Savaged

by Mia Sheridan

  She looked back to the phone. “Obedient?” she read, the one word printed at the bottom of the piece of paper. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Harper looked at it for another moment and then handed the phone back.

  Mark put it in his pocket and Harper backed out of the turn-in, heading onto the snow-covered back road they’d used to get to the cabin. She was right, of course. The “map” was most likely related to whatever animal observation he was doing here in the boondocks. But something in his gut told him he needed to locate those X’s and find out exactly why Isaac Driscoll had considered them important. Looking at how aged the piece of paper was, it seemed he’d kept it beside his bed for many years. But why?

  CHAPTER TEN

  The snow crunched softly under Pup’s paws as he ran to Jak and dropped the stick at his feet. Jak knelt down and took the stick, running his hand along Pup’s thick fur, warm from the early winter sunshine. “Good boy,” he said. “But there’s no time for fetch today.” He looked at the gray sky, squinting against the brightness for a minute before looking back at Pup. “We need to get ready for winter.” His chest got achy at the thought of what was soon to come.

  Cold.

  Hunger.

  Misery.

  Jak hadn’t expected the snow yet. He’d tried to keep track of the months as they’d passed, tried to remember the order they went in and how many days were in each one since the helicopters had disappeared, but he didn’t know if he had it right. Either that, or the snow had come early this year. He’d traveled to the place where he thought the helicopters had flown, but it had taken him almost eight days to get there in the snow and ice, and once he believed he was in the place where they’d flown above—it was hard to tell—there had been no sign of them at all. It was like he’d made them up. He’d found a covered place and stayed in that valley with Pup for a while, but it was rocky and cold, had barely any cover, and not close to enough food. So finally, he’d traveled back to the place he’d started out—the place where there were trees and caves, and rabbits that came out of their burrows to hop through the snow.

  He was glad he did because the helicopters never came back.

  Fear buzzed inside him, the memory of the two terrible winters before, and how he’d felt sure he was going to die so many times. But he and Pup had kept each other warm enough to stay alive, and the pocketknife had given them both a way to eat. Rabbits and field mice mostly, squirrels sometimes, the meat still warm and bloody. It’d gotten easier, second nature since that first kill, the one that had made Jak vomit in the snow, hot tears running down his cheeks as he’d gagged. And then he’d found that when he washed the meat in the river, the blood would draw the fish, and he could grab them with his bare hands.

  Jak thought fish was better than mice. Pup liked both the same.

  Pup hunted for them most of the time now that he was big and strong and could smell things Jak could not. Sometimes Pup even brought back a deer, and once a big thing he didn’t know the name for with antlers twice as wide as Jak could stretch his arms. That meat had lasted for a while, but then worms and bugs started crawling in it, so Jak left it for them to finish. He wondered if the other three boys who had gone over the cliff with him had been eaten by worms and bugs too but made himself think of something different.

  Jak watched which berries the birds liked and picked those for himself, and he ate the same wild mushrooms that the rabbits and squirrels chewed on. He figured if the animals ate them, they were safe for him too. When the water was cold, he scooped handfuls of orange fish eggs from the river, the taste rich and salty.

  He wanted to try to find his way out of the wilderness and back home, but each day was filled with feeding his hungry belly and making sure he had a safe place to sleep out of the wind. And he was worried that if he moved too far from where he was, his baka would never find him.

  But in the last few days, he and Pup had traveled farther than they ever had before, over many smaller mountains and across a deep river that had almost swept Pup away, before he’d grabbed the loose skin at the back of his neck and pulled them both up and over the bank. There was one more cliff in front of them, and he wanted to stand on top of it and see if he could spot anything other than more trees and valleys and mountain ranges and wild rivers swirling with foamy white. Maybe he’d see other people, a town, and know which direction to head in.

  A few fat snowflakes landed on his face and he stood, looking at his too-short pants. His clothes barely fit him anymore, and his toes were curled uncomfortably at the end of his broken boots. He wondered what he would do if he hadn’t found his way out of there, or if his baka still hadn’t found him by the time he outgrew them all the way. Thoughts of his baka still caused a twist of sadness, but when he tried to remember exactly what she looked like, her face was fading. And he couldn’t hear her voice in his head anymore the way he had at first, when he’d sworn she was scolding him for thinking about giving up, or when he needed to do something he didn’t want to do like skin a rabbit or eat its raw, warm meat. “Do it anyway,” she would have said. “You strong boy.”

  Jak couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Crying didn’t help anything, didn’t make surviving easier. His tears froze on his face, making him even colder than he’d been before, making him sleepy and useless.

  Pup stopped walking beside him, lowering his head and growling softly the way he did when there was another animal close by. Jak stopped, listening for the crunch of tiny feet or the flutter of wings, but he didn’t hear anything. “There’s nothing there, Pup.” But a shiver went down Jak’s spine, and he thought about turning back the way they’d come. He knew the land behind them, knew it well, knew every berry bush and rock cave, every wading pool, and open meadow. But this . . . this was a strange place, new and different, and even Pup seemed to think they were in the middle of a mistake.

  Something moved in the grass to Jak’s left and he startled, but Pup took off after whatever it was and Jak sighed with relief. Bring us back something good for lunch, Pup, he thought hopefully, his stomach growling. He’d already eaten the pocketful of berries he’d brought with them and his body was telling him—loudly—it wanted more.

  It always wanted more.

  There was a thin patch of trees in front of him, light spreading through from the other side, and he hoped there was a wide-open space that got enough sun that he could warm himself for a few minutes while he waited for Pup.

  But when he stepped through the brush, he came up short, his mouth falling open.

  A house? A house!

  And there was smoke coming from the chimney. Jak ran to it, almost slipping in his hurry to get there. He was safe! He wanted to yell with joy, his chest suddenly too full to breathe. A person! Someone to help him!

  He banged on the door, a small cry of relief falling from his lips. Rescued. I’m going to be rescued. His thoughts were already tumbling all over themselves—a river of happiness flowing quickly over uneven stones, bouncing, splashing—about the stories he’d tell about how he’d survived, about how—

  The door opened and a man stood there, staring down at him. He gave Jak a strange kind of smile, but Jak was too relieved to care about that. “You found it. Then it’s yours. You’ve earned it.”

  Jak shook his head. He didn’t know what the man meant. He had to make him understand so he’d call his baka and Jak could go home. “Hi, Mister, I’m lost.” He swallowed, trying hard to slow his words, to think of the right ones to use. Something bad happened to me. Someone tried to kill me.

  “Come in,” the man said, standing back and holding the door open. “You’re cold and it’s warm in here.”

  Jak stepped through the door into the warm room, another sob of relief clawing up his throat. He swallowed it down, doing his best to stay calm so he could explain to the man what had happened to him. To the other three boys who must be skeletons under the snow by now. Their families needed to kn
ow. Jak could tell them.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked.

  “Jak. I need to—”

  “She named you Jak? All right then.” All right then? And . . . she? Jak was suddenly confused, scared. He took a step back.

  “Do you know my baka?”

  The man paused. “No. By she, I meant your mother. Sorry for my assumption.”

  Jak frowned, looking closer at the man. He felt scared again. What if . . . what if he’d walked into the house of the man who’d tried to kill him? He backed up another step. But . . . no. This man didn’t look familiar, and he was a lot shorter than that other man. And his voice didn’t sound the same at all. Will you die today? Another shiver moved through Jak. No, he’d never forget that voice, not until the day he died. It was deep and dark, the voice of the monster who haunted Jak’s nightmares.

  “I want to go home. Can you help me?” Jak asked, his voice shaky, the collection of tears he hadn’t shed in so long suddenly filling his throat.

  The man stroked his brown and gray beard for a few seconds. “There’s a war. They’re killing the children.”

  Surprise made Jak’s mouth drop open. He swallowed and nodded his head. “Yes. Yes. They tried to kill me.” He didn’t know who they were, but the man had to be talking about the same people. Will you die today? The words rang through his mind, the memory as fresh as though they’d just been said.

  The man nodded. “Then you’re lucky. You must be very strong to have survived something like that.”

  “I—” Jak didn’t know what to say. A war? People killing children? His mind grabbed for understanding. “Who are they?”

  “The enemy. Outside these woods is very dangerous. Just try to survive as best you can until this war is over.” The man walked past Jak, moving toward the door.

  Jak spun around. “Wait. Mister. Can you help me?”

  The man turned back. “This place is yours. It’s well hidden from the road. You can live here.”

  “But . . . but who . . . who does it belong to?”

  “It’s on my property.” He looked around the room, glanced at the empty cots against the wall. “It was going to be a camp for children, but the foundation constructing it lost funding so it came with the land.”

  Jak looked around, desperate. Foundation? Funding? Jak didn’t know what those words meant. He was happy to have shelter, a wood stove that was warming the room, but the man before him had just caused his world to crash for the second time in his short life. “When will the war end? I need to get home to my baka.”

  The man’s lips pressed together, and he shook his head. “Everywhere has been evacuated. Your baka is gone now. You must survive on your own.”

  Gone? No. His insides fell and he swallowed.

  “I saw helicopters once,” he said, trying to hold on to his hope. “I think they were there to rescue me.”

  The man narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Enemy helicopters. They were looking for you, but not for rescue. If you see a plane or a helicopter again, or hear a vehicle, stay out of sight, you hear? The police are on the enemy’s side too. Don’t trust anyone. If you need something, my house is that way.” The man pointed to the far wall of the cabin. “I know someone, and I have a vehicle. I’m able to go into town sometimes and get supplies. It’s very, very dangerous, but with the help of my friend, it’s possible.”

  “How far is town?” Jak asked. How far is the enemy? Where am I?

  “Very far. You’re safe if you stay here in these woods. I have to go now.” With that, the man turned, and walked out of the cabin, closing the door behind him.

  Jak stood in the middle of the room, his brain cloudy with confusion and shock, his legs not wanting to work. When he finally pulled himself from the fog he was in, he rushed to the door, throwing it open and looking out into the fast-falling snow.

  The man was gone.

  Jak heard a yip and saw Pup running toward him, the limp body of a rabbit hanging from his mouth. He opened the door wider so Pup could come inside. He dropped the dead rabbit on the wood floor as Jak closed the door, leaning against it as he looked around his new home. He could sleep here and not have to look for a cold cave. It was warm and dry and yet . . . his heart felt empty.

  He remembered the TV Baka always had on. News, she called it. All about war and fire. Sometimes it made Baka’s eyes get shiny and her mouth turn down. She said it was far away, that war, but it must have come closer. All the way to his baka. And to him.

  Your baka is gone now. You must survive on your own.

  Survive.

  On his own.

  Again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Harper sat up abruptly, a scream on her lips, the sheets tangled around her legs. The dream. It’s the dream again. She was in the car with her parents. They were chatting in the front. She watched the woods go by, her eyes beginning to shut, and then as suddenly as that, she was falling, falling, her stomach dropping into her feet as vomit rose to her lips. Cold. So miserably cold. Water dripping down her face. Or was it blood? She ran a hand over her sweat-drenched hair, and for a moment it seemed that the dream had followed her from sleep to wakefulness. But no, it was just the clamminess of fear. She smoothed the tangles back, swallowing down the sob that was clawing at her throat.

  Somehow, she had known she’d have the dream when she went to bed the night before. They always occurred when she was mentally exhausted or emotionally distressed, and going from the Driscoll murder scene two days before to the group home yesterday, where she’d had a night shift, was obviously the catalyst.

  She took several deep breaths, attempting to calm herself as she glanced at the clock. 4:13 p.m. She’d managed six hours of sleep at least.

  The hardwood floor was cold beneath her feet as she padded to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and rinsing her face with cold water and then patting it dry with the towel hung on a hook by the sink. She took a few seconds to look at herself in the mirror, her chest still rising and falling too quickly with her increased heart rate.

  Her brown hair lay matted around her face in sweaty tangles, any rat’s dream home, and there were dark smudges under her brown eyes, which were already too big in her face, making her look like a tired owl. Lovely. No amount of concealer would be enough today.

  Coffee beckoned. A shower—and some cucumber slices on her eyes?—could wait. As she stood at her kitchen sink, the delicious scent of dark roast beginning to fill the room and clear her foggy brain, she stared out the window, going over everything that had happened two days before. She still couldn’t believe she’d been asked to help out with a murder investigation. Or more specifically, she’d been asked to drive an investigator around and guide him through some wilderness areas. But he’d asked her opinion on a few aspects of the case that he didn’t necessarily have to, and he’d listened to what she’d said and appreciated her input, and it’d made her feel . . . useful. Good.

  She wondered if he’d share the things he ended up uncovering about Lucas, if there was anything to uncover at all. Which, there had to be. Right? The picture of Lucas in the holding cell, and then the way his eyes had caught hers right before he’d gotten into Deputy Brighton’s SUV, ran through her mind.

  The machine beeped and she poured herself a cup of coffee, added a splash of milk, and took a grateful sip, as her mind moved again to the strange yet intriguing man. And that locket around his neck. Had she seen it before?

  Her memories of her parents were clouded. She’d been so young when they’d died—only seven years old. But standing in her kitchen, the last of the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, as she sipped the life-giving brew, that darn necklace was niggling at her mind again. Or at least, something very much like it. Her mother had had something similar with . . . hearts maybe? Three hearts . . . the words were tickling at the edges of her mind. Something . . . entwined. She released a whoosh of breath, massaging her left temple. It was there but too far away to grasp, skating
just outside her memory, taunting her.

  What if . . . she placed her empty mug in the sink and returned to her living/bedroom area, removing the box from the top of her closet shelf and sitting on the bed to open it. Her parents’ belongings—furniture and household items—had been put into a storage locker, which had gone delinquent thanks to an irresponsible “advocate” with a too-big case load, and subsequently been auctioned off. But Harper had a few photo albums and keepsakes that she’d been allowed to collect before being placed in her first foster home. Inside the box were not only photos, but a few cards, memories that she hadn’t looked through in a long time. She put the cards aside, not daring to peek inside. Today, seeing her parents’ handwriting felt like too much, and she couldn’t do it, not after the dream that had left her feeling so raw. What was it about someone’s handwriting that brought them back to life with a single glance? A blessing. And a curse.

  She flipped through the two photo albums, one of her parents’ wedding, and another of her as a baby and toddler. She didn’t find anything in either one and so she put those aside, pulling out the loose photos and putting them into a pile. She began going through them one by one, interested only in the ones of her mother. There weren’t many. Most of the photos her parents had had were presumably in a digital format somewhere that she had no way to access.

  She didn’t linger on their smiling faces, not today, attempting to keep her emotions as objective as possible. She would put her roaming thoughts to rest and let it go. Let her questions go. Let him go. Him . . . and the way he’d made her feel, feelings she didn’t dare dwell on too specifically. Him and his wild clothes and haunted eyes, the man who lived alone in the woods, and had looked around at the town like he’d never seen civilization before.