The Prey (8 page)

Hope finally understands: the haunted expressions, the lack of trust, the sense of despair. The girls all came here as twins. Thanks to Dr. Gallingham, many are now sisterless. Exactly what her father was warning her about.

“Finally get it, do you?” Gallingham asks.

As Hope tugs at the leather manacles, a wave of nausea rolls through her. Whatever they've been given works fast.

“We'll be back later,” the doctor says in a cheery tone. “Sleep tight.”

When he's gone, Hope swivels her head toward Faith and tries to say, “H and FT,” but she only makes it to the first letter. Her eyes roll back in her head. Her last thought before blacking out is the boy in the barn, the touch of his hand, the press of his skin.

M
Y WORDS WERE MET
with silence. The five LTs—Flush, Twitch, Red, Dozer, and June Bug—all looked at me like I was crazy. We sat on the eastern outskirts of camp, hidden behind a heaping mound of rusted cars. “You really expect us to believe this stuff?” Dozer scoffed. “A massacre in the mountain? LTs in a bunker? A girls' camp surrounded by barbed wire?”

“I'm not making it up,” I said. “Any of it.”

Dozer laughed derisively and spat on the ground. His name was short for Bulldozer, as he had a tendency to bulldoze his opinions on everyone else.

“So what are you suggesting?” June Bug asked. Unlike Dozer, there was no hostility in his voice. Even though Omega's radiation prevented him from growing
taller than five feet, it hadn't dampened his spirits. Which was probably why he was our unofficial leader. It was impossible not to like the guy.

“Head for the next territory. It's what Cat said he was doing. Maybe it'll be different there. In any case, we can't stay here.”

No one spoke. Hard enough to just draw breath.

“How would we get to the next territory?” Red asked. “The mountain and desert are bad enough, but then there are those
p-people
.”

He didn't need to say their names. The cities were inhabited by roaming gangs of criminals, referred to as Crazies. Even scarier were the Skull People, a tribe of primitive militants who killed anyone who dared approach their compounds.

“Yeah, and what're we gonna do?” Dozer chimed in. “Wander in the wilderness for years like frickin' Methuselah, trying to find some Promised Land?”

“Moses,” June Bug murmured.

“Huh?”

“It was Moses who wandered in the wilderness. Not Methuselah.”

“Whatever.”

“I'm not saying we wander through any wilderness,” I said, “just that we have to escape.”

“Yeah, but
where to
?”

“Dozer does have a point,” Twitch said, blinking.
He'd been born with a nervous condition that caused his facial features to spasm. Still, that didn't prevent him from being crazy smart. “We don't know which direction to go. There're no maps.”

Ever since Omega, all maps had been confiscated. We only knew that we were somewhere in what had formerly been the western United States. Where, specifically, we had no idea. All the Brown Shirts told us was that we were now part of the RTA—the Republic of the True America—and our specific territory was the Western Federation Territory.

“We choose the only logical direction,” I said. “East.” They looked at me like I was crazy. “Think about it. We're surrounded on three sides by desert, but the south and west are nothing but sand. And we can't go north because of Skeleton Ridge. If the altitude won't kill us, the wolves will. So that leaves just one choice.”

When they didn't respond, I went on. “Also, that's the direction of the Brown Forest. The girl in Camp Freedom said the new territory was just on the other side.”

Dozer scoffed, but the others nodded quietly.

“Although it's desert, at least it's high desert,” Twitch conceded. “There might be springs out there.”

“And I know where the keys are kept in the vehicle compound,” Red said. “What's to prevent us from taking some Humvees?”

Dozer sensed the tide turning against him. “And when we run out of fuel?”

“Then we hump it.”

“Are you crazy?” Dozer asked, horrified. “We can't walk across a desert. Look at us. Look at
Book
.” He pointed his sausage fingers in my direction. With my limp, I wasn't the fastest.

I had to admit: the realities of the plan were sobering. Miles of sage-covered desert. A dreary landscape as barren as the surface of the moon. And yet, what was the alternative? Stay in Camp Liberty and wait for the day to be imprisoned in a bunker? Or, worse, slaughtered by Hunters?

“We'll have to be smart,” June Bug said. “Not just take enough supplies, but the
right
supplies.”

“We'll stuff our packs with anything we can get our hands on,” I said. “Crackers, jerky—anything that'll keep.”

“And fill up canteens whenever we spot a water source.”

Soon, everyone was throwing out ideas and a plan took shape. It was scary.
Beyond
scary. But staying at the camp—the
hatchery
—was no longer an option. Even Colonel Westbrook's promise to make me an officer was not tempting enough to make me stay. I didn't know who to trust anymore.

An uneasy silence settled among us. There was only
one thing missing, and we all knew it.

“We need someone who knows the geography,” June Bug said. “Someone who can be a guide.”

No one had to mention Cat's name for us to realize we were all thinking of the same person.

“Too late,” Dozer said. “That coward's done gone and run. And I say fine. Let the sonofabitch die for all I care.”

We headed back to camp, each going a different way so as not to arouse suspicion. As I made my way back, one question rattled around in my head over and over: How on earth could a measly bunch of Less Thans escape from Camp Liberty, elude an army of Brown Shirts, and make it halfway across the wilderness to a new territory? It seemed nothing less than impossible.

H
OPE DOESN'T KNOW HOW
long she's been lying there. It could be hours, it could be days. She has vague memories of stirring, shivering from cold. Now she's burning up. Her dress is soaked in sweat; her entire body throbs with pain.

She looks over at Faith. Perspiration beads her forehead and her cheeks are flushed a bright red. Still, she is alive. Sleeping heavily with jagged, halting breaths.

Hope's eyes scan the room. On one wall is an enormous poster with the heading:
What Makes Someone a Less Than?
She remembers it's what Book called himself and studies the poster more intently.

Beneath the heading is an elaborate chart. A column
adorns one side, with the heading
Forbidden Categories
. The list includes Radiation Deformities, Homosexuality, Incompatible Skin Color, Political Dissidents, Nonapproved Religious Affiliations, Mentally Infirm. And goes on from there. Hope doesn't know what to make of it.

“Here. Drink this.”

A prisoner bends over her, clad in the same gray dress that all the girls wear. Distinguishing her from the other inmates is a black eye patch covering one eye. She holds out a cup of water. Hope recoils.

“It's okay,” the girl insists. “I work here.”

Hope turns away. “I'm sick because of people who
work here
.”

“It's not like that. I'm here to help. I'm a prisoner just like—”

Hope doesn't want to hear it. She sends an elbow into the girl's arm and the cup of water goes flying.

The girl with the eye patch sighs but says nothing. When she picks up the cup and refills it from the sink, Hope notices how bone-thin she is. Nearly skeletal. Like Faith. She offers the cup to Hope once more. “Just a sip,” she says.

Something about her expression convinces Hope that maybe she's not as bad as the others. After a long moment Hope lets the emaciated girl slide a spoonful of water into her mouth.

“You girls in Barracks B sure don't trust others much,” the prisoner says. She gets a rag and begins wiping up the spill.

“Why should we?” Hope says, even though she doesn't disagree.

“Because sometimes people help others out.”

“And sometimes they do just the opposite.” Black Eye Patch doesn't respond; she just finishes wiping the floor.

Hope studies the girl. If she harbors some ulterior motive, she hides it well. The girl brings the cup forward and Hope takes another sip. The water is cool and soothing. “From what I can tell,” Hope says, “I didn't think anyone trusted anyone here.”

“True, but it's worse with you all.” The girl leans in and whispers, “It's almost like you're hiding something.”

Her words echo Hope's suspicions. But what can her fellow barracks-mates be hiding?

“What do you think that is?” Hope asks.

The girl doesn't get a chance to answer.

“Good, you're up,” says Dr. Gallingham, entirely too cheerfully. Black Eye Patch hurries out of the room.

Hope squeezes her eyes shut. She has already come to hate everything about him: his nasally, grating voice; his smug, lipless smile.

“And what was it you were saying earlier?” he asks with a smirk. “That you weren't sick? I trust that's
changed since last we spoke.”

Hope has no desire to talk to Dr. Gallingham. She wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball and sleep. Still, there's something she wants to know. “What'd you give us?” she asks.

His face brightens. “An interesting question, and you'd be surprised how few of the girls ask. A rare strain of staphylococcus. Entirely treatable by vaccine, of course, but in today's world, there's little hope for developing one on such a grand scale. No CDC these days, sorry to say. But we can still create enough basic medicines for those we intend to save.”

“And do you intend to save us?”

He forces a smile. “I intend to save at least one of you.”

A thick heaviness spreads through Hope's chest. “How dare you,” she manages to say, straining against the straps. How she would love to wrap her hands around the doctor's fleshy throat and squeeze the air right out of him.

“Now, now. No reason to be upset. But if you'd rather I not administer the antidote . . .”

He pretends to make a move toward the door.

“No!” Hope says. She can't let her anger endanger Faith.

“As I was saying,” the doctor continues, “I'm sure one of you will survive. And
possibly
the other. As Ovid
once wrote, ‘Medicine sometimes snatches away health, sometimes gives it.'”

Hope notices the two female techs are back. Each is staring at the monitors and jotting down information.

“But there is one thing I need to know,” Dr. Gallingham goes on, peering at her with watery eyes. “Where's your father these days?”

Hope feels herself stiffen. “What're you talking about?”

“Your father. That's one of the reasons we've been after you, you know. Once we found the daughters, we knew we'd find him. Tic, tac . . . toe.”

Hope's mind races. How could Dr. Gallingham possibly know her father?

“Well?” the doctor asks again. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Our father's dead,” Hope murmurs.

“A very convenient answer. And one I'm sure he taught you to say. The only problem is . . . I don't believe you.”

Hope feels like she's been slapped. “You think I'd make that up?”

“I think the daughters of Dr. Uzair Samadi would do anything to protect their father.”

Hope flinches at his name. It's been forever since she's heard it. “I'm telling the truth.”

“Hmm. You know, the longer you lie, the more I'll
be forced to bring you in here.” Then: “So which of the two of you is feeling brave?”

Hope doesn't hesitate. “I am,” she says.

“You sure?”

She nods fiercely.

“Fine. Then one full dose to this one”—he motions to Hope—“and half a dose to the other.”

“Wait! That's not fair! Give Faith the full dose and me the half!”

“I would, but I think I'd rather keep you around. And then maybe you'll tell me what I want to know.”

He nods to the techs, and they pick up two syringes—one full, one half full—and move toward the beds.

“You can't do this!” Hope screams, thrashing against her restraints.

“I think we just did,” the doctor responds.

The needle jabs Hope's arm and she senses the cure—the full dose of it—entering her bloodstream. She feels utterly powerless to help her sister.

The medicine's coolness spreads down her arms like a drifting fog, and before she knows it she can no longer tell what's real and what's a dream. She thinks of Faith, and her mother and father, realizing that none of them can help her now. She has a memory of the boy in the barn, remembering the strong grip of his hand, the powerful kindness in his eyes. Maybe he can come to her rescue, she thinks. Maybe he will magically
appear and cut through these bindings and lift her up, her body pressed against his chest as he carries her to safety. Maybe . . .

She falls into a deep and satisfying sleep.

I
WAS ON MY
bunk reading
The Art of War
when I heard the shriek of whistles. Flush came dashing in.

“Emergency roll call!” he cried out.

Guys were scrambling to get in place and I ran to my assigned spot on the infield just as Sergeant Dekker strolled down my row, checking names off a clipboard. I glanced at June Bug and Red, their chests heaving, doing their best to hide the fact that they'd been up to something. Dekker stopped, eyed us coldly, then continued on his way.

What was going on? Were they on to us?

Sergeant Dekker assumed a pose of attention. No one spoke. Fifteen minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. Dinnertime came and went. LTs shook from standing so long.