Page 1 of Land of Shadow

1

“Not a good day to move around.” Mike frowns at me from his spot behind the barricade.

“I’m not going far. Just to my office.” I give him what I hope is a convincing smile.

“You sure your sister is okay with this?” He absentmindedly grips the stock of his rifle, his other hand tucked in the pocket of his fatigues.

“I’m not under house arrest, Mike.”

He squints a little as a cold gust blows through the capitol grounds. “I know you aren’t, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to go riding around the city. It’s dangerous. Are you even armed?”

I give him my best glare, hoping I’m at least half as intimidating as Juno. “I’m not out here for a joy ride. I’m working. Get off my dick, all right?”

He sighs and taps a gloved finger against his helmet. “Keep your head down out there and get back before dark. Got it?”

“Yes.” I roll out of the checkpoint and onto the sidewalk. The oak trees overhead filter the sunlight, the branches all but bare this time of year. I pedal easily across East 15th; it’s still blocked with razor wire and guard posts at the cross streets around the capitol. Doesn’t make for easy navigating, but I’ve perfected my route over the past few months. After that, I cut across an alley and onto another sidewalk. I slow down before I reach MLK Boulevard. Crossing that street with anything less than hypervigilance is a good way to land in the emergency room. A sobering thought given how overwhelmed they already are.

Traffic, though intermittent at best, still flows, and plenty of people are braving the frigid weather to move around in the city. Some of them in nothing more than motorized bikes or dune buggies. Anything that still runs—as long as the driver can afford gas or rig solar panels to it. I pull up my scarf to cover my nose, the tip of which feels nearly frozen. A gust blows past, intensified between the buildings, and I have to put my foot down to keep my bike and me from falling.

“Shit!” I creep off the curb and turn to look left and right several times as I ease across the intersection. One car stops for me, but a precariously lifted truck blows past in the opposite direction. Once it’s rumbled away toward the stadium, I pedal hard, shooting to the sidewalk and sailing with the wind at my back past vacant parking lots and overgrown plots of dead turf. The theater building has been tagged so many times since it shut down that it looks like a piece of modern art.

A sprawling tent village is set up in the grassy spot in front of the old student union. I pedal faster as a few men loiter around the edges. Somewhere in the maze of canvas and salvaged plywood, a woman is wailing.

Once I reach my building, I hurry inside, bringing my bike with me. The school has gotten lax with just about everything these days. If I left it outside—even with a lock and extra chain—it would be gone by the time I finished in the lab. These days, bikes have become quite the commodity.

“Dr. Clark.” Gene, the custodian, gives me a short wave from down the hallway, a push broom in one hand.

“How’s it going?” I unwrap the scarf from my face, but I don’t take it off. The university barely does upkeep on its buildings anymore, and the heat is particularly iffy in the medical sciences annex.

“Doing all right, I suppose. How’s it going on third?” He glances at the ceiling, the cataracts around his irises turning the dark brown more of a milky shade. “Any breakthroughs?”

I shake my head. “Not yet, but stick around, you’ll be the first to know if I crack it.” I dig around in my backpack and pull out a mask, stuffing it under my scarf and crimping the nose band in place. Then I dig out a small plastic container of chili.

“Keep on doing the Lord’s work up there, learning His secrets. You’ll solve this thing, Doc.” He gives me a nod.

“Will do. Here.” I hand him the container. “Good news is it’s chili, bad news is they put beans in it to stretch it a bit.”

“I’ve got a new appreciation for people who put beans in chili. More protein can’t hurt.” He smiles and takes it. “Now don’t go sneaking me anything if it’s going to get you in trouble, you hear?”

“Don’t worry. It’s all on the up and up.” True, for the most part. What I sneak from the kitchen isn’t enough to be noticed. Not yet, anyway.

“I sure do thank you, Dr. Clark. I sure do.” He shuffles past and leans the broom on the wall. “I’ll go ahead and dig in, if you don’t mind. Lula didn’t lay any eggs for me yesterday, so I’m running on empty.”

“Sure thing. Enjoy it.” I wheel my bike past and hope to avoid coming across anyone else. If they know me, they invariably ask about my work or my sister. I don’t feel like discussing either one right now, so I keep my head down and take the elevator, crossing my fingers it doesn’t get stuck. It happened to Gene last semester, and it took half a day before the fire department showed up to get him out.

When I reach my office, I wedge my bike inside far enough to where I can close the door behind me. It doesn’t leave much room, but I shimmy between the front tire and my bookcase, edge around the corner of my desk, and sit in the office chair that’s seen far too many asses over its lifetime. It gives a harried sigh as it takes my weight, but it doesn’t collapse no matter how badly it might want to.

Flipping on my contraband space heater beneath my desk, I pull off my mask and press my scarf against my face, blowing out my warm breath to feel the momentary heat. I sit that way for a while, at least until my breath doesn’t fog the air any longer. Then I turn on my kettle for a cup of instant coffee (for the longest I refused to stoop to instant coffee levels, but the shortages changed my mind—any port in a storm).

A knock at my door puts me on edge, and I open my top drawer, my fingers searching for the pepper spray as I call, “Who is it?”

“Sledge.”

I close my drawer with more than a little relief. Since the university has been abandoned in parts, we’ve had a problem with vagrants showing up to pillage what’s left. Sometimes that includes harming the people they find inside. Gene is a decent deterrent for my building, but there’s no telling how long that’ll last. I’m assuming he hasn’t seen a paycheck for the last four months just like the rest of us. “Come in.” I pull my mask back on. It’s on autopilot now. Anytime you’re in proximity to another human being outside your usual bubble, you defend yourself even if it’s in the smallest way possible.

Sledge swings the door open and stops it just before it hits my bike. “You know, Georgia, no one’s going to take it from the third-floor hallway.” He steps awkwardly over the back wheel and into the tiny space reserved for guests. I used to have students sitting across from me with tales of dead grandparents in bids for forgiveness for late papers or bad grades. It was a fun game of me hearing them out and then expressing my condolences for the second or third time they lost “Grandma Myra” that semester. But that changed when the illnesses and deaths became all too real. And then the students stopped showing up altogether.

“Gene would love to clean this place up for you. You know that, right?” Sledge grabs a handful of books from the chair and stacks them onto a pile of journals on the floor before sitting down. His sandy blond hair falls across his forehead and into his brown eyes. Shirt rumpled, and jeans too big, his five-o-clock shadow is more of a midnight mass. I remember a time when he would’ve never missed a haircut or worn anything short of professorial chic. Now though, he’s different. We’re all different.

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