Cured (11 page)

“What do you want?” I ask again.

“First off, featherweight, I want my pride back. You've got to weigh eighty pounds max, and you took me down.” He makes a sound, a bumpy, weird sound from deep in his throat. It takes me a minute to realize what it is. Laughter. He's laughing!

I tighten my grip on his arms. “You're insane. Will you shut up before you blow my cover?”

His laughter stops. “Before
I
blow your cover?
Me?
First rule of desolation is
never use a light after sunset
! You can be spotted from ten miles away. You're the crazy one, my friend. Not me.”

One of my dogs back home is a Rottweiler-hound mix.
When she senses danger, a Mohawk of fur rises on her back. The hair on the back of my neck bristles, and I let go of him, spinning in a circle, searching the darkness. “What have I done?” I whisper, and fall to my hands and knees, feeling around until I find my gun. Without waiting to see what the stranger does, I run.

The dead grass is smooth and even under my feet. At the house, I take the deck steps two at a time and burst into the family room with the leather sofa. “We have to go. Now!” I blurt. “I totally messed up.”

Fiona stands up from the sofa and steps in front of her brother. Bowen walks through the front door. Behind me, footsteps pound up the deck stairs. I whip around in time to see the silhouette of a man cross the deck and stop at the back door. From inside the house, two guns click and I know precisely where they are aimed.

“Please don't shoot me. Please.” The man lifts his hands, a gesture barely visible in the dark. “The kid cut me and I'm bleeding pretty bad. I was wondering if you could help me out real quick.”

“Who're you?” Bowen asks.

“My name is Kevin. You've got about ten minutes before the raiders get here, since your watchdog was stupid enough to turn on a flashlight.”

My face starts to burn with fury and embarrassment. The beast-boy grumbles in his sleep, and I can see the gleam of Jonah's good eye in the darkness.

“Jack? Please say you didn't turn on a light,” Bowen says.

I don't reply because the room lights up with a rosy glow
that makes our shadows sweep across the walls. I look out the window as a pink flare arcs across the sky.

Bowen groans. “That looks close. Fo, keep your gun on Kevin. Let's get him to the master-bedroom closet where we can turn on a light. Jonah, come and get us if you hear or see anything.”

“Got it,” Fo says, voice gruff. Jonah doesn't say a thing.

“Jack, you lead.”

Without a word I walk past Bowen, with Kevin hot on my heels. The master bedroom is on this level, past the kitchen and down a wide hall. The master closet is massive, with tattered clothes hanging on wooden hangers above rows and rows of rat-eaten shoes. I can't see any of this in the dark, but I memorized everything about this house during the day—just in case.

Inside the closet, Bowen shuts the door and turns on a flash-light, shining it in the stranger's face. He flinches and covers his eyes. There is a tattoo on the back of his hand—the
mark
. But there are no lines drawn through the circle, no recorded doses of vaccination.

“Show me your palms and arms,” Bowen demands. The man holds out his arms and hands, palms up, and Bowen moves the light over them, searching for raider marks. I don't look for the marks because my eyes are riveted on the stranger's left arm. It is covered with blood that is dripping onto the hardwood floor. Bowen moves the flashlight to the source of the bleeding—a gaping gash, exposing muscle, two inches above the man's elbow.

Bowen's eyes meet mine. “Not bad,” he says. I shrug.

“Do you have coagulant?” Kevin asks, gently prodding the wound. Compared to me, he's tall, but not nearly as tall as
Bowen. He looks right at me and I almost gasp. He's not quite a man. He's young. And surprisingly handsome.

“We have coagulant, but we don't have much. I don't think we should waste it,” Fo says, still aiming her gun at the guy.

“Waste it?” Kevin looks at his wound again. “It's not like I did this to myself. Your little watchdog did it. I can't be bleeding like this and wander around out there.”

I take a closer look at the gash. I've seen worse. I've also fixed worse. “I can suture it.”

Fo, Bowen, and Kevin all turn and stare at me.

“My dad does this sort of stuff all the time. Only, I'll need water. To clean it out first and to wash my hands. I'll go get Jonah's pack.”

Fo and Bowen look at each other, as if communicating a silent message. “We don't have any water to spare,” Bowen says. I keep quiet, but I have to fight the urge to remind him that we have a backpack loaded with water. More than enough.

Kevin glares at Bowen and Fo, then turns his fuming, accusatory gaze on me before rifling through the clothes hanging in the closet. He stops rifling when he gets to a white cotton button-down shirt. Taking it from the hanger, he holds his right hand out to me, palm up. “I need your knife,” he snaps, brows furrowed.

“Why?” I ask, wary.

His jaw tenses and releases, and then he shoves the shirt at me. “Please cut me a large triangular bandage.”

Aha. Now I understand what he is doing. I take the shirt and, without putting it on the filthy ground, do my best to cut a
large triangle. When I am done, Kevin holds his arm out. I wrap the fabric around his biceps and pull it tight to slow blood loss. He gasps as I knot the bandage into place.

“Sorry,” I say.

The closet door swings open and Jonah, still holding the sleeping child-beast, strides inside. “Someone is coming,” he says. “A big group. They're on the far side of the golf course. We need to go. Now.”

“How many?” Bowen asks.

“I don't know, but they're carrying weapons. They're reflecting moonlight.”

“Where should we go?” My voice trembles. I don't want to be doing this. I want to go home. I want to be safe. I close my eyes and mentally push my fear aside. A warm hand comes down on my shoulder, and I open my eyes and find myself staring at a close face. Kevin's.

“It's going to be okay,” he says, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. “Don't be scared.”

“I'm not scared,” I snap.

“I am,” Bowen says, looking at Fo. “We need to find somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe.”

“I have a safe place a few miles from here. If you want my help?” Kevin asks.

“Yes, for now,” Bowen says.

“Come on, watchdog.” Kevin ruffles my short hair like we're old friends, and then he strides out of the closet like he's the one in charge.

We scramble through the house for our possessions. I get
my backpack. Fo and Bowen get theirs. Jonah carries the beast-boy. Without asking, Kevin takes Jonah's massive backpack from the kitchen counter and eases it onto his shoulders, careful not to bump his injured arm.

“Don't you have any stuff of your own?” I ask him as we make our way toward the front door.

“Oh, I do all right. It's down there on the golf course, probably about to be intercepted by raiders.”

“Well, that wasn't very smart.”

He leans in close to me so our noses are almost touching, and I force myself not to take a step back. That would show weakness. “Here's the thing, Jack,” he says. His breath smells like bubblegum. “I wasn't planning on getting stabbed tonight. If I knew you were going to turn on a flashlight and attack me when I tried to help you, I would have been sure to have my backpack
on
.” Stepping away from me, he rolls his shoulders under the backpack's weight. “What's in this thing?”

“Water,” Fo answers. “Lots of it.”

“And you wouldn't spare any for me?” Kevin grumbles.

“No, sorry. And be careful with it!”

We step out the front door and as one, pause, looking toward the golf course. Everything is quiet and I wonder if Jonah was wrong about seeing something. Slowly, so slowly I don't realize I am hearing it at all for a moment, the night begins to pulse. The thump of feet grows steadily louder and becomes accompanied by the occasional clink of metal. I focus my eyes in the direction of the sound, and my knees knock together. The newly risen moon shines red against the eastern horizon and gleams
against metal objects moving just beyond the edge of the property—weapons. I put my clammy hand over my gun.

“They're too close! We can't outrun them. Not with Jonah carrying the beast,” Bowen whispers.

“I can outrun them,” I blurt, and then realize what I've just volunteered to do—be the decoy.

“So can I,” Kevin whispers.

Bowen's eyes go from me to Kevin and back to me again. Fo puts her hand on my arm. “Are you sure you're willing to do that for us?” she asks.

I stare at her, silent, because I'm
not
sure. Kevin's hand comes down on my shoulder. “We're sure,” he says. “It's our—
your
—only chance for survival. Trust me.”

Bowen nods. “Okay. Just don't lose Jonah's backpack! And meet us at Leyden Lake tomorrow at noon!”

“Leyden Lake, tomorrow at noon. Got it. You ready, featherweight?” I grit my teeth and nod. Kevin grins and shoves me forward. “Oh no!” he yells. “Here they come! Run!”

My heart explodes in my chest, my feet dig into the driveway, I put my head down, and I sprint.

When I reach the road, I turn left and hope I really
can
outrun the raiders. I hope I can run to a safe place. But I don't know where any safe places are. I don't know if safety even exists. The darkness is pressing in on me, hiding things, obscuring danger, and I don't know what to do, except run and run and run. I have been programmed to run. Run from danger. Run for safety. Run to live.

But where?

My feet keep pounding the pavement and I feel small, insignificant, like if I'm not careful I'm going to run into oblivion. Run off the side of the world in my sprint for the ever-elusive safety I've been taught to hope for.

I hear feet pounding behind me and my muscles go taut. I'm fast. Too fast for Bowen or Fiona to keep up with. Too fast for Jonah. Too fast for Kevin with his injured arm and Jonah's massive
backpack weighing him down. So that means one of the raiders must be faster than me, and I am about to get caught. Without thinking, I veer into the nearest yard, into a copse of stark aspen skeletons. Twigs cover the ground, cracking beneath my feet.

“Stop!” a voice hisses from behind. I don't stop. Instead, I try to run faster, veering between tree trunks, flinging my arms up against the branches whipping my face. A hand grabs my elbow and I try to yank away, but the grip tightens. I stop running and grab my gun, flipping around and pressing it against a chest.

“I've got nineteen bullets in here,” I whisper. “But this close, it will only take one to kill you.”

“Whoa, featherweight.” It's Kevin, and he's gasping for air. “Don't point”—
gasp
—“that thing at me!”
Gasp
. Relieved, I lower the gun. I regret it instantly.

Kevin grabs me, throws me onto my back, and climbs on top of me, his hand pressed over my mouth. Compared to me he's huge. I can hardly breathe, can hardly move as I squirm between him and my bulky backpack in an effort to get away. I freeze with horror as he presses his cheek against mine, his lips brushing my ear.

“Hold still, Jack. They took the bait,” he whispers, his breath cool on my sweaty neck. “The raiders.”

I'm already frozen, so I stay that way, my ribs straining with every breath to lift Kevin's weight. Within seconds I can hear the sound of running feet over the noise of my pounding heart, over the swish of Kevin's breath in my ear. His body stiffens on top of mine, and he wraps an arm around my head and buries his face against my neck.

“Don't move,” he whispers. I don't need the warning.

The pounding feet slow to a walk, scuffing the street. Noises carry to me, whispered questions, the sound of guns being cocked, of knives snapping open, of baseball bats smacking into open palms, and it is the scariest thing I have ever heard in my seventeen years of life. And then one sentence carries to me:

“Hastings should be here any minute with the dog.”

Hastings. That's the name the cowboy said. Hastings is the leader of the raiders. And he's bringing a dog to sniff us out. I begin to tremble.

“Give me your knife,” Kevin whispers. He eases off me and carefully slips his arms out of Jonah's pack, easing it silently onto the ground beside us. I slide the knife from my belt and hand it to him. Crouching, he darts out of the trees and into the moonlit night. I roll off of my lumpy backpack and onto my stomach to watch.

Men are everywhere, like an ant hill that someone has kicked. If ants still existed. They're on the road, darting into yards, going into houses. Kevin slinks to the side of the road and then gives me the biggest shock of my life. He stands tall and walks right into the middle of the raiders.

“Any sign of them yet?” he asks.

The closest raider turns and looks at Kevin and stops walking. “We know they came this way. Striker saw them go into one of these yards, but he was too far away to see exactly where. More than likely they're holed up in a house. They have a woman with them!”

“Yeah, I saw the flare. But you called this many guys out just for one woman?”

“Dire straits call for radical action, man. Flint shot a pink
flare yesterday, but these runners didn't stick to his map. We lost them—until tonight. And since the women broke out of the compound last week—”

“They what?” Kevin blurts.

“Yeah. Eight days ago—every single one of them. They had help from the inside. That's why we need this new woman so bad. Hastings is on his way here now with a dog, so it's only a matter of time before we find her.”