Scarlett Hopper's Arc

Chapter 11 of 33

Scarlett woke before light and counted the pantry by candle. Two jars of dried beans. A half-sack of oats. A tin of fish. She weighed it in her hands and knew. It was not enough to feed her and John and still fill the split rock sack by tomorrow. The scavengers would come at dusk on the eighth day. If the sack was empty, the pact broke, and the wall meant nothing. She sat at the table and thought it through. The beds were still weeks from harvest. John needed to eat if he was going to work. The scavengers needed their share or the ridge would come down on her the next night she slept. She remembered the lot two streets over. Before the collapse, an old woman had grown potatoes there behind a chain fence. Scarlett had walked past it a hundred times. If any tubers were still under the soil, they would be small, but they would be food. John came in from the hall, hair flat on one side. He looked at the jars on the table and understood before she spoke. "I have to leave for the day," she said. "There's a lot I want to dig. Potatoes, maybe. I can't take you. Someone has to watch the beds and the crows." He nodded. "Tell me what to do." "Water the rows at noon. Check the trench line. If the crows lift, get inside and bolt the door." "I can do that." She looked at him. He did not ask why she trusted him with it. He did not promise anything. She found that steadied her more than a promise would have. "Thank you," she said. She took the rolling cooler and the mask and a small blade she kept in a drawer. The dog fell in beside her at the door without being called. His tail swept left as he walked. He pushed an image into her head: the two of them on a street, her hand on his ruff. He was coming. "Alright," she said. She rested her palm on his head. His fur was warm through her fingers. "Alright. You're with me." They walked out into the gray morning. The dog stayed close at her hip, closer than usual, matching her stride. When she stopped to check the wall latch, he leaned against her leg. She let him. She had walked this district alone for a year. Today she was not alone, and the shape of that was new. By midmorning they reached the fenced lot. She cut through the wire and knelt in the weeds. Her fingers found a hard round shape under the dirt. Then another. She dug until the cooler was half full. The dog kept watch at the gap, ears forward, still as stone. She would make the split rock by dusk. John would hold the beds. The pact would hold one more cycle.