Marta Mitchell's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

Marta spread the bench map flat and weighed its corners with the rusted cans. The next mark sat two days south. She was reading the legend when her elbow knocked a folded blanket off the bench. Under it lay a tin plate with crumbs still stuck to the rim. The crumbs were soft. She pressed one with her thumb and it smeared. Bread, not older than a day. She stood up slow. She looked at the hut with new eyes. A second canteen hung from a nail behind the door, full when she lifted it. A coat sleeve poked from a crate in the corner. Boot scrapes marked the floor in two sizes, one big, one closer to her own. Whoever stayed here had stepped out before the storm and meant to come back. She crossed to the slatted window and looked through. Through the blowing sand she could make out a windmill sunk in the dirt, its wooden blades warped and half-buried, the frame leaning. Past it stood a small stone well house with a hand pump under a tile roof. Someone kept the pump. Someone drank from it. That was why they came here. Marta's chest went tight. She turned to gather her pack and the door banged open. Two figures shoved in with the wind. A heavy man in a dust coat came first, a rifle slung at his shoulder. Behind him came a boy her own age, ginger hair with a red stripe through it, green eyes, a pistol on his hip and a pack bristling with grips and straps. The man saw her and smiled in a way that was not a smile. "There she is," he said. "Told you the storm would pin her." He set the rifle down against the bench and reached for a coil of rope on a hook. The boy stepped between them. He did it quietly, like he was moving to warm his hands. "Storm's not done," he said. "Tie her later. I'll watch her." The man stopped. He looked at the boy a long moment. Then he grunted and went to the stove to dig out a match. The boy crouched by Marta and pretended to check her boots. He spoke low, fast. "Back door behind the crate. Go when he kneels at the stove. South wall of the well house, there's a gap. Wait for me there." His eyes flicked up. "My name's Finn. Don't run north." The man knelt and struck the match. Finn shifted to block his view. Marta moved. She slipped behind the crate, eased the back door open against the wind, and stepped out into the brown light. The windmill creaked above her. She ran for the well house and dropped against its stone south wall, breathing hard. She had not gotten away from them. She had only been handed forward to one of them. She pulled her scarf up and waited.