We jog on light feet and see the dead grouse.
“I’m done,” Blue whispers, picking up the plump-bodied game bird by the feet.
“I still say that’s cheating,” Birdie says.
“It’s not cheating. It’s an ancient form of hunting. I can have him get something for you, too, if you want.”
“No. Let him go after his supper. I’ll get my own.”
“Shh,” I scold. “None of us will get anything if you two keep talking. Let’s go.”
My sisters know better than to keep chattering, especially as they follow me into a clearing. Black-eyed Susans pepper the perimeter, making for a happy display if it weren’t for the killing requirement to come. A bird in hand, in Blue’s hand, technically, is worth two in the bush, they say. But that doesn’t apply to this assignment. And unfortunately, Birdie and I haven’t seen feather or fowl. That could have something to do with Achilles circling overhead. Smaller birds are his meal of choice.
It would be easy to pick an armful of edible plants in these woods. Ferns, jack-in-the-pulpit tubers, dandelions. Things that have nothing to do with taking a life, but that’s not our objective. Protein will become scarce when the shit hits the fan. I bet cannibalism as a necessary means for survival is the real fear beneath the myths surrounding a zombie apocalypse. Dieter Ackerman believes the military and government are responsible for the things we perceive as paranormal. Zombies, super soldiers, mind control, werewolf experimentation, even Bigfoot—a Washington State legend. Extreme but plausible examples of things that may have resulted from neurotoxins, the sleeping sickness of the tsetse fly, necrosis, parasites, gene mutation, and nanobots.
We’re preparing for the scary stuff we see coming down the pike every day on TV: financial collapse, the exiting of a nuclear arms treaty, ballistic bomb testing by North Korea, a potential electromagnetic pulse that wipes out the grid. Things that would lead to martial law, because when the government decides they can take what’s yours, the shit will definitely hit the fan.
Blue signals she’s going into the woods with Birdie to the left of the clearing. I raise my index finger, followed by two zeros—reminding them not to go more than a hundred feet—before pointing straight across the clearing, then at my eyes with peace fingers to say, I’ll go straight but keep your eyes open for me. I listen for their movements as I walk through the trees, committing the sounds to memory to distinguish them from other activity in the woods.
When I come to a section of sugar-pine trees, I stop, studying the bark and inhaling the sharp smell of pine. A twig snaps nearby, maybe two hundred feet away, give or take, followed by the yelp of a turkey telling his own flock his location. I scan the woods for my sisters and see the movement of Birdie’s jacket stop like she picked up the same call. We make eye contact and I motion with two fingers that I’m moving in on the prey. Birdie taps her ear and points to the right like she heard it coming from a different direction. I motion for her to go straight, frustrated that she always fights to do what she wants. I yelp out the sound of a fast squeaking dry hinge. The only turkey call I can make without the use of a manmade tool.
A long whining click followed by two beeps comes in response. It’s a sound I recognize as easily as the rustling of trees, because I’ve grown more conscious of it over the last few months. Self-conscious, if I’m being honest. I walk ten more feet, twenty, thirty, and stop cold, unable to believe my eyes.
Rémy Lamar is in the woods, our woods, camera slung around his neck while he examines a map like he’s lost. Not only is he out of his depths, he’s ventured onto Burrow property.
Evade the unfortunate intruder.
Save yourself.
That would be the smart thing to do. But then Rémy might venture too far east and walk onto the actual compound, or get spotted by whoever Dieter has stationed in the lookout tower first. He’s turning a map clockwise for the third time, making it obvious he has no idea where he is or how to get out of these woods. I exchange the arrow in my hand for a thinner one, nock it on my bow, and pull back until my thumb is under my chin on the right. I aim for the map, praying he doesn’t move, and the small scare is enough to discourage him from coming back to these woods.
Without another second of hesitation, I let the lighter arrow fly. When I’m sure it’s going to hit my intended target, I spin back against a tree and wait. I hear the unmistakable snap of my arrow piercing the map in Rémy’s hands followed by the thud of it being nailed to the pine tree a few feet beyond where he was standing. At least, that’s the way it plays out in my head.
“What the hell?”
I step out from behind the thick tree as Rémy spins, ambushed shock replacing his usual easygoing grin. He pushes his headphones back like reclaiming his hearing will help him see his assailant better. One hand goes to his heart when he sees me, checking to see if he’s alive, which I find a bit dramatic.
“Honey? What are you doing out here? You could have hit me with that thing.”
“I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing out here? It’s hunting season and you’re on private property, dressed in dark colors.”
I scan his black jeans faded to the edge of charcoal gray, his black pullover sweater with the white T-shirt color showing at the top. The only pop of color he’s wearing, as the sheeple say, is his scarf. But even that is dark shades of hunter green and navy plaid. He could be one of us if his clothes were more utilitarian.
He does a quick scan of my thermal camouflage shirt and tawny Carhartts. “Mr. Whitlock told me there’s an old, abandoned treehouse out here. I came to get some pictures. Do you live around here? Is this your family’s property?”
I can’t believe he got this far with a map, to be honest, but maybe he was a Boy Scout.
THREAT ASSESSMENT CORRECTION:
RÉMY LAMAR
5/10 WOULD IMPEDE GROUP SURVIVAL IN EMERGENCY SITUATION.
“We live on Overcast Road,” I tell him.
As soon as the words leave my mouth I wish I could exchange them for a better lie. Overcast Road is the street address everyone on the compound uses to keep our actual location secret. It’s a real place, a private road, but there’s just a bunch of prefabricated trailer-style homes out there we use to collect mail and store supplies.
“Isn’t that on the other side of Elkwood? I’ve seen the wooden street sign.”
I step closer. “Yes. Would you mind lowering your voice? You’re scaring away all the game.” I soften my own tone to illustrate my request. “I’m out here hunting with my sisters. We have the owner’s permission.”
“Hunting?” He glances at my bow again. “I guess that’s more humane than a gun, since you’re giving the animal a running chance.”
Not necessarily. Speed or strike, distance from target, those things all come into consideration. I don’t bother explaining the different types of hunting ballistics, but his aversion to our lifestyle makes my feathers ruffle enough to correct him. “You mean a rifle,” I tell him. “Nobody hunts with a pistol. I take it you have something against hunting in general?”
“I’m a black person in America. I have something against all firearms used against the undefended. Trust me, some people hunt with a pistol.”
I’ve probably watched more news than most people my age, which is why I look away, ashamed for not thinking about it from his perspective. Even if hunting is different from people being inexcusably shot by a handgun or assault rifle, the fact is that the latter happens all the time, prejudicially, vengefully, and without nearly enough punishment. I just can’t tell him why I’m hunting, or for who.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “You’re right. I hear you, and I get it.”
“It’s okay. I get it, too. You have this whole Katniss vibe going on. For all I know, you’re gonna go eat a raw fish by the river later and sleep in a tree.”
“Never. But one of my Primroses referenced that movie right before we came out here.”
Rémy smiles wide, showing teeth
white enough to blind someone. “Did you just crack a joke on top of my joke?”
I give him a one-arm shrug. “I’m not all backpacks and random, unconventional escapes.”
“I never thought you were.”
He says that, but he’s staring at me like he’s trying to figure me out. The way Rémy always studies me, with amused fascination. The Hunger Games reference is closer to future truth than he realizes. Closer than most people realize as they go about their lives with only a cursory glance at what’s happening. I blame the constant barrage of information thrown at us. Everything from celebrity status to nuclear threats, making it all turn to mind-numbing noise. A virtual drug, meant to keep us wide-eyed and glued to what we’re being fed unless we force our attention to things that matter.
A stretch of silence builds between us, allowing the music streaming from his headphones to reach my ears. “Would you mind turning your headphones off, too? If I can hear your music, the animals can definitely hear it.”
“You mean Beats,” he whispers with a grin. “Headphones are only used by people who don’t care about music.”
Touché.
At least now, I know what he meant by his Beats in chemistry. Not that I’d know the difference. We use headphones at home, but they’re a liability in terms of situational awareness, since they can make you an easy target.
“You shouldn’t wear headphones in the woods during hunting season. Truthfully, you shouldn’t be in the woods at all during hunting season without wearing a neon vest.”
“Noted. Next time I’m out here shooting anything but film, I’ll wear neon.”
“Good.” I should tell him to leave. I really should, but I’m curious about something else and unable to let go of his reaction to me hunting. “Can I ask you something, Rémy. If you were in a situation where you had to shoot an animal to eat, would you do it?”
He scratches one side of his chin, the same side as his misplaced dimple. “Only if all other options were exhausted.”
I don’t disagree. In truth, I had a similar thought earlier. There’s one school of thought that says nobody in this world gets a pass on causing harm to animals. Deforestation, fossil fuels, pesticides, all result in the death of wildlife. But those are things that can and should be changed. They’re choices.
I walk past Rémy to the tree and pull his map off the arrow.
“Sorry about your map.” I study the hand-drawn lines pointing Rémy in the opposite direction of the treehouse, but straight toward The Nest if he kept east on the prescribed path.
“Someone must have pulled a prank on Mr. Whitlock. My sisters and I have been over every inch of these woods. There isn’t an abandoned treehouse out here.”
Rémy scans the woods. “Sucks for me. I was hoping to shoot something interesting for a photo contest.”
“Interesting word choice: shoot. It implies your camera is a weapon. Capture might be better. Though that’s a word used for trapping. Anyway, I’m sure you can find a better subject than some rickety treehouse.”
He scrunches one side of his mouth, biting back amusement with a slight nod. “The word snapshot was derived from a hunting word, meaning a quick shot taken without deliberate aim. That’s not really my style, but I do try to hunt down the best prey.” He lifts the Nikon hanging around his neck. “Wanna see?”
I want to get him out of these woods without making my fear of being caught with him obvious. I glance over my shoulder, looking for sisters at best. Magda and Annalise at worst.
I step forward to look at the viewfinder on Rémy’s camera. Just a few and I’ll shoo him away. He presses the forward button and shows me a wavy, light orange wild mushroom the size of a football on the base of a dead raccoon tree.
“That’s called chicken of the woods,” I tell him. “It’s edible.”
His eyes flit to my face. “Have you ever eaten it?”
I nod and he stares at me uncomfortably long. I forgot for a moment that I’m one of the weirds. Rémy stops staring to press the button that makes his captured images move forward one by one. He took a beautiful photo of a doe in a clearing, and some interesting insects on foliage.
“I think that’s about it,” he says, clicking through faster. He’s lowering the camera when I catch a photo of myself. Rémy again presses the button through several frames fast, moving the camera away from my view, but it’s too late. I put my hand over his and pull the camera back.
“Was that me?”
Rémy scratches the side of his neck like a kid who got caught stealing candy and has to fess up. Eyes down, but stealing a glance at me when he says, “Do you want to see it?”
“I think I have a right to, don’t I? Considering you never asked my permission.”
His cheeks go red. “I was trying to get photos of you for the yearbook. You’re not in any clubs, and I was worried there wouldn’t be any pictures of you other than the one we all have to submit as thumbnails with our favorite quote. I went to your social media accounts but there aren’t any pictures of you, just a lot of coffee cups and book photos and stuff. It read like somebody else posted everything for you.”
I can’t tell him we don’t post anything real on social media because the entire group is hiding in plain sight. We have accounts to keep up appearances, but they’re all fake. Comic drawings from Birdie, sketches from me, and Blue’s needlepoint portraits serve as our avatars. The irony is that we use it the same way everyone does, to project a version of our lives we want people to believe, only we do it to protect our safety and identities, not for likes. Mother says social media and internet usage are how the government tracks people. It’s another rule for living on the compound. Controlled online presence. We have sites we can and can’t visit, a list of words we can’t use in search, and even then we run everything through a proxy to hide our IP addresses from The Powers That Be.
“That’s why you’ve been taking my picture?”
“Mostly.”
That’s a nonanswer. I inch closer to Rémy, closer than I’ve been to a boy who wasn’t engaged in hand-to-hand combat training. Our shoulders are touching all the way to the elbow. Neither of us moves until I put my hand in my back pocket, angling out of the way.
“Why the aggressive interest in my yearbook presence?”
“I’d call it vested.” One side of Rémy’s mouth curves before he clicks the photo back into view. “You were in the art room,” he explains. “It was pretty early in the morning. I was going to the ASB room to pull up some photos for the yearbook when I spotted you working … the light streaming in behind you was golden, I couldn’t help myself. You looked so—”
“The picture, Rémy.” I cut him off before he lays another compliment on me.
“Right.”
He passes me the camera. I’m dressed in my light denim overalls with the white paint on the thighs and a black tank top, my hair in a long braid across the front of one shoulder. I’m leaning forward on my stool, putting something down on the canvas. Left hand grasping a second paintbrush loaded with moss-green paint and the top edge of the canvas at the same time. I remember this day. I was painting the gas mask on Birdie’s face. I look at ease and completely contented. This is the second time Rémy has rendered me speechless. I’m not sure what to say or do about how the photo makes me feel. Mother doesn’t ever take family photos. She rejects all nostalgic recordings of our lives like they’re a silly luxury. My sisters and I draw each other, or stitch each other, in Blue’s case, but it’s never as exact as this, with every little blemish or line visible.
He smiles and his cheek dimple sucks in deep. “I thought it captured how you look when you’re working in class, only more intense because you were alone. Usually, you’re with your sisters. You guys are inseparable. The Three Musketeers.”
“There were four Musketeers.”
“You’re right. My French mother would disapprove of my oversight. Maybe I can play D’Artagnan to the Juniper sisters?”
I don’t c
onfess we already have a fourth Musketeer named Bucky. “Didn’t D’Artagnan have to earn his place?”
“Yes. How am I doing so far? Is that photo a good start?”
Detach.
I study the photo again. Golden rays of light are streaming across my back from the early morning sun. My lips are pursed, the way I always hold them when I’m concentrating. I don’t look like a girl who’s secretly prepping for a potential apocalypse. I don’t look weird. I look like an artist, confident in her work. Rémy’s camera is as good as any mirror, maybe better, so why the hell are my eyes pricking? I hand the camera back to him and blink away the confusion of my feelings before they spill out and turn me into someone I won’t recognize in any mirror.
“Oh man. You hate it?”
I don’t hate it. Not even a little. “You just caught me unawares. I’ve never seen myself that way. You’re right about the lighting. It’s perfect.”
“So you’d be okay with me giving it to the yearbook committee?” His brows form double question marks.
I’m on the verge of saying yes when my ears pick up the rustling of my sisters moving through the woods. The jump in my heart makes me whip my head in that direction like a hunting dog on point. Shouldn’t they be coming from my left?
I’ve been talking with Rémy for too long, giving up my spatial awareness. It’s getting duskier by the minute. What the hell was I thinking? Magda and Annalise are also in these woods. My pulse taps out an urgent directive, inscribable on paper as Morse code.
Get him out of here. Get him out of here. Get him out of here.
“You should go, Rémy. I mean it. It’s not safe for you out here.”
“How can it not be safe? I have you as tribute to protect me.”
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