusts her glasses and grimaces. “Fine. There’s extra snack cakes in the bargain if you shut up and don’t bitch about it.”

Jarod’s stomach rumbles very quietly. That’s a compelling enough incentive. Gabriel wordlessly gets down on his haunches and starts separating piles of food, unable to restrain the smile hiding behind his lips. Jarod holds back a grin of his own. The kid is so good at putting on masks and airs, but with some things, especially the things that make him happy, Gabriel can be so transparent. Jarod squats down by his side and gets to work.

From somewhere behind them comes Tyler’s familiar drawl. “Yeah, best the two of you help grandma out. She’s been moaning at me all day about those cans.”

“Torres, I swear,” Esther starts. “If I weren’t all the way over here I’d come over there and give you such a hiding.”

“I said I was busy, didn’t I?” It’s only then that Jarod makes out this uncomfortable grating noise, of stone scraping against metal. “I do my part for the Hive, too. I’m just another drone, and I’m just making sure my tools are sharp and well-oiled.”

Esther grumbles indistinctly, the tone of her complaints begrudging, yet in agreement with Tyler anyway. “Just be sure you don’t get too cocky. You’re lucky Magpie gave you that thing to begin with.”

Gabriel’s ears prick up. He sets a can down then cranes his neck over in Tyler’s direction. “Gave him what, now?”

Jarod turns his head, too, curious, and when he catches sight of the blade in Tyler’s free hand, his stomach turns with a tiny knot of envy. Magpie’s machete.

“She gave it to you?” Jarod can’t help gawping.

Tyler’s eyebrow raises, the expression smarmier than anything he could possibly say, but he opens his mouth and his words turn out even more irritating. “You jealous, Samuels?”

Jarod says nothing, but from beside him, Gabriel sets a can down heavily and speaks through a heavy pout. “I sure as hell am. Why’d she give it to you?”

Tyler sets down the whetstone and the machete, stretches his arms out, then shrugs. “Who knows, really.” He flexes his biceps and grins. Jarod grits his teeth. So maybe the two of them have been getting along better these past couple of weeks. Doesn’t mean he has to stop hating the guy completely. “Maybe it’s because she knows that the hero of the Hive needs something better to fight with. Something appropriately, you know, heroic.”

From the other cluster of benches, Esther guffaws. “Don’t flatter yourself, Torres. It’s a hand-me-down at best. She gave it to you because she probably has something better for herself. And because she saw all those times you drooled over it.” Esther tut-tuts with deliberate exaggeration. “Such a little boy.”

Jarod sets down a can, then risks a quick glance over at Tyler’s face. Predictably, the skin at his neck is going red, his bottom lip turning up with indignation.

“Well, yeah? Doesn’t matter. I’m going to need it anyway. We’re all going to need it for when the next big thing comes.”

Esther’s silence hangs over them like a pall. Gabriel quietly clears his throat. “The next big thing was upstairs. The climbing garden. We could’ve used your help with that, Torres.”

Tyler scoffs. “My help with what? Building castles in dreamland?”

Gabriel puts down another can in the meat pile, and Jarod adds another to the vegetable pile. The white cans, all distinctive in their design, are from Hargrove Farms. They build up gradually, stacking up like some horrible miniature model of the Vertex facility, the immense structure that Jarod has come to think of as the colossus. It still stings, knowing that Vertex and its Pleasance facility had everything to do with bringing the city to ruin, yet the scavengers look out for the gleaming white cans each time they search abandoned buildings for supplies. Vertex is the Hive’s scourge and savior, all at once.

Another can, another clang. Gabriel flexes his fingers, then looks up at Tyler.

“But the flare, Tyler.”

Tyler’s stone scrapes over the machete’s edge again, this one harsh enough that Jarod feels it grating against his bones.

“Yeah? The flare changes nothing.”

Another Hargrove Farms can comes down, clanging dully against its brothers. Jarod doesn’t know why the sound of it is bothering him so much, or why Tyler’s honing is eroding at his soul. He puts down two more cans. Clink, clang. This. This is going to drive him nuts.

“You can't be so negative, Tyler.” Gabriel looks over to Esther, like he’s beseeching her for support, but she says nothing, doesn’t even return his glance. “Don’t be such a pessimist.”

Tyler runs the stone down the entire length of the blade this time, making a horrible screech, his muscles bulging as he sharpens and hones. From closer by, more cans find their home on the ivory tower, each one a brick for the colossus. In the background, the Hive’s residents natter happily. Jarod thinks he can only take so much.

“I’m not being negative,” Tyler says. He sets his stone down heavily. “I’m a realist. Why set myself up for disappointment? It was a fluke. The flare means nothing. We should just go on working.”

“That’s what everyone is doing,” Jarod says.

“If they’re so confident, how come the engineers even made that cage thing up on the roof? We won’t be needing it anymore.”

Often – almost every day, in fact – Jarod gropes for an excuse to punch Tyler straight in the jaw. But sometimes, as insufferable as his mouth can be, Jarod also finds reason in his words, little dregs of logic, of rare rationale, and that’s far more upsetting. It’s when he finds himself agreeing with Tyler that he knows things are going all wrong. He bites his lip.

“God.” Gabriel huffs. “You’re impossible to talk to when you’re like this, you know that, Torres?”

“All I’m saying is that we gotta manage our expectations,” Tyler says. “No help is coming. Deal with it.”

Jarod sets down the last of the cans they need to sort. Mercifully it’s the last damnable clang he has to hear for now. He dusts his hands against the seat of his pants and stands erect, sighing as the blood rushes through his legs. He tilts his head and fixes Tyler with a disapproving look. “That’s not the type of thing you want Norwood to hear you saying, Torres.”

Maybe it’s weird to be so protective of him, but Danny’s the closest thing their group has to a totem. He’s like a touchstone for their positivity, more than ever since they saw the flare. Maybe it’s a lot for Jarod to expect of him, but that’s what Daniel has become over these past weeks: a beacon, a reminder that it’s still okay to hope.

Tyler glowers. “That’s none of your business, Samuels.”

Gabriel springs to his feet, rubbing his thighs to work the circulation back into his muscles. “Tyler. Settle down. Jarod’s right. I seriously hope you don’t talk like this around Daniel.”

Tyler looks between the two of them, his mouth gaping for some excuse, but he finds nothing. His gaze settles somewhere on the floor between them “Sorry,” he says, sulking, still too proud to say it into Jarod’s face.

“So how are things between the two of you, anyway?”

At first Tyler’s ears perk up, but then he looks up with a mope. His eyes flit from Gabriel, then to Jarod, and back. “I don’t wanna talk about that in front of him.”

“Wow,” Jarod says. And he knows he shouldn’t press it, but that’s part of their dynamic, isn’t it? Annoying the living snot out of each other? He folds his arms and does his honest best to keep his face straight and the smirk off his lips. “Okay. You’d think you wouldn’t be so snappy after all that time you’ve been spending in Danny’s apartment, but sure, okay.”

Tyler’s knuckles go stark white on each of his hands, one curling into a jagged fist, the other gripping the haft of his machete with increasing intensity.

“Jarod,” Gabriel hisses.

“What? I’m just saying. The point is that Tyler shouldn’t talk the way he does around Norwood. Danny’s been doing so much these past days, he doesn’t need that negativity bringing him down.”

At first it looks as if Tyler is about to spring for Jarod’s throat, but somehow both his knuckles and his grip around his machete loosen. “I know.” He sighs heavily, eyes downcast. “You’re right.” Again, something he wouldn’t ever say to Jarod’s face.

“Things have been good, regardless. Things have been improving. Magpie broke out all of her stocks and she’s been putting her supplies to good use.” Jarod gestures at the stairs. “There’s a gate over every staircase in the atrium now. You know that’ll help next time there’s a break-in. We can retreat and fight from higher ground.”

Jarod tries not to let his surprise at his own enthusiasm break his momentum. How soon he forgets. If you wear the mask long enough, sometimes you don’t realize that it’s still right there on your face.

“And there’s the climbing garden,” Gabriel adds hopefully. “And the engineers are working on a reservoir for the river. Things are looking up, no matter how you twist it.”

Again, hopefully, Gabriel turns to Esther. “Little help here?” He throws his hands up. “Esther? Really? You have nothing to add to this?”

“Torres is right.” Jarod doesn’t have to look to tell that Tyler’s chest is swelling up with pride. “For now it’s business as usual.”

Gabriel leans forward on the balls of his feet. “But the flare – ”

Esther pushes up her glasses, the glint of the sunlight against the lens concealing whatever might be lingering in the back of her eyes. “Whoever fired it might have moved on. Or they could be dead. We’ve sent out search parties to check that part of town. Hell, you’ve scoured every block around it.”

“And supplies are running low,” Tyler says.

Gabriel spins around, a ball between two courts, his voice thin with exasperation, or perhaps desperation. “That’s what the garden’s for.”

“It’s not just that, Anderson,” Esther says. “Medicine. That’s not going to last forever.” She’s right. She’s one of the few people in the Hive qualified enough to provide any sort of treatment for the sick or wounded, and she’d know exactly how much the colony has left in terms of resources. From the sound of her voice, the answer is: not very much.

“We’ll find a way,” Gabriel says, his voice newly strengthened, either by conviction or false bravado. “Someone’s out there looking for us.”

Tyler grunts. “Then they would have found us by now.”

“They’ll find us,” Gabriel shouts, loud enough that Jarod steps back. Tyler and Esther glance at each other uncertainly, then back up at Gabriel. The buzz in the atrium goes lower, quieter, and Jarod has that keen, familiar sense that all eyes are watching the four of them, drawn to Gabriel’s outburst.

“Settle down,” Jarod says. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says nervously, his voice thinner. “We’ll be okay. Everything will be fine. Right, Jarod?”

Tyler shakes his head, sweat trailing at the ends of his hair, and he runs his whetstone down the length of his machete. Esther pushes up her glasses, closing her eyes and her face off from the rest of the atrium, then goes back to sorting the cans for what must be the seventh time since they came here. And Jarod, Jarod says nothing.