The Prey (9 page)

Banks of floodlights were suddenly switched on, bathing us in harsh, white light. Perspiration edged down the small of my back.

When Major Karsten and Colonel Westbrook finally emerged from the log cabin fortress, they were followed by someone I had never seen before: a tall, blond woman with high cheekbones and a severe gaze. An ankle-length coat hung from her shoulders. Westbrook leaned on the porch railing, his fingers biting into wood.

“As you all know,” he began, “there is one road to freedom. And on that road are the following milestones: Obedience, Self-Sacrifice, and Love of the Republic. The three sides to the triangle.” He pointed to his badge. His voice was cool, emotionless, as hard to read as his coal-black eyes.

“It has come to our attention that some LTs have not been as . . . obedient . . . as they could be. This we cannot tolerate. Is that understood?”

Each of the LTs gave his head an enthusiastic nod.

His gaze swept across us. Was it my imagination or did he linger an especially long time on me? The door behind him swung open and two Brown Shirts stepped out. In between their muscled arms was a limp LT, his head lowered like a rag doll's. When Westbrook grabbed the LT's hair and jerked his head upward, we saw who it was.

Cat.

He was nearly unrecognizable; his face was puffy and bruised, eyes swollen shut, and splotches of dried blood stained his cheeks. It looked like he'd been beaten within an inch of his life.

“As you may know, L-2084's been missing from camp these last few days, and only recently were we able to track him down. We thought he might want to share with us where he's been. We also thought he might tell us where he came from, because so far . . . we've learned absolutely nothing.”

This time, when Colonel Westbrook looked out, I
knew
he was staring at me.

The colonel pinched Cat's face between his fingers. “I want you all to look at this LT. We call him 2084, but of course we don't know his original number, because he burned it off.” A tiny smile played across Westbrook's face. “That's why I want you to see what happens when LTs don't abide by the rules.”

A Brown Shirt emerged from the building. In his hand was a tool not much bigger than a screwdriver. It was plugged into an orange extension cord, which snaked into the log structure.

“Since L-2084 lacks a marker, it seems he needs a new one—one that won't come off.” Westbrook gave the tall, blond woman a smug look—
This is how we do it here,
the expression said. Then he turned to Major Karsten.

“Major, would you do the honors?”

“My pleasure,” he growled, his stare more piercing than the devil's.

As he took the tattoo engraver, I realized it wasn't what it seemed. It was a wood-burning tool, its shaft glowing red. They weren't going to tattoo Cat's number on his arm; they were going to
burn
it in.

“So now you know what happens when your marker mysteriously disappears,” Westbrook said.

At that moment the bigger of the two Brown Shirts yanked Cat's right arm to the side while the other strapped it to the railing. Major Karsten stepped forward and pressed the red-hot tip into Cat's flesh, etching the first letter. A thin plume of smoke wafted upward, permeating the air with the nauseating odor of burned skin. Some LTs threw up on the spot.

Cat barely even flinched.

It seemed to take forever, Karsten pressing the searing metal tip into Cat's arm as he delineated each number. Blood dribbled down, striking the wooden floor like raindrops. Cat stood there with teeth clenched.

At last, when it seemed like Cat could take no more—when
we
could take no more—Karsten finished the final digit. He stepped back, the tool's metal tip glowing fiery red like a poker. The Brown Shirt undid the strap and flung Cat to the floor. Even from a distance I could see the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled for breath.

Colonel Westbrook let the silence lengthen. “Perhaps now,” he said, loud enough for all to hear, “you'll tell us who you are and where you've been.”

Cat looked up, his arm dripping a river of red. He had no intention of speaking.

“Fine,” Westbrook said through gritted teeth. And then he hissed, “But don't think we're done.”

He did an about-face and disappeared into the building. The woman followed, then Karsten and the Brown Shirts.

The LTs couldn't get out of there fast enough, scurrying back to the barracks like cockroaches, until it was just me. I took several steps toward Cat. He'd barely moved since the Brown Shirts tossed him to the floor.

“Are you okay?” I reached out a tentative hand but he swatted it aside.

“I don't need your pity,” he said.

“Are you sure you're all right, because—”

“I said I don't need you,” he said again.

Fine,
I thought.
Have it your way.

I walked back across the infield. And as I did, I had the strange but certain sensation I was being watched.

H
OPE FEELS THE FULL
dose of the vaccine within a day; her aches recede, her fever ebbs. But Faith deteriorates further and further into a world of feverish nightmares—her body twisting in a series of grotesque contortions. In her delirium she mutters, “Why, Dad? Why?” over and over.

Hope wants nothing more than to cover her ears and block out the words. Her arm restraints prevent it.

When Faith's fever does finally break, Hope almost gets the feeling Dr. Gallingham is disappointed.

“Well,” he says, dabbing a moisture-laden eye, “now we know to only administer half a dose.” He waddles out of the room.

As soon as Hope and Faith are well enough to walk,
they're escorted down the stairs and shown the door.

“How did he know?” Faith asks.

Hope looks at her sister. “How did who know what?”

“That doctor know about Dad?”

Hope gives her head an angry shake. “He's just saying that. He didn't know him.”

“But he knew his name.”

“That doesn't prove anything.”

“But he said—”

“And I'm telling you that doesn't prove anything.” Faith looks like a dog that's just been kicked. Hope regrets her outburst almost at once.

“Look,” Hope says, “go easy today, okay? You're still weak.”

Faith nods a trembling chin.

“H and FT.”

Faith musters a weak smile.

The days are remarkably the same. Silent breakfasts. Tense roll calls. Work details in the afternoon followed by muted conversations over dinner. Each night, Hope wakes and hears the steady
clinking
sound. Each night she thinks of the boy named Book.

Through it all, Faith clings to her sister's side—practically attaches herself there—so when Hope returns from barn duties one afternoon to find Faith is missing, she feels a stab of panic.

“Has anyone seen my sister?” Hope asks.

The other girls just laugh.

Hope searches everywhere: the barracks, the mess hall, even the tiny smokehouse. It isn't until she gives a sideways glance toward the storehouse that she spies a pair of thin, pale legs dangling from the top window.

Hope makes her way up the creaking stairs to the third floor, then edges through a labyrinth of pallets and cardboard boxes.

Faith sits on a wooden crate. Draped over her shoulders is her ever-present pink shawl—the one their mother knitted way back when. She faces the woods on the far side of the barbed wire fence.

Hope plops down beside her sister.

“What're you doing up here?”

Faith doesn't acknowledge her. Instead she says, “I found it.”

“Found what?” Hope asks, but when her eyes drop to Faith's side, her heart gives a lurch. There sits the crumpled piece of paper, the word
Separate
scrawled in charcoal. The note found in their father's dying hand.

“It fell out of your pillow,” Faith says, her voice flat. “Is it Dad's handwriting?”

“You know it is.”

“When did he give it to you?”

“He didn't. I found it in his hand after he died. If anything, he gave it to both of us.”

“Then why didn't you show it to me?”

Hope has no good answer.

“So I was right,” Faith goes on. “He wanted us to separate so you could survive.”

“So we could
both
survive,” Hope corrects her.

“It was you he wanted to live. You said it yourself: I wouldn't last a day in the wilderness on my own.”

Hope picks up the scrap of paper and rips it into tiny pieces, angry she didn't do it earlier. Extending her hand, she lets the fragments flutter to the earth like confetti.

“Do you remember the goats?” Faith asks out of the blue. Her gaze is suddenly miles away.

It takes a long moment for Hope to figure out what her sister is talking about. “Sure,” she says.

“And the chickens?”

“The ones that pecked your shins?”

“And those pigs?”

“I swear I still smell 'em.”

In earlier days, the memory might have prompted a laugh. The problem is they've long forgotten how. Smiling and laughter are no longer in their vocabulary.

Then Faith asks, “Do you remember the boy? The one who stayed in our cave?”

“Of course.”

“Where do you think he is?”

“No idea.”
Far away from here
is what she wants to
say.
Not stuck in this godforsaken territory.
But even as she thinks it, she has to hide her annoyance. What's the point of wallowing in self-pity? It only brings heartache and sadness. Besides, it goes against everything their father taught them:
If you want to change something, change it. Yesterday was yesterday; today is today.

They are both quiet. From the woods comes the sound of a thousand croaking frogs. Then Faith says, in a voice that is barely a whisper, “Sometimes they come back alone. Without their sisters.”

“I know, but it's not going to happen to us.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

A sudden weariness descends on Hope. It's tiring being the one in charge, the comforter, the provider. Even though she's only twenty minutes older than Faith, it's always been her role.

“Come on,” she says. “We need to get to dinner.”

Faith nods absently. They rise and make their way downstairs and out the door. For a mere instant, walking through the grass to the mess hall, Hope can almost forget where they are. She can almost trick herself into thinking they're back in the house in the mountains: Mom making breakfast and teaching them their lessons, Dad telling stories by the fireplace, his rich bass voice inspiring laughter and wonder. Afterward, their
mother would play the out-of-tune piano in the parlor and teach them hymns.

“Come, Thou Fount of every blessing
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.”

For a brief, transcendent moment, it is Hope and Faith returning to their home and adoring parents, hearing the strains of songs and laughter, far away from this strange, cruel place.

But once they round a corner and see guard towers, the coils of razor wire and gun-toting Brown Shirts, the dream vanishes. This is their reality.

Yesterday was yesterday; today is today.

“W
E
'
RE PLANNING AN ESCAPE
and want you to come with us,” June Bug said.

We were standing in the latrine—all white tiles and dripping faucets, reeking of sour turds.

Cat eyed us curiously in the mirror but said nothing. His bruises had faded from black and blue to green and yellow. Only slightly less gruesome. If he was surprised by June Bug's words, he gave no indication. He continued to rinse his arm in the sink. The water dribbled past his wound and down the drain, tinged with blood red and pus yellow. “I'll be long gone before you all finish tying your shoes,” he said.

“We'll pull our own weight,” June Bug said.

“I'll take my chances.”

“What if we paid you?”

Cat actually laughed. He turned, his eyes roaming from one of us to the other. “With what?”

“I don't know. We'd think of something.”

He gave his head a shake. “Not interested. I left the YO Camp to save myself—no one else. Period.”

We were shocked. It was the first bit of history Cat had revealed about himself.

“You were a Young Officer?” June Bug asked.

Cat nodded.

“So if things were so good there, why'd you leave?” Dozer said.

Cat didn't answer. He flicked off a piece of burned skin and flung it to the floor.

“Look, we go through the Rite next spring,” June Bug said. “Which means if we don't leave now, we never will. And if you don't help us, I'm not sure we can reach the next territory on our own.”

The dripping faucet was suddenly as loud as a cannon boom.

“Sorry,” Cat said. “Not interested.” He brushed past us and made for the door.

Before he got there, Dozer blurted out, “You know what, Cat? I don't know how you know all this shit—like where that massacre was going to be and the bunker in the tennis court—but why should we trust you when you're in on all these secrets?”

Cat hesitated. He turned. “Because I have a source,” he said at last, and his words hung in the air like smoke. A source. A
spy
. The kind of thing Colonel Westbrook had wanted me to discover.

“Who?” June Bug asked.

“I can't tell you.”

“How convenient. Why should we trust you then?”

“I never asked you to trust me. You're the ones who approached me.” The door shut behind him, and we stood there in stunned silence. Eventually, we dispersed, tiptoeing back to our bunks.

As I slowly drifted off to sleep, I wondered about Cat's source, trying to figure out who it could possibly be. And I thought of what Cat
hadn't
said: without him, we'd have a snowball's chance of surviving that desert.