The Prey (28 page)

It's been a while since Hope has seen any, but it's
obvious who they are. Crazies. The ones who inhabit the towns, living in equal parts squalor, chaos, and radiation. Just laying eyes on them is enough to make her blood run cold.

Argos lets out a low growl. Book puts a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, but it's too late. One of the Crazies stops in his tracks.

“You hear that?” he grunts.

“Hear what?” another Crazy asks.

“Sounded like an animal.”

Hope grips her spear firmly. To one side, Cat lies facedown in a bed of weeds. He hasn't had time to draw an arrow, and his bow is clutched uselessly by his side. One move by him—or any of the Less Thans and Sisters—and the Crazies will spot them for sure. Hope holds her breath.

With squinty eyes, the Crazies peer into the underbrush. Their gazes dance across the moldy carpet of dead leaves and camouflaged bodies: the frozen forms of Book with his hand over the mouth of Argos, of Cat lying facedown, of Hope with her spear. Every sound—every breath—is magnified ten times.

A Crazy takes a step forward and Hope's grip tightens on her spear. Cat gives her the subtlest of shakes.
Don't do it,
his expression says.

Hope can feel the sweat mingling with the wooden shaft. She grips it tighter than ever.

Finally, one of the Crazies says, “Hell, Lem, it was probably just someone farting.” As if to prove his point, he lets out a burst of flatulence.

Charming,
Hope thinks.

The Crazy's buddies laugh, and they begin moving out, their metal gear clanking with each footstep.

Hope slowly exhales and shares a glance with Cat. They stay hidden long after the Crazies have passed. Even when they rise and resume marching, no one risks speaking, for fear their voices will carry. Hope notices her hands are shaking, her heart hammering in her chest.

One way or the other, she can't escape this territory soon enough.

The woods thin and they find themselves at a clearing. Stretching out before them is a wide valley, a hollow among hills. Prairie grass. A tiny stream. But what catches their eye is not the valley itself but what lies beyond it. Vast tracks of virgin forest.

No one needs to say its name. The Brown Forest. Acres and acres of dead evergreen trees—their needles as brown as the trunks themselves. Everything's the color of rust.

They all stand there, awestruck.

“How'd you know this was here?” Dozer asks. As usual, there is a hint of challenge in his voice.

“My father brought us,” Hope says. “When we were young.”
Us—her and Faith.

“And he said the Heartland's on the other side?”

“Somewhere past it. He never said how far.”

They stand there a moment, taking it in. It's hard to believe they're that close to freedom. After all this time.

“How do you think this happened?” Flush asks, referring to the trees.

“Poison,” Twitch answers. “That's not just one type of tree. Those are pines, spruces, firs—all dead.”

“So?”

“So whatever did this did it to everything.”

“Nuclear fallout?”

“Or acid rain or poisoned groundwater. Take your pick.”

It's easy to forget about bombs and radiation while they're traipsing around the countryside. All too convenient to pretend things aren't as bad as they actually are. But seeing the Brown Forest is another chilling reminder of reality.

“Is it dangerous?” Flush asks.

Twitch actually laughs. “After Hunters and Brown Shirts and wolves, what's a little poison in our systems?”

They leave the comfort of the woods and step into the clearing, wisps of fog hanging in the air. Cat orders everyone to spread out until they're a horizontal line moving through the meadow like the leading edge of a
storm. They're halfway across, the sun peeking through the rising mist, when they hear the sounds of engines. Four-wheelers.

Hunters.

“Oh crap,” Flush whispers.

Cat's clenched jaw works back and forth. “Double time. No stopping until you get to the forest. We'll make preparations there.” He takes off running, leading the way.

Everyone follows, fighting waist-high grass that pulls and tugs at their clothes. Sweat pours off Hope, running down her sides.

Cat is the first to reach the line of brown trees, and he throws himself to the ground and waits for the others. As they collapse on dead pine needles, a sense of relief surges through them. They made it. They're hidden now. Although the whining engines are louder than ever, there's still no sign of the enemy. It seems a cause for celebration.

Cat doesn't see it that way. “We gotta keep moving. They won't be far behind.”

“Are you kidding?” Dozer says. “We just got here. I need to catch my breath.”

“Let's be clear,” Cat says, his voice steady. “Whoever's back there hasn't had any trouble tracking us. And I doubt they will now.”

Everyone peers into the dead forest. A vehicle will
have little trouble navigating these woods.

“So what do you suggest?” Dozer asks.

“Keep going. Evade them until nightfall. Then make preparations.”

Dozer looks like his head is going to implode. “That's the second time you've said that word! What're you saying?”

“I'm saying that sometimes the best offense is a strong defense.”

A couple of the Sisters give him baffled looks, but Hope has an inkling of what he's getting at. They can't run forever; at some point they have to confront their pursuers. And better
they
choose where than their enemy.

Dozer offers one last challenge. “Any hints on how we defend ourselves?”

Cat shakes his head. “Not yet. But if we don't get away from here it won't matter. They'll slaughter us before we even get the chance.”

There's no stopping to eat. Even peeing is on their own time. They do their business and then hurry to catch up. It's a grueling pace.

The sun sets behind them and they continue marching. Cat is determined to find the perfect ground to make their stand.

Possibly the final one.

At the top of a bouldered crest he calls a halt. Everyone collapses. Iris—the Sister with spiky hair—falls asleep before she even removes her pack. She looks like an overturned beetle.

The remaining LTs and Sisters huddle up. In pale starlight Hope can see Cat's blue eyes as he takes them in. They are focused, alert, serious. As sharp and bright as the North Star . . . and just as magnetic. It's like he always seems to know what to do and when to do it. A natural leader. Something she recognized the very first time she saw him—the night he stayed up talking with her father, telling him of his plans.

“Our only hope is if we fight back,” he says. “Agreed?”

Everyone nods in reluctant agreement. Deep fatigue and gnawing hunger aren't enough; now they have work to do. But then again, what choice do they have?

As Cat begins to lay out the plan, Hope realizes how much they have to accomplish—and how little time they have to do it. She's still angry the Sisters got pulled into this mess without anyone telling them. This isn't the Sisters' battle.
Shouldn't
be their battle.

Still, there's no escaping it now. It's do-or-die time. One way or the other, this will be their final battle.

They work through the night: digging, gathering, building. By morning, their skin is oily with sweat. Exhaustion hangs over their shoulders like a heavy,
rain-soaked cloak. The wound on Hope's arm throbs with pain, but she doesn't stop. When their preparations are complete, they go over the plan a final time. Cat turns to Iris and Diana.

“You're our eyes and ears,” he tells them. “When you see any sign of the enemy, get back here as soon as possible. Otherwise, we're dead. Got it?”

They nod solemnly and take off in a dead run.

The sun is poking above the hills when Scylla gestures that she's put together breakfast. On top of all the heavy lifting, she's also managed to cook a bubbling stew of squirrel, mushrooms, and wild onions. To Hope, it seems nothing less than a feast. Even though she finds herself seated next to Book, they avoid looking at each other.

“We're too young to die,” Flush says.

It comes out of nowhere, and yet Hope realizes it's the same thought everyone's having.

She suddenly feels Book's arm press against hers, the warm flesh of his skin. She doesn't move away. Maybe it's fatigue, maybe it's regret at what she said to him, maybe it's something else. The only thing she knows for sure is that all of her senses are heightened. There's something soothing about his touch, flesh against flesh, and for the first time she begins to understand why she's so drawn to him. It goes back to that first meeting in the barn, and the kindness in his eyes. There was
warmth there. Comfort.
Safety.

It occurs to her that Book is more of a protector than she realizes—maybe not against wolves, but against those forces that tug at her heart. Cat may know what actions to take, but Book knows
her
.

Her cheeks warm and she opens her mouth to speak to him . . . just as the two scouts rush back to camp. Book pulls away.

“They're on their way,” Diana announces, her face red from running.

“How many?” Cat asks calmly.

“About two dozen.”

“Brown Shirts or Hunters?”

“Hunters. All on four-wheelers.”

Hope feels her throat go dry. In terms of numbers, it's a fair fight. But as far as weapons go, it's not even close.

“Grab some food,” Cat tells the two Sisters. “Then head to your positions.”

Iris and Diana fall to the ground and stuff themselves with stew. Cat turns to the others and meets their eyes.

“What're we waiting for?” he asks, tossing the rest of his breakfast to Argos. They pick up their weapons and begin heading to their stations. Hope shares a quick glance with Book and then races off. Neither says a final word.

S
TILLNESS IS IN THE
air. The only sounds are the breezes through the trees, dropping dead pine needles to the ground with a whisper.

And the beating of our hearts.

It's impossible not to think of all the deaths—Frank, June Bug, the two Brown Shirts, the Hunters at the gas station. At what point would it stop? When would we be allowed to live our lives without fear of being hunted?

We were spread out along the hillside, tucked behind boulders, buried in branches. Sweaty palms and curled fingers clutched weapons, waiting for the moment of attack.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

Shakespeare, drifting through my mind like smoke.

I peek above a boulder, searching for Hope. I cared for her; that was the truth of it. She might've been angry or disappointed in me, or liked Cat a whole lot more, but the fact was she seemed to understand me in a way no one else did . . . and I thought I understood her. I recognized that haunted look in her eyes. I knew that kind of pain. And I wanted to be the one to comfort her, to hold her in the night when the demons wouldn't leave.

It was suddenly important that I find her—that I catch her eye, some glimpse of her in the dead and dying trees. But she was nowhere to be found.

I jumped when I heard the sound of engines. Their menacing growl made them sound like fifty or a hundred, and when I spied the Hunters, my breath caught. There they were on their armor-plated ATVs, and this time they wore Kevlar jackets. Black helmets with thick plastic shields safeguarded their faces. A herd of wild beasts, come to prey on twenty-seven innocent victims.

Twitch and Diana were halfway down the ridge. Even from my position at the top of the hill, I could only imagine how scared they must have been. They were completely exposed.

The four-wheelers got closer. Three hundred yards became two. Then one.

I could make out the Man in Orange. Unlike the others, he wore no Kevlar, just a blaze orange vest, as if he
didn't fear our paltry ammunition. No helmet, either. Just a baseball cap.

One side of his face glistened pink with pus and blood, courtesy of the propane blast.

“Hold on,” I whispered, as if Twitch and Diana could hear me. “Just hold on.”

Twitch and Diana did. Finally, when they could wait no longer, when the Hunters were nearly on them, they rose and ran, tearing over the dead pine needles and racing back up the slope like two rocks skipping across a brown sea.

The Man in Orange gave a slight nod, and four of his comrades gunned their engines and took off in pursuit. They whipped through the forest, sliding effortlessly around the dead trees as though skiing an obstacle course. Twitch had trouble with the incline. Our time in the Flats had weakened him and it was all he could do to keep churning his gangly legs forward. Meanwhile, the four-wheelers grew closer and closer, the gap narrowing by the second.

“Come on!” Flush shouted, pleading for his friend.

Cat nocked an arrow. The Sisters readied crossbows.

The ATVs had nearly reached Twitch and Diana. The Hunter in front lifted a hand from the handlebar and removed an enormous knife from its sheath. Only ten yards separated its gleaming, serrated edge from Twitch's neck.

“Hurry!” I shouted, my words drowned out by the growling engines.

The knife-wielding Hunter had nearly caught up to Twitch, when, suddenly, Diana stopped and ducked. Then Twitch did the same. Before the Hunter could figure out what happened, his head snapped back and he was flung off his four-wheeler. He landed hard on the ground, his vehicle slamming into a tree. The next two riders were yanked off their vehicles as they ran into the fishing line we'd strung between trees. A fourth rider raised his hand to shield his face and his fingers were sliced off. Blood gushed forth.

We let loose a cheer. Cat, Red, Flush, and Dozer rose and pulled back arrows. Five Sisters aimed their crossbows. Even before the four Hunters had a chance to catch their breath, they were riddled with darts and arrows. Another cheer rose from our ranks.