Shadows (12 page)

Stop talking.
When Chris swallowed, it sounded like thunder.
I don’t want to hear this; I don’t want to know.

“Chris,” Nathan said, “haven’t you wondered why the Changed don’t attack Rule anymore?”

Somehow, he managed to drag his voice from his chest. “No.”

“And why not?”

“I don’t know, I just haven’t,” Chris said. “Why should I care, so long as I don’t have to fight them?”

“But does that make sense? You fight them on the road. You know they’re not dead. They’re getting along and they’re not going away, isn’t that true?”

“So?”

“Think, Chris. Even this far into winter, we’ve still had raiders. Refugees still trickle in. And yet we haven’t faced the Changed, in Rule’s territory, for over two months. Why?”

“There are too many of us. They know we’ll kill them.”

“But we shelter them,” Weller interrupted. “Isn’t that so?”

“What?
No.
If we find them, we kill them.”

“Really?” Weller asked. “We bring back little kids. Isn’t it just as likely they might eventually Change once they’re old enough?”

“If age is the only factor,” Kincaid put in. “We don’t even know that much.”

“What?” Chris was dumbfounded. “We . . . That’s not how the Change works.”

“Well, now, we don’t know how it works, or that it’s over,” Kincaid said. “For that matter, we can’t be certain the Spared are really safe in the long run.”

“What do you mean you’re not certain?” Lena suddenly shrilled. “How can it not be
over
?”

“Because it might not be.”

“But we’re
Spared.
” Lena’s voice rang with a new note of desperation. “It’s been
months.
How can we not be
safe
?”

“Because we don’t know why you were Spared in the first place, or why there are so few of you. What do you, Lena, have in common with Alex or Sarah or Chris? Or Peter?”

This was too much to absorb. Chris could feel his thoughts storming around and around the limits of his skull. “What does any of this have to do with the Banned? Or the Zone?”

“It’s pretty simple, Chris,” Weller said. “Why is the southwest corner, where we send the Banned, the least guarded?”

“I don’t
know
,” Chris said. “What are you saying? What are you talking about?”

“We’re talking about what’s beyond the Zone. We’re talking about why Peter sends the Banned
there
, and nowhere else. Why
Peter
decides that certain routes should be traveled only at certain times.” Weller leaned forward. “We’re
talking
about why Peter has us stealing children. Why are we taking kids, by force, from their families?”

“Oh shit, oh
shit
,” Lena said before Chris could answer. “
You
did it. You staged the ambush to get Peter out of the way!”

“Don’t be stupid, girl,” Weller said. “Peter had things to answer for, I’ll give you that. But I tried to save that boy.”

“Things to answer for?” Chris echoed. “What things?”

“Answer me this, Chris,” Weller said. “Where are the children of Rule? Where are the grandkids?”

“They . . . well, they Changed, right? Didn’t you . . . you must’ve killed them.”

“But where are the graves? We buried everyone native to Rule, even the Changed we had to shoot. But how many kids do you think there were in a village of two thousand? I can tell you, for a fact, that there aren’t near enough graves out there. So what I’m asking is . . . where are the rest of them?”

“I—” Chris’s voice came in a harsh croak. “I don’t know. They left. They ran away. They’re . . . they’re
gone.
”

“Really?” Weller leaned forward. “And what makes you so sure?”

Nothing. No dreams, no sound. No thought. Just . . . nothing. Then, pain: a red shriek that went on and on and on. Voices, too, but they bled into one another:
hold him watch out he’s tanking 
working as fast as I . . .
Screams and other sounds, but they were garbled and elusive as thin mist. Only at the end—right before his fade to black—did his mind grab at a single, clear thought: those awful, bloody screams were his. 

More blank. More dark. Every once in a while, his mind sputtered to life like an ancient engine that refused to turn over, no matter how gently that pedal was goosed. Sometimes, he heard himself moan and there were other shrieks, but those felt detached and . . . elsewhere, like voices trapped in those floaty cartoon bubbles. A longer blank.

Then, all at once, he jammed to consciousness in a great searing, molten shriek of pain. The transition was shattering. His body was a white blaze of agony, but he was in the dark. His eyes wouldn’t open. Or they might be wide open and he just didn’t know it.

Oh God, I’m blind, I’m blind, I’m . . .
A scream boiled from his throat, and then he was straining, trying to move—and couldn’t.

“Easy,” someone said. “Take it easy, I’m right here.”

He couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or woman. “I . . . I . . . ,” he wheezed. He tried turning his head, but another red arrow of pain pierced him to the core, and he let go of another scream.

“Stop.” This time, a hand touched his shoulder. “Try not to panic.”

If he wasn’t hurting so much, he might’ve laughed.
My God, what is wrong with me?
He could smell himself: sour flesh, old blood, and fear. “Can’t . . .
s-see
. . . can’t
m-move.
”

“That’s because of the restraints, boy-o.” This voice definitely belonged to a man. Peter heard the hard boom of command but also a rough weariness he associated with the old. “You’re a fighter, I’ll give you that.”

Restraints?
His heart crowded into his mouth. “K-Kincaid . . . wh-where . . .”

“Easy.” The first voice again: a soothing contralto. A woman. “You’ve been out so long that we put bandages over your eyes to keep the corneas from ulcerating. Take it easy.” Her fingers spidered over his cheeks and then she tugged. His skin bunched as the gluey adhesive let go. Air sighed over his closed lids. “Try now.”

The simple act of opening his eyes took tremendous concentration. His muscles were creaky, like long-unused gears mucky with coagulated oil and grime. A sliver of light appeared and then his lids were rolling back. Another lurch of panic clawed his chest. “Bloo.” He wanted to cry. His tongue was thick, a flap of muscle that refused to cooperate.
“Blooor.”

“Blurry?” Beads of water dripped onto his forehead. “Close your eyes again . . . that’s good. Just give it a couple minutes, okay? I had to use animal tranks. I’m sorry about that, but it’s the best we have. Good thing you’re strong as a horse and your heart’s young. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The cloth felt so good and cool and wet. He stopped fighting and let her work. There was a gurgle and splash, and then she was swabbing his forehead, his face, the underside of his neck. Her fingers worked at buttons, and then she was sponging his chest. He moaned, this time with relief.

“Yeah, I’ll bet that feels good.” The cloth went away again, and then she was tugging a shirt over his chest and drawing up a rough blanket that smelled of old wool and death. “Try opening your eyes now.”

He did. His vision was still foggy, but he could make out green canvas above his head. A tent. His gaze roved over a metal pole at his left shoulder, and a bottle of clear liquid that dripped fluid into the big vein at the crook of his elbow through a plastic tube. Leather restraints with big metal buckles were clamped around his wrists. From the pressure around his ankles, he knew his feet were tied down, too.

Some kind of infirmary.
He lay beneath several blankets on a metal stretcher that felt flimsy and too light, like one of those pop-up gurneys EMTs used. The air smelled chilly and damp.
Military?

“Better?” Above and to the left, the woman’s face took on angles and substance. She wasn’t heavy but solid and blunt. Her hair was scraped back into a knot at the nape of her neck. Her murky eyes were set in weathered skin. She was much older than he expected: maybe mid-seventies or early eighties. Her fatigues were dated, like they were from a surplus store. But the flash on her left shoulder looked new: a Colonial flag with a Roman numeral III dead-center in that circlet of thirteen stars.

Oh shit.
Before the world went bust, he’d been a sheriff ’s deputy. So he knew exactly what that flash meant.

“Who are you people?” he whispered.

The booming voice came again from his right. “Relax, boy-o, you’re among friends. Have to admit, though, you gave us quite a scare.” The man was blocky and solid, and his head was huge, like a chunk of granite furred with a thick shock of white hair cropped flat and square as a broom. His chest was so barrel-shaped and big around that his arms seemed an afterthought: stubby and thick and tacked on. He wasn’t tall but massive and compact, tough as an ox. His uniform was different, too: jet-black from head to toe, but with that same shoulder flash and a single yellow star pinned to either lapel of the old man’s fleece-lined, black-leather bomber jacket. A bulky walkie-talkie—of the same vintage as the military surplus units Rule used—was clipped to his left hip. A holster rode on his right, a faint glimmer of pearl shining from the revolver’s grip.

“You were gone eight days, boy-o. Glad you saw fit to rejoin us.” The blocky man’s lips pulled into a grin. “We had a bet going about whether you’d make it. Happy to say that I was on the winning side. Name’s Finn. This fine woman is Dr. Mather. And you are . . . ?” Eight days. He’d been here more than a
week
? If Rule was looking for him, they’d have given up by now. Chris wouldn’t want to; he knew that. But even Chris wouldn’t be able to justify a search forever. “Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re safe and you’re alive.”

“But wh-where . . . what about my m-men?” His voice was rusty as an old hinge. “There was a boy.”

“Hold on,” Finn said. Turning aside, he poured water from a plastic jug, then slid in a straw. “You’re probably dry as a desert.”

The straw was tantalizingly close. The water’s scent made him dizzy. Still, he hesitated. He sensed he would be crossing some line if he took water from this man.

“Go on, take it, boy-o. I don’t bite—not like those Chuckies.” Finn tilted his head at the far side of the tent. Peter’s eyes swept right and he saw what he hadn’t spotted before. More gurneys, with bodies: two boys, one girl. All were restrained and completely out, probably drugged from fluid dripped into their veins through plastic tubes.

Finn said, “Soon as we decide to let those little darlings wake up, we’ll put them in our holding area with the other six. Ten’s all we can safely handle and feed. Nasty little buggers. You’re the first normal your age the hunters have brought in. Be interesting to see what happens over time.”

What did
that
mean? And hunters.
Bounty
hunters?
Oh God.
Capturing him and Tyler had been the objective all along. He remembered the snow coming alive with icy geysers. They could have killed him but hadn’t.

They tried pinning me down, but then I ran to Tyler and that’s when I got hit. They shot me as a last resort because they didn’t want me getting away.

He stared up at Finn. “Where’s the boy?”

“I’m afraid he’s gone. But rest assured we put Tyler to very good use.”

What?
“I . . . I don’t . . .”

“Come on, no more questions. Drink up, boy-o. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re O-negative, did you know that? Pretty rare, and while that’s good if
I
need blood, Mather could only transfuse
you
with the same blood type. Lucky for you, Peter, we’re not talking something contagious.”

What did
that
mean? And Finn already knew his name—and Tyler’s. Of course, he must. The bounty hunters knew who they were and where they’d been heading.

They were tipped off, but how? I didn’t decide on Dead Man until that morning.
That was when he’d sent Lang ahead. Had Finn’s bounty hunters ambushed his runner? That had to be it.

“Where am I?” he rasped.

“Why, you’re in my territory, Peter, and I’ve got the water you want and
need
. Come on now.” Finn proffered the cup again. “No more questions.”

Despite his fear, he desperately wanted a drink. He let Finn slide the straw between his lips. The water—cold and blessedly wet—flooded over his tongue. He thought he was going to faint. He sucked the cup dry in three gasping gulps.

“Excellent. Keep that down and you can have more in a little while.” Finn looked over at Mather. “Bring in Davey, will you? He and Peter should get acquainted.”

“Yes, sir.” Mather fired off a salute, then brushed past the Changed on their gurneys. Watching her go, Peter realized something else.

“You . . .” His gaze snagged on an old caged shop light. The light wasn’t soft or pleasant but very hard, a spray of bright yellow that hurt and burned shadowy afterimages on Peter’s retinas. But he couldn’t make himself look away. “You’ve got
light.
”

“Some,” Finn said. “We have enough juice to warm a few tents: the infirmary here and where Mather does her surgery and . . . other work. Our depot is fairly well-stocked—vehicles are virtually useless, though we have a few older trucks—but we use what we have very sparingly.”

Generators. And a depot. He was sure now. It all tallied, right down to that shoulder flash. The Roman numeral III stood for the Three Percent. That was the statistic private militias liked to throw around because only that small percentage of the American colonists actually fought the British in the Revolutionary War. So this wasn’t just a camp of survivors. This was a private militia compound that probably existed well before the world died.

“You know, as unfortunate as it was that you got shot, that did give us a chance to disprove another theory,” Finn said.

Despite the water, his mouth was puckery and parched again. “Wh-what do you m-mean?”