“Wyck?”
“I can see the top.”
His voice, jubilant, floats down to me. I try to move faster and my foot slips. I slide down two feet and my knee twists awkwardly. It takes me a painful moment to right myself. I pause to breathe and hear a clang below. The incinerator door opening. I freeze.
“They must have gone in here,” Alaura says. “There’s nowhere else.”
Anton mumbles something I can’t make out.
Alaura answers, but it sounds like she’s turned toward him and I only make out the last words, “—fire it up.”
The rest of their conversation is largely lost on me, but I gather they are trying to figure out what combination of dials and buttons need to be engaged to fire up the incinerator. Alaura complains it takes too long to reach its maximum temperature and I give a brief prayer of thanks.
“They’re going to ignite the incinerator,” I call up to Wyck.
“I’m at the grate,” he says, sounding much closer. “Not welded. Screws. Tight. Damn.”
I continue to inch upward. Wyck must have shifted because suddenly I see bars of light. His body blocks most of the light, but the sight makes me want to sob. I stop, thighs trembling with fatigue, about four feet beneath Wyck. I can smell his sweat.
“I’ve got a multi-tool on my belt,” he says, “But I can’t get my arms down to it. Can you reach it and hand it up to me?”
I don’t waste breath saying I’ll try. I scootch my way up until I am underneath him, the top of my head pressed against his butt. Snaking a hand up, I feel around his waist. I unsnap the tool, tilt my head sideways, and gain another precious couple of inches until my cheek comes up against his butt. Practically dislocating my shoulder, I twist and wedge my hand between his hips and the duct wall, scraping off several inches of skin, and try to place the tool on his chest.
“Almost got it . . . Damn!” His foot slips and kicks my shin. I slide, grabbing at him instinctively. He braces himself sideways, crushing my arm. I cry out and a metal clanking tells me the tool has fallen.
“We’re screwed, aren’t we?” I say.
“Never say die,” he says in a determinedly jaunty voice. He begins to bang against the grate and scream. “Help! I join him, screaming for Halla, screaming for help, praying, cursing. Putting all my weight on one leg, I use the other to kick at the duct wall, hoping the metallic echoes will reach farther than our voices.
I sniff. I catch a whiff of gas and then there is a roar. “They’ve got it started,” I say. How long before the heat grows intense enough to turn us to ash? I remember the 1100 C on the temperature gauge. Will we burn, or die from smoke inhalation? The vent walls are already heating up, the thin metal conducting heat efficiently. Beads of sweat pop out on my forehead; my underarms grow damp.
“Oh, my God.”
It’s Halla’s voice. Then Wyck’s telling her to grab a tool from her pack and pass it to him. It grows hotter as he works, banging and cursing to loosen the bolts. Halla is murmuring encouraging words and Bible verses, telling him to hurry up, and crying the whole time. One bolt clinks past me, falling down the vent. Then another. Finally, the rattle of metal on stone tells me he’s succeeded before he says, “Got it!”
He heaves the grate up and Halla drags it out of the way. Wyck kicks my face as he hooks his arms over the opening and pulls himself out, but I don’t even care because he’s reaching down to me, grabbing my hand, and pulling me toward safety. I get an elbow over the edge, see Halla’s worried face, and know I’m going to be okay. We’ll all be okay if we can hide before Alaura figures out we’re gone and comes after us with her automatic rifle. We run. At the fence, we wiggle through and then thin branches are whipping at my face and I’m dodging tree trunks, my sides heaving for air, but in a good way, not in a there’s-no-oxygen-because-of-halon way. It’s a long while before we stop and take stock.
When we do, the picture is gloomy. We’ve lost two-thirds of our supplies again. We still have the shelter, the first aid kit and one blanket, because they’re in Halla’s backpack, but we’ve lost our weapons and Wyck’s tools. The three of us stare at the two lonely vegeprote bars and the single remaining water bladder once we’ve pulled everything out of Halla’s backpack. We went into the facility hoping to find more supplies; the irony almost crushes me. I reach for Wyck’s hand where it lies on the ground between us. He pulls away, staring stonily ahead. Halla’s crying, one hand massaging her belly. I get the feeling that if I don’t do something, they’ll sit here until Alaura and Anton show up, or worse. I can’t think of worse at the moment, but I’m depressingly sure worse exists.
I get up, wincing from my assorted scrapes and bruises. “Let’s get moving. We’re probably only two weeks from Atlanta if we set a good pace.”
Chapter Sixteen
Two weeks later, we’re footsore, tired and hungry. Having to scrounge for food has slowed us considerably. I’ve been able to identify edible mushrooms and insects, and we’ve even stewed bark. Wyck caught a small fish, but that was a week back. We’ve all thinned down, but Halla’s the thinnest, except for the baby bump which protrudes very noticeably now. The people we’ve seen since we left the lab—a husband and wife traveling together, and a mother and daughter who said their ACV malfunctioned—were all fixated on Halla’s belly. The mother, drawing her teenage daughter close, rummaged in her bag and pulled out a shawl. “Here,” she’d muttered. “This might hide it somewhat.” Halla took it gratefully and draped it around herself; to my mind, it is like trying to hide an elephant under a tablecloth. I know her pregnancy makes us a target.
We’ve given up traveling at night because we need daylight to find food. I dislike being so visible, but there’s no help for it. My tummy grumbles as we walk, but I try to ignore it. My boot sole has come loose at the toe and it flaps irritatingly with each step. Step, ka-flap, step, ka-flap. Wyck is quiet. He hasn’t talked much since we left the lab. He walks with Halla during the day, helping her over obstacles, keeping her spirits up with an encouraging word or speculation about what Atlanta will be like. She tells him about her dreams for Little Loudon. He treats her like an older brother, and even though I don’t feel sisterly toward him, I see the bond between them growing stronger and I feel left out.
At night, though, when Halla’s standing watch, Wyck spoons up against me in the shelter, his arm draped over my waist, the one blanket covering us both. There’s been no kissing, and I’m confused. Maybe Wyck’s afraid it will lead to more; heaven knows one pregnancy among our trio is enough. Sometimes while he sleeps I lie there awake, appreciating the gentle puff of his breath against my neck or cheek, and the solidity of his body pressed against mine. We haven’t spoken about what went on in the lab. I’ve had nightmares four times, where I’ve woken with a lurch, convinced the incinerator’s flames are licking at my feet. From the way Wyck tosses and mumbles sometimes, I think he has nightmares too.
The terrain has changed, become hillier. It’s hotter now that we’re closer to summer and we’re all darker. Streams and ponds are plentiful, so we’ve had no trouble filling our water bladder and we’ve still got the hydropure tablets. I’m grateful for that. Being hungry all the time is hard enough. We’re on a two lane road that cuts through what used to be a peach orchard. Even now, probably a decade after they last bore fruit, I can smell the rich, sweet peach scent. Dusk is coming on, purpling the sky, and we’re keeping an eye out for a place to pitch our tent.
“Over there looks ni—” Halla starts, only to be cut off by a net dropping atop her.
A man, his jumpsuit mottled to look like tree bark, twigs attached to a stocking cap that covers his head and most of his face, leaps down from the tree above her. Before Wyck and I can react, nets entrap us, as well. I struggle, but the fibers are sticky and elastic and seem to bind tighter the more I move. A spider silk blend. Two other men, camouflaged like the first one, drop from the trees. One tosses a rope over me and begins to bind me, net and all. He’s big and hairy
and his breath stinks of wild onions. Dye on the exposed portions of his face, around his bloodshot eyes, blends with the rest of his outfit. Except for the black hairs on the backs of his hands and fingers, he looks like a tree come to life. When he’s got my arms pinned to my sides, he stuffs a ball of cloth in my mouth as a gag, and fondles my breast with his paw.
“Fine breeder, this one,” he says. “I can always tell. We’ll get top dollar.”
I writhe in his grasp and he laughs, squeezes my breast hard enough that I grunt with pain, and lets go. The man holding Halla, identically tied and gagged, pats her belly. He’s enough like the man in front of me to be his twin.
“This un’s about ready to pop. Two fer the price of one. Tol’ ya it was worth tracking ’em for a few days. We won’ have to work for three months with what we’ll get fer these two.”
“What’ll we do wi’ him?” the third man, less bulky than the others, but clearly related, asks.
“Kill ’im,” the first man says. “He’s no use to us. Get the ACV.”
I look at Wyck, but he’s too busy glaring at our captors and struggling against his bonds to notice.
The outlaw who captured Halla jogs off through the orchard. It happened so quickly. We had no chance to fight back. I’ve still got my knife, but it’s tucked into my boot and I can’t reach it, not bound the way I am.
A hum heralds the return of the third brigand with a decrepit four-seater ACV. It lists slightly to one side because it’s been retrofitted with a beamer mounted on the left. They load Halla first, two of them picking her up and bundling her into the ACV’s storage compartment, folding her legs so she’ll fit.
“This one can ride on my lap,” my captor says with a big grin, wrapping one arm around my waist and lifting me, seemingly without effort. I kick, but he merely laughs. “Slit his throat,” he tosses casually over his shoulder, “and bring the net and rope. Can’t afford to replace ’em.”
I crane my neck to see Wyck. In the gloomy light, the first outlaw approaches Wyck, drawing his knife. Wyck drops to the ground and rolls. The outlaw stops him by straddling him with his legs. “All the same to me if you’re standin’ or lyin’,” he says. He shifts his grip on the knife and bends.
“No, no! Wyck!” I scream against the gag. My words are unintelligible. I strain toward him.
The man holding me tightens his grip. “Your lover, was he? No matter. They’ll scrape his seed out of you at the RESCO and give you a better bun for your oven.” He chuckles. “Get it over with,” he calls to the man poised over Wyck who is bucking and kicking for all he’s worth, keeping his chin scrunched down to protect his neck.
There’s a thin whistling sound and the man with the knife keels over backwards, clutching the crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. His mouth is open in an almost comical “O” of surprise. My captor reacts by shoving me away and grabbing the automatic pistol holstered at his waist. I fall hard. As the man brings the gun up, I roll toward him, knocking into his shins. I don’t know who the new attackers are—IPF?— but I’m on their side. He kicks me in the head and shards of light dance through my field of vision. Tangling his fingers in my hair he drags me toward the ACV which his brother is maneuvering so he can fire at the newcomers. My scalp is on fire.
There are three attackers, each riding a single-seat ACV. They’re serpentining between the tree trunks, never slowing, making it impossible for my captor or the man trying to control the ACV to aim properly. They’re not IPF; at least, their ACVs aren’t marked. The kidnapper at the controls looses off a fusillade that caroms through the orchard. My captor has dragged me to the ACV and I writhe as he tries to lift me. I’m afraid that if he gets me inside, I’ll never get away. I drive my knee into his groin.
He curses on an exhalation and crumples inward, not letting go of me.“Bitch,” he growls. His fist comes toward me and then my head explodes.
I come to what can be only moments later, sprawled face down on the ACV floor. We’re going fast and the ACV is rocking from side to side in a way that makes my stomach lurch. I fight down the nausea and use my abs to rise to my knees. I steady myself by leaning against the seat. I’m behind the driver; my captor has crawled into the right-hand seat and ducks each time a blast from our pursuers pulses past the ACV.
“I told you we needed a rear-mounted beamer,” he says.
“Shut it, Kern,” the driver says.
I turn to look out the back and can make out the three ACVs chasing us. They’re dark as night and look like shadows. We skim over a pond and a curtain of water rises up to block my view.
“Just make it to the hollow,” Kern says. “Then we’re home free.”
“What the hell do you think I’m tryin’ to do?” the other man says grimly, leaning forward as if by doing so he could make the ACV go faster.
I’m suddenly afraid that our would-be rescuers will give up. I’ve got to do something. Neither man has noticed I’m awake. Kneeling, I reach for my boot and my fingertips graze the knife. I wiggle it free, almost losing it when the driver cuts hard left. I don’t have the leverage to slice through the rope, and I don’t have time for that anyway.
“Almost there,” Kern says, jaw tight.
Grasping the knife’s hilt so the blade faces forward at hip height, where my arms are pinned, I stand suddenly and throw myself against the back of the driver’s seat. I know the blow won’t be fatal—the blade’s not long enough—but it’s the only thing I can think of. The knife pierces the seat’s thin frame and the driver screeches. “Holy mother of God!” He jerks and the ACV skids. He overcorrects and sends us hurtling toward a tree.
“Watch out—” Kern yelps.
He reaches for the controls, but it’s too late. Saplings slap against the hull, slowing us slightly. Then, the ACV slams into the tree trunk with a tremendous crack. I try to brace myself against the seat, but I go flying. I flip over the seat. Thud! I collide with the windshield and fall with my head on my captor’s knees and my legs across the driver. Kern’s head rests at an angle and blood trickles from his temple; he’s dead or out cold. The driver’s not moving. I take stock and decide I’m not dead or mortally wounded. My ribcage hurts. My bonds have loosened enough for me to lower my face to my hand and pry the gag out with a finger.
“Halla?”
“Mmmhmpf.”
She’s alive! Thank God. I flop onto my back and sit up. Before I can decide how to get rid of the rope, the driver’s side door unseals and hands reach in. They’re pulling me out and I’m telling them where Halla is and then I hear Wyck’s voice. A knife slices through the ropes and net encircling me and they fall away. Relief floods through me and my knees buckle.
“Are you okay? Can you stand?” There’s a crisp voice in my ear, and I murmur an affirmative, turning to catch a glimpse of golden hair and a tanned face before he leaves me to help pull Halla out of the storage compartment. She seems wobbly but okay.
“Everly?” She looks toward me.
I can’t see her face clearly in the dark, but I hear the same mix of fear and relief and pain that I’m experiencing. “I’m good,” I say. My voice sounds revoltingly trembly. I try again. “I’m fine.”
“Quiet.” It’s a woman’s voice, sharp as a blade in the now-still night.
“What do we do with these two?”
For a moment I think he’s talking about me and Halla.
“Kern’s dead,” the woman says. She pauses. “Leave Fergus. Maybe this fiasco will teach him a lesson. I’ve got this one. Idris has gone ahead with the boy. You’ve got the blonde?”
That would be me. “I do,” the golden-haired rescuer says, guiding me to his ACV scooter. He mounts in front of me and says, “Hold on.”
Automatically, I wrap my arms around his waist and hold tight as we skim forward. I don’t know who he is or where we’re going, and I don’t care.
We travel vaguely northwestward. The moon rises, showing me the outline of a slim, dark-haired woman riding with Halla. I don�
��t know where Wyck is. We glide through trees and over hills, staying away from roads and the one town lit up in the distance. An odor like burning rubber tells me we’re near a plastics manufacturing facility of some kind. I ask my escort where we’re going, but he doesn’t answer. I’m so tired and battered that I don’t press the point.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Saben.” He doesn’t ask my name.
Eventually, I rest my cheek on his back and half-doze.
We stop after more than an hour and I almost fall off the ACV. Before I come fully alert, Saben says, “Sorry,” and flips a bag over my head.
Everything goes dark. I start to panic—Did we escape from one set of kidnappers only to fall victim to another?
He gives me a little shake and says, “It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you. But you can’t see where we’re going. Security.”
I calm down—mostly—and shift away from him on the ACV, occasionally balancing myself with a hand to his shoulders. We’ve been traveling a good twenty minutes, when we start to glide downhill.
“Duck.”
I do. The ducking, plus something about the quality of sound, the way the air cushion echoes, makes me think we’re in a tunnel. Old sewer pipe, maybe, by the smell. We turn several times, the sound and smell changing after the last turn, with the sound more muffled and the odor more loamy than metallic. We glide to a stop. Saben helps me off the scooter, leads me several steps, and hooks my hands over cold metal rungs.
“Ladies first. Climb.”
Nervous and confused, I climb straight up. Memories of the incinerator vent intrude, but this isn’t really like that. It’s a short ladder and someone helps me up when I reach the top. I rip the hood off and look around. I take in cracked mirrors, shreds of red and gold brocade on sofas and chairs, a swath of velvet drapes, and a long bar. The windows are blacked out with a spray film that lets no light in or out. Light glimmers from a chandelier hanging crookedly above our heads. The place smells like lilies. Two staircases lead to either end of a gallery that runs the length of the room we’re in. Wyck stands near a marble bust on a plinth.
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