The Immune

8: Campfire Stories

After my shower, which is mostly me scrubbing my skin raw under icy water, I jerk a brush through my wavy hair and force it into a braid again. I put on more comfortable clothes, topping them with a jacket. The temperature drops at night around here, especially in the fall. From the side of my bed, I see smoke spiralling towards the sky from the fire down below.

When Dad is at home, which isn't too often, he stares at the sky. He tells me about all the different constellations and galaxies. When he was growing up, he lived in Knoxville, a city much bigger than the ruins of Chattanooga. There, the lights and smog blocked out the sky. Yet, he visited the planetarium and observatory with his father, and together they studied an unreachable, enormous night sky.

That's the first thing he noticed about the world changing around him.

He could finally see the stars.

On nights like tonight, when he's working at the Research Facility or the infirmary, I glance up and name the constellations I can pick out through the clouds, just to prove to myself that I haven't forgotten them. My memory is gradually getting worse. I can't remember what the ocean sounds like, but I instantly recognize the smell of a gun right after it's been fired. My mother's appearance is nothing but a vague and blurry memory, but the alarm ringing in my head is unmistakable. It instills instant fear in me within the first few tones as the conditioning kicks in.

So, I want to remember these constellations as long as I can. I'll cling to those little moments Dad and I shared, before he quit smoking and threw himself into work. When he was "Daddy," not "Dad", and I was still small enough to hold on his shoulders to see above the trees.

Just a little bit longer.

With a gentle sigh, I turn from the window and head downstairs. The ground floor sits empty. Laughter drifts in from the backyard. They managed to get a fire going good enough that I can see it over their seats as they sit in a circle around it.

As I walk out, Jane hands out small raw fish from a silver, insulated bag. They must've come from Compound 3, because I can't remember the last time we had fresh fish. I watch the Transfer crew skewer their fish using an assortment of sticks, shoving them in the fire afterwards.

"Welcome back," Jane says, handing me a stick and one of the fish. It's damp, and the fins on its back jab into my palm. I look down at it, trying not to scrunch my nose up.

"Oh, you don't know what to do with it," she continues. In one swift motion, she takes it out of my hand, stabs it with the stick, and hands it back to me. "Roast that, and dinner is served."

I find a seat around the circle, beside a girl with a neat French braid and a boy with messy blonde hair. They're older than me, with wind burnt cheeks and eyes that shine with experience. They both smile at me, or maybe at the way I dangle my dinner over the fire like it might sprout legs and walk away.

"Alright!" Jane's voice carries over the chatter and crackling fire. "Everyone's here. Let the campfire stories begin."

Everyone goes dead silent, staring at her.

"We know all of our stories," a man says. He's about my height, twice as wide, and has hair so black it puts coal to shame.

"Well, Jay doesn't, Trevor." She spits his name like it's an insult. Trevor looks at me, the fire reflecting in his hair.

"Then maybe she should tell us a story first," Trevor says.

"We are guests in her house. I will not make her share if she's not--"

"It's okay," I blurt. "I'll share something."

Jane sighs, and I see the color start to recede from her face. For a minute, I thought I saw smoke coming out of her ears.