I made my way up the western hill. Once I got to the top, I examined the scene in the valley. Blood smeared the snow. Only one of the horses remained, sitting on the ground, breathing hard like it was in shock. A wolverine—the hungry little bastard—was tearing into a body on the hill. I spotted my bag of arrows, but before I could get to them, there was more movement in the valley. Two men, pulling one of their ammo sleds. Jax was strewn across it and tied, thoroughly this time. Like a dead deer. But they wouldn’t take him if he was already dead. So he must still be alive. Hope. It’s all I had.
From where I was, I could make out the men—Ponytail and Blondy. Anders and Harper. They were heading north.
I made my way to my duffel bag, snapped four arrows onto my mounted quiver, then grabbed a handful more. I moved on as stealthily as I could.
I ran along the western slope, keeping the men in sight. It was sort of like hunting, only faster, and with prey that happened to have high-powered rifles. I found an overhang ahead of them with a wide view of the valley. I crouched on top, stuffed my extra arrows into the ground, nocked one to my string, and waited. If they bothered to look up at the hill, I’d be screwed. Only, they were too preoccupied with slogging the body through the snow. I picked a spot in the valley directly in front of me. The perfect spot. They were only a few yards away.
Closer.
Closer.
I took a deep breath, drew, and aimed. I don’t know why—maybe it was because I’d just killed Conrad and that gave me confidence—but I was still. No shaking. My movement was as smooth as the Blackstone’s current.
I let the arrow fly.
A thin black slash in a world of white. Sailing, sailing, sailing.
The arrow buried itself deep into Harper’s ear. His head cocked violently to the side as he fell into the snow—dead before he even left his feet.
Anders raised his gun toward my hill, looking for me. I’d already drawn my second arrow. I pulled back, aimed, shot.
Soar, soar, soar.
A gunshot erupted, striking by my feet. I watched my second arrow hit the ground as he dove out of the way. My fingers were fumbling for my next arrow when another shot boomed in the valley, and a spray of bark from the tree beside me hit my face. I dove for the cover of the tree. Another shot shook the trunk, and I nearly dropped my bow.
I nocked my arrow to the string.
“I should have known you were a murderer!” Anders’s voice carried up the slope. “I thought you were just weird. Not talking like that. But no, you’re a coldhearted killer.” Was he talking about Braylen? The man I’d shot in the head? Harper? Didn’t matter. I was in a bad spot. He had me in his sights. If I jumped from behind the tree, he’d shoot me before I had a chance to release my arrow. Think. A bird rustled in a nearby branch.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll make a trade with you. How does that sound?”
I leaned slightly around the tree, saw him standing over Jax, gun pointing at me. “I’m listening.”
“You for Jackson. Come down here nice and easy, and you and I walk back to our camp. We leave your friend here. I’ll even cut him loose.”
What would Jeryl do? What would Jax do?
He was never going to kill you, Jax had said after he killed Michael, that trader who wasn’t a trader. How much of my blood did Anders need? Would he risk killing me? I didn’t know, but I had to do something. So I gambled.
I stepped out from behind the tree.
“That’s a smart girl,” he said.
I aimed.
“Stop right there. I’ll shoot.”
I pulled the string back.
“Stop! Damn you.”
I let the arrow fly. But he saw it coming and dove out of the way. It struck him right in the calf. He fell to the ground, losing control of his gun, which disappeared in the thick snow. I had another arrow nocked and was already moving down the hill when he drew his knife from his belt and started crawling toward the sled. Toward Jax. My stomach clenched.
I raced down the hill as fast as I could. Amid my panicked stomping, it was amazing how quiet everything was. Calm. As if the air, the sun, the trees, the snow were all watching us, waiting to see what would happen.
Anders reached the sled.
I drew my arrow back.
His knife glinted in the sunlight.
Barely time to aim.
The string snapped and the arrow flew across the space between us. It sank deep into Anders’s ribs. He reeled back and fell into the snow.
I nocked another and approached him. He was making some sort of noise as he squirmed. Grumbling? Grunting? No. Laughing. He was laughing. I stared down at his face. His big forehead bright with sunshine.
“You’re just . . . a stupid child,” he said. I hadn’t seen him grab it, but somehow, he’d found his gun. It seemed to burst from the snow and into his hands.
He aimed. I aimed. He shot. I shot. He missed. I didn’t.
The arrow struck him in the chest and his body slapped back hard. He lay there motionless, his eyes open, his chest rising and falling quickly, erratically. I pictured Ariane running into the darkness, her home burning, her son dying. I felt no remorse.
“Stupid . . . girl.” So soft, I could barely hear it.
His head twitched. He looked up at the sky, a passing cloud, and his eyes glazed over. Gone.
Jax? I hurried to the sled. I gave him a good shake. “Jax! Jax!” Nothing. But he was breathing. There was that at least. He was alive.
I was dizzy, light-headed. I took my hat off and lay back in the snow, letting the wetness numb my bruised and bloody scalp. I would untie Jax, wake him if I could. We’d make our way back to the cabins, see if Mom and Jeryl were all right, maybe go find Ken. But not just yet. In a minute.
I stared at the sky, the clouds, bright and happy as a summer day. And I breathed: Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. In, out. In, out.
In.
– Part IV –
The Gone, Gone World
* * *
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
—WALT WHITMAN
41
Dad died a month before we left Alaska. It was the end of summer. The days had already grown shorter, colder, and normally I’d be starting to dread school. But there wasn’t a school to go to anymore. Most people had fled or were fleeing. Except for Mom. Mom was still digging her nails into the walls and her heels into the floorboards.
I never saw Dad’s body—I didn’t want to—but I did see him just before he died. His face was plastic, white, and sweaty. His eyes were falling back into his head, and his skin looked like it was about to slide off his body. He was the bones of my father, just the outline. He had the white mask on, and so did I. We all wore them at that point. And he had that brown blanket over him, the old one Mom called “dreadful.” I’d been reading Walt Whitman to him.
“Stop,” he said, putting his thin fingers on my forearm. He pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. A soft, weak hug. So weak. That’s when I started to cry. Deep, ugly sobs into his chest.
Once, when I fell off my bike—I was trying to pop a wheelie like Ken did—I scraped my knees up pretty bad. Dad was there right away. He held me close even though I got blood all over his shirt. His arms were strong then. I started to cry and he said, “It’s okay, honey, I gotchya. I gotchya.” Over and over. “I gotchya. I gotchya.”
And that’s what he said then, at the end, beneath the muffling of that stupid white mask, me pressed to his chest. “It’s okay, honey. I gotchya. I gotchya.”
I don’t know if he was there with me in that moment or if his flu-addled mind had transported him to the past. I don’t know if he was comforting me because he was dying or if he was consoling me because my knees were skinned.
Didn’t matter either way.
* * *
I dragged Jax’s unconscious body back to
camp on the sled. The sun was already starting to ski down the slopes, casting pink alpenglow over the Ogilvie Mountains, when I crested the hill and saw the cabins. I scanned the scene for any sign of Ken. I was near to passing out. We were almost there, so close. I heard Jax grumble, so I loosened the ropes. After I’d worked out the last knot, I shook him gently. “Jax!” His lips started to move. I’d kissed those lips. Then his eyes popped open. He had a confused look on his face as he saw me kneeling over him with rope in my hand. He started to sit up, but his elbow slipped and he fell back down.
“They drugged me,” he said.
“You’re not injured?”
“Don’t think so.”
I tossed the rope beside the sled.
“What happened?” he asked.
“They took you. I took you back.”
Surprise on his face now.
“Thank you,” he said.
I shrugged. Like, No big deal. Happens all the time.
“My head hurts,” he said.
“Mine too.”
He reached out an ungloved hand and ran it across my forehead. I almost closed my eyes. When he pulled away, there was blood on his fingers.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’ll survive.”
Somewhere behind the mountains, the sun was an explosion of pink, making the snow look like cherry ice cream.
I heard a cabin door bang. Jeryl rounded the corner, relief in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
He looked down at Jax.
“He’s okay too,” I said. “Ken and Mom?”
“Both fine. Ken just came back.”
“Jeryl, Ramsey is—”
“We better get you inside.” His voice was too loud, too mechanical. “Make sure you’re all in one piece.” He turned away, marching back toward my cabin. So he knew.
Jax started to stand, his hands shaking. He didn’t protest as I ducked underneath his arm to help him walk.
The pink snow mushed beneath our feet.
Jax’s palm gripped my shoulder.
His arm was warm.
* * *
In the days that followed, Jeryl tended to Mom. He made her sit and drink water as he replaced the blood-soaked bandages around her shoulder. He’d sewn her up with a needle and fishing line, using vodka to cleanse the wound. She was sipping at that instead of the water.
She’d lost a lot of blood and was in bed for days, drinking tea. But eventually she started to move. Walk around.
Ken was fine in the end. After most of the men were taken care of, he ran after one who’d fled through the forest. He tracked him down and killed him. Said we had to get all of them. Had to wipe them out so we could sleep easy. It was done. He had blood on his chin and his voice was a little shaky. I’d never heard him sound like that before. He went back to hunting. He picked up fishing as well. I watched him haul out Ramsey’s gear. He stared at it for a good long while.
Jax was fine too. Not a single wound. Which made no sense—he’d had a dozen men shooting at him. He helped Jeryl care for Mom, but he’d also disappear for long stretches. I didn’t know where he went. He wouldn’t say.
“Mom?” I said one day, sitting with her by her bed.
“Hmm?”
“I killed Conrad.” They all knew it, of course.
She brought her steaming cup to her lips, then lowered it. “You did what you had to do,” she said. “Don’t regret it for a second.”
I felt warm tears in the corners of my eyes. “Ramsey—”
“Was not your fault. Don’t you ever think it was.”
I knew that. But still, it was good to hear the words.
We burned the bodies. None of us wanted to drag all those men out to the gorge. We wanted a quick fix. We burned two horses too; their meat was ruined by bullets. Most of the men we’d found scattered in the field, some farther up the hills in the trees. Those were hard to move. And gross. The bodies were stiff by then. Mannequins covered in snow.
We collected the ammo, guns, and knives but threw everything else into the center of the field and got a bonfire going. We had to use a lot of our wood, but it was worth it. The fire took to the bodies and the giant flames rose, grasping for heaven. The light and the smoke could probably be seen for miles, but Jeryl didn’t seem concerned. If someone else was out there to see, I guess we were willing to take the risk.
Jeryl and Jax made their way back to the cabins while Ken and I stayed out and watched. What is it about fire that you can just sit and watch it for hours on end?
“Can’t believe Ramsey’s gone,” Ken said. He’d insisted on dealing with the body. He took it south of us. That same afternoon, smoke rose from the direction of Conrad’s cabin. I guess it was fitting. “I wasn’t always nice to Ramsey,” Ken said.
“You were friends. He knew that.”
There was a loud pop from the fire, and sparks flew into the air like fireworks.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. It was the nicest thing my brother ever said to me.
“I’m glad you’re okay too.”
“We’re going to be all right, you know,” he said. It was surprisingly good to hear.
42
Mom and Dad weren’t very touchy-feely. But I remember this one time we were watching a movie at home back in Chicago. I can’t remember what movie—I was probably only nine. But I saw them holding hands on the couch. It was a weird moment. I knew moms and dads loved each other, but I’d never applied that to my parents. I looked away like I wasn’t supposed to see, but there was something about it that I liked. I can still picture them like that now. Dad is strong, healthy. I can’t see the bones of his hands. There are no wrinkles in the corners of Mom’s eyes. They’re both full, young, fresh like ripe fruit.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to read Dad’s letter. Because I could close my eyes and still see them, sitting on the couch together. I didn’t want that image to change. I didn’t want to see something I hadn’t seen before.
Grief never goes away. It just changes. At first it’s like molten-hot lava dripping from your heart and hollowing you from the inside. Over time, it settles into your bones, your skin, so that you live with it, walk with it every day. Grief isn’t the footprints in the snow. It’s the empty space between.
But it was time. I couldn’t push it back any longer. I opened up the letter and, God help me, started to read.
Dear Lynn,
I hate to be writing this. But I have to. There’s no other way. No other way that I can find. And trust me when I say I’ve looked. I’m dying now, and I need to get this out before I can’t put pen to paper. I’m giving this letter to your mother. She knows everything. Don’t be mad at her. I told her to keep this all from you until the right moment. I wanted to be the one to tell you, and this is the only way I could.
I’m not sure how to start, so let me jump right into it. While I was teaching at the University of Chicago, before you were even born, I was approached by the organization called the DCIA. I’d never heard of them then, no one had, but you probably know them as Immunity. They wanted me for a special project. To help make a serum that would combat a specific, powerful chain of the flu, what everyone would later call the Asian flu.
We worked for years on the project, using rats as our test subjects. It wasn’t just a vaccine we were manipulating, it was genetics. The next stage of evolution. Humans with superimmunities. Then the Pentagon was attacked, and the wars escalated fast. You were only twelve at the time.
That’s when I learned more about Immunity’s plans. A young woman working for Immunity warned me. She showed me a video from one of Immunity’s facilities. They had created the flu. They were going to spread it themselves. Not only that, but they’d been testing our serums on young children and their mothers for years, long before they were ready or safe. And there was more to it. They had a whole series of injections that worked in conjunction with the one I was helping create. I couldn’t be a pa
rt of that I couldn’t condone testing on children or the world divided into people who would be saved and those who were lab rats. Immunity was more dangerous than I’d ever imagined.
That’s when we left. We weren’t relocated—we disappeared. I took a few supplies from my lab with me. We moved to Eagle because Jeryl was there and no one knew I had a brother. I told him everything, and he agreed to keep our secret. It wasn’t easy, but we managed to avoid detection.
I was happy there for a few years. Hunting with you and Ken. Getting to know Jeryl again. Your mom seemed happier too. For a while, we pretended that we were untouchable. That the wars would never reach us. But when the flu started, I knew it was happening. Just like they planned. It spread faster than even they imagined. I continued my research in the basement of our house in Eagle. Using the meager supplies I’d brought with me, I did my best to replicate the work I’d done in Chicago. It wasn’t easy. But I was getting close. Patience. It really is a virtue.
Then you got the flu. I didn’t think my serum was ready, but it was as close as I could make it, and you were out of time. My little girl. You were slipping away before my eyes. I took a chance. I gave it to you while you were sleeping. And, thank God Almighty, it worked even better than I thought it would. I watched you come back to life.
I don’t have enough material to make a second dose. I’m so sorry, Lynn. There’s nothing I can do. I won’t be around to protect you and your brother from what’s ahead. I’ve done my best to prepare you. You’re strong. Smart. You’re the hope for this world. You’re the future.
I don’t know what else to say. From the moment your little red head came into this world, hair just like your mother’s, I loved you. Maybe other fathers were better than me, but I promise you this: no father ever loved his daughter more than I love you. Not a single one. Not since the world began.
I don’t mind dying, Lynn. Because I know you’re ready. You’re my girl. You’re a survivor.
Love,
Wolves of Winter Page 22