Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

Easing back, we follow the wire to the right. It seems to circle the whole camp. I’m reluctant to risk stepping over it. I’ve about decided that’s our only option when the wire ends at a stake, and a vile odor tells me we’ve reached the area set aside as a latrine. Makes sense: they don’t want to trip over their own alarm system every time they need to pee. We’re on the opposite side of the camp. The fire crackles with false welcome and the man we saw earlier putters around outside a lean-to constructed of branches and stretches of gray fabric that might have been sails or tarps. He’s fussing with a contraption made of loops of copper tubing and glass vessels. It’s filled with fumes that evaporate when heated to leave an orangey-pink sludge on the container’s walls. Psyche, maybe? I’ve heard of the illegal hallucinogen during Assemblies, but never seen it. It’s bad stuff and dangerous to make. Highly volatile. He carefully measures in crystals of some kind and adds water. Trying not to inhale through my nose, I watch for ten long minutes and almost decide he’s a one man drug-making operation when he speaks.

“Tweren’t nuthin, I tells ya. Nobbut the flare. Not the IPF nor no one else. Not no one lookin fer the breeder. You worrit too much.” His voice is gravelly, his accent virtually unintelligible. I get the gist, though: he went to check on the flare at someone’s behest and didn’t find anything.

“Yer sure?” The voice is the crackle of a dried leaf. It belongs to a crone who hobbles out of the makeshift hut and stretches a hand to the fire. A braid of gray hair flops over her shoulder and she flings it back. “Didja find some of the mushrooms I sent yer fer? We’re a-goin ta have ta feed the breeder fer another month, I’m thinkin, or the babe won’t survive.”

“We mun sell ’er now. We’ll get a good price and not ave to feed another mouth,” the man argues.

The breeder
. They’re talking about Halla, about selling her and her baby. We’ve got to rescue her. I back away slowly, motioning Wyck to come with me. When we’re far enough away that I can no longer smell the latrine ditch, or hear the couple arguing, I whisper. "Halla must be in the hut.”

“Who do you suppose they want to sell her to?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I brush the question aside. “We need to get her out of there. Tonight.” I can’t imagine how terrified she must be, especially if she knows their plans for her and the baby. “There’s about two hours of light left. We need to get a look at the whole camp and be prepared to act anytime one of them leaves. It’ll be easier to take on just one of them, preferably the woman.” She looks tough and wiry, but she doesn’t outweigh us by a hundred pounds like the man.

“I can shinny up a tree,” Wyck says, “and scope out the compound.”

He spent too much time listening to the Kube’s IPFers. I mentally roll my eyes, but agree. “Good idea. I’ll work my way all the way around the camp and see what’s what. We’ll meet back here.”

His eyes shine and I know if Halla weren’t in danger, he’d be enjoying this. Shifting the backpack on my shoulders, I creep back toward the camp, dropping to a crouch when I’m close. When I spot the wire, I follow it around. It takes me past the rear of the hut and I’m heartened to see that the back is no more than a flap of material. Maybe we can slice through it and spirit Halla out this way.
What if she’s injured?
I think about that, wondering if the couple hurt her when they captured her. I give my head a little shake. I can’t worry about it. She can’t be too hurt, since the woman talked about keeping her for a month. I know the baby’s not due for a couple of months, at least, and I try not to think about how they would induce birth so early.

We could buy Halla from them
. The thought leaps into my head. I give it some thought. I have no idea what the couple expect to get for Halla. Would they accept our supplies as payment? We’ve got the tent, the NVGs and the weapons we took from the IPF ACV. They would make life a lot easier for people living off the land in this forsaken corner of the Okefenokee. Halla’s captors might accept a trade, or they might try to kill or capture me and Wyck and steal our stuff. We can’t risk it.

I’m far enough away that I rise to a half-crouch and immediately walk into a line of dangling, rubbery things. One drapes over my shoulder and I find myself eyeball to eyeball with a water moccasin. Its mouth yawns open, displaying the cottony inside and needle-sharp fangs. I bite back a scream and jump away. Another swings against my arm, cold and heavy. It takes everything I have not to run screaming. They’re dead.
They’re dead
, I tell myself again, fighting for calm. It’s a line of snakes strung by their tails, six or eight of them, the longest about five feet and the shortest something under three feet. I recognize two cottonmouths, a rattlesnake, and a king snake. I ease myself away from the snakes and take three steps, shaking, before I can gather myself enough to keep going.

The couple are cooking something—snake, I’m guessing—and my tummy gurgles at the aroma of roast meat. I can hear them talking, but can’t make out the words; I’m too far away. I’m almost to where we initially came up on the camp. A sudden gust of wind sets the utensils on the wire tinkling and I drop flat, pressing my face into the damp soil. The couple must be attuned to the alarm system’s various sounds because they don’t even pause their conversation. After long moments, I rise and make my way back to the rendezvous point and Wyck. My heart isn’t pounding as fast as I would have expected, and I wonder if I’m getting used to living in fear. Thinking of the blithe way I promised Dr. Ronan I wouldn’t die, I smile ruefully.

“They’re eating alligator,” Wyck announces enviously when I join him. “They’ve got a big gator carcass tacked head down against a big tree, slit down the middle.”

“They must have weapons,” I say, telling him about the snakes.

"And balls,” Wyck adds, “if they’re tackling fifteen-foot gators and poisonous snakes.”

I tell him what I saw on my reconnaissance and suggest we sneak into the camp via the latrine to avoid the alarm, make our way around the back of the lean-to, and try to pull Halla out the back.

“We’ve got the beamers,” he says.“Why not march in, show them we mean business, and take Halla?”

“Because we don’t want to hurt them if we don’t have to—”

“They kidnapped Halla!”

“—and because we don’t want to give them a chance to hurt Halla, or use her as a shield,” I add.

The light is almost gone. The swamp floor is dark, with a glimmer of light caught in the highest branches. Freeing one beamer from where it’s strapped across the back of his rucksack, Wyck hands it to me, and pulls out the other one for himself.

“I’ve never fired one of these.” The weapon is heavy and cold, but it quickly absorbs warmth from my hands and conforms to my grip.

“It’s easy. Point and shoot.”

Wyck leans over me to demonstrate, and his chest is pressed to my back for a moment, his cheek almost touching mine. His closeness is both comforting and distracting. I clear my throat. “Got it,” I say, putting my finger on the trigger sensor pad. “We should go.”

For a moment, I think we might kiss again, but Wyck pulls away, already intent on the mission. “Operation Halla Homecoming is a go,” he says.

“This isn’t a game.”

“I know it’s not a game, for God’s sake.” His face twists with frustration. “I just need—you wouldn’t understand.” He strides away from me, weapon held loosely at waist-height. He’s making a lot of noise, but before I can caution him—and get another blast of his temper—he slows down and begins to move more carefully.

The fire is an easy-to-follow beacon and we stop shy of the makeshift alarm, to the left of the latrine. I’m hoping to see Halla, thinking she might have been brought out for dinner, but she’s not visible. Neither is the man or woman. I wonder if they’re all in the hut, retired for the night. If so, it’s going to be harder to slit the rear flap and steal Halla away. Right then, the woman brushes through the scrap of fabric covering the opening, her hand clamped around Halla’s arm.

“Gawdamn breeders, needin to piss twenny times a day,” the woman grumbles, hauling Halla toward the latrine ditch, mere feet from where Wyck and I crouch. I feel him looking at me in the darkness and we freeze—no time to back away. Halla’s hands are tied behind her and her feet are roped together, so she moves with an awkward shuffle. There’s a scrape on her cheek, but otherwise she looks unhurt. She’ll be able to run, I hope, once we cut her bonds. Her torn and muddied tunic falls mid-way down her thighs and her leggings are missing. With a lurch of my stomach I realize it’s so she won’t need to have her hands free to use the latrine.

The woman shoves Halla toward the ditch and stands there, arms akimbo. I don’t see or hear the bearded man. Maybe this is our chance. Apparently, Wyck thinks the same thing because he surges forward, hurdling the alarm wire and the ditch where Halla crouches, sticking the beamer almost in the woman’s face before she can react.

“Cut Halla loose,” he calls to me.

The woman lets out a shriek. “Armyn!”

Swinging the beamer sideways with both hands, Wyck smacks her across the face and she falls. I dash to Halla. She’s standing, confused, and looks at me like I’m a ghost.

“Everly?”

I draw her toward the fire so I can see well enough to slice through the ropes binding her wrists. “What? You thought we’d leave you?” I can’t resist giving her a quick squeeze. “We need to get out of here before that man gets back.”

A crash and a roar from behind us tell me it’s too late. I press the knife into Halla’s hands so she can cut her ankles free, and pick up my rifle. The man barrels forward, face a mask of confusion and rage behind the ginger beard, tossing aside the five-gallon container of water he’s apparently hauled from a nearby source. It lands near the fire, sluicing it out, and the sudden darkness leave us disoriented. I hear Wyck’s weapon go off and let loose a shot toward where the man was standing when the fire died. I don’t know if it hits him.

Scufflings and grunts come from beside me and I think the bearded man is fighting Wyck. The meaty thwack of fist on flesh tells me someone’s landed a punch. A heavy body thuds into me and I grab a sleeve instinctively. By the gamey smell, it’s the man. He jabs his elbow back and it smashes into my nose. Searing pain fells me, still clutching a handful of his shirt. The man staggers. The shirt rips free. Wyck’s on the man before he can regain his balance, the barrel of the beamer jabbed into his throat. I can just make out their silhouettes in the darkness.

“I gots her, I gots the breeder.” The woman’s voice rings out triumphantly. “Leggo my son!”

A horrible gurgle follows the last word. A cloying coppery odor bites at the back of my throat. I suck in a deep breath, fear turning me cold. “Halla?”

“Maw,” the man bellows. He lunges forward, and Wyck fires. The man collapses, moaning. I can’t see where he’s hit.

It has all happened so fast, I’m momentarily disoriented. I can’t breathe right; there’s blood in my mouth from my broken nose. The man struggles to rise, a crippled mammoth. I bring my gun up. I hesitate. I can’t make myself shoot him, not when there’s any other option. “Run,” I yell, heading to where I last saw Halla.

I trip over something and go sprawling. It’s yielding and warm, with a ripe odor. My palm lands in a pool of slickness.

“Everly?”

It’s Halla’s voice, barely more than a whisper. I scramble up, and bump into Wyck who grabs my hand. We head toward her voice. Behind us, the man bumbles around and knocks into something that clangs. A moment later, there’s a
whumpf
and a ball of pink fire boils up. The Psyche still. We can’t help but pause to look. The gas hangs in the air like a weird pink fog, tendrils spreading toward us.

“Don’t breathe it in,” I tell the others, pushing at them to get them moving again. The pink fog disperses around us. I cough. “Run.”

“Maw, Maw! Where are you? Talk to me, gawdammit, Maw.”

He knows. I can hear the grief in his voice behind the rage, the dawning awareness of his aloneness. Great sobs, the bawling of a wounded animal, wrench at me as we run and run.

I plough into the snakes hanging from the tree. There’s more of them, a curtain of sleek, scaled bodies patterned in mottled grays and blacks, in copper and geometric shapes, in red, black and yellow stripes. Pupils that are vertical slits regard me from beady eyes. They’re still alive! They writhe and hiss, striking at me. I bat at them, terrified, and they swing toward me. One sinks its fangs into my arm and another latches onto my face. Their poison courses into me. I’m screaming and flailing my arms, trying to get away as they detach themselves from the tree and begin to twine around me.

“Everly, there are no snakes.”

Someone is shaking me.

“No snakes. It’s the Psyche. You’ve got to be quiet.”

A hand covers my mouth, smothering me. It’s not a hand—it’s a snake, oozing into my mouth. I can’t breathe. I buck.

“Please, Ev.” The voice is desperate. “He’ll hear you. Take my hand.”

I do as directed, grabbing tight to an offered hand, and run. The snakes are still with me—we’re not outrunning them—but ever so gradually they begin to fade as my system metabolizes the Psyche. I realize I’m holding Wyck’s hand and let go. I’ve got a raging thirst, a product of the Psyche, but we don’t stop. I’m not sure how long we run, bunched in a group, separating only to go around trees and other obstacles. We eventually slow to a walk for Halla’s sake, and continue in silence until we reach the edge of the swamp. We stand within the tree line, drinking water, and contemplate the expanse of nothingness stretching before us. I want to keep going. The swamp provides more cover, but it gives me the willies.