A hand fell on July’s shoulder and he woke with a start, then turned to see Thomas laughing behind him. “You fell asleep at your desk again.” Tom selected a page of writing. “The Deathly Quill.”
While blinking and realising he wasn’t in his bed, July took the page and set it down. “I… uh…” A cup of coffee appeared in his hands, it seemed Thomas had been up for a while. July had observed that Tom never used to make him coffee. “Thanks,” he murmured. With his walking stick in one hand, and the coffee in the other, he struggled to get to the dining room table without spilling it, but he refused any more help from Tom. For breakfast on regular days they had the choice of porridge, beans, and dry cereal. As he collected the porridge container, July realised that it had been a while since their last food-run. He checked the other stores. “Hey, uh, Tom,” he called. “Aren’t our supplies getting a little low?”
The front door groaned and Biscuit happily bounded outside. Thomas returned and poked his head around the corner. “Are they?”
July rummaged further through the storeroom. “Plenty of dog food so Biscuit will be happy, and speaking of biscuits, we still have some, but this is all the canned stuff we have left. It hasn’t rained in ages, either, so we could be short on water.”
“Shit,” Thomas paced into the room. “I’ll check it soon. Sorry, I should have been on top of this when you were recovering.” He sat and solemnly sifted through the packets of biscuits.
It was times like this when July felt worst about losing his leg, when the weight was heaviest and he felt like nothing more than a burden. But he smiled. “Well, no time like the present.” He made his way back to the kitchen and waited while Thomas collected their map. Tattered and smudged in some places, this particular map had taken years to complete and showed The Valley in great detail; all current settlements and outposts were labelled with symbols depicting the factions they belonged to, all usable roads had been jotted down, and – most importantly – all abandoned or pre-war towns and settlements were here. July and Thomas marked the places they searched with a red cross when they were finished, but now there were too many crosses for their liking. July tried to stay optimistic. “So, what’s left?”
Thomas shook his head and ran his hand over the map. “Not much. The last place we searched was here,” he pointed to a spot under a settlement marked with a skull. “Too close to Buster’s Execution Grounds for comfort, if you ask me.”
“No way we’re going any further that way. If we head any further north we might as well go home, but what if we uh… here,” he pointed to a narrow pass south-west of them. “If we slip past Baywire we’ll have all of Anarchist territory to search, plus we’re still welcome at Pandemonium, sort of,” he added.
Thomas slowly rolled up the map. “We’re more likely to get captured by the Nazis. The risk is too great.” He hesitated. “Does it feel like we’re avoiding the obvious here?”
“No, what? No.” July read Thomas’ mind. He should never have mentioned the word ‘home’, and though he could admit to himself that the thought of returning had crossed his mind, could he really do it? After so many years, he assumed there was no going back.
“I’m just saying, we’ve been gone ten years, maybe it’s time.”
“Well that’s perfectly easy for you to say,” said July, anxiously. He turned and rubbed his arm, and glancing at his stump leg, he sighed. “I made too many mistakes before I left, and now look at me.”
“What happened to you is on me and you know it,” said Thomas, pointing at the missing leg. “We can’t undo what happened but I’ll be damned if I don’t die trying to make it right.” He shrugged. “Ten years is a long time to hold a grudge. We can’t keep surviving out here. We’re done.” He stared, waiting for a reply as the room filled with silence.
It was clear to July that Thomas had thought about home too, and much more often, it seemed. He never argued this passionately about something unless he was certain it was the right decision, so the fact that he raised his voice was a statement in itself. Maybe he was right.
“Okay,” said July, but as Thomas smiled he quickly added, “I’ll consider it.” Normally considering something meant that a choice was involved; July could read Tom’s thoughts, and he was thinking that the choice was between home or death, but to July they were frighteningly similar.
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