Fault

Part 53

Fallon Connelly 1:14 p.m.

St. Louis is still burning.

We can see it from where we've stopped to rest. Cars and city buses sit abandoned in the streets, like ghosts in eternal traffic. Without power, refrigerated foods have begun to send a putrid smell into the air. It mixes with the scent of sulfur and makes the air heavy and unbearable. There are pockets of people, huddled in the murky corners of destroyed buildings. The fires have warmed the autumn air so much that some of us find our foreheads damp with sweat just after they've dried from the rain.

I press my back up against the cool stone of what used to be this building's foundation.

It's some sort of old factory. We needed to stop before we passed out on our feet. We aren't far from the shelter now, but Justin was asleep in Marc's arms and the rest of weren't far behind.

Marc naps several feet away, with the kids on either side of him.

Cal sits just a few away from me, his gaze watching the flickering of orange in the direction we've come. I hold the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my mouth and nose, trying to block the smell of rotten eggs.

"What do you think of me?" Cal asks, just as my eyelids start to droop.

"What?" 

A dog barks and its echo bounds up the street.

What am I to you?" Cal clarifies, turning to look at me. His voice is flat and distant, but a current of anger churns under his stare. His eyes are glistening and I'm suddenly afraid of where this is going.

"What are you looking for? A label?"

"Sure. Label me," he spits the words.

"You're too pissed for us to talk about this right now." I find it difficult to keep eye contact with him. I try and locate the sun in the hazy sky.

"If we don't talk about it now, we never will."

"I'm tired."

"Too bad." He braces himself against a chunk of rubble and gets to his feet. "We're all tired. It's been a tiring of couple days. We're having this conversation."

I watch him pace to the edge of the cement floor and put his hands on either side of the metal doorframe. Without his backpack he seems even taller. He leans out and looks both ways down the street. From my position I can't see what he sees. I realize he's waiting for a response.

"Fine," I say.

He turns, leans his back against the half-wall and assesses me.

"When I first moved here, why did you want to be my friend?" He folds his arms across his chest.

"What do you mean?" I wasn't expecting him to dig up the past.

"I was awkward." His face flushes. "I didn't say the right things. I didn't wear the right clothes."

"I've never cared about that," I mumble.

"So what was it?"

Behind him, scorch marks frame the doorjamb like a five-year-old's first experiment in makeup. I don't want to answer his question. I don't even know if I have an answer for his question.

"I don't know," I finally sputter out.

"Bullshit," His tone is incensed. "You wanted something to save. You saw a project."

"You'd rather I left you in the locker?" I struggle to stand, ignoring the pain in my hands.

"Some days...yes."