Vault of Shadows (26 page)

“Wait,” said Shark, “did she go looking or did I make her mad?”

“Don't ask
me
, man,” said Milo. “I gave up trying to understand her.”

“Mook,” agreed Mook.

They waited for ten minutes; then Evangelyne appeared out of the gloom and transformed into girl-shape, looking weary but less stressed. “I think I found a safe place.”

“Finally!” cried Shark, who had been having the hardest time. He was strong and quick, but he carried more weight than Milo, and that had worn him ragged.

“You won't like it,” said Evangelyne, sounding almost happy.

“I bet I will,” said Shark, panting and mopping sweat from his face.

As it turned out, they didn't like it.

The place Evangelyne had found was an old rusted boxcar that was the only car left standing from a freight train that had been derailed by a pulse blast. Hundreds of other cars were twisted and heaped along the tracks, or crammed into the gully that ran beside the rails. More still had gone flying like grenades, lifted by the force of the blasts and thrown into a row of houses that lined the east side of the tracks.

As they approached, a wall of smell hit them like a tidal wave, and the boys reeled back, coughing and covering their eyes. It took Milo a few seconds to understand what it was. More than half the cars had been tankers, and their contents had spilled. Most of the stuff must have been cleaning products, because there was a heavy stench of bleach and other poisonous chemicals. Even now, years after the invasion and with season upon season of rain and evaporation, the stench was nearly unbearable.

“Stingers can't smell us through this,” Evangelyne assured everyone, then seemed to be momentarily embarrassed by her choice of a hideout. “It's better inside.”

As they climbed inside, Shark unclipped his flashlight and pulled the pulse pistol. He swept with the light and the weapon together, exactly the way the EA soldiers did. The interior was stacked with wooden crates that had long since been broken open, their contents scavenged. Even so, the smell inside the boxcar was far less toxic. Still not pleasant, but Milo was sure the air was breathable. Mook
remained outside, once more taking up his guard duty. Milo suspected that the rock boy was embarrassed and probably angry about not having stopped the Stingers, but as Milo's mom once said, “Anyone can be caught off guard. Absolutely anyone.”

Milo was certain that Mook would be paying even greater attention than before, and he would likely make someone else—Stinger, hunter-killer, or shocktrooper—pay for what had happened. Because Mook did not need to sleep, eat, or go to the bathroom, his standing guard left the kids free to rest. Shark curled up in one corner, hugged Killer to his chest, and dropped off at once. His deep, regular breaths were calming to Milo's jangled nerves.

Milo dragged one of the empty crates across the floor to create a kind of compartment behind it, and he offered this to Evangelyne.

“It's not much, but it's private,” he said.

She glanced at him strangely, as if uncertain how to react to simple courtesy. “Thanks,” she mumbled awkwardly, and vanished into the shadows at the back of the boxcar.

Milo trudged over to the corner opposite Shark, made a nest out of old half-rotted packing materials, and tried to sleep. He wanted to and needed to, but sleep didn't come easily. Instead he lay there and thought about Evangelyne. They had known each other for five days now and even though they'd been through so much
together, Milo knew they were still mostly strangers. Friendship—even when it's born in battle—takes time and effort to grow. Evangelyne was unlike anyone he'd ever known. Even discounting for the moment that she was a werewolf—which, he had to admit to himself, was hard to forget. But the girl herself was odd. She'd grown up around adults and tried to act like one. She was bossy, cold, abrupt, sarcastic, occasionally mean, weird, vicious, intense, and, on very rare occasions, funny. She was entirely who
she
was, and entirely unlike Milo. He had a few eccentric friends—Barnaby and Lizabeth—but he'd never known anyone quite like Evangelyne.

He wondered if he and she would still be friends when this was over. If it was ever over.

If it even could be over.

He wondered what would happen if the Swarm were somehow defeated and driven away from Earth. Would the Nightsiders fade back into the darkness again, shunning Milo's world? Would the old hostilities and hatreds come back once there was no shared enemy? Or could humans and monsters learn to live together and maybe learn to value the world they'd nearly lost?

Milo didn't know, and he was too mind-weary and bone-weary to figure it out.

Sleep took him when he wasn't looking. He drifted down into shadows.

Down to where his dreams were waiting.

FROM MILO'S DREAM DIARY

I dreamed about my mom and dad.

Mom looked like she did when I last saw her, dressed in camos, carrying a gun, seeming hard and angry. And a little sad. The way she always is.

Dad looked like he did when I was little, from before the war. He wore scruffy jeans and a really ugly Christmas sweater with dancing reindeer on it. He had on his wire-framed glasses and that goofy grin that always made Mom laugh despite herself. He had his guitar and the three of us were sitting in the living room, by the fireplace, singing Christmas songs. Dad sometimes made up his own lyrics.

“Grapenuts roasting by an open fire.”

“Jack the Ripper tweaks your nose.”

We were laughing so hard we couldn't sing. Dad made me snort hot chocolate out my nose.

Funny thing was, Killer was there, and he wasn't our dog.

Then the doorbell rang and Dad got up to get it.

It was late and we weren't expecting anyone. I'd stopped believing in Santa Claus already, so I figured it would be one of the neighbors dressed up to play the part. Mom picked up a comforter and wrapped it around her 'cause there was a cold wind outside and some of it always managed to sneak inside. We had an old house and I guess old houses are like that.

I heard Dad humming to himself as he opened the door.

“Oh,” I heard him say, “I'm glad you're here. Milo's been waiting for you.”

Mom and I grinned at each other, knowing what was coming.

“Don't peek,” she told me, and I hid behind my hands.

‘Who is it?” I asked, really excited. Happy. Back when I could remember what happy felt like. I already knew who it was, but asking was part of it. “Who is it?”

“Ooohhh, it's someone who really wants to see you, Milo,” said Dad. “Have you been a good boy, Milo?”

“Yes!” I yelled. “Yes, I've been really good.”

“Are you suuuure?” asked Dad, drawing it out. Having fun with it.

“I promise, I've been really good.”

“Okay, but don't peek now. It'll spoil everything.”

“I won't, I promise.”

“
Good boys don't peek.”

I pressed my hands to my face and scrunched up my eyes behind them, but I was laughing. So was Mom, so was Dad. And so was . . .

That's when I heard him. Not Dad. Him. He said, “Are you a good boy, Milo Silk?”

“Yes!” I said.

“I don't know . . . I heard you've been bad this year.”

I tried to move my hands, to look, but Mom put her hands over mine. “No peeking,” she whispered.

“I've been good,” I said. “I promise.”

“Have you?” asked the voice. “Have you been good?”

“Yes.”

He was right behind me by this time, and now it didn't feel like I was hiding my eyes so I wouldn't peek. It felt more like I was hiding behind my hands. Like I didn't want to look.

“Good boys don't steal things that don't belong to them,” he said. “Do they?”

I heard Killer begin to growl. And another sound. It was Mom, and she was crying.

“Daddy,” I said, “tell him to go away. Tell him I've been good. I didn't steal anything.”

“Milo.” This time it was Dad's voice. “Milo, look at me.”

I wanted to but I didn't want to.

But I did.

I mean . . . of
course
I did. It was Dad. I had to look.

Even though
he
was there too.

I didn't take my hands away but kind of lowered my head and ducked under them, then looked up, expecting this to be bad.

It wasn't bad.

It was worse.

He
stood there, right next to my dad. All of that muscle, the insect armor, the multifaceted eyes, the extra arms. The hate.

The Huntsman. In my house. Right there.

Mom was to his left, kneeling on the floor, her hands over her face like mine had been. I could see blood leaking out from between her fingers. It ran along her hands and wrists and dripped onto the white carpet.

And Dad . . .

God.

Dad was on the other side of the Huntsman.

Dad.

Dad.

What was supposed to be Dad.

Same jeans and stupid shirt. Same hair and bedroom slippers. But there were wires running everywhere,
poked through ragged holes in his sweater, sticking right into his skin, coiled around his wrists, jabbed through his cheeks, threaded between his teeth. That wasn't the worst of it, though.

His glasses were gone.

So were his eyes.

Instead he had blue jewels, like the lenses of the pulse pistols.

He wasn't a holo-man. He was something else, something worse. Something I didn't know the word for and didn't want to know. Couldn't know. Never ever wanted to know.

The Huntsman stood next to him and his mouth mandibles clicked and clacked.

“I want what you stole,” he said.

And I screamed myself awake.

A
hand clamped over his mouth and a voice whispered in his ear.

“Dude—shut up!”

Milo stopped screaming. Right there, no arguments. As terrifying as the dream had been, this was the real world and it was much, much scarier.

Shark knelt beside Milo, his bulky frame outlined by the pale light of early dawn. His face was puffy from sleep but his eyes were sharp, alert, and annoyed. Another figure stood behind him looking equally disheveled and angry. Evangelyne.

Milo pushed Shark's hand away and gasped, “It's okay, I'm all right.”

Shark sat back on his heels, then heaved out a sigh. “Another one of your weirdo dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“Looked like you weren't having any fun.”

“Not much.” Milo sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“You shouldn't scream when we're being chased,” scolded Evangelyne.

“No kidding,” Milo muttered. “What time is it?”

“Late. The sun's
been up for five whole minutes,” she snapped. “We need to go.”

Before Milo could reply, Evangelyne yanked open the boxcar door. She glanced over her shoulder at them. “I'll scout the area. Be ready when I get back.”

“Hey, Vangie,” called Shark.

“What?” she demanded.

“While you're out there . . . see if you can find some manners and maybe a sense of humor.”

Milo tensed, expecting a brand-new war to explode right there. But Evangelyne surprised him by grinning. “Maybe tomorrow morning I'll let the wolf wake you up.”

Then she transformed and leaped into the slanting morning light.

Shark swallowed hard and looked at Milo. “She was joking, right?”

Milo couldn't answer. He was too busy laughing.

“You're as weird as her,” groused Shark. He offered a hand and pulled him to his feet. “The Mookster found us some nuts and berries and stuff. Not exactly pancakes and scrambled eggs, but it beats starving. C'mon, we need to hustle. You pack up your stuff, I'm going outside for a pee.”

When he was alone, Milo took a minute to try to remember the dream, horrible as it was, and write it into his diary. Mostly he wanted to forget it because it made him sick to think what the Bugs could have done to his dad in all this time. Killed him and used his body for raw
materials to make more Bugs. That was enough to drive Milo completely crazy. Or maybe his dad was working in one of the mines the Bugs had dug around the world, laboring with millions of other humans to tear key minerals out of the earth so the Bugs could build new ships and repair their old ones. Or had they really turned him into some kind of cyborg slave? There had been rumors of that sort of thing for years, though no one in the EA had confirmed it. The Huntsman was a cyborg, of course, but not a slave. He was a cyborg general, and he was part Dissosterin now as well.

Too many of Milo's dreams had held bits of prophecy, so he knew he couldn't simply dismiss this one, much as he wanted to. If there was a chance that even one secret hid among those nightmare images, he had to find the courage to hunt for it.

He heard a sound behind him as the boxcar door slid open, and then Shark said, “Say, Milo? There's, um, a
tree
here to see you.”

M
ilo turned, expecting it to be Oakenayl, and he had some pretty hard things to say to the oak boy. Most of which were phrases he'd have gotten in deep, deep trouble for saying around his mom.

It wasn't Oakenayl . . .

. . . but it was a face Milo recognized.

A tree face. A woodland spirit face. One that Milo had twice glimpsed briefly in the forest on this side of Lake Pontchartrain. Now, in the clear glow of morning light, Milo could see that it definitely wasn't the oak boy. The face wasn't covered in oak bark but was instead the more graceful bark of a weeping willow, and it was framed by long tendrils of soft green leaves. And it wasn't a boy. Even though it was impossible to tell gender by the strong body of living wood, the face had a decidedly feminine cast. Cleaner lines, more delicate shoulders, larger and more expressive eyes, and a general air of grace that Oakenayl never displayed. The eyes were filled with sadness, and there were worry lines etched around the corners of her mouth.