And Martha left. They called after her but she did not flinch. She found a gelding in the same stable the killer had pulled from. She was not a fan of bareback but had no time for saddling. She nudged the horse’s shoulders, delicately directing him over to a crate that would give her the height she needed to mount him with little additional effort. She took the ride slowly at first, letting the horse get a sense of her body and getting her own sense of the way the horse would respond when she shifted her weight. She was not experienced, but the horse was understanding and patient. After a few moments, she dug in and set off down the path in pursuit of the killer.
The baby would not stop crying. Sugar did not know what to do or where to go because he did not know the territory. Here, the trees were shorter than the ones he’d known, thicker and closer together. You could not ride fast through these woods. They were heading higher and higher up between the mountain ridges on either side. It was getting colder. There was a body hanging from a tree overhead and Sugar passed beneath it slowly. He did not recognize the clothing or the man. He felt then that this was what they had planned for him all along. There would be no ceremony to his end. He held the baby against him and tried to warm it. He could make out faint ruts hardened into the dirt, and he tried his best to follow them. It would not hurt him to linger outside a populated area, though he would need to establish a safe distance. His mind was not working as it normally did. He could not focus with the child crying. He was overrun with thoughts unrelated to the matters at hand.
He made a hard plan to stick to the ruts and see where they took him. It would make it easier for anyone following him to track him, but they would not be after him for at least half a day, if not more. It was entirely possible he had taken out every living thing in that town, other than the horses and the hogs and the chickens. He had been merciless. There was something divine to it, but he did not feel elevated. He felt more self-assured. Brooke was dead and he was alone with this child. Sugar thought that maybe if Brooke was here he would feel less conflicted about leaving the child or drowning the child and riding on. As it was, something was keeping the thing pressed to his chest. Something made him want to warm it and stop it from crying. He did not feel a tenderness toward it, but felt a strong desire to balance it out. To put the creature and himself on a more even keel.
When night fell, he did not stop riding. The baby cried as if that were its only function. It cried as a healthy man might breathe. It was a sound he found impossible to ignore. When the stars were out, Sugar slowed to a trot and tried to feed the baby. He had some cheese in his front pocket, and a bit of bread in the other, and he pressed small chunks of each to the baby’s lips, but it would not accept them. The bread gummed up there and broke apart and the baby cried and sent the little balls down its neck or onto the back of Sugar’s hand. The horse seemed tired. He was huffing and lagging. Sugar was tired. The baby was crying and, maybe, Sugar hoped, tired. They could not sleep until something in the landscape changed, until they were more hidden. Sugar remembered then where he had held the infant the moment after it was born. He opened his shirt and held the baby at his chest. The baby gummed about for a minute then took hold. It was painful, but ignorable. The minor irritation was far preferable to the crying. Sugar realized suddenly how quiet this particular wood was. The baby was working his chest and Sugar held it and rode slowly between the stubby trees. They needed to take it slow anyway because there was no moonlight and Sugar could see only a foot or so ahead of them at a time. The baby went on like that. It hurt a little more as the time passed but Sugar thought of other things and let the pain melt into his other concerns.
He did not so much care who had been after them, who had caught them, now that he had worked that town over and felt as safe as he ever could feel. He did not prefer to ponder the mystery of what had happened, but instead preferred to set himself up somewhere for a bit and try to get a few good meals in and a few good nights’ sleep. He was long overdue for a bath and a fizzy drink. These had been his simple desires what felt like only a day or two ago. It had been much longer, but the events did not come together in a way that suggested the passing of time. Rather, his memory of the past few days was scattershot and rough. There was a lot of hurry to it all. The baby gagged and spit fluid onto Sugar’s chest, then settled back into Sugar’s bent arm. Sugar did up his shirt then dug his heel into the horse’s side. They trundled along only briefly before the child burped and fell to something like sleep.
The storeroom beneath the kitchen was full of jars and sacks of food and smelled like clay. It was cool and pleasant to stand in.
“We might never have to kill a chicken,” said Mary.
Bird held a jar between his knees and pried loose the lid. He let it fall to the floor, then set the open jar on a shelf and ate the jam inside with his fingers.
“I would not mind doing it,” said Bird.
“But it would maybe be hard and chickens are tricky,” said Mary. She read the labels on the sacks one by one. “Flour, grain, oats, flour, flour, salt, flour. This little one is yeast. We can make a bread.”
“How?”
“With these things and the oven,” said Mary. “We used to make bread every week. You just mix these things.”
“How long before these things are bread.”
“Not long,” said Mary. “Once everything’s in order.”
“I’d like to eat hot bread,” said Bird.
“Do you think we are the only people left here?” said Mary.
“I hope we are the only people left here,” said Bird.
“I would be sad.”
“It’s safer that way,” said Bird.
“People aren’t bad,” said Mary.
“Bad ones are bad,” said Bird.
“Were you scared earlier?”
“You just mix these three?” said Bird.
“And water,” said Mary.
“Where’s the water?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary. “That’s why we need to find more stuff first.”
“Fine,” said Bird. “Do you think Martha will come back?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “When she’s done. She is very dependable.”
“She’s going to kill that man?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope she does,” said Bird.
“Why?”
“Because it seems like the right thing and I would feel safer and better.”
“You have little faith in people.”
“I guess,” said Bird.
“I hate to see anyone put to death,” said Mary.
“That’s foolish,” said Bird.
“Why?”
“Because the only way to deal with an evil thing is to put an end to it.”
“I don’t like it as an idea,” said Mary. “I won’t agree to it, but I will not be called foolish.”
“Then let’s concern ourselves with bread,” said Bird.
The building had three stories: two bedrooms in the upstairs and a hallway with a ledger and a cash register. Beneath the floor level, where the restaurant was and the tables and chairs, there was the storeroom. In the rooms upstairs, they discovered warm clothes, blankets, and a basket full of buttons of various sizes. There was also thread in a drawer and several cans of oil for the lamps.
There was a long jacket hung from a peg by the door that led to the kitchen. There was nothing in its pockets. They could work the stove well enough. They could keep the fire going with wood from an enormous stack behind the building.
Every now and then, Bird would check the windows. He saw no one and nothing moving but the few remaining horses.
“What if he comes back?” said Mary.