Impact (21 page)

I concentrate on my breathing.

I don't know how long I've been out here. I gave up keeping track hours ago. The night is bitterly cold, and there's nothing for me to do but try and keep my attention on the forest around me, watching for movement in the trees. My eyes are adjusted to the darkness now, and I can make out white vapour, curling in front of me with every breath.

I'm a hundred yards or so up the slope from the Nomads' camp. I can see the glimmer of their fire through the trees. I picked this spot carefully: there's a slight depression in the slope, shielded from the wind, and there's a relatively straight path through the trees to the camp. I scouted it out as the last of the daylight faded. I also made sure to test my leg, doing a couple of sprints in a clearing a short distance away. It hurts, and the cold makes the pain worse, but running won't be a problem.

Harlan begged me not to do this. So did Finkler. Even Eric was surprised that I was considering it–he told me it was the craziest thing he'd ever heard. He's probably right, but I think that's also why he and Finkler haven't left yet. The risk is all on me. If I mess this up, I die. Eric and the others can walk away, slipping back through the forest. If I don't, then Eric gets his seaplane–and this particular group of Nomads won't bother him and his people any more.

I told them to get as close to the camp as they could, and be ready to go. All they could do was insist I wear extra clothing: a thicker jacket, a scarf, a thin beanie. It helps, but only a little. I have my hands jammed deep in the pockets of the jacket, and every so often I windmill my arms to keep my body temperature up.

Around me, the forest is silent.

I breathe in, closing my eyes. I feel exhausted, but my mind is working in overdrive.

I've had time to think about what I said to Eric, how I convinced him to come out here. On one hand, it's hard to forgive myself for it–what I said was horrible. But at the same time I can't help thinking that it's the only choice I had. That's what I keep coming back to. The anger I feel–that hot, burning rage–is what's keeping me alive down here. In the end, getting to Prakesh and Carver is going to be about how hard I fight. I don't have to give in to the anger, but I can use it as a fuel, powering me all the way to Anchorage.

But the problem with those thoughts is that suddenly the voice is there, whispering in my ear.
It's not Prakesh and Carver. It's Okwembu. You want to find her. You want to make her pay.

And that's the problem. I can tell myself I don't have to let the anger control me, but what's going to happen when I find Okwembu? When I'm face to face with her?

I exhale, and open my eyes. The moon has come out, spreading its light through a tiny gap in the clouds.

The wolf is right in front of me.

It's the leader, the small one. Its head is tilted slightly to one side, studying me, as if asking why I would be stupid enough to be alone in a forest at night.

I meet its bright eyes, just for a second. Looking into them drives a spike of terror into my chest. I look away, and that's when I see the rest of them, moving silently between the trees. Giant tongues pass across gleaming teeth. Clawed feet paw at the ground. There are too many of them to count.

“Thought you'd never get here,” I say. It comes out as a harsh whisper.

Harlan was right. The wolves might be aggressive, but they're still animals. They'll go for the easy prey: a single target over a big group. They must have smelled us from miles away, tracked us here, urged on by their rumbling stomachs.

This is going to be the most dangerous thing I've ever done. Worse than running the Core on Outer Earth, worse than defending the dock. Because there is zero room for error. One mistake, no matter how small, and they'll have me.

But there's no going back. Not now.

My hands grip the flare in my jacket pocket. Slowly, oh so slowly, I pull it out.

It's a thin tube, ten inches long, the writing on it long since worn away. Eric gave me two of them. I considered using one in each hand, but I wouldn't be able to light them quickly enough.

It's only when the flare is fully out of my pocket that the wolf in front of me growls. The sound is so low it's almost subsonic. It opens its mouth, long tongue dropping from its lips.

How long before they attack? I don't even know if it'll come from the lead wolf. It could come from behind me, or from either side. I can hear them, padding through the trees.

In one movement, I reach up, grip the tab on the bottom of the flare, and pull. The tab comes out, jerking away from the body.

Nothing happens.

The wolf cocks its head to the other side. I try to keep breathing, thinking ahead, getting ready to drop the flare I'm holding and go for the second one.

With a gushing hiss, the first flare ignites. There's a white-hot flash at the end of the tube, and thick orange smoke begins pouring out. The smoke is lit from within by a cone of fire and sparks, and it turns the forest into a scene from hell.

The wolves go crazy. They bark and snap, clawing at the dirt, darting back and forth. Only the leader doesn't move. But I see his ears flatten against his head, see the orange light reflected in his eyes.

I take one last breath, sucking in the scent of the burning flare.

And then I run.

I explode outwards, my arms pumping, running at full speed towards the lead wolf. It jumps back, scared of the fire, just like I thought it would be. It's fast, but it doesn't get back far enough, not willing to give up that easily. With a yell, I swing the flare upwards, slashing it across the wolf's face. It yelps in pain, twisting away from me.

Behind me, the pack gives chase.

I'm reacting to things before I even register that they're in front, leaping over rocks, ducking under incoming branches. The wolves are on me in seconds, coming in from both sides so fast that I nearly lose my footing out of pure terror. The speed of the creatures is appalling. They're not just coming from the sides now–they're sprinting ahead of me, turning back, legs scrabbling in the dirt as they try to change momentum for an attack.

I keep going, swinging the flare behind me. The burning tip smacks into soft fur, and there's an agonised howl.

You can't outrun wolves. Harlan was right about that, too. But they've never hunted prey armed with a flame burning at 750°C. Over a longer sprint, they'd take me–Harlan said that the flame only lasts for about fifteen seconds. But fifteen seconds is all I need.

There's a steep drop in the slope ahead, a few feet, no more. I see the drop less than two seconds before I hit it, but I react instantly, slashing the flare across my left side to clear some space. Then I jump.

In the sputtering light from the flare, all I can see are teeth and eyes. Jumping doesn't make me move any faster, but being in the air means I'm out of the way of the wolves–the longer I can stay airborne, the better.

I bend my knees, ready to take the landing, to roll if I have to. It's not enough. I hit the ground badly, and my ankle twists.

The movement sends a shocking, agonising bolt of pain up through my leg. A single word blares in my mind, endlessly, like a siren:
No, no, no, no
.

A set of jaws snaps shut around my arm.

I react on instinct, jamming the flare right into the wolf's face. It lets go with a yelp, and I'm up on my feet before I can think about it. Another wolf snaps at my leg, but I'm too far away, and its jaws close on nothing but air. My ankle is screaming at me. The terror blocks out everything, even sound: all I can hear is a thin ringing in my ears.

I look up, and there's a Nomad ten feet away.

He's young–my age maybe, no more. He hasn't raised his gun, which is held slack across his chest. He's staring at me, at the wolves, completely confused.

I have half a second to pick out the details: the dried scraps of face paint, the torn jacket hanging on his slender frame. Then I'm sprinting past him, and he's raising his gun, yelling at me to stop. But he's much too late, and the wolves take him, knocking him to the ground. His gun goes off, but I can't tell if it found its mark. I don't dare stop. Not for a second.

I get flashes of activity as I run through the camp. Bodies springing out of tents, shouting in confusion. An oil lamp knocked over, spreading fire across the ground. The wolves are darting back and forth, snarling, growling, unsure of what to do with such a large group of humans but driven on by hunger.

It's what I was counting on. The only way through the camp, the only way to get past the men with guns, is to make the biggest, most insane entrance possible.

Two wolves have attacked a Nomad. I see him, blood spurting from his neck as he tries to push them away. On my left, a rifle is going off, the shooter repeatedly pulling the trigger. One wolf, more determined and focused than the rest, darts ahead of me, trying to cut me off. The flare is spent, and I hurl it at the wolf. It buys me just enough time to get ahead of it.

And I can see the seaplanes. They're floating a few feet off the shore, just beyond the makeshift wooden platform. Their white surfaces glimmer in the light of the spreading fire. The door on the leftmost plane is open, exposing the dark interior.

There's a Nomad in front of them, a scrawny stick of a man. He's got his gun up, tracking me as I run towards him. I spring forward as he fires, tucking into a roll, my knees scraping across the platform as the bullet splits the air above me.

Then I'm up, leading with my shoulder, charging full speed into the man's stomach.

He topples backwards with a surprised
ooof
, the gun whirling away, bouncing off the side of the seaplane. I feel his hands on my jacket, hunting for a hold. Then we're tumbling into the seaplane, my body on top of his, my legs hanging out the side.

I don't wait for him to get his breath back. I twist around and punch him, fist connecting with his jaw. He grunts, trying to buck me off.

I push myself upwards, and that's when the lead wolf lands on top of me.

It's jumped the gap, launching itself right into the plane, the back of its body hanging out of the door. Its mouth is drawn back in an enormous snarl.

I jerk away, and a second later its jaws snap shut right where my head was. I'm still on top of the Nomad, my knee in his throat. The wolf lunges again, biting, snarling, moving in a fury. I try to get my feet underneath it, try to tuck them to my chest so I can kick it off, but I can't get enough space.

The wolf rears back, its front legs straight, its head silhouetted against the light from the camp. Its eyes are alive with the hunt, its mouth open, flecks of saliva flying as it bares jagged teeth. It's smart, backing off a little, giving it a bit more space to jump. This time, its teeth are going into my throat.

I don't see Harlan coming. All I see are his hands, wrapped around the wolf's midsection. With a terrified roar, he hurls the wriggling wolf right into the lake.

This wasn't the plan. They were supposed to come when the platform was clear. I thought that the Nomads would occupy the pack, letting us steal away in the plane as the camp dissolved in chaos. I didn't count on one of the wolves following me. Not that I have time to complain–Harlan saved my life. Eric and Finkler are pounding up the shore behind him, leaping onto the platform.

I don't have time to be relieved to see them. Harlan shoves me back into the plane, scrambling in after me, and then Eric and Finkler are there and my hands are shaking and I can barely breathe.

They grab the Nomad I punched, taking him by the arms. My punch was hard enough to break his jaw, which is already beginning to swell. I'm dimly aware of my hand aching, of a feeling of wetness as blood runs down from my knuckles.

The Nomad groans as they pull him up. “Can you fly this thing?” Eric shouts at him. The fire on the shore makes the sweat on his face glisten. When the Nomad doesn't answer, Eric sticks a rifle barrel in his face, jamming it against the man's undamaged cheek. “
Can you?
”

The Nomad nods, his eyes squeezed shut. Without another word, Eric pulls him towards the cockpit.

The interior of the plane is cramped, with a bare metal floor and straps hanging from the walls. Finkler is up against the wall next to me, hyperventilating. The camp is a nightmare. Dark shapes fly across the ground, flames lick at the sky. Screams and gunfire echo across the lake.

“The plane! They've got the plane!”

The shout comes from the shore, where two Nomads are running towards us. Their bodies are dark shapes against the flames.

Harlan swings the rifle around, and fires. His first shot goes wide, and he rips the bolt back, chambering another round. This one takes a Nomad in the shoulder, sending him spinning off the wooden platform and into the water. Harlan fumbles with the gun, his fingers slipping on the bolt, and then the second Nomad reaches the plane.

He's big, with square shoulders and jagged red paint above an unkempt beard. He doesn't have a gun, but he plants his hands on either side of the door, and starts to haul himself in. Harlan swings the gun around, but the Nomad just grabs the barrel.

I lash out, hammering my elbow into him. He's not expecting an attack from the side, and it knocks him off balance just enough for his one hand to slip off the doorframe. He tries to stay on, so I grab hold of his fingers, ripping them away. He goes down, falling out of sight.

The engines start, the propellers on either side of us whirling to life. The noise is so loud that I have to clap my hands over my ears. It's like being inside the belly of a roaring monster. I can see into the cockpit, up at the front. The Nomad's hands are moving like lightning, flicking switches and pulling levers. Eric is seated on the right, head low, gun trained on the pilot.

The plane starts to move, juddering beneath us. I can just see the shore slipping sideways through one of the windows.

We're moving way too slowly. Another burst of gunfire rakes the side of the plane. Finkler grabs me and pulls me down, just in time, almost slamming my head into the bare metal.

The plane lifts, just for a second, then hammers back down onto the water. This time I do knock my head on the floor and stars explode across my vision. Finkler's hand finds mine, squeezing tight.

We lift upwards for a second time. And stay there.

My stomach is rolling, not used to the sensation of take-off. Finkler's face is split in a massive grin. He pumps the air, cheering, then grabs my shoulders and pulls my face close to his. I can see his lips moving, see him shouting something, but I can barely hear the words over the noise of the engines and the rushing air from the open door. Harlan is there, too, down on one knee, breathing hard.

I sit back against the wall, feeling the vibrations travel through me. We have a seaplane.
And we're flying.

The relief is exquisite, so powerful that I have to close my eyes for a second, fight the tears back. We did it. I can get to Anchorage.

The feeling lasts all of three seconds. Another window shatters, the bullet burying itself in the far wall.

The second seaplane comes into view, flying alongside us.