Free Afterland by Masha Leyfer Page A

formation that my father taught me. A small box of matches lies nearby. I light a piece of bark and watch the entire stack of wood go up in flame. Big Sal brings the pot. It has already been scrubbed clean from last night’s stew.
                  “We’re having oatmeal today,” she says, pulling out a large bag of oats from  the food storage tent. She dumps half of the bag’s contents in, along with a small mound of snow. She stirs it with her large wooden spoon until the snow starts boiling. As she stirs, a chicken comes out from behind the coop, clucking self righteously. Big Sal shoos it away with her spoon.
    “Don’t get so close to the fire, you egghead!” She reproaches it. “We don’t want fried chicken for breakfast!”
    After the oatmeal has simmered for some time, she pulls vials of sugar, cinnamon, and other spices from her coat pockets and begins shaking them over the pot like a witch over her magic potion. Soon, a sweet, mouthwatering aroma rises from the pot, bringing more people out of their tents. Nathan comes out first.
                  “Good morning, Big Sal. Molly. Breakfast smells delicious.”
                  “Doesn’t it?” Big Sal says. “That’s the vanilla. You can make yourself useful and stir it.”
                  “Only if I get to lick the spoon,” he responds, taking the ladle from Big Sal.
                  “Keep dreaming, kid.”
    Within the next ten minutes, the entire Rebellion is out with plates at the ready, crowding around the pot. Big Sal takes the ladle back from Nathan and smells her creation. She adds a final pinch of cinnamon and a look of approval settles on her face.
                  “It’s ready,” she declares. “Form a line, people!”
    Everyone quickly scrambles into a shaky line formation, eagerly accepting the hot oatmeal from Big Sal. I end up on a log in between Smaller Sally and Nathan. I try the oatmeal; it is even better than it smells.
                  I can’t help but smile at the thought of good food every day. There are some basic pleasures of life that I will never stop enjoying. Nobody talks during breakfast; we are all too busy stuffing our faces with Big Sal’s concoction. After we finish eating and I wash my plate out with snow, I go to Rebekah.
                  “You are ready? Good. We must get you a weapon first, so that you can kill everything that wants to kill you. Emily is the weapons mistress. Ey, Emily!” Emily turns around. “Molly needs a weapon.”
                  “Took you long enough!” She responds from across the field. “Come here and we’ll pick one out.”
    We go to the weapons tent. The inside is filled with knives, swords, bows and arrows, crossbows and even a few guns - an extreme rarity these days.
                  “Do you have a weapon preference?” Emily asks me.
                  “Um…” In all honesty, the only weapon I’ve ever held in my life is a kitchen knife. “No.”
                  “Okay. I usually start people off with a crossbow. They’re my favorite weapons.”
    She directs me over to a table stacked with them. Her hand hovers over the weapons, as if she is feeling for the perfect one. Finally, she chooses a simple black crossbow made of a material I don’t recognize that extends just above my knee.
                  “Try this one. We’ll shoot at the board outside.”
    “Don’t forget the-” Rebekah begins.
    “What? Do, you want something from me too? Das ist ein weapon. Das ist nicht your weapon.”
    “ Deine Deutsch ist fuchtbar, ” Rebekah responds, smiling into her sleeve. “And I meant the bolts.”
    “I wouldn’t forget the bolts,” Emily says, grabbing a bundle and giving Rebekah a friendly pinch. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. My German is perfect. Anyway, let’s go.”
    She leads me into