by Eric Wood
He seemed to consider this. “But you did knock me unconscious, and when I awoke…I assumed you did something to me while I was out.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I assumed I had killed you. That was the plan, after all. And you weren’t the only one that took a blow to the head. You knocked me face first into this tree.” She shook her head, frustrated. “Look, either fight me or get out of here. I’m not interested in this conversation, and I assume you have some rabbits to chase or something. So let’s just get on with it.”
He stared at her, slightly-smiling, looking more amused than anything. Roach wanted to whip another stone at him, but she seemed to be fresh out.
“I’ve got nowhere else to be, and you’re the only one that has answers for me. And I don’t particularly feel like standing at the moment. Everything is still a bit. . . spinny, and I’m pretty sure standing will just lead to a lot more puking.”
“You don’t have some sort of pack or herd or something to get back to?” Roach asked. “I’ve never seen one of you things by yourself before.”
The Howler’s—former Howler now, she supposed—expression darkened. “I do not. I fought last night alongside the last of my people. As I was the only survivor, I now no longer have any clan to return to.”
“Maybe next time you ought to think twice about attacking a bunch of guys with automatic weapons,” Roach said, and then immediately regretted it. She thought of her own fresh isolation, and how bad—how lonely it felt. There was no reason to twist the knife in this poor bastard, even if he had tried to kill her only a few hours earlier. I really am kind of a jerk, aren’t I? Roach thought. Guilt felt no better than fear, she decided, among the many new emotions she had begun to experience.
The man shook his head and let out a weary laugh. “Perhaps you’re on to something there, baldy,” he said. Roach frowned and felt her head, worrying that somehow her hair had begun to fall out. It wasn’t till she felt that it was, in fact, still there, greasy and mangled, that she realized he was referring to her body, which unlike a Howler’s, was not covered in fur. “Still,” he continued, “your options become more and more limited, the longer you have been hunted and the more of you that are killed. My clan numbered nearly fifty, before those Free City hunters began to arrive in our woods with their rifles and their bloodthirst. Our other option was to try and talk with them, plead for our lives. How do you think that would have turned out?”
Poorly, no doubt. As Ravagers, Deacon’s band—her former band, now — had considered the Howlers no more than a particularly dangerous variety of animal. No doubt the Uninfected, with their airs of sophistication and smarts, thought even less of the Howlers. Ravagers killed for a purpose, after all— spoils and fun— but the sheep-men killed because they were afraid. Anything they didn’t understand, their solution was to shoot at it. She never before faulted their actions; only their motivations. Now that she was apparently one of them, Roach didn’t know what to think. She didn’t answer his question, and instead just looked down at the ground.
Finally, she spoke. “Sorry. I’d think about finding myself a gun if you plan on taking them on again. You’re looking a bit lacking in the whole claws and teeth thing at the moment.”
He laughed. “Maybe, maybe. You know, you never answered my question before. What exactly happened—is happening to me? I’m not blind, and unless you’re wearing some sort of elaborate costume, you have the look of a Ravager about you, but despite the lack of manners, you’re clearly no Ravager. The same thing that happened to me happened to you, didn’t it?”
There was no reason to lie to him. Roach no longer thought the guy was planning on killing her, and even if he were, she couldn’t see any way that letting him in on her theory could hurt.
“I think it was my blood,” she said, gesturing around her mouth and then pointing at his, still stained as it was with that same blood. “I got stuck with some kind of poison, or serum or whatever, a little over a week ago. As you said, it turned me from…what I was into this. Whatever sort of stuff was in that syringe, it seems to still be in my veins. So, when you tore into my arm—and thanks for that, by the way, it feels great—whatever is in me got into you. So now, no more of those precious claws, not-at-all razor-sharp teeth, and wonderful-smelling fur.”
She noticed for the first time that even his eyes had changed, from the bright, angry yellow that all Howler’s shared to a pale yellowish-green. Odd looking on an Uninfected, but nothing so unusual that it would mark him as the beast he had been. “So now, my newly hairless friend, welcome to the wonderful world of being human. Spoiler alert: it sucks. So, as one fairly new sheep-man to another, maybe you could tell me your name. I can’t even think of you as ‘The Howler’ anymore, looking like you do, so maybe give me something to work with.”
He smiled, and not for the first time Roach was amazed at just how well he was taking his present circumstances. He had lost seemingly everyone he had known, had his very body changed, and—if his experience was anything like hers—was presently feeling like he had been chewed up and spit out by a grizzly bear with an especially terrible hangover.
“My name is Rend,” he said. “Rend of the Silent Claw, though I suppose as there is no more Silent Claw. So just Rend. And how about you? The more we talk, the harder it is to think of you as ‘Girl With Bad Manners Who Clubbed Me With A Rock.”
“I almost prefer that name,” she said. “But you can call me Roach.”
“Roach,” he repeated. “It’s good to meet you, despite the circumstances.”
“So, I take it that means you’re not going to try and claw me to death again? Because believe it or not, I’m a little sore, and I really don’t feel like having to kill you this morning.”
He laughed, his deep voice booming off of the trees around them. “No, I think you’re safe. I don’t think my claws are up for it. As long as you don’t have any more rocks.” He groaned and put a hand on his stomach. “Besides, if I move even more than a few feet I will probably just start throwing up again.”
“I know the feeling, unfortunately. I have to admit that you’re taking all this rather well. Better than I did. Of course, I had a Reaper chasing me at the time?”
“That sounds like a story,” Rend replied. “But to your first point, if you were a Howler, my reaction wouldn’t seem strange at all. Despite what you probably think of us—”
The sound of a twig snapping caused Rend to go silent. He looked at Roach wide-eyed and she held her breath, listening. Rend sighed and relaxed, looking dejected. That confused Roach until she felt the muzzle of a rifle press into the back of her head. A moment later, two more soldiers appeared on either side of Roach, dressed the same as the ones from the previous night.
“Finally found you,” one of them said. “Bad news, Ravager. The boss wants to see you.”
“Sorry, boys,” Roach said. “I’m a little busy right now. Maybe come back in a few hours.”
“They already took out Echo Squad, Captain,” one of the other soldiers said. “We need to be extra careful bringing them in.”
“Good point, Sergeant,” the first one said. “Safety first.” He raised his rifle up and brought the butt of it down on Rend’s head. The former Howler collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
Dammit, Roach thought, my head already hurts. Then she felt an impact on the back of her skull, and she felt nothing.
9
The trail of blood led away from the dead men.
"You think this was her?" Sam asked, kneeling over one of the lifeless soldiers. He rifled through the dead man's pack, finding several full clips of ammunition.
"She was here," Abigail answered. "But this wasn't her. Or at least not just her. Ravager or not, she's not capable of all this."
Sam certainly hoped not. The forest clearing was scattered with bodies, at least a dozen by Sam's count. Around half were Howlers, their elongated jaws and thick, bristly body hair distinctive even from a distance. The other half were Uninfec
ted soldiers of some variety, each wearing identical body armor and black metal face masks. Some sort of battle had obviously taken place here, and equally obvious was that this was the source of the gunfire they had heard the previous evening.
But how did Roach work into all of this? Sam couldn't make the pieces fit together. The Ravager had been traveling this direction, her pace keeping her just out of the pair's reach. Had she meant for this fight to happen? Had she planned all of this?
"Maybe the fight was unrelated," Sam said. "Just one big coincidence. Just a group of...let's call them mystery soldiers running into a pack of Howlers. Roach could have snuck around them in the chaos."
From the corner of his eye, Sam could see Abigail standing with her hands on her hips, staring at him. He didn't have to look over to know she was rolling her eyes.
"A coincidence? Do you really believe that?"
Sam stood and slung one of the dead men's rifles over his shoulder. He walked over to Abigail. "Probably not, but you never know."
"That's about as likely as you telling me who you talk to when you think I can't hear," Abigail said, not unkindly. Sam was about to protest when she continued, "Not that you have to. I know what it’s like to...lose someone, and I know what it’s like to feel alone."
Sam opened his mouth to respond, but before any words came out he spotted a unique set of footprints in the mud below. All the soldiers’ boots seemed to have left identical prints, and the Howlers — well, there was no mistaking their footprints. But this set was different. And familiar.
"There you are," he said, smiling.
Sam followed the footprints as they headed up the hill. The wooded incline extended into the distance at least a couple of hundred yards, over rocky, uneven ground. It would be a difficult climb, even without having gone through that shootout.
Along the footpath, a tiny dot of red, standing stark against the green of a sapling's leaf, caught Sam's eye. He walked over to investigate.
"Look at this," he said, taking the leaf gingerly between two fingers. "Blood."
Abigail followed him over and leaned in closer to investigate. She wiped the blood off the leaf with the tip of her finger, and then raised it to her nose. She breathed in deeply and considered the scent.
"Ugh," Sam said, recoiling slightly. "Really?"
Abigail shrugged. "What? I thought we were past this, Sam."
"Well, yeah, but still. That's just random blood. It's a little gross. I mean, objectively."
She shrugged again. "Says you." She smiled. "Besides, this isn't just random blood. It's Ravager blood. This was definitely her. We are close."
"Well then, miss blood-sniffer," Sam said. "I guess we'd better follow."
With the same bloody finger, she poked him lightly between the eyes. It left a faint smear at the top of his nose. "Yes, Mr. way-too-squeamish," she said. "I guess we'd better."
"Do you smell that?" Sam asked.
“Is that another blood joke?”
“No, I mean it, I smell smoke.”
Abigail nodded, pointing a single finger toward the sky above. Sam looked up, past the tops of the pines and the firs, and saw the hazy tufts of black smoke in the sky.
"And do you think we should be concerned about that?" Sam asked. He tried to keep his voice even. After hiking uphill for much of the past hour, he was exhausted. He didn't want to let Abigail know just how out of breath he was. She, of course, was moving like a machine. Sam envied her Reaper endurance.
"Not in the way you think," Abigail said, continuing to scan the terrain ahead of them.
At the moment, Sam had any number of concerns. He was far past the western edge of even Vincente's furthest scouting trips, in the middle of undiscovered, wild country. He still didn't know what army or settlement those dead soldiers belonged to, and how many more of them might still be in the area. And then there were the Howlers: there had been at least five dead ones back at the battleground. Even with Abigail, he didn't like their odds if they ran into a pack that size.
On top of that, now he had to concern himself with a possible forest fire. Which direction do those things move in again? He remembered reading somewhere that forest fires moved uphill. That makes sense, he thought. Fire rises, after all.
The source of the smoke was somewhere ahead of them, past the crest of the ridge.
Abigail had reached the top of the ridge and came to a stop, staring out ahead of herself, seemingly stunned. When Sam caught up, he saw what had captured her attention.
"Whoa," he said. It wasn't his most eloquent moment.
The ridge looked out over a wide stretch of empty valley, and beyond that was the largest settlement Sam had ever seen.
It looked like an entire Old World city had been restored. To the east there were old towers many stories high, their sheets of glass gleaming in the sun. To the west, former apartment buildings were connected to each other with makeshift bridges and studded with ad hoc outcroppings, laundry lines and power cables draped over everything like black lace. In its open center, mazes of razor-wired fencing partitioned the square in two; on either side, Sam could see the streets were crowded with foot and livestock traffic. At the far end of the enormous settlement he could see the source of the smoke in the sky: twin smokestacks, rising from a single factory many times larger than anything back at his Colony. In fact, everything was bigger, down to the colossal walls encircling the entire town, spaced at regular intervals with guard towers that wouldn't have looked out of place on a medieval castle.
"I think we know where Roach has gone," Abigail said. "Welcome, Sam, to the Free Cities."
PART TWO
THE CITY
10
Before
"Dammit Jed, you need to slow down," Doctor Solomon said, grabbing for Dr. Jed Walker's lab coat as he hurried by.
"These are desperate times, Dr. Solomon, and they require desperate measures."
Dr. Solomon had no choice but to fall into step beside the project director as he stormed around the lab, typing in access codes and pulling classified files. "We can go back to Congress, or to the General. We have concrete results to show them; results they can't ignore. We just have to try again, make them see reason."
"It's too late for that, I'm afraid," Dr. Walker said. "The General was the one that gave me the official order. All our projects are terminated, effective immediately. Those damned treaties, and whomever it was that leaked that report: they screwed us. No, the official channels are dead, Doctor, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to appeal to a higher authority."
"If we take the data, it's not just theft, Jed," Dr. Solomon said. "It's treason. Wait, what higher authority?"
Director Walker had stopped at the terminal controlling the main samples. Solomon looked at the screen and gasped at what he saw.
"Much like Prometheus risked the god's fury to bring fire to man, I will do whatever it takes to redeem humanity and this world. What higher authority, you ask, Dr. Solomon?" Walker asked rhetorically. "Why, my own, of course."
11
They approached the caravan just before noon, finding it resting at what looked to be the last fortified redoubt before the final stretch of trail leading to the front gates of the great walled city. When they had viewed it from a distance, it had looked like an almost medieval stone circle of wall, with a couple of squat towers overlooking its two gated openings and a healthy-sized crowd of travelers within. Now, experiencing it up close, Sam noted that the only thing healthy about this group was its size. The redoubt was almost completely full of people and animals, all of them caked in grime from the road, and all of them smelling slightly worse than god-awful. A great many of them sported the downcast, disconnected look of those that had seen recent violence, and most of these had the barely tended wounds to match. Who, or what, would dare attack a group of this size? Sam wondered. Compared to the small trading parties Sam was used to encountering further east, this caravan seemed more like a mobile village than a band of travelers.
If it had been up to Sam, he and Abigail would have made straight for the front gates of the city as soon as they had seen it.
And isn't it a good thing that it's not up to you, Vincente's voice said in his ear.
It was. When Sam proposed his plan to Abigail, she had explained to him exactly why it was a truly terrible idea. The Free Cities took the whole idea of 'free and independent' quite seriously. Newcomers, whether they were looking to visit or make a new home, were turned away promptly and forcefully unless they had the proper credentials and/or references.
If we’re lucky. If not, the watch was liable to utilize those very large and imposing cannons mounted on their walls to make their point.
The quickest and easiest way to get through the gates was to be part of a traveling caravan, owned and operated by one of the city’s semi-legitimate human traffickers, who Abigail made sure he knew to refer to only by their preferred name, Shepherds.
And that was what took them a few miles away from the city, across the mostly open plains, to this shabby-looking fort. At least we still have a bit of our gold left, Sam thought. That should help our bargaining position.
A small herd of oxen, cattle, and mules that served as pack animals milled about the heavily trampled grass and dirt, each pulling free and swallowing any tuft of wild grass or weeds that had managed to survive the previous herd. The dusty, dirt-caked animals looked up from their forage occasionally, chewing and peering at nothing in particular. In this way, they weren't all that different from many of the human travelers. For every hardened long-haul supplier and scavenger, there were ten skinny, miserable-looking souls covered in filthy rags and reduced to sunken-eyed weariness.
Refugees and pilgrims, Abigail had explained to him, from smaller settlements that had either been sacked by Ravagers, extorted into nothing by bandits, or simply failed. Maintaining an independent settlement in the Wilds was difficult work, and the vast majority of them didn't last.