he said.
“And I get to stay as your apprentice,” I said. “I get to keep tracking humans.”
My mentor gazed at me. Then he nodded, a smile creeping onto his face. “Very well, Zellner. Very well.”
He reached behind him and placed the knife on the dresser. He stood over my bed and looked down at me. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay, Zellner.”
I pulled away from him. I couldn’t trust him, or the humans, or the Mayor, or anyone in this town. I pulled myself off of my bed and stepped away from him. “Are we doing this or what?” I said, my back to him.
My mentor didn’t respond directly. A few moments passed, and he cleared his throat. “Right, yes. Let’s get ready. We’ve got a big day ahead. Get cleaned up, have another morsel. We have to speak to the Mayor first and get everything straightened out with the council. It’s time to capture the human safe zone.”
32. SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
We rolled to a stop outside the forest. We had to drive around the outskirts and come back around until we reached the river again. We began to idle over the wooden bridge, one vehicle at a time.
My mentor had taken me to the Mayor’s office in zone C straightaway after I had gotten cleaned, dressed and had another brain snack. An emergency hearing was called, the situation was explained, and my mentor vouched for me, stating that I was not willing to divulge the location of the safe zone without immunity from exile and without being readmitted to school. The Mayor was less than thrilled to see me back in Revenant and still a Wake. He and the council conferred and after returning, grudgingly accepted the terms.
“If it turns out you are misleading me in anyway,” the Mayor had said, “I will not only have you killed, but your mentor, your friend, and his mentor, as well. I hope you understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. Olander. One more mistake, and you will never be a Wake again.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. The Mayor’s threats no longer had any effect on me. As long as I was living in this town I would be at risk. Everyone would be, as long as Mayor Hillard ran things with an iron fist. But I had no choice. I had nowhere else to go, and he was in charge. I had learned a while ago that you can’t fight the zombie man.
It was decided that an emergency human tracking expedition would be enacted the next day. A plan was quickly developed after I had surrendered the details of where and what the safe zone was. I wasn’t sure if I agreed with the tactics of the campaign, but I wasn’t really in a position to argue. Most of the town’s vehicles were collected and all the available human trackers were brought in for the mission.
We had a few delivery trucks in town that we had brought along. My mentor drove one of them that rambled ahead as the lead. I sat with him on the passenger’s side. A couple of other human trackers stood in the cab with us. My mentor drew the truck ahead first, circling a long way around to keep a distance from the guards at the sewer tunnels and coming around to the opposite side of them.
The plan was pretty simple. The first step was to take out the guards. Two human trackers from our truck, suited up in the most advanced tracking gear, which was like SWAT armor and helmets that had been salvaged by our town, went ahead, moving carefully toward the platform where the guards were. My mentor and I watched carefully from the truck as they slowly progressed like lionesses stalking prey, my mentor gazing through a pair of binoculars. The two guards were positioned against each other with rifles, gazing in opposite directions. It would be difficult to sneak up on them. Fortunately, our human trackers were well trained. They crept through the trees and moved silently over the platform above the sewer tunnels. A few minutes later they flew through the copse and attacked the two guards, lassoing them around their necks and quickly disarming them without allowing them to fire a shot from their weapons. It was amazing. These guys really knew how to track humans.
Once the humans were disabled, the trackers signaled the okay to my mentor and he idled the truck forward. He slowly and as quietly as possible drove the truck into the channel, down the cement slopes, positioning it with the back facing the tunnels. The truck scraped and squealed as it dropped into the channel, but it wasn’t too loud. My mentor put it in park and he and I got out. We went to the back and unlatched the bay of the delivery truck.
“Ready?” my mentor looked at me.
I clenched the bag close to my chest and nodded.
He threw open the door to the bay and it flew up, rattling loudly. The Stiffs inside immediately turned toward the noise. There were dozens of them, collected from inside the Stockade before we departed.
“Go, Zellner!” my mentor instructed.
I ripped open the bag and held it out in front of me. The Stiffs began to pile forward over each other, leaping out of the truck and chasing after me. I sprinted ahead toward the tunnels and tossed the bag of Stiff bait inside, then pressed to the side of the wall and stood still. The Stiffs went after the bait without hesitation, pouring into the tunnels of the human safe zone.
The other trucks began to pull up along either side of the sewer tunnels and the human trackers emerged, swarming toward the concrete channel. The plan was going perfectly. Use the Stiffs from the Stockade to disorder and disarm the humans and to draw them out of the sewer, and then capture them.
Snarls and human cries of panic echoed out toward us. It was only a few moments before the first set of humans dashed through the tunnels into the channel, racing wildly with terror and bewilderment. The human trackers were quick, lassoing them with their stick snares and drawing them to the trucks to throw them inside. Others caught them by hand and simply tossed them into a truck. Whether they were infected or not didn’t matter. The more humans captured the better.
The humans were attempting to escape from the channel, scrambling up the angled cement walls, but the trackers were experts, chasing most of them down and drawing them to the trucks, and many waited at the top of the channel for any that did manage to break out. It was exhilarating. I stood and watched with astonishment.
“Zellner!” my mentor said. He held out a handled snare to me. “Go on, son! We need all the help we can get.”
The humans were drawing their weapons, guns and knives, to try to defend themselves, but the tracking gear helped protect us and we overpowered them pretty fast. The humans were mostly confused and frightened, trying to flee from the Stiffs as the trackers converged on them.
A boy, a few years younger than me, sprinted toward me. I clenched the rod in my hand. I flicked the handle and caught the boy around his neck, tightening the noose instantly. He fell in a clump on the ground and cried out. I put my foot to his chest and ordered: “Hey, shut up!” But he didn’t. He kept crying and crying. I shook my head and drew him forward. The boy wouldn’t stand, instead allowing himself to be dragged across the pavement. I drew him to the truck and, picking him up, unleashed the snare, and tossed him in. The boy instantly attempted to scramble out and as he did my mentor, having just thrown in a hum catch of his own, caught him with one arm and with the other deftly drove a knife from his belt into each leg. The boy screeched in agony, grabbing helplessly at his injured legs. I observed this action with unease.
“It’s better to disable them so they can’t run off,” my mentor explained quickly, tossing the boy back inside the truck. He held the knife out to me. “Go on, Zellner, take it. This is what you were awakened for.”
I nodded dully and accepted the knife. My mentor nodded once firmly at me and then spun around and sprinted back into the melee. I turned and walked slowly across the pavement. Humans sprinted all around me in a frenzy, crying out and shrieking in horror. I felt dazed. I couldn’t figure out if what we were doing was right. I knew we had no choice. I knew it was the only way to survive. But I didn’t know if it was right. It seemed so inhumane. The vapid sound of my unbeating heart hummed in my ears. I suddenly felt like I was in a dream or a nightmare.
A girl about my age when I had died sprinted toward me. Her face etc
hed in my vision and memory. She had long black hair that flailed behind her, and her long, thin face was stretched in an expression of terror and bewilderment. I didn’t think. I reacted to instinct. I rushed forward and drove my shoulder into her, knocking her onto the pavement. She collapsed lifelessly as I approached her with mechanic steps and kneeled over her body. She rolled onto her back and gazed up at me, her face agony. “Please! Please don’t! Don’t hurt me!” she cried, holding her open palms over her face. She seemed so desperate. “I’ll do whatever you want! Please!” Humans would say anything to escape.
I bent down over her and carefully studied her face. She looked so innocent, so scared, so weak. She reminded me so much of Morgan. The look of abject, pleading terror mirrored the expression I had seen splashed over Morgan’s countenance so many countless times. It was like something that humans had taught each other, as if that look could rescue them from any fate. She was like all the humans. Her face spoke to who she was better than her words. She was so weak and fragile. She was just like Morgan. She wasn’t meant to survive. I clenched my jaw and drove a knife into each of her legs, slicing into her flesh. Blood began pouring out and she screamed shrilly. I dragged her across the pavement by her
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