by Keri Lake
I see the faces of those voices. The blond little boy, and a little girl with equally blond hair. And somehow, I know their names.
Abel and Sarai.
I stumble toward them, listening carefully. There’s laughter. My laughter. Their laughter. Maddening laughter that forces me to cover my ears.
When I reach the tree, a spatter of red coats the bark, which I assume is someone’s blood, and as I trace carvings inside the trunk, the voices grow louder, bouncing off of one another inside my head.
The packs are gone, leaving the tree empty and hollow inside. Bracing a foot within the root, I climb inside, tucking my knees into my chest. Tipping my head back, I close my eyes and listen. Listen for the voices.
Instead, a different vision strikes me.
Growls.
Hands reaching for me.
Blood.
My hands flail out, and I grip tight to the thick roots at either side of me, bracing myself as in my visions, when the Ragers faces crowd around me.
My eyelids flip open, and all I can see is darkness. Running through the darkness.
I touch my fingers to my lips and climb out of the tree trunk, lifting my gaze to the berries above me. A tart flavor dances over my tongue.
“I found you here. In a pool of blood.” Papa’s voice reaches me through the confusing swirl of memories. “You’d hemorrhaged.”
“The … baby?”
“The Juniper berries induced you, and you lost the baby. You were weak. Dehydrated. And you’d lost way too much blood. I brought you back to the other side of the wall.”
“You told me to come here. To this tree.”
“It’s where my wife and child hid from the Ragers. It kept them safe until I could find them. My wife had already been bitten, though, and she’d passed the illness onto Katie.”
“Not my mother. My mother … she wasn’t killed by … she was murdered.” I stare off at the ruined twists of the tree, the memories of my past unraveling like a flitting spool of thread. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie?”
“You suffered from repressed memories. Dissociative amnesia is a more technical term for it. You didn’t know who you were, where you’d come from, or what happened to you. It happens post-trauma.” He rubs his fingers together at his sides, as though nervous, but unlike the times he sought to escape my questions, he continues. “I’ve battled two years of guilt, trying to decide whether, or not, to tell you. I just wanted you to experience life without the pain, if only for a little while.”
The sting of tears hits the rims of my eyes again, and I tip my face toward the canopy of leaves above me.
God, how many times can the heart suffer? How many blows can it endure before it finally gives out?
“You changed my name?”
“To protect your identity. To give you a new start. You once told me you liked the name Wren for a girl. It was—”
“My mother’s name,” I interrupt, as the memory filters in. “I was going to name the baby … you saved my life. I remember. That’s why you wouldn’t let me go to the North side. Why you wouldn’t let me leave the house for a while. You didn’t want me to run into Doctor Ericsson. Or Ivan.”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets and nods. “A precaution, mostly. They’re rarely seen inside of the wall, as they spend so much time at Calico, but I had nowhere else to take you. Anywhere I’d have hidden you outside of the walls would’ve put your life at just as much risk. So I hid you away there. Eventually your hair grew out. The bruises faded.” A quick gesture toward his face emphasizes his words. “You looked like a different person.”
“They threw me to the Ragers, but they didn’t attack. Why?”
“For the same reason they didn’t attack Six that day. I’d injected you with alpha pheromones. Its effects are temporary, unfortunately. The chemical structure just isn’t compatible with those who aren’t born with the alpha gene.”
Absorbing the missing pieces, I turn to face him. “You … still work for the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how you knew about Six.”
Casting his gaze from mine, he sets his hands to his hips. “I’ve never personally seen the subjects of S block. But I knew about the program.”
“Why do you still work there? Why would you continue to stay there when you know what happens? What these monsters do every day?”
He lifts his arm, peeling back his sleeve, revealing a patch of gauze taped beneath. “Call it a personal interest.”
“You’ve been bitten. When?”
“The night I came for you here. Two Ragers were feeding on the blood. They tried to get to you, and in the melee and panic of trying to keep you alive, I had a moment of carelessness. And rage.”
Which means he’s effectively hidden the wound for years.
“How … how have you not turned?”
“Every day, I inject myself with a new strain of antibodies, in hopes I find the right match. Some have a negative reaction at the site of the wound. It’s slowed the progression, but … the truth is, I can turn at any time, Wren.”
“That’s why you let Six stay.”
Head bowed, he nods. “I thought he could protect you, if necessary. From me.”
“You’re dying, then.”
“By my estimates, a little bit more every day.”
“But you’re still searching for a cure.”
“Yes.” His cheeks puff out, before he exhales. “Though, the hourglass is running out. I’m no spring chicken. Every day, I wait for one of them to find out. To throw me into one of their experimental labs.”
“And still, you work to find a cure.”
“Always.” His brow furrows, but I catch the shine of tears in his eyes. “My daughter was minutes old when I held her for the first time, and fourteen years old when I held her for the last time. The plaques on her brain had destroyed most of the tissue, and she’d begun to show signs of aggression.” The shifting of his jaw is a poor attempt to stave off the sob that wobbles his voice. “It was a Tuesday afternoon in the summer when I injected her with potassium chloride and held her until the very last beat of her heart.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he clears his throat again. “I swore that I’d never put myself through that hell again. But then you came along. You reminded me so much of her. Her grit. Her bravery. And I swore that I would keep you alive until the last beat of my heart.”
I wipe away the tears. For all the reasons I should hate him, there are as many to appreciate everything he’s done for me at his own expense.
“The truck has full power. I put an extra battery pack and charger in the back, and enough supplies to keep you going for a couple of weeks. You’re free to go, Dani. If that’s what you want, you’re free to go. You owe me nothing.”
I cross my arms, contemplating the choice on offer, and shake my head. “My name is Wren. Dani died a long time ago. And if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay. ‘Til the last beat. I’ll stay with you.”
His lips stretch to what is perhaps the first genuine smile I’ve seen—the kind that crinkles the corners of his glistening eyes. “It is quite all right with me.”
Eight Years Later …
Wren
Chapter 25
I drop the rock into the pouch of my sling and hold it away from my body. The whoosh of the bark fibers whipping past my ear tells me when I’ve built enough momentum to release the thumb knot. Too early, and it’ll go to the right. Too late, and it’ll hit to the left. My target is a quail that sits at the base of a cactus, about thirty yards off.
The heavy rock swings easily over my head, and I release it, knocking the bird from its perch. A flap of wings kick up the surrounding dust, before it stills.
As I tuck my sling into the satchel strapped across my body, rising up from my hiding place behind the rock, a jerky movement catches my eye. The growls and clicks confirm what I already suspect. From a small abandoned shack, whose planks have rotted and decayed, a Rager
stumbles toward my quarry.
“No you don’t, asshole.” I tug up my sling again and lift a large smooth rock out of my satchel. The jagged ones are nice for splintering the bone, but the smooth ones never catch on any woven fibers, making for a quick and easy hit.
Before the bastard has a chance to ruin my dinner, I swing the rock over my head and release it, nailing him in the back of the skull. The Rager drops to his knees, turning just enough for me to hurl another rock, this one larger, which slams into the side of his head in a spray of blood. He tumbles to the dirt just short of the fallen bird.
I stride toward them, exchanging my sling for the knife in my satchel, and kneel down beside the Rager. Burnt, mottled skin and protruding bones tell me he’s been roaming for a while. The bloating of his body is the bacteria causing gases to form, and no doubt, this grisly soul is one hard blow from popping. I’ve seen some of them explode from gas build up, sending a cloud of infection into the air. Once they reach Stage Three, which could take a few months for some, they’re pretty much a walking death trap.
The frequency that I’ve been seeing them on hunts indicates they’ve been moving farther out from the cities in search of food. Usually, one, or two, at a time. The hordes have died out for the most part, especially in the north, where most Stage Three Ragers couldn’t survive the frigid temps, but survivors sometimes stumble upon what are known as pockets while scavenging for food—spots where infected animals, or humans, have decayed, leaving behind contagions that leach into the ground. If disrupted, they create a plume that, when inhaled, works like the very first outbreak, and voila—an entire hive is wiped out.
With a quick slice, I drag the blade across the Rager’s throat for good measure, and the pungent odor of fermented meat that emanates from the wound damn near makes me wretch. I bury my nose into the crook of my elbow and rifle through his pockets.
Out of his coat, I slide a brown leather wallet and flip it open to pictures of what must’ve been his wife and son. Smiling faces staring back at the camera make me wonder about the day it was taken. How did it start out? How did it end? How did his family ultimately die?
Rummaging through the wallet’s folds, I find the green paper I recognize as old currency. A card inside has two overlapping red and yellow circles, with Mastercard written above a series of embossed numbers. The one behind is blue with a Visa emblem. I toss the wallet aside and try pulling the gold band from his finger, but his hand’s swollen enough, it won’t come loose. With a grimace, I nab the blade beside me, and with one quick chop, his finger pops off, and I slide the ring into my palm. Wedding bands have a decent trade value, particularly in our community, where the people continue to live in some messed up state of denial that the world beyond the wall has changed.
With new arrivals in Phase three and four, our Szolen Farms have doubled in size, which is good for farming and other commodities, but it means more assholes to contend with. Privileged idiots, who think they’ve found the holy grail of safety and security.
Security is an illusion. Which is why I prefer to spend my days out here, without the conveniences. Without the falseness and dream-like existence. Because, someday, a nightmare could come crashing in, and the only ones who’ll survive are those who aren’t afraid to open their eyes.
Not having found any keys on the Rager for my beloved collection, I gather the bird into a separate satchel, along with the other two I shot earlier, one of which I’ll trade in the market for some lavender soap.
Beneath the ever-growing currency of credits, Szolen still has a thriving barter system in its marketplace, and my hunts have scored a number of small treasures there.
I head toward a gap in the canyon, where the sun beats down on the plastic sheet I placed there days before, the corners of which are buried beneath the sand. In the center sits a rock that I set aside, and I lift the plastic to reveal a three-foot hole, housing a small tin cup buried in the brush below. My tongue puckers to find it’s mostly filled with water, and I pour the liquid into my bottle, stopping for a sip, before replacing the plastic and the rock. The cool spring months have made for extreme temperature fluctuations, and collecting water is almost too easy.
If only thirst and the occasional Rager were all I had to worry about, I’d probably make it a point to explore the landscape more thoroughly.
It’s dangerous coming out here, though. Like everything else, women, too, are scarce, thanks to the hive raids. If the Ragers don’t swipe you up and take you back to their nests, a marauder will eventually come along and do the honors. Women have become as much a means of trade as food and water—sometimes more valuable.
Szolen has eliminated a number of females, thought to carry the infection in one form, or another. Genocide mostly, and there’s no higher power to stop it. No United Nations peacekeepers, or military task force to step in. Women are hunted from all angles—killed by Legion, sold by marauders, or dragged by Ragers to their nests, where they attempt to mate them.
A shiver spirals down my spine at the thought of getting swiped up by a Rager.
I once heard about a young woman, early twenties, who got taken by one. She was tied down and raped repeatedly, until she finally ended up pregnant. The Rager tended to her by feeding her raw meat and water for weeks, and when she fell deathly ill, it ultimately consumed her. She apparently had a traveling companion, an older woman who was less appealing as a breeder, who managed to get loose and escape the Rager. Legion ultimately stumbled upon her on the road, dirty and covered in blood. Once they learned she’d been held in a nest, they killed her, of course. Even if she hadn’t been bitten, the exposure to a Rager for any extended period of time makes newcomers a threat to their precious community of the pure.
Which is why their assholes pucker every time I venture out beyond the wall. If not for Papa and his stature in the community, I’m certain they’d kick me out. In fact, I’m waiting for the day they do, or force me to become one of their Daughters, and I’ll feed myself to a Rager before I’ll let that happen.
After tossing the satchel into the truck, I hop into the driver’s seat and fire it up, heading back toward Szolen. Along the dirt path is a wide expanse of decaying desert, and in the distance, a Rager stumbles along aimlessly. I sometimes wonder what this place was like back when civilization thrived. It’s weird to think women once roamed wherever they wanted, without something trying to kill, or mate, them.
It’s not long before I reach the cluster of tents outside of Szolen and slow the truck to a stop. In seconds, I’m crowded by small children, mostly boys, dressed in clothes barely clinging to their bodies. It’s surprising Legion hasn’t forced their families off already, but I’ve learned the squatters do a pretty good job of keeping others away, and in spite of how bold they can be to those leaving Szolen, they’re mostly harmless. Just families hoping to earn their way to the other side of the wall.
The children reach out to me, jumping up and down with excitement, for the treat I promised them on the way out. Their bronzed skin is coated in dirt and grime, stretched thin over the bones of their skeletal bodies—a sight that pisses me off. How can we deny them? How can we ignore them day after day like this?
“I told you guys I’d be back.” Chuckling, I nab my satchel from the truck, and from the front pocket, I scoop out a handful of multicolored candies. “Where’s Zahra?”
A small feral-looking child steps forward, with stringy waves of hair and bright green eyes. I worry about her in particular. Though her parents are watchful, she’d be a prize to marauders out here. Fortunately, camping so close to the wall, they earn a bit of protection from the guards, who shoot Ragers and marauders on sight. It’s at night, though, when everything shuts down that I think of her out here. I’ve yearned to steal her away with me into Szolen, but her family is made up of her mother, father and five brothers, and that many’d be difficult to sneak into the community.
With a smile, I stroke her hair and offer her the first piece of candy. One of
the boys tries to snatch it out of my palm, and I grip his arm with my free hand.
“Always ladies first.”
His shoulders sag as he drops his gaze and gives a nod.
Once she’s selected her piece, I reach into the bag again and pull out one of the birds I shot, handing it off to her. “Take this to your momma, okay?”
A smile lights up her face, and she nods, running off toward the tent with the bird dangling from her fist.
The other boys choose their candies, and I offer a loaf of bread from the seat of the truck, breaking it into small chunks for each. After the food has been distributed, I toss the satchel back into the vehicle and feel a slam against my leg. I twist to find Zahra clutching me tightly. I stroke her hair and kneel down, taking her hand in mine.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise. And I’ll have new treats for you.” Pushing the hair from her face, I pull her in for a hug. “You keep yourself safe out here, okay? No wandering off alone.”
She nods, and while I have heard her speak before, she rarely says anything for the most part.
A reminder of the boy I once knew.
Zahra backs away from the truck, and I hop in, waving to the children and their parents as I head toward the gate.
As I roll to a stop in front of the wall, an older guard approaches, shaking his head.
Christ, here we go.
“You’re killing me, Wren. You feed them, they stick around. They’re just like stray fuckin’ animals.”
“Except they’re not, Denny. They’re human beings. People. Just like us.”
“Like us? Last I checked we don’t stand and throw rocks at passing vehicles. One of those bastards bit Skeeter last week. Good thing the little shit wasn’t infected.”
“They’re hungry. And scared. And to be honest, I’d bite Skeeter, if given the chance. He’s an asshole.”
Denny snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Pretty thing like you would get swiped up in a heartbeat.”