Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive.

by Joanne Armstrong

  I also discover some sealed foil packets stored inside his lightweight camp pot. Some contain the dry biscuits we have already eaten today, and in another I find a powder with a rich foody smell. My stomach growls and I realise how hungry I am. I’m guessing it mixes up with water to make soup. I hope that it’s okay cold because I have no intention of taking the risk to get a fire going.

  I snap the clasp on the First Aid kit. This will definitely come in handy. I hold it in my hands for an instant, looking at the Polis insignia on the bag. My conscience is whining again and it occurs to me that my conscience has Grandad’s voice. Its current disapproval comes from knowing that Hayes is likely to need the First Aid kit more than I.

  “Well, I’ve got further to go,” I mutter to myself, and firmly place the kit next to the lamp. The dazer I return to his backpack without a thought; I want nothing to do with it. Just touching its cold metal gives me the creeps.

  I take the two canteens and duck outside for water. In the time since putting out the triggers the forest has darkened a great deal, and in amongst the trees it’s becoming difficult to see. I make my way carefully to the stream and fill them, realising that I will have to accept that I’m here for the night. I’m doubtful that he’ll be in any fit state to pursue me by morning, but even if he were, I’m confident that I could knock him out. I still have my pouch of poisons, and now I also have his medicines as well.

  I crouch beside the water for a moment, listening to sounds of the forest around me settling in for the night. The sky is still light, but down in the gully the water is inky black. The stream continues its gentle course, and I hear the tell-tale sounds of minute splashes as fish feed in the changing light. The calls of birdlife have all but ceased, shrill daytime noises replaced with the quiet calls of owls. I hear the snick of a bat’s wing flap overhead, and its black outline is briefly visible as it swoops through the gully.

  Although I’m looking forward to moving on alone, staying will give me some much-needed rest. Surprisingly, I find that the decision to stay is more of a relief than a frustration.

  When I return to the campsite, I notice that although I left the lamp on, the only light that comes from the tent is through the slit of the half-open door. It’s good to know that the material of the tent, although it lets light in, doesn’t allow any to escape.

  Back in the tent I zip the door right up, then look at the monitor again. It remains clear. I know that there is a setting which would sound an alarm if the perimeter is tripped, but I have no idea how to set it so I hope it’s already in place. I zoom out to have a look at the whole map. I can see the Polis clearly marked to the north east, and the route Hayes intends to take towards it, roughly north then east to approach one of the three main gates into the City. I use the controls to trace the route further north, towards Sector Nine.

  My plan isn’t as appealing to me as it once was. It’s highly likely that the northern pass is now firmly under Polis control. Going that way would mean sure discovery. With Sector Nine no longer free of Polis rule, I have fewer options. Travel further north, skirt round the city and then up the coast towards the northernmost point of the island, or double back and head south for Rakiura. The only two spots on the sector map which are dark red. I rub my chin while I try to decide what would be best for me. Heading south is something my tracker wouldn’t expect, although there is the danger that I will run straight into him. Would heading south be something Hayes might expect me to do? Perhaps, in order to check on Bastian.

  With the thought of Bastian, guilt threatens to wash over me, and I push it back. I need to concentrate on my own survival right now.

  I realise that tomorrow morning when I leave the tent I will have two pursuers to worry about. A chill runs down my spine. I take a deep calming breath.

  North, that’s all I can do. Keep heading north. Away from the tracker, away from the soldier. Away from Bastian, away from the Polis, away from anything I have ever known. Decision made, I push my thoughts of being hunted away. I can only prepare so much. The rest I will have to deal with tomorrow.

  I add some of Hayes’s purifier to both bottles and use the water to mix with the powdered soup. Even hungry as I am, it doesn’t look appetising. I briefly toy with the idea of setting a fire, but decide against it. It’s far too risky. I force a few mouthfuls and find it’s not actually that bad. I set some aside with more water to see if I can get Hayes to eat it.

  All the time I’ve been back in the tent, he’s not moved. When I check on him though I find that he has warmed up. In fact his forehead feels hotter than it should. I frown and feel mine for a comparison. Definitely hotter. I don’t know whether to unwrap him from the silver lining or not. When I feel sweat on his temples it decides me, and with an effort I turn the blanket back.

  “No, please…” he whimpers. “No more.”

  His eyes are closed and he doesn’t acknowledge me. I wipe his burning forehead with my sleeve and try to get him to drink from his canteen. Most of the water dribbles away but I think I’ve managed to get him to swallow some.

  Hayes, hot and feverish, has begun to twist about on the blanket. He’s also mumbling to himself, some words of which I can make out. I place my fingers on his wrist the way Grandad showed me and find a pulse. I test my own as a comparison, and find that his is far too quick. I try to get him to drink some more water but he spits most of it out.

  “I’m a tracker,” he whispers, his eyes vacant and unfocussed.

  A tracker? At least once, he pursued a fugitive through the wilderness as a hunter stalks a deer. I shake my head to clear images of the Roberts family which come into my mind, unbidden. What was it he’d said when we’d found them? Not all of us are like that. My hands are shaking and I put the canteen down. I’m better than anyone they send…

  “Please Mother… don’t make me,” he whimpers softly.

  My feelings are cloudy. Mixed in with my revulsion I now feel pity. I don’t know if he thinks he’s been talking with his mother all along, but it’s clear that his family life wasn’t warm and loving. I have no idea whether the picture I’m gaining of Hayes’s family life is usual for the Polis, but it wouldn’t surprise me. It would fit with their attitude to pretty much everything else I know. Ruthless. I had always resented their influence in my life and envied their control over their own. Perhaps this view was hasty. I have to admit that I know nothing about the way Polis families work.

  Polisborn love stories about valour and strength, and we spent time in school studying the legacy of the Ancients who followed these same ideals. I recall a Polis story from school about a mother sending her sons away to battle with the final words “Come back with your shield, or on it”.

  I bring the lamp over, and pick up the wrist again which moments ago gave me a pulse. Looking closely I see what my fingertips had felt. The raised welt of another scar, wrapping his wrist like a bracelet. Badly mended, knotted and lumpy. This one, I’m guessing, was self-inflicted.

  I gently put the wrist back on his chest. My fingertips brush my open lips as I stifle a long gasp of realisation at the broken story I’m compiling. Captain Alex Hayes, a Polis tracker. A cold-blooded killer. And a suicide survivor.

  I know enough about Polis philosophy to realise that suicide is seen as the most cowardly death of all. Life should be lost in combat, to serve a purpose, or for the greater good of the Polis, but not taken at will.

  “Please don’t tell Father,” he whispers, as he curls again into a ball.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Through the long night he continues to toss and turn. He mutters to himself and sobs, but I can make out no more. Towards dawn his breathing calms and deepens, and I think he must finally be resting. Whatever demons came to visit him while he was fevered have finally moved on.

  The monitor is clear for most of the night, although at one stage a dot appears at the south east corner of the screen, moves in a very haphazard way and then clears off again. I’m guessing it’s a wild c
reature big enough to register on the monitor, but I have no idea how to tell what it is. I compare it to the other heat signatures on the screen, mine and Hayes’s. It seems to be a different shade. Later I hear some rustling outside the tent although there is nothing to show on the screen and my heart leaps into my throat. It moves off and I hear possums rasping in the trees. I let out the breath I’m holding.

  When I no longer need the lamp in order to make out the shapes inside the tent, I rub my tired eyes and look around me. After forcing down some more of the glutinous soup, I pack the lamp, rope, half the dry food and water purifier, First Aid box and spare triggers in my bag, along with my canteen, blanket and wet clothes. I pull out his dazer and heft it in my hand. I really can’t leave him to pursue me with a fully functional weapon such as this. He’s made it perfectly obvious he needs me alive, but I know the dazer can stun as well as kill. I sigh and bang it on the soldier’s cooking pot. It seems indestructible. I feed a narrow splinter from my poisons pouch into the dazer’s pinhole until I feel resistance, then bang it with the pot. When I shake it, I hear a tiny but satisfying rattle from the shaft. The splinter disappears inside the pinhole.

  Then I unzip the door to the tent and the grey light of dawn filters in. I crouch for a moment in the doorway, monitor in hand, boots laced, rucksack on my back. I’m finally getting away from him.

  I turn slowly back to look at the figure in the corner. He’s not moved for at least an hour, but has been breathing evenly and his temperature seems to be back to normal. The swelling around his wound has reduced and the infection seems to be clearing. I’ve left some soup mixed up in his pot next to a full canteen of water. I’ve also left out the bottle of painkillers.

  Leaning over him, I study his face for a second, relaxed in sleep. His eyes closed, tension gone, he doesn’t seem so serious. He also looks younger; maybe still in his teens. My gaze lingers on his dark lashes, their tight curves strangely out of place on the angular face. A week of dark facial hair shows on his cheeks and chin. I gently rest my fingers on his chest, which rises and falls slowly. It’s as much of a farewell as I dare.

  I turn away from him, close my eyes and breathe deeply in the crisp morning air. Magpies are raucously starting their song in the gums above me. There’s nothing else I can do for him, so why do I feel so reluctant to leave?

  Zipping closed the door behind me, I can hear Grandad’s voice in my head. I know full well what he’s trying to tell me, but I have been looking for this opportunity to leave my captor for four days, and I have finally found it. The last thing I need is my conscience telling me that I’m doing the wrong thing.

  I make my way to the stream where I quickly wash my face and neck. It’s been a long night and I don’t feel particularly rested, but at least I’m dry. The monitor is clear in all directions. Balanced on the balls of my feet, I stand and stretch, my chest breathing deeply and my mind making a partition between last night and this morning.

  No looking back.

  I’ve spent long enough at the stream. I shrug my backpack on, grimacing at the added weight, and set off through the forest with purposeful steps. I skirt the location of the pop-up tent, then continue in a northerly direction. I set myself a goal. On the map, I can pick out the spot I will stop for a rest.

  The forest is beautiful at this time of day. The calls of birdlife from the trees echo through the bush, quietened by the tell-tale crackling under my feet. There is still a chill crispness in the air. A delicate morning mist has settled at ankle-level, not yet burned off by the warmth of the sun. For the first hour, as I tramp steadily through the thick underbrush, I can see my breath every time I exhale.

  I keep the monitor handy, and check it habitually. I can see other dots appear from time to time and I’m getting better at recognising the difference between them. I still can’t tell the wild creatures from each other, but I can tell what’s human and what’s not. I watched Alex’s prone form disappear from the screen but I’ve not seen another human dot since.

  As the light changes and becomes more golden, it gets hotter and by mid-morning I have to stop and take off a layer of clothing. I’ve seen a change in the trees since leaving the stream, and they’re becoming sparser, well-established gum giving way to spindly new beech. It’s easier to move in more of a straight line, rather than having to change my route constantly to get around impenetrable thickets.

  I take a swig from my canteen and check the monitor. I am about half way to the next water source and have to make it last till then. I pause and look more closely. A form has entered the range of the monitor and it definitely looks human.

  I screw the cap back on and stow it. The dot is perfectly in line with my route, about half a kilometre to the north. Only one shape, and it’s not moving. If I continue on my chosen course, I’ll pass very close to the figure indicated on the monitor. I decide to play it safe and give the dot a wide berth, although keep it within view. The ground begins to incline and I tramp up the hill, hanging onto slim beech trees for balance.

  Within one hundred metres of the figure, I see a battered house, and realise the person must be inside. The tracker has been at the forefront of my mind, but now I also recall Hayes’ reluctance to go near the inhabited house on the hillside. I skirt around the structure, hidden well within the treeline.

  Stifling the crunch of broken branches under my boots, I hear a human voice, raised in panic. Listening carefully, I can hear someone yelling. Unlike the farmhouse on the in the bowl, this house shows no signs of having been lived in for a very long time. Once a grand, two-storeyed mansion, the weatherboard timber of the walls is haphazardly loose and much of the roof has fallen in. The windows are empty frames, shutters hanging at drunken angles. Someone is calling for help from inside.

  With only one form visible on the monitor, I know that the cries for help are from them. Approaching the house slowly, I pass the shell of a rusty pick-up truck. The bonnet is completely missing, and only small slivers of glass remain around the edges of the windscreen.

  I climb the porch steps and they creak ominously under my weight. The voice from inside stops for a moment and then changes.

  “Is there someone there? Please, help me!” The pleading desperation in the young voice gives me the confidence I need, and I cross the porch, stepping into the front room through a gaping hole in the timber wall.

  The cry comes from below me, and when I look down I see that the floorboards in the centre of the room have rotted and given way. Through a rugged, yawning hole I can see the darkness of a dugout cellar below. I can smell the damp earth and can tell that it’s hollowed out from the ground underneath the house. I lean forward carefully and a frightened face looks up at me. A young girl with dirtied cheeks and wide, glistening eyes.

  “Please help me,” she pleads, her voice hoarse. “It’s d-dark down here.”

  “It’s alright,” I try to keep my voice calm to soothe her. “I’ll get you out,” I call.

  I uncoil the rope and toss it over the side of the hole. “Can you climb it?” I ask.

  “I think so,” comes the reply. I tie the end to a sturdy wooden post, the remains of an ornate pillar on the inside of the grand old house. As soon as her hand appears above the edge of the broken planking I take it and help her up. She is surprisingly heavy for one so slight, but I realise she has a bulging rucksack on her back.

  The girl I pull from the cellar looks about twelve, with a round pale face, delicate nose and wide sloping eyes. Dry leaves stick out of her straight black hair and there are tear stains on her dirty cheeks. As soon as she is on solid ground she wraps her arms around me and sobs into my shoulder. I pat her back in dismay.

  While I take a drink she slings her pack from her back. “What brings you out here?” I ask.

  I turn to her, screwing the cap back on the canteen, to find her pointing a dazer at me.

  “You,” she replies, and fires.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I gradually become awar
e of pain in my wrists, shoulders and neck. My mind feels fuzzy and my tongue swollen. I realise that I’ve been dribbling onto my chest. Despite the complaints of my body, I lift my head. It weighs a ton.

  My hazy vision starts to clear and I find I’m sitting awkwardly on the wooden floor of the ramshackle house. My back is propped up against a wooden post, my wrists bound behind it. My legs have gone numb under me and the pain in my shoulders and wrists is intense.

  I groan when I try to move my legs, and lean back against the post. Through the gaping windows I can see that the sun is high, light falling in shafts through the broken weatherboards. I can hear a metallic scraping noise coming from somewhere behind me, and the hairs on my neck stand up.

  “Finally,” a voice says. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d killed you already.” She steps into view, casually trailing the point of a long knife across the remains of a flaking timber wall.

  The transformation is incredible, and I stare at the girl in front of me. Her hair, void of leaves, falls straight down her back. Her eyes, no longer glistening with tears, are cool and calculating. There is a predatory stillness about her that makes my stomach turn to liquid. Possibly eighteen or nineteen, I would guess. Older than me, anyway. She is no longer the frightened youngster I saved from the cellar, but a deadly hunter. A tracker. My tracker.

  “Are you going to kill me?” I ask, my thick voice wobbling and betraying my fear.

  “We’ll get to that,” she says calmly. “First, though, I have some questions.” Her voice rises and falls lightly, and sends the liquid from my stomach running cold through my veins.