Undaunted

by Kat Falls

  Everson let his rifle dangle from its tactical sling as he spread his hands wide.

  “Put your weapon on the ground,” another hunter barked at him — a pinch-faced man with watery red-rimmed eyes. Everson laid his gun exactly where the red-eyed man indicated.

  “Take it all, including ammo,” ordered the third man — the oldest of them. Older than my dad, going by the gray in his pointed beard, and probably their leader, going by the swift way the other two obeyed him.

  The redhead picked up Everson’s gun while the other one moved behind me, unzipped my backpack, rummaged through it, and took out my handgun, ammo clips, and Swiss Army knife. Then he patted down Everson. I was now officially without a weapon in the Feral Zone, and the feeling unnerved me.

  The leader pulled off his wraparound shades to glare at us. “Don’t you idiots know it ain’t safe in the woods?”

  “It’s not safe in the zone, period,” I said, meeting his intense gaze.

  There seemed to be something simmering inside him. His shoulders were tight, and when he spoke, it was in a low, angry drawl. “Then what are you doing up here spying on us?”

  “We weren’t — we saw the smoke.”

  “We’re burning what’s left of a dead boy,” the rheumy-eyed hunter said in a flat voice.

  My first thought: “What’s left?” My second thought went unspoken: Aaron?

  “What was left after some feral made a meal of him,” the hunter went on.

  “Enough,” the leader cut in sharply, giving the hunter a censoring look. “I want to hear their story. They don’t need to hear ours.”

  “We’re with the line patrol,” Everson told him.

  “I got that,” the man said with a nod at our flak jackets. “What I don’t get is why you’re so far from the river. Help me out with that.” He indicated me with the barrel of his rifle. “You first.” My eyes shifted between his face and the gun. His brows furrowed, but then he followed my gaze to the gun. “I’m not planning on shooting you. Not unless you give me a reason.”

  “I won’t,” I promised quickly. “My name is Lane McEvoy, and this is Everson Cruz.”

  Everson stiffened beside me. Apparently guards didn’t hand out information like names to strangers. The leader seemed surprised as well, but then his eyes crinkled at the edges as if he was looking at me a little harder. Really seeing me, not the patrol-issue jacket. With a shrug, he lowered his gun and motioned for the other two to do the same. “Nice to meet you, Lane,” he said with a smirk. “I’m Boone. Now go on.”

  Maybe he knew my dad and that’s why he was letting down his guard so easily. I nodded and did as he ordered. “We came here because we found a boy on the riverbank last night. He was hurt. Badly hurt. But he told us his name — Aaron — and we guessed where he was from. It’s the closest compound. So, we were going to —”

  A boy about Aaron’s age darted out from behind the rocks. “You found Aaron?” He looked so much like Boone he could only be the man’s son.

  Boone scowled. “I told you to stay back.”

  The boy didn’t spare him a glance. “What got him?” he demanded, eyes on me.

  “We don’t know,” Everson said — to my great relief.

  Though truly, we didn’t. Just because Rafe had tried to drag Aaron away last night didn’t mean that he was the one who took a bite out of Aaron yesterday. And it certainly didn’t mean that he’d killed the boy last night. Maybe Rafe had been trying to help him in some warped way.

  “Something bit Aaron,” Everson told them. “He was fevered — probably infected. We cleaned him up, but he ran away during the night. We don’t know where —”

  “Like I said, we found him,” said the watery-eyed hunter, looking as ferocious as a feral. “In little pieces. We’re burning them now.” He swept a hand toward the rising smoke. “Carmen ain’t never going to get over losing her boy. Never.”

  Grief pushed up from my gut, sudden and raw. I’d guessed the pyre was for Aaron, but knowing for sure was worse.

  “The last time we saw him,” Everson said, looking grim, “Aaron was fevered, but he was in one piece.”

  “You talked to him. Did he say what bit him?” Boone asked.

  “Like I said, he was fevered.” Everson remained calm — like he was simply reporting in. “He wasn’t making a lot of sense —”

  “Except for when he told you his name.” Boone’s expression hardened. He held up a silencing hand when Everson tried to explain. He nodded to the two other hunters. “You’re going to take a walk with Habib and Zeke and tell ’em the truth about what you’re doing in the Feral Zone.” He gave the two hunters a look that I couldn’t decipher. “Take him over by Rip-Rap Falls and get his story. Jacob and I will get hers. Relax,” he told Everson. “We’re just going to talk; then you’ll come find us. If your stories match up, you’re free to go. We’ll even give you your guns back.”

  With that, the two hunters gripped Everson by the arms and escorted him back the way we’d come — past our campsite — and into the woods, with Everson looking none too happy.

  Once they were gone, Boone waved over the boy and motioned for him to turn around. “This is my son, Jacob,” he told me as he took a thermos from the boy’s backpack.

  Jacob glanced at me over his shoulder. “Aaron was my best friend,” he said, expression tight with held-back emotion.

  Boone poured steaming dark liquid into a tin cup and offered it to me. I wrapped both hands around the cup, hoping to warm them. “Thank you,” I said — and I meant it.

  He nodded and tipped back his head to pour coffee directly into his mouth from the thermos. Only then did I lift my cup to my lips. It was silly to think he was carrying around a thermos of poisoned coffee. Or maybe not silly. The bitter liquid in my mouth was definitely not coffee. As much as I wanted to spit it out, I swallowed and cleared my throat. “What is it?” I asked, sniffing the liquid.

  “Chicory. It’s too cold here to grow coffee outside,” Boone explained. “Plus, with chicory, you can eat the whole plant — leaves to root.”

  “What’s that?” Jacob pointed at Spurling’s dial on my chest.

  “A camera.” I tapped the record button, and a green light on the rim flicked on. “And a phone.” I held it out so Jacob could see the palm-sized screen. Another tap and his image appeared.

  “Whoa! You put me in a movie — like the ones we watch at the lodge. Every week we set up a —”

  “Jacob,” Boone cut in. “Go tell Carmen and the others that two outsiders are coming in for a quick visit.” He shifted his attention to me. “Carmen will want to meet you. You two were the last people to see Aaron alive. Tell her how you took care of him — bandaged him up and all. Tell her he wasn’t alone last night. She might take some comfort from it.”

  “I can do that,” I said, happy to do so.

  “But I wanna hear what they’re doing here,” Jacob protested.

  “And you’ll find out with the rest of the compound,” Boone said firmly. “Now go give ’em a heads-up.”

  I slipped the dial down the front of my shirt and again tapped the record button. In a moment, I’d be alone with Boone. I didn’t think he was planning to hurt me, but in case I was wrong, I wanted a recording of whatever came next. If things got bad, I’d drop the dial somewhere close. Somewhere Everson might find it … assuming he was still alive. The thought that he might not be made my chest hollow out.

  As soon as Jacob disappeared down the cliff-side trail, Boone settled back on a large, flat rock, rifle laid over his lap, and made a “Go on” gesture.

  “You want to know why we’re in the zone?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I do — considering you’re on Heartland territory and you were spying on us from the ridge.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” I assured him. “We saw the smoke in the sky. We went to the edge of the cliff to see what it was. If you check the area, you’ll see we camped over there last night. Under the ledge.” I pointed to the long
shelf of rock.

  Boone gave it a cursory glance. “Why’re you camping on this side of the river?”

  “We’re looking for someone. The line patrol wants him.”

  “That explains the guard.” He lifted his chin toward the woods where the hunters had taken Everson. “But not you.”

  “What do you mean? I’m a guard t —”

  “You’re no guard. Him, yeah.” Boone again indicated the woods, and my worry for Everson cranked up a notch. “He’s pure patrol,” Boone went on. “But you? You’re something I never thought I’d see again. An old-fashioned girl.”

  I bristled. “I’m not old-fashioned.”

  “Honey, I was thirty when the plague hit — that was the last time I ever saw one of your kind. No sign of hardship on you. Not on your skin, not in your expression. You got everything a kid needs — plenty of food, doctors, dentists … Meaning, you grew up in a place where all those good things exist. And that ain’t here. Not anywhere in the zone. So, I think I’m looking at a near-mythical creature here.” He pointed a finger at me. “A girl from the West.”

  “All the guards are from the West.”

  “Yeah, and they’ve all been put through drills so hard they’re more robot than human. That ain’t you.”

  I stared at him, taken so far aback, I could’ve been swimming in the Mississippi.

  “Life in Heartland is good, all things considered,” he went on. “But it’s never completely safe. Tragedy dogs us, and we know more is coming. Like today. Losing Aaron. We’re always bracing for the next blow, and it shows. Even in our toddlers. So now you know lying to me won’t work.” He leaned back on his rock. “Do it again, and I’ll toss you in a feral pit.”

  I swallowed. “Okay, I’m not a line guard. What else do you want to know?”

  “Why’re you here?”

  “I’m looking for someone. The patrol wants him too, so Everson and I came together.”

  Boone considered my words and then seemed to shrug them off as not his concern. “Did Aaron say what bit him?”

  “He was really hot. Really sick.”

  “Did Aaron say what bit him?” Boone repeated slowly as if we had all the time in the world and his patience was infinite.

  “No.”

  “Did Aaron say it was Rafe?”

  I gaped at him. How … ? He must have overheard us — me and Everson — at the edge of the cliff. What had we said exactly? Then something hit me. “You know him. Rafe.” It was the familiar way Boone had said his name.

  He shot me a look of disgust. “We all know Wraith. I shoulda put a bullet in him back when he was just a joker. Now look at what I have to deal with. A feral in his prime, juiced on something powerful, something that’s putting muscle on him and giving him speed. And topping it all off, he’s crazy. And Rafe wasn’t exactly sane back when he was just a pain in my —”

  “How long have you known him?” I asked, cutting him off. Why was I surprised? Before he’d gotten infected, Rafe was a professional hunter. He went from compound to compound, trading his skill at killing ferals for food and supplies. Any compound with a rogue in the area — a feral with a grudge against humans, or worse, a taste for human meat — hired Rafe on the spot. My dad told me that Rafe had visited more compounds than anyone he knew. And knowing Rafe, it was no surprise that he’d ticked off a compound leader along the way. Probably more than one.

  Boone’s expression turned assessing. “I think the real mystery is, how do you know him?”

  “I —” wasn’t going to admit to this man that my dad had been telling me stories about Rafe since I was eight — about Rafe’s adventures in the Feral Zone. I opted for the easiest explanation. “My dad hired him whenever he was on this side of the river.”

  “Whenever he was on this side?” Boone scoffed. “That wall’s a quarantine line. You don’t get to go back and forth.”

  “My dad’s a fetch.”

  “He fetches stuff from over here?” Boone guessed.

  “Exactly. For a price.”

  “That’s gotta carry a death sentence.”

  “Usually, but my dad worked out a deal. Anyway, that’s how I know Rafe. He was my dad’s guide through the zone.”

  “You know he’s feral?”

  “I know he got infected.”

  “And lost his mind fast,” Boone added. “We’ve had three people go missing. Aaron makes four. Aaron would’ve been an easy catch — an easy kill. The kid is only thirteen … was.”

  “Four,” I echoed hoarsely. Rafe couldn’t have killed four people. He couldn’t have. But then, why had he been dragging Aaron away last night? “When did the first one go missing?” I asked, hoping to prove that it wasn’t Rafe based on the timing.

  “Five months ago,” Boone replied, and my heart sank. “I know because that’s when we started letting the flock leave the compound in pairs instead of in groups. Now we’re going to have to return to the old ways. At least until we kill Wraith.”

  “Why do you call him Wraith?”

  “’Cause ever since he went feral, he goes for the sneak attack. Bites, then disappears. Waits for his prey to weaken from blood loss, then comes back for the kill.”

  “That makes no sense. Why would he do that?”

  Boone shrugged. “He’s feral. Don’t look for meaning in it.”

  “But how do you know it’s Rafe?” I demanded.

  “Because he tried it on me. Yeah, he bit me. Not deep, but I knew chances were good I was infected, so I took myself off. Waited for the fever, but it never came. When I got back to camp, I did a blood test. Nothing. I’m clean.”

  He must have been the man that the lionesses saw Rafe attack. “The virus wasn’t in his salivary glands yet,” I guessed.

  “Too bad Aaron wasn’t that lucky.”

  “Even if Rafe did bite Aaron, that doesn’t mean he killed Aaron. It could’ve been another feral. Or an animal. A bear, a cougar, anything …” But then why had Rafe slashed at Aaron?

  “You seem real invested in him not being a killer,” Boone mused, “when I know he’s been rotten to the core for a long time. Long before he went feral, he was stealing our meat. Taking our animals right out of their pens. Pigs, goats — and threatening anybody who tried to stop him.”

  As far as I knew, Rafe didn’t steal from compounds. He did business with them. Yes, he stole from the base. But he had a grudge against the patrol. Maybe he had a grudge against Heartland as well …

  “What’s the patrol want with him?” Boone asked.

  “A sample of his blood.”

  “You can have all you want.” Boone spread his arms wide in a gesture of generosity. “After he’s dead.”

  The way he’d said it sent a shiver down my back. “You can’t just kill him. We need to make sure Rafe is really feral.”

  “Girl, I’ve seen him up close.” He touched fingers to the back of his neck. “Real close. And I can tell you for sure he’s feral. So you don’t want me holding off while you go give him a once-over. He’ll have his teeth in you by then.”

  “Does Rafe have some kind of grudge against Heartland?” I asked. “Is that why he bit you?”

  Boone plucked the tin cup from my hand and shook out the last drops of chicory. He twisted it back on the thermos and shoved it in a side pocket of his coat. “He was one of ours,” he said finally.

  “What?”

  “Born at Heartland. Grew up inside our fence. He lived with his sister, Sophie. When her husband got infected, he was forced out. Sophie went with him and took Rafe. He was young, maybe ten. He hates us for making them leave. But it was Sophie who made ’em a package deal. Her choice to throw in with a disease. We can’t risk letting infected people past the fence. You never know when someone’s gonna turn.”

  I resisted the urge to tell him about Moline, since I didn’t feel like listening to the lecture I suspected would follow. Also, I wanted to know why Boone hadn’t mentioned Rafe’s parents. If Rafe had been born in Heartland, his
parents must have lived there too. In Moline last year, Hagen had told me about Rafe’s sister, but she didn’t know what had happened to his parents. Apparently Rafe didn’t want anyone to know. And neither did Boone.

  “That’s enough of that,” Boone said after a moment. “Time to find your guard.”

  “Everson.”

  Without another word, we made our way to the woods. The trees looked different in daylight — not nearly so ominous. My thoughts, however, were more ominous than ever. I didn’t want to be alone in the woods with a stranger, and there was a lot wrong with this picture. Rafe had come back for Aaron, just like Boone described. But maybe he had another, less obvious reason for dragging Aaron away from our camp … in the middle of the night … still gagged and bound. And even if Rafe did bite him, it didn’t mean he tore Aaron into pieces. That was an image I did not want in my brain.

  “Can you make it across?”

  Boone’s question startled me right out of my spiraling thoughts. I glanced up to see two ropes strung across a ravine, tied to trees on either side. One rope for my feet, the other at chest level for clutching for dear life. “Uh …” I peeked over the edge of the ravine. The drop wasn’t bad, about ten feet. The problem was the raging river at the bottom.

  “The stream’s swollen because of the snowmelt,” he explained. “And two weeks of rain.”

  What he was calling a stream, I would’ve called whitewater rapids. Okay, brownish, very fast water. “Where does it end?” I asked, testing the bottom rope with my foot. It seemed taut enough to take my weight.

  “Runs right off the cliff. Lotta them do. Makes for some gorgeous waterfalls every spring. Fifty-foot drops.”

  This stream ended with a fifty-foot fall? I backed off. The survival courses I’d taken in the West were a joke. Rock climbing and ropes courses were indoor sports and only attempted with helmets, safety lines, two spotters, and a thick mat. Because it’s not protection unless it’s overprotection. “Is there another way across?” I asked.

  “Not to get where we’re going.”

  “Which is where?”

  “We’re going to join up with your friend.”