The Book of Flora (The Road to Nowhere, #3)

by Meg Elison

He would travel on the backs of girl children all his life, he said. But never on a horse. I think he knew that horses could fight back when they didn’t like their treatment.

But we are not free. I don’t know what it is. I know I could leave and nobody would stop me. But I’d have to go alone, because Alice isn’t ready and Eddy wouldn’t have me. Can you ever really be free if you need somebody?

I’ve seen religion in many forms in my travels, but living underground and focusing on a god who left you strict instructions on how to live makes it more intense here, I think.

“I notice that I’m the only woman here that you don’t call Sister,” Flora said quietly, turning to leave. “And while I’m gone, maybe you and your god can both learn my name.”

think about the lost ones who are still out there, each thinking that they are the only one of their kind. Somewhere, there is someone like me or Connie, being run out of town or left to starve because we’re not the ones they think will save mankind. People abandon their babies because they want to make sure there are more babies. We are not a logical race.

Flora got back to her truck and leaned against it. She wanted to say something. She searched herself for a benediction. A vow that she could make this right. A way to tell the dead that she was going on and so they weren’t the end of the line. But no words came. The sadness of it fought with the fright in her until she slipped back into her seat and shut the door. She sped off as quick as the ruin of the road could accommodate her wooden wheels. She did not look back.

MEN MEN MEN, the caller interjected. “They kidnap. They rape. They slave. They steal. Rape boys. Rape girls. Rape the world. Kill the world. Killed the world. Made guns. Made plague. Made sick. Made death. Killed the world. Killed it dead. Killed us all. But we rise. Yes we rise. Rise again. Rise in Shy. Rise and shine. Rising Shy.”

“Women build. Women make. Women birth. Women keep.”

Men eventually get the idea that they should be in charge. Then they back each other up.

I just feel . . . trapped. Not like we were before. A much nicer trap. A soft cage with plenty of food. But a cage still.

That was the moment when I realized that every new death in my life was like a new link in an old chain. They connect, and you run your hands over all the ones that come before it. It is never new. It is never just one death.

“Sister Etta, you are prostrate with grief. You can feel your sorrow without sharpening it to hurt those around you.”

It’s not just women who have to worry. It’s anyone who isn’t a man.”

I feel old. I suppose that makes sense. I’m older now than I’ve ever been. But I feel old in the way that means there is nothing ahead. And that is what hurts the most. There is nothing on the horizon now, as we sail ever northward. Connie gets taller and Alice gets rounder, and I get nothing but older, day after day.