Excerpt: The Act of Forgiveness

Chapter One:

The sun was setting rapidly, and the broken-down city was wrapping itself in a shroud of foggy twilight. The sound of Nisha's footsteps echoed off the crumbling high-rises as she raced against nightfall. Her tattered sneakers hindered her, but where was she supposed to get a new pair? The shoe companies had gone out of business long ago.

She could feel the eyes of strangers on her as she ran, and she knew what they were thinking.

A woman... alone.
I wonder if she's got any money.
She doesn't look so tough.
I wonder if she'd take me in. She looks nice enough.

The last one always broke her heart. There were so many orphans around now, and there weren't shelters anymore to take care of them. If they couldn't find someone to take them in or learn to fend for themselves, they had about as much chance of surviving as the shoe companies did.

Nisha tightened her hand over her sweater pocket, both to quiet the sound of her coins jingling and to make sure her pocket knife was close. She had worked hard for that money, too hard to have it beaten out of her by some street thug. She had worked harder than most girls her age.

That's not to say she thought they had it easy, turning to sex for money. High demand, steady work, and it paid. It paid well. Nisha had lived for a few months with a girl who worked as a prostitute. Sure, the nights weren't something she'd like to recall, but the days were the nicest Nisha had experienced since the Fall. The girl was living in style. She had clean water, she had an actual bed, she even had a mini generator to work a couple lamps.

Nisha slowed as she neared her makeshift home. The plywood door opened upon her arrival to reveal Alex in the doorway, dirt smeared above his eyebrow. His face was blank. This look always set Nisha on edge. Her kid brother hadn't shown any emotion since their older sister was murdered last year. He had watched while Rebecca's white-trash boyfriend strangled the life out of her after she traded his homemade alcohol for food.

Alex stepped to the side as Nisha entered their shared hut. A lone candle sat in the center of the floor, casting long shadows against the walls.

"Hey Alex. How was your day?" She straightened one of their moth-eaten blankets over a window. She remembered fondly the feel of silk on her skin.

"It was okay," Alex replied. "Someone was knocking at the door earlier, but I kept it barred and made sure I had the knife." As he spoke, he replaced the thick wooden bar across the door.

Nisha turned to look at him. "Good. Remember, don't let anyone in unless I'm here. Never." She had heard stories of people pretending to be hurt or using children to get someone to open their door. And once the door was open, anything could happen. She had been looking for a sturdier door for a while now. Even with the bar, plywood wouldn't keep someone determined out.

Alex rolled his eyes as he knew teenagers were supposed to. "I know." He retrieved the small key for the lock box from beneath a throw pillow the two had salvaged from their old home. From the box, hidden under a pile of rags, he got a couple tough crab apples and a large chunk of bread. The bread had been a payment Nisha got for collecting scrap wood for a neighbor, while the apples Alex had collected from an area in the woods he had found. He wasn't supposed to go out to the woods by himself, but he often snuck out. Nisha couldn't blame him. Besides that, he was practically confined to the shack.

Holding out an apple, he asked, "Want one? These ones are pretty fresh." Nisha took one from his hand and sat on the rusty cot they shared. Alex sat down beside her. "Got any jobs for tonight?"

Mouth full, Nisha nodded. She swallowed hard to clear her mouth of the bitter fruit. "Just one. This new woman just moved into Chicago S and needs someone to run a letter to her family down in X. Depending on traffic," and who tries to stop me, they both thought but didn't say, "it should only be a couple of hours. I'm going to see if Ms. Lindemann will come over and stay with you." Nisha knew that Alex had an innocent crush on Ms. Lindemann, the young, blonde widow who lived in a renovated storefront nearby.

"I'd prefer to go over there," Alex said softly. "I feel safer." His hand drifted up to rest on his collarbone lazily. Nisha recognized the movement. He'd done it whenever he was scared or nervous since Rebecca died. At first it sent shivers down Nisha's spine, but now it was just another quirk of his.

There was a moment of silence. It was a different silence than that of before the Fall. There was no noise from cars, no fans of electronics whirring. The sound of a bonfire trickled into the shack, and the light found its way through small cracks in the wood.

Nisha took Alex's hand, so cold in the night, in hers. The sun was completely set by now. The siblings pried the bar away from the door and Alex exited, holding Nisha's pocket knife. The girl reblocked the door, pocketed the lock box key, and slid through the empty window. She met Alex at the door and placed the key in his hand. He in turn slipped her knife and the remainder of their bread into her pocket. They clasped their hands together and walked into the night, over the broken concrete sidewalks, and along streets that hadn't seen cars in years.

Ms. Lindemann was at the door when they arrived. She clutched a dirty purse in her hand, no doubt concealing a nasty weapon. Nisha hugged her fondly, tucking a few coins into her purse.

"Ms. Lindemann," Nisha murmured. "How are you tonight?"

"I'm quite well," the woman answered, opening the door to invite the two inside. "Alex? How are you?"

Alex stood in the shadows, the blush on his face hidden. He mumbled out a reply as Nisha ushered him into the store. Once inside again, Ms. Lindemann withdrew a long, curved blade from her purse and set it on a counter. She lit a match against the brick wall with a flick of her delicate wrist and lit a row of tea light candles on a small table.

"Alex was wondering if he could stay here while I was gone." The flickering light cast evil-looking shadows over her face as she spoke. "It's been a calm week, so it shouldn't take long. He just feels safer her, you know, with actual walls."

Ms. Lindemann nodded understandingly. People often came to her new house seeking refuge. She took in as many as would fit, laying out her meager supply of blankets over the hard floors of the storerooms. The strangers would share whatever they had: pillows, food, or stories. Ms. Lindemann became like a mother to the young one. She often had Nisha run letters to them for her once they'd left her care.

Nisha hugged Alex tightly, then opened the door. "I'll see you guys soon." They waved a hearty goodbye and Nisha jumped into a run, the letter from the woman in Chicago S, written on well-erased paper, tucked deep into her pocket.

The city buildings look menacing in the starlight, shattered windows staring like blind eyes. Nisha kept her pocket knife closed but in her hand as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She ran confidently into the night, glad to have a reason to work her legs and lungs.

Chapter Two:

The trip from Chicago S to Chicago X used to be a few hours by foot or a good twenty minute cab ride. Now, with the cars gone and the majority of the population locked in their homes at night, Nisha could run the distance in about an hour. Her feet flew over the overgrown pavement, scattering silent rabbits from their feeding. She loved these night jobs. It may be more dangerous, but it was cool and it was quiet. Her breathing, deep and calculated, rang in her ears. The fog from dusk lingered around her body, reducing her vision but keeping her cool during the run.

It was nearing nine-thirty, she estimated, by the time she reached Chicago V. She urged herself to accelerate. This was where the city began to deteriorate. Buildings were smaller. Old broken glass was embedded in the ground, left so long ago and trampled on by hundreds of feet. She heard doors lock and improvised shutters slam shut as she passed.

"Hey. Hey you," she heard in a breathy whisper. "Can you give me a hand over here?" The voice broke on the last word.

Nisha flipped her pocket knife open and stopped short. She listened, wondering if her fears of the area were getting the better of her.

But the voice came again, out from behind a crumbling row house. Urgently it whispered, "Please! Please, just help me."

Nisha, still on guard, inched her way towards the row house, stepping carefully over scraggly vines. Haggard panting reached her ears. She rounded the building, thankful for the moonlight that made its way through the fog.

"Oh thank god," the voice said upon hearing her footsteps near. "Please, you've gotta help me." Lying on the rocky dirt was a man, his hands clasped over his stomach. He twisted his head to look up at Nisha, wincing. She looked down at him, knife extended and staying a distance away. She didn't really feel up to running the rest of the job with a severed tendon or a broken nose.

She crouched down to take a better look at the man. Blood, a horrible black in the night, seeped out from under his hands. His hair was cut short, uneven like it was a home job. His right eye was swollen.

"Well, you're not faking," she stated, straightening. "Now, arms out. If you've got any weapons, toss them over here."

The man shook his head wildly. "No weapons," he croaked, "but if I move my hands, I'll die." To illustrate his point, he raised his bloody hands away from his skin. Blood poured out, and he clasped his hands back down with a labored gasp. "Please," he pleaded. "Just help me put pressure on it."

Raw pain was evident in his voice. Nisha quickly closed her knife and set it on the ground as she knelt at the man's side. She pulled her sweater off and goosebumps instantly sprang up on her arms.

"Here. Let's see if we can wrap this around you. It should help." She tied the fabric around his torso with some difficulty and slowly helped him sit up. The man wiped his hands on the ground, caking them in loose dirt.

"Thanks." Touching his bruised eye, he hissed. "Ah, that stings." He leaned back on one elbow, massaging his head with the other hand.

The letter..., a voice said in Nisha's head.

She heard clocks ticking in her head. "Uh, could you reach into the pocket of that? There should be a paper." The man fumbled around in the pocket that was now stretched tight across his stomach. There was a rustle of paper and he produced the folded paper.

Victorious, he said, "Here you are. Oh dear, I seem to have gotten some blood on it." His face fell.

"It should be fine." Nisha took the letter from his hands, taking it carefully between two fingers to avoid the dark stains. "I have to be going now. You think you'll be alright?"

The man sat up, stretched his arms, and smiled slightly. "I'll be okay. I've got some medical stuff back home. But what about your coat?" He pressed his hands against it, leaving traces of dust and blood.

You can't just leave it. Who knows when you'll be able to get another one, and it's starting to get cold.

Nisha hummed. "Are you up to walking? If you live nearby I could take you there, help you get patched up, then be on my way." There. That's a good plan. Plus, then you know the location of a guy with medical supplies if you ever need some. And he owes you a favor.

The man leaned forward, putting his weight on his hands. He groaned, grunted, and worked his way to his feet. "Apparently I can walk." Chuckling, he added, "Oh saviour! You can raise the lame. Now please, some wine."

Nisha took a step back. Maybe this guy really was nuts.

He noticed her odd look. "Sorry. The Christian Bible. Probably too old for you. Just forget I said anything." He took a hesitant step forward, hunched over slightly. He smiled when he didn't collapse and began making his way around the row house. "Don't worry; we're not far from my house."

"Where do you live? Also, what the hell happened to you?"

"Down in Chicago W. As for my story, that, my dear, is a much longer story, and one that should be saved for a more relaxed time. And a time when we're not in danger of it happening again." He quickly regained strength, breathing in the night air heavily.

Nisha followed close behind him. It was only then that she noticed what he was dressed in. An old priest's robe, she believed, from what little she knew about priests. She was taken aback a bit, but continued to follow him.

They were at his house before she knew, standing in front of a clinic, the windows boarded and the doors chained. The walls were made of dark stone with arches over the windows. The sign outside stood smashed, the remnants of old light bulbs inside.

Nisha remembered this building. Before the Fall it had been a pretty full-service clinic, taking walk-ins and filing prescriptions and referring people to hospitals if they needed to. Nisha's parents had brought Rebecca there once after she twisted her ankle playing soccer. Nisha had sat in the waiting room for hous with her father while her mother and sister talked to a doctor. She read magazines for children. Her father watched the news, shaking his head as a story on a gang war played.

"See?" he had demanded. "This is why we homeschool you guys. We're not having our little genius get sucked into a gang or killed at school."

Nisha had just nodded. Homeschooling was all she had known, and she had Alex and Rebecca to talk to. When she snuck newspapers past her parents and into her bedroom, all she read about were murders and fights and movies with low ratings. Who would want to live in that world anyway?

After the Fall, the place had served as an institution for a year or so. Nisha had visited the building then as well. The waiting room had been turned into a small lobby. Instead of impatient sighs, she heard quiet crying. The examination rooms had been barred over, filled with cots and people dressed in torn smocks.

She waited in the lobby for hours. People came and went. Some dragged people with them into the building and left alone. Others came in alone and left with a babbling family member in tow. But they all had one thing in common: blank eyes. Everyone's eyes were glazed over, bloodshot and teary.

Every now and then Nisha imagines her parents with those eyes. She pictures them foaming at the mouth, hair wild, making whimpering noises in their sleep. But on her visit they seemed to have their wits about them. Or at least more wits than the people sitting around them on the floor.

"Get us out of here," her mother had said angrily. "You know we don't belong in here." Her voice was a low whisper, getting lost in the din.

Nisha's voice broke. "I- I can't. You know I can't. The Council put you guys in here, so it's... it's up to them when you guys can leave."

Her father slammed his hands against the bars, causing Nisha to jump. "Get us out of here!" he yelled. Continuing in a rushed, pleading voice, he said, "The people in here are nuts. Bat-shit crazy. But we're not; you know we're not." To illustrate his point, it seemed, a woman sitting with her legs out in front of her began sobbing loudly, chewing eagerly on the ends of her frayed hair.

Nisha's mother had leaned in as close to the bars as she could. She whispered, like a conspirator, "See? Do you see what we have to deal with?" From this close Nisha could see her mother's lips, cracked from the dry air and flecked with foam from her whispering.

Nisha had pried herself away from the bars, eyes welling, and walked out of the institution, ignoring the cries from her parents.

"Are you coming inside?" The man stood by the front door. Nisha shook her head to shake away her memories.

"Sure. Is this where you live?" She walked over the broken walkway to the front door. The man bent his fingers over an exposed board and tugged firmly. The door, nail-filled boards and all, swung open with a groaning sound.

"Yes. Home sweet home for the time being. It's a little dark, but there's a lot of room." Candlelight flickered in the lobby. The man stepped inside, holding his stomach gently. Nisha entered quickly and pulled the door shut behind her.

The clinic looked so different it shocked Nisha at first. Most of the furniture was gone. A leftover end table and chair stood in the center of the room, topped by a tall candle on what appeared to be a thin sheet of metal. The televisions that had taken up the corners were gone, though the metal stands they had rested on were still screwed into the walls. The glass window of the receptionist desk was missing. In the dark, Nisha could see that the walls were still the same sterile, maddening shade of blue, the blue of fountain bottoms, of fake turquoise jewelry.

The man sat down gingerly on his small chair. "So, my child, if you have some time I'll tell you my story."

"Actually, I should really get going. But I can help you get than bandaged up before I go. Where's your medical stuff?"

"Oh yes, my flesh wound." He gently patted his stomach. "If you go down that hall there," he pointed towards the old examination rooms, "and take a left at the end, they'll be in a cupboard."

Nisha entered the hallway through the doorway that no longer had a door. Bars still blocked off the examination rooms. She noticed in the dark that they had lost much of their shine. Moonlight shone through broken windows, casting an eerie glow into the rooms. Cots, covered in a thin film of dust, lay broken.

She walked slowly, running her fingers along the bars.

"Nisha Marie, you march your ass back here and get us out of this place!"
"Mommy, what does 'ass' mean?"
"It's what they called the Queen of England when she ate bananas with her ice cream."
"Really, Mommy?"
"Yes, my little water jug, my little lamb, the apricot of my eye."