The Prey (3 page)

Faith bristles. “I'm not as helpless as you think.”

“Uh, yes you are.”

Hope can see she's hurt her feelings. If Hope isn't slapping her sister with her hand, she's doing so with her words.

“I'm going to get some food,” she says, impatient and angry all at once.

Faith doesn't respond.

At the edge of a swampy bog Hope spears half a dozen plump bullfrogs. She brings the meat back to the cave late that afternoon and it cooks up good. They wolf it down without a word. After dinner, they settle on their makeshift beds, still not having spoken since the morning. Hope falls into a deep sleep, dreaming of everything and nothing.

When morning sunlight wakes her, there's no sign of
her sister anywhere.

“Faith,” she calls, first inside the cave, then out. The only answer she gets is birdsong. “Faith!”

Still nothing.

No extra footprints pattern the ground. No sign of wild animals. But Faith's few possessions are gone. No canteen, no backpack, no shawl.

Hope curses not so silently to herself. She isn't sure who she is angriest at: Faith, for thinking she can make it on her own, or herself, for basically daring her to go.

Or her father, for bringing up the notion of separating in the first place.

Although Faith's body is light and her footprints barely dent the ground, Hope will have no problem trailing the flattened grass, the snapped twigs. After ten years of tracking prey at her father's side, she knows the signs.

Hope finds the trail and determines which way Faith has gone . . . then promptly goes the other direction. To hell with her sister.

I
EXPLAINED THE BASICS
:
chores in the morning, classes in the afternoon, CC—Camp Cleanup—on the weekends. The boy in the black T-shirt didn't ask a single question, but I got the feeling nothing escaped his attention.

When we exited the mess hall, I realized I hadn't introduced myself. “I'm Book,” I said, trying to sound tougher than the name. “Who're you?”

“L-2084,” he murmured.

Sometime after Omega the government made the decision to label all the boys John. Our last names were what distinguished us: a series of numbers matched with a letter for our camp—L for Camp Liberty, V for Camp Victory, etc. Our “identities” were tattooed on our right arms.

Apparently, all girls were called Jane, but that was only a rumor. We'd never actually seen any for ourselves.

“Not your official name, your nickname,” I said. “Like I'm Book because I read a lot, and there's Red because he has a red splotch on his face and Twitch because he does and Flush because he doesn't.”

The boy in the black T-shirt said nothing.

“What'd your friends call you back where you came from?” Then, in an awkward attempt to follow the colonel's orders, I asked, “Where'd you say that was again?”

“I didn't,” he growled.

We toured the rest of the camp in silence. Finally, I asked, “What'd you mean in the No Water? About getting out of here?”

“Just what I said,” he answered tersely. As if it didn't need explaining.

“Why? This is a decent camp. And our grads do really well.”

A small sound escaped Black T-Shirt's mouth. A grunt? A scoff? But when I turned to look at him, I didn't get any reaction at all.

Neither of us spoke as we made our way across camp. As we passed two LTs, one of them knocked into me and I nearly lost my balance. The LT shouted out, “Who's your boyfriend, Book
Worm
?”

They laughed. So much for making a good impression on the new guy.

Beneath the arched ceiling of the Quonset hut, a hundred-some bunk beds stretched out in long rows. At the base of each bed was a wooden trunk, storing all our worldly possessions. In my case: books. Dozens of them.

Black T-Shirt stopped, pointing to the very last bunk in the room. “This one taken?” He clambered effortlessly to the top and lay on his back like some Egyptian sarcophagus.

Apparently, the tour was over.

“You don't get it, do you?” he said.

His words startled me. “Get what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely to the barracks, the camp itself.

“I get as much as I need to get,” I said, suddenly defensive.

He shook his head. “You have no idea.”

I turned on my heels and stormed out, angry I had ever bothered to help save L-2084's life in the first place.

I walked to the southwestern edge of camp. Below me lay endless desert; above me a jagged range of mountains. The cemetery itself was soundless. I made my way through a labyrinth of sun-bleached crosses until I found the marker I was searching for.

L-175. Known to us as K2.

A series of eerie images danced through my brain like fireflies.

Giant trees crashing to earth. Startled shouts. A final, haunted expression.

Pounding on a door. Red on white. Blackness darkening the edges of my periphery.

My face grew suddenly clammy. I squeezed my eyes shut and gave my head a violent shake, as if it were that easy to chase away demons.

It didn't work, of course. Never did.

I opened my eyes to blinding sunlight and reached out a hand to the wooden cross, rubbing my fingertips over its weathered ridges. I tried to speak, but the words got stuck in my throat. Those twin demons, guilt and grief, clamped my mouth shut.

Poor K2.

I noticed a yellow school bus heading up the hill below me, trailing a white plume of choking powder from the gravel road.

I knew who was in it, of course. Orphans. Headed for the nursery, where they'd be raised by surrogates until—one day—they'd become LTs.

There were fewer and fewer buses these days. I didn't know if that was a good thing or not. All I knew was that I'd go through the Rite and be long gone before these kids could even read or write.

The bus came up the rise. On its fender were three
crudely drawn inverted triangles. Inside the vehicle were row after row of boys, some so young they were held in nurses' arms. Others slightly older, their faces pressed against the window in a mix of fear and wonder. Years from now they wouldn't be able to recall their mothers or fathers; what they'd remember was the day they arrived at Camp Liberty . . . and be grateful it wasn't someplace worse.

I spun around and returned to camp. Gone for the moment was the shame of my past, the guilt I carried, replaced instead with those mysterious words uttered by Black T-Shirt.

You've gotta get me out of here.

O
RANGE LIGHT FLUTTERS ON
Hope's face. She pulls a gutted rabbit from the spit and eats every last morsel, sucking the bones clean. As she pokes the embers, thoughts of Faith swirl in her head. It's been nearly a week since they went their separate ways and Hope knows her sister has no flint. Has she been without fire this entire time?

But it was Faith's decision to go off on her own. Besides, their father said they should make this choice. The thought of him makes her pat her pocket and feel the small gold locket. Also the crumpled bit of paper with that one word:
Separate.

No. I can't think about it.

What she thinks about instead is the boy with the
piercing blue eyes. He'd come traipsing through just a few weeks past, looking for a night's shelter from the rain. Her father allowed it, on the single condition that he stayed at one end of the cave and his two daughters at the other. Hope remembers how she and Faith stared at him long through the night: his sandy hair, the embers' dull orange light sculpting his face, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept.

He was the first guy her age she'd ever seen, and she often wonders who he was and where he came from. Wonders if she'll ever see him again. Or if she's destined to be by herself her entire life.

She tries to sleep, and when she wakes just a few fitful hours later, Hope knows what she has to do. She douses the fire, packs her belongings, and heads out, her route reversed from the day before—she must find her sister.

Faith is ridiculously easy to track. She might as well have left painted arrows on the ground. Did she learn nothing from their father?

Hope suddenly stops. Something has caught her eye.

She retraces her steps. All around her, spring wildflowers poke through the earth: shimmering royal blue, egg-yolk yellow. And a carpet of miniature blossoms, the petals white as snow.

But one is stained with a single dot of red.

Blood. Fresh blood.

Other drops on blades of grass. Faith is bleeding.

Hope takes off in a jog.

Her father's message echoes in her brain:
Separate.
What he failed to understand was that she doesn't have a choice. Faith is her sister—her
twin
. As different as they are, there's no separating them.

Late that afternoon, Hope finally spies Faith from a great distance: a solitary figure wading through waist-high weeds. She zigzags back and forth. Is it delirium that pushes her from side to side? Or loss of blood?

Hope has two options: race straight across the valley or hug the tree line and circle around. Her second option will take longer, but it's obviously safer. A body walking through a barren meadow is just begging for trouble.

Despite her best instincts, Hope chooses the quicker route. Faith is in trouble. She needs Hope
now
. Hope begins to run, her heart hammering in her ears.

When she finally reaches her, Faith's words are accusatory. “What're you
doing here?”

Hope is taken aback. “Coming to find you, what do you think?”

“I don't need to be
found
. I'm just fine on my own.”

“You're bleeding . . .”

Faith clenches her right hand into a fist, but not before Hope sees the thick slice across her palm. “It's
nothing. Knife slipped.”

“Let me see.”

“It's nothing.”

Hope feels a surge of anger. Here she's gone to the trouble to find her sister and put her life on the line and Faith wants nothing to do with her.

“Faith, you can't do this. You won't make it on your own.”

“I can make it on my own just as well as you,” she says over her shoulder.

“Oh, come on . . .”

Faith wheels on her twin, nostrils flared. “Why don't you think I can make it? Because I'm helpless without you? Because he wanted us to separate so you could live and not me?”

“That's not true and you know it.”

“I heard him, Hope. He was telling you to go your own way. He wanted you to live. Well, guess what? I'm giving him what he wanted.”

Bug bites cover every inch of Faith's face, and her eyes are nearly swollen shut. But even more painful for Hope is the haunted expression Faith wears. A look of genuine sadness. Hope doesn't know what to say. What words can possibly ease her sister's pain?

When Hope is finally about to speak, she's interrupted by a low rumble. The earth shakes beneath their feet. Their father told them about earthquakes, but
they've never experienced one. A flash of movement out of the corner of her eye swings her around.

It's not an earthquake but a thundering of hooves. Horses. Dozens of them, headed straight for the two girls. Atop each of them is a Brown Shirt hoisting a semiautomatic rifle.

It only takes Hope a second to react.

“Run!” she screams at the very top of her lungs.

Hope drags her sister as best she can, tearing through the tall grasses. But there's no place to hide. Their only hope is to reach the trees and pray the woods are thick enough to keep the horses from following. Then the Brown Shirts will be forced to dismount and lug their heavy weapons.

It's a long shot, but better than none at all.

The rumble of hooves grows louder. The roar swells like a thunderstorm, hailstones slamming into the ground.

Both girls are sucking wind. Faith's lungs make harsh, raspy sounds with each inhalation.

“I have . . . to stop,” she wheezes.

“No!” Hope says.

Faith bends over, clutches her knees. “Go,” she coughs. “I'm done.”

“You're not done. We can do this.”

The horses are gaining speed. If the sisters leave
right now, they stand a chance. But only if they leave
this very instant
. “Come on!”

Faith shakes her head. “Go,” she says. “It's what Dad wanted.” She meets Hope's eyes. “It's what I want, too.”

Hope looks at her sister. And at the approaching Brown Shirts.

“H and FT,” she says.

Faith doesn't respond.

“H and FT,” Hope repeats.

It's their secret code. Has been since they were kids, since that awful day when their mother was shot before their eyes.

H & FT. Hope and Faith Together.

Finally, Faith says it back. “H and FT.”

Hope guides her. In her one hand is Faith's arm; in the other is her spear. She veers straight for the sun, forcing the Brown Shirts to squint into the sunset. Forcing them to slow down to navigate creek beds and boulders.

The tree line grows closer and Hope can make out the dense underbrush. It's all shrubs and thick tangles of vines. Good for hiding. Living hell for a horse. No way the Brown Shirts can navigate this maze. Hope realizes they've caught a break. They should just make it after all.

The first gunshots blast the trees in front of them. Bark explodes. Small birch trees are sliced in half. Faith slows.

“Don't stop!” Hope yells.

“But they're shooting at us.”

“And we'll stop if they hit us!”

They're a mere twenty yards from the woods when a lead horse circles around and cuts them off. Then another. And another. There's suddenly no way out.

Still, when a Brown Shirt draws a pistol, Hope reaches back with her spear and sends it flying. It sails through the air, entering the soldier's chest, the pointy end sticking out his back. A dazed expression paints his face as he tumbles off his horse.