by Anna Vera
Her little sister clings to her side. They cry, the younger sister in full grief, while the older keeps her upper lip stiff and her jaw set as she stares at me—knowing.
I look away, eyes burning and wet.
We stop, spraying mud, and I fling open the door so both Apollo and Rion can get aboard. They toss the supplies they gathered in the bed of the truck, where Merope and Cyb start stuffing it into our half-empty backpacks.
Just as they climb in, an enormous man with a gasmask and goggles steps forth, raising a gun.
“Take him down, Jac!” Rion yells, vaulting into the front seat beside me, Apollo climbing in after. “I’m out. Take him!”
Jac leans out of the window, moving so fast it’s as though he’s as adept at killing as he is breathing.
A gunshot rings loudly, but it’s shot from behind. I follow the line of fire to a little girl with brown eyes, cold and distant and anguished—a little girl avenging her father.
Jac pitches forward, gripping his shoulder. Blood spills in rhythmic spurts, smelling strongly of copper.
He’s been shot.
19
Jac’s face is white.
“My shoulder,” he croaks, leaning on the steering wheel of the truck while gripping his arm. “My fucking shoul—was it shot all the way through!?”
Jac’s fingerless hand dabs his shoulder blade, feeling the bloody exit wound. His face, surprisingly, lights up.
Rion reaches over me, ripping open Jac’s shirt as to better look it over. “Clean shot—straight through,” he confirms, pulling the shirt back down. “Now drive.”
“Are you kidding, man? I can barely move!” Jac grunts as he wiggles out of his seat, crawling over me. As he and Rion race to switch seats, a deluge of bullets sprays, peppering the glass of our windshield.
It shatters, a drape falling.
Standing at the other end of the barrel is a Skim, face in a gasmask and eyes goggled, head cocked slightly, as though in amusement over watching us scramble.
The bullets narrowly miss us. Rion slams his foot on the gas pedal, throwing us forward—right at the Skim.
Merope and Cyb drop in the truck bed, the weight of them loud as they crash to their bellies, avoiding the gunfire.
The Skim turns, readying to bolt. Jac’s beside me, bleeding all over my right side. Apollo’s yelling words I can’t understand while Rion swerves, on the tail of the Skim who runs, bulky and cumbersome, heading straight for—
A group, huddled behind hedges and statues, cloaked by the chaos twirling in a spindrift around us.
“STOP,” I yell, but nobody hears. The roar of the engine, the screaming of those around us, the splash of tires spinning in mud and stagnant ice water—too loud. “IT’S A TRAP.”
The Skim runs.
Rion’s eyes are lit up with fury.
I yank the rifle off Rion’s shoulder and take aim, firing off a single round that brings the Skim down, a heaping pile of flesh splayed prostrate in the mud.
The other Skims spill out from behind trees and statues and headstones, all armed with automatic weapons.
“GO,” I yell at Rion, eyeing him severely. He listens to me and veers away, spinning out.
The tires catch. We traverse toward the exit of the cemetery in a blur of heart-stopping noise, faces we pass reduced to a haze of smudged gray and white.
Jac’s head lolls back and forth, complexion pale as snow.
Apollo’s pressing a strip of fabric he ripped from his shirt against the gunshot wound, but it’s barely stifling the blood flow rolling rampantly from both sides of his shoulder.
I turn my attention to Jac. “Breathe,” I say after seeing him shudder and twitch. “Breathe and try to stay calm.”
I remove my jacket and toss it over him, trying to stop him from shivering. Apollo swallows, his face coated in flecks of mud and splashes of dried blood, hair wet and plastered to his face by a cold sweat.
“He’s going into shock,” he mutters, nodding at Jac.
I feel my chest tighten as I reflect on how long it took for us to actually reach the city. The quarantine was at least an hour outside of city limits, and we haven’t even—
“He’ll be fine,” I avow quietly, quelling my panic.
The truck whines as we climb an incline, jetting through the heart of the city, darkened by a fast-falling dusk sweeping over the landscape like a stain.
Time passes slowly, every second marked by a heartbeat.
As we leave the city more people filter in, heading not for first or second run, but third. I’ll be surprised if there’s anything left for them to take. I can’t believe this is the system for distributing supplies to people. This is really the best the United Government can come up with in terms of efficiency?
We jet through the pitch-black tunnel and are spit out at the city limits at last. As we dip and weave our way through the crumbling outskirts of the city, I see movement—the flicker of twitching limbs as they swarm forth, inundating the streets.
“The Muted,” I declare dryly. Rion nods, jaw tight.
Our path is black except for the dull yellow light cast by our truck’s headlights, and as time passes the frequency with which we spot the Muted darting out in front of us increases.
Apollo volunteers to take a flashlight and keep a lookout with Merope and Cyb. Though the last thing I want to do is pull the trigger of my pistol again, I follow.
When I exit through the back window, Cyb continues to ignore me altogether, speaking exclusively to Apollo. “We’ve seen fifty already, at least.”
“Merope,” I say, glancing at her—cloaked in the bulk of an extra jacket as she huddles quietly in the truck bed. “M, can you tell us how many you’re sensing?”
“Leave her,” Cyb retorts curtly. “Let her rest.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“Why don’t you go back in the cabin, where you’re wanted?”
“Are you seriously going to be this petty?” I seethe, finding myself nose to nose with her, hands clenched into fists. “Are you really so pathetic? We’re fighting for bigger—”
“Hey,” Apollo crows loudly. “Now isn’t the time to argue!”
“Exactly my point,” I say.
“So end it, Eos. Put it to bed.” Apollo’s comment is enough to keep Cyb from retaliating. “And when they are done being so petty, you can tell them everything you’ve—”
A cry, shrill as a siren’s peal, cuts him off.
The truck turns, skidding over the sheet of ice cloaking the crumbling pavement. Muted flash in front of our headlights in a thick swarm, swooping in and out of the forest lining both sides of the empty highway.
Apollo grips my shoulder, eyeing me. “We need Rion.”
“But he’s driving.”
“It’s going to get ugly, and we’re going to need him.”
“I’ll drive,” I hear somebody say, a voice weak and fatigued.
“Merope, you’re not well enough,” Cyb declares, rushing to her side protectively. But Merope shrugs her off, pushing herself up shakily—unsteady, but coherent.
“I am not helping anybody being back here. The least I can do is drive while Rion helps.” She drags open the back window and casts us all, including myself, a final glance. “We’ve got to work together to win. Don’t forget that.”
Apollo digs through our supplies, clicking on a flashlight as the back window grinds open yet again and emits Rion, who’s carrying a rifle and Jac’s shotgun.
More shrieking ensues, an utterly chilling sound that rolls over the landscape like a creeping tide.
“We’re still forty minutes out,” Rion divulges, tossing the shotgun to me. I take it, cringing as my finger finds the trigger.
“So,” Apollo says, reloading his pistol. “What plan do you have cooked up for us—soldier?”
Rion pauses, eyes drifting to gaze at the forest—dark and shifting with life—before he cocks his rifle and shoots off a few rounds alongside the highway. Shrieks prelude the distinctive thud of flesh colliding lifelessly against rocky pavement.
Rion takes a stripper clip out of his pack pocket and feeds it into his rifle’s magazine. “My plan is to get there,” he says simply.
Apollo sniffs, smirking. “Good.”
“Hey,” Cyb interjects, peering over the tailgate. “Does anybody else see what I’m seeing?”
Apollo raises the flashlight, revealing a large Mute trailing behind us, ravenous and wild—eyes glistening in the beam of white light as puss rolls in teardrops from beneath its eyelids.
My breath catches. “Is that a Haunt?”
“No,” Rion replies, strutting to the tailgate. “Maybe in a few more days it would be—but not yet.”
The Mute roars as Rion tries deftly to gun it down, but it dips and dodges, as though predicting every shot. The truck swerves violently, causing us all to gasp with alarm.
Apollo looks through the back window. “What’s going on up there, Merope?”
“They’re trying to make us crash,” Rion says, glaring down the scope of his rifle. “Strategizing, throwing us off so that big bastard of a Mute following us can catch up.”
We swerve again, but this time we skid sideways, drifting diagonally down the highway.
Cyb screams, dropping to her knees in the truck bed.
We’re all thrown off balance—and just like Rion said, as if it was all planned, the big Mute launches itself up, claws raking against the truck’s aluminum hide as it boards.
The Mute’s fingers are black.
Frostbite.
The entire truck sways as it climbs aboard, diving directly into the truck bed. And before anybody can get a shot off, it falls gracefully, draping itself over me—and now, if they fire, they risk shooting me along with it.
Fingers swiping. Teeth bared. Thrashing.
The weight of it against me is unreal, a brick wall built on my fragile chest. My senses are dominated by the smell of rotting teeth and infected flesh, and the saccharine odor of puss dripping from the Mute’s eyes, falling in flecks over my cheeks.
I wipe it away, shocked by the acidity of it.
I can’t swing my shotgun in such close proximity, fumbling instead for a knife, for anything. I reflexively reach up and grab it by the throat—a buzz of electrical energy surging forth, just as it had when I touched the infected woman earlier.
The same smear of steady white noise . . . I can see how the Mute would feel the same way as the infected woman did earlier, but why do they both feel the same way Onyx does?
What does Onyx have in common with a Mute?
“DUCK!” I hear Cyb scream, and without hesitating, I drop to my belly on the bed of the truck. Gunshots ring loudly in my ears as she fires, gunning the Mute down.
It falls, joining me on the bed, sliding in its own blood.
When I look up, I see pure chaos. Rion’s firing his rifle off at a series of the Muted clawing alongside his side of the truck, the group so close they could climb aboard any second.
Apollo’s guarding the tailgate.
Cyb saved my life.
Rion yells at Jac inside the cabin. “Ditch!”
I follow his line of vision, looking straight ahead of us, over the roof of the truck—to nearly fifty yards away, barely lit up by the headlights. A series of vehicles are wrecked in the ditch.
All of them piled together. Intentionally.
Strategically.
Rion shakes his head, slamming a fist repeatedly into the side of the truck—the first hint of fear I’ve seen from him, which ignites my chest in a wildfire.
I balance my way beside him. “Strategy.”
Rion nods, breathing heavily, before opening fire—pegging the Muted in their foreheads, killing them effortlessly, but it isn’t about skill or about weaponry or about precision.
It’s all about numbers.
Which we don’t have.
Merope speeds up and slows down, swaying to each side of the highway, trying to throw off the Muted, but it isn’t even close to being enough—if one Mute misses its mark, the other doesn’t.
“Left side, Eos!” Cyb yells, helping Apollo with the tailgate as Rion focuses on what’s ahead of us.
I find my shotgun and position myself back on the left side of the truck. Another big Mute gallops alongside as we drive, its jaws snapping wildly, expelling feverish shrieks.
I take aim, squeezing the trigger.
BANG.
The Mute drops, but falls too closely—its body gets caught in the back tire, sucked violently into the wheel well, where it stops the tire from moving altogether.
The whole truck lurches.
We skid over the ice, snagging corpses in our way as we lose control of the truck completely. We spin in circles, ricocheting against guardrails, tilting sideways so fiercely I’m afraid the whole truck’s going to roll.
Rion yells as he’s thrown out onto the highway’s shoulder.
Cyb’s forehead collides with the truck.
Apollo swears repeatedly.
I hold the open back window for support, crouching on my knees and squeezing my eyes shut thinking—begging, pleading, hoping that we get out of this alive.
For the first time, I don’t hear the Muted shrieking.
They are waiting for us to wreck.
We lurch to a stop, colliding against a guardrail alongside the ditch, where the other cars are piled up. My face slams into the back window, and I feel heat rush to my temples, stars bright and exploding behind my closed eyes.
For a few moments, everything is quiet—then I hear Jac in the front seat gasping for breath, shouting wildly, throwing open his door and stepping out.
Once I reorient myself, I realize we’ve done a 180, twisting totally backward. Ahead of us, which really should have been behind us, Rion’s body lies chillingly still in the snow—encircled by a group of the Muted, hissing and spitting.
Jac’s a step ahead of me, jogging as fast as he can while also holding his shoulder, trying to get to Rion. Apollo rolls out of the truck bed, groaning in pain, before sprinting off to provide any backup he and his gun can deliver.
Merope swipes at the deployed airbag in her face. “We’ve got to go help them,” she cries, cupping her eye.
“What’s wrong with you?” Cyb asks as we pile inside.
“It—it hurts!” Merope’s hand peels away, revealing a gaping cut over her right eye, swollen and bleeding profusely.
“You can’t drive like this,” I say. “Let me.”
Merope nods, making way for me to replace her. All around us now, the shrieking of the Muted fills the air, ripening to a high-pitched cacophony.
When I get behind the wheel, Merope’s hand clasps mine as she whispers, “You can do it, E.”
“I know,” I say and jiggle the keys in the ignition. Easy as that and the engine blares back to life.
Up ahead, Jac’s trying to lift Rion’s unconscious form over his shoulder, leaving Apollo alone in staving off the surrounding group of the Muted—ranks increasing.
Jac tries firing off a round. I hear it click!
He’s out of bullets.
Apollo swears, raising his gun, readying to use it as a club to beat the Muted to death if he must. He’s out, too.
I lean out of the window. “MOVE!”
Jac and Apollo look up, squinting against the headlights for the briefest moment—and then they run.
“Hold on,” I say, and after a split second of gripping fear and suffocating panic, I slam my foot on the gas pedal.
We’re flying. That’s what it feels like. We’re going so fast that bodies whiz by, blowing dents into t
he truck’s aluminum hood as they’re struck one after another, plowed over. The truck skids, free-falling. Raging. It cuts through the Muted encircling the boys like a scythe through a crop of wheat.
Then metal stops meeting flesh and meets metal instead.
With a whiplashing jolt, we’re stopped.
Silence.
20
My cheek is against the steering wheel, bruised and swelling.
“Are we alive?” Cyb wheezes.
Merope kicks her door open, falling out. “For now, we are.”
Through my broken window I hear the hissing of air as it’s expressed from the truck’s tires. They’re flat—or well on their way to being flat. What else happened to our only form of transportation?
Everything, it turns out.
I heave my door open, which swings so wide it falls off its hinges and lands noisily in the snow. The truck is totaled. Plumes of steam unspool from under its crumpled hood, every window pane cracked, every mirror shattered.
And the tires. Blown.
Apollo and Jac are speaking loudly, asking questions.
I hear Rion try to reply—voice like gravel, very much unlike how it usually is—before he doubles over and succumbs to a fit of retching and heaving in the middle of the street.
Rion collapses to his hands and knees. Jac drops beside him and rubs his back soothingly. “Better out than in, buddy.”
Jac is, himself, a mess. He’s paler than ever, his clothing slick with blood. Pressure hasn’t been applied to his wound, leaving it to bleed freely and torrentially.
And now, without a truck . . .
I’m afraid our journey is over.
I stumble forward, feeling as though I’m walking through a sprawling fog. My fingers are numb and freezing. My head aches from getting bashed repeatedly. My composure is fraying.
“He’s concussed,” Cyb says knowingly.
“Yeah, no shit,” Jac snaps, watching Rion roll on his back and begin tracing invisible circles in the sky with his index finger, mumbling incoherently.
Jac sighs, shaking his head. “Oh god—we’re in for it.”
Apollo emerges from behind the truck after a few minutes of digging and rummaging. He’s carrying every backpack we’ve brought with us, stuffed so full their zippers might break.