The Capture (28 page)

“H
OPE
?”
THE VOICE CALLS
out, bouncing off the walls.

“Hope?” the voice calls again. Louder. More desperate.

Hope hears the voice . . . and recoils. It's been almost two days since she nearly lost her life. Only at the last moment did she rip through the drainpipe and stumble toward the tennis courts, falling headfirst into the bunker mere seconds before the avalanche hit. In all that time, she hasn't heard the sound of another human being. Still, she huddles in the corner, drawing her knees up to her chest.

She knows the person calling. It's Book. And she watches as he reaches the bottom of the bunker in a shaft of sunlight, inching his way forward, his eyes not
yet adjusted to the dark. Hope retreats into herself, trying to make herself smaller. Invisible, even.

His foot makes contact with hers and he lowers himself into a crouch, kneeling by her side without knowing he's kneeling by her side. His hands reach out, groping, stopping when they land on Hope's knee. Now it's Book who recoils.

“Hope?”

She can hear the confusion in his voice, and although she wants to respond, something prevents her. Not vanity or embarrassment. More like . . . shame. She covers her face with her hands.

Book's own hands fumble forward. “Thank God,” he says, grabbing her by the shoulders and leaning into her. Although Hope wants nothing more than to return the hug, to take his face in her hands and bury him with kisses, she can't. Not now. Not ever.

Book attempts to pull her hands away from her face, but she won't let him. “Don't,” she says.

“It's okay. You're safe.”

Again he gives her wrists a tug. Again she stops him. “I mean it, Book, don't!”

He sits back on his haunches. “We're all here,” he says. “We'll get you food and water and you can leave this place.”

Hope gives her head a shake. She doesn't know what to say or how to say it. Can't possibly find the words to
explain. She's grateful to be rescued—she is—but it's more than that.

“It's okay,” Book whispers, and whether it's fatigue or hunger or just plain resignation, she allows him to separate her hands so he can get a shadowy glimpse of her. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, and his shocked expression mirrors what he sees: two deep Xs, outlined in blood.

“Who did this?” he gasps.

At first, Hope doesn't reply. Then quietly she murmurs, “Maddox.”

Book leans in and traces her wounds with the tips of his fingers, as if they were healing wands.

“Come on,” he says. “Let's get you out of here and get those cleaned.”

He unfolds himself to a standing position and takes her hand. Although there is something heart-achingly beautiful about the feel of his hands, she doesn't budge.

“Book,” she says, struggling to find the words. “It's over.”

“I know,” he says. “We beat 'em. We won.”

She shakes her head as if to say,
That's not what I mean
. “Us,” she says.

“What're you talking about?”

“I can't anymore.” She gestures vaguely to her cheeks.

“What difference does that make? You think I care about that?”

“No . . .”

“Well then?”

“It's not that. I don't really care how I look. I mean, not really.”

“Then what?”

As her mouth opens, tears bubble in the corners of her eyes, and this is where she struggles most to express what she feels. “I wanted to give you more,” she finally says, her voice a whisper. “I wanted to give you . . . my best.”

“But you do.”

She bites her lower lip and slowly rises. She'll join the others, she'll do what needs to be done to help the group, but her time with Book is done. He deserves more. He deserves better. Not . . . damaged goods.

But when she starts to walk past him for the ladder, he grabs her arm and swings her around until he faces her.

“No,” he says angrily.

“What?”

“You heard me.
No.
I don't agree.”

“But Book . . .”

“Don't you understand? I'm not attracted to you because you're beautiful and because you saved my life and because I could drown in your eyes. I'm attracted to you because of
who you are
. I love you, Hope. I always have, from when I first saw you outside Camp Freedom,
covered in mud. I saw something there—something inside you—that told me you were the most beautiful, most wonderful person I'd ever laid eyes on. And these wounds don't change any of that. They only make you more beautiful. The truth is, there is no better best than you.”

“But . . . I'm damaged.”

“No more than all of us.” He places his hands atop her shoulders and looks her in the eye. “Do you love me?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, Book, it's not that easy—”

“Do you love me?”

“Things are different now. . . .”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes!” she cries. “Of course I love you! I've always loved you!”

The words echo off the bunker walls like a ricocheting bullet. Then Book reaches out and carefully wipes away the tears that stain Hope's cheeks. “That's all that matters,” he says.

He leans forward and they kiss. Hope can feel his heartbeat racing against her own. When they draw apart, their foreheads lean into each other as though the kiss continues.

“‘Better best'?” Hope says in a lightly mocking tone.

“I couldn't think of any other way to put it.”

Now it's Hope's turn to smile. She bends forward and gives Book a kiss.

“We should go,” she says.

“We should,” he says.

They don't budge.

Finally, Book leans forward and gives her two more kisses—one on either cheek.

“Come on,” he says, and leads her out of the bunker and into the light.

W
E BUILT A SHANTYTOWN
—shacks of corrugated metal held up by fence posts and bits of trees, lashed together with barbed wire. Then we divided into teams. Some tended to the sick; some were in charge of salvaging materials from the former camp; still others went on hunting parties, bringing back whatever game they managed to track down.

On the surface we were happy. Joyful even. We had survived against insurmountable odds, freeing Less Thans and wiping out an army of Brown Shirts.

But there was something hanging over us, a dark cloud that shadowed us. We had survived, yes, but we were hardly free. We were still deep in the Western Federation Territory, and while we had found the
bodies of Colonels Thorason and Westbrook, there was no proof we'd taken out Chancellor Maddox or Dr. Gallingham. They could have still been buried . . . or they could have somehow gotten away.

And before we could even think about migrating east, we had to nurse the sick ones back to health.

One night, Flush roused me from sleep. “You better come,” he said, and took off running.

I threw on clothes and followed him to the listing shack where Major Karsten slept. A flickering candle provided the only illumination, but one glance told me everything. Pneumonia had ravaged Karsten's body, making him even more skeletal than when we'd found him in the barracks. His cheeks were so hollow, you could see the outlines of his teeth. His breath was jagged.

Kneeling by his side was Cat, and the look on his face told the rest of the story. He'd come all this way to be reunited with his father, and all he'd gotten was to watch him die.

I lowered myself to Cat's side and put my hand on his shoulder. He didn't cast it off. He even seemed to appreciate the gesture.

Hours passed while we watched Major Karsten struggle for breath.

Since the avalanche and the rescue of the Less Thans, Karsten and I had spoken only once, just long
enough for him to tell me about my grandmother. They'd met a dozen or so years ago, right before the ambush and my capture, and once she discovered his true loyalties—that they were both plotting against the Brown Shirts—she'd made him promise to look out for me at Camp Liberty. I'd wanted to ask him about my birth name, if my grandmother had ever mentioned it, but it didn't seem the time.

The major's eyes stuttered open, landing first on Cat, then on me.

“Glad you made it,” he rasped, his words meant for me. I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but then he slowly finished the thought. “That's why . . . carried you away.”

With a jolt, I realized what he was getting at: he was the one who'd rescued me two years earlier when I'd tried to kill myself. Who'd tied a tourniquet around my arms and lifted me to safety. True to his word, he'd been looking out for me far more than I could have imagined.

The major turned his attention to Cat, giving his son's hand a squeeze with whatever little strength he had left. “Proud of you,” he mumbled. “So proud.”

He closed his eyes, took a final breath, and was still. Cat began to sob, and we left him to mourn his father alone.

Despite the frozen ground, we dug Major Karsten a
proper grave, working through the night, burying him the next afternoon in the cemetery west of camp, one row down from K2.

After the impromptu service, Red, Twitch, Flush, Hope, and I hung around to be with Cat, standing by the mound of freshly dug earth. For the longest time, no one spoke. We each seemed to be off in our own separate worlds.

“Do you think we can do it?” I asked.

“Do what?” Flush said.

“Everything. Survive the winter. Get to the Heartland. Save the country.”

The silence stretched a long time before someone spoke up. Of all people, it was Cat.

“Everyone else seems to think so,” he said. Then he turned his head to me and added, “So maybe we should, too.”

I thought about my grandmother, wondered why it was she believed in me. All I knew was that I would stop at nothing to get these Less Thans to the Heartland and to prevent Chancellor Maddox from destroying the country.

Maybe that's what my grandmother knew about me—more than I even knew about myself.

The wind tugged at our clothes, and the sun eased behind a bank of purple clouds. I pulled my collar up to ward off the chill. I took Hope's hand in mine.

“There's a storm coming,” Cat said, and Flush glanced to the sky. But I knew that wasn't what Cat was referring to.

“Who will it be this time?” I asked.

“Who
won't
it be?” he responded. “Brown Shirts, Hunters, Crazies—they all want us dead.”

We didn't know why exactly, but it was true. Chancellor Maddox, in particular, wanted us good and gone.

“So we should get to the next territory as soon as we can,” Flush suggested.

Cat, Hope, and I shared a look, and I knew what they were thinking—because I was thinking the same thing, too.

“Or just the opposite,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Finish them off once and for all,” Hope explained, and Cat and I nodded.

Flush swallowed. “All of them?”

“All of them,” I said. “The Man in Orange. Dr. Gallingham. Chancellor Maddox.”

It looked as though Flush's mouth had gone suddenly dry. “And how're we going to do that?”

“Don't know,” Cat said, “but it's going to be a hell of an adventure.”

I looked at him and then at Hope. Despite the circumstances, despite all the sick and injured Less Thans
and the fact that we barely had food and shelter for the coming winter, despite the odds against us, the three of us broke into the deepest smiles.

A whole range of emotions tugged at me: overwhelming grief for those we'd lost, utter fatigue at what we still had yet to do, but also . . . trust, gratitude, a sense of belonging. And yes, love.

We turned away from the cemetery and the shantytown, looking out in the direction of the rest of the territory: Chancellor Maddox and Dr. Gallingham and the Man in Orange and the Crazies and the Hunters and the Brown Shirts—everyone who wanted us good and gone.

Cat was right; the storm was coming—
it had already arrived
—and we had no choice but to throw ourselves into its howling winds, its all-shaking thunder. Our freedom—our very lives—depended on it.

T
HE
C
APTURE
HAS TAUGHT
me many things, not least of which is that writing a second book is just as joyful an experience as writing a first . . . and just as challenging. Authors, of necessity, write for themselves, but I'm also well aware of the confidence you readers have placed in me to look after Book and Hope and Cat, and I take that trust seriously.

I'm also even more aware this second time around of all the tasks that so many people perform to bring this book to you, and I am more grateful than ever for their hard work, their contributions, and their dedication to making this the best book possible.

As always, I am indebted to my amazing agents—Victoria Sanders, Bernadette Baker-Baughman, Chris
Kepner—for their continued guidance, wisdom,
patience
, and belief in me. It is the greatest luxury to have that kind of support, and I don't for one second take it for granted. I am blessed to have you as my representatives, and I thank you more than I can ever say.

To senior editor Alyson Day and assistant editor Abbe Goldberg, copyeditors Renée Cafiero and Valerie Shea, designer Joel Tippie, marketing manager Jenna Lisanti, and publicist Lindsey Karl, and all the fantastic people at HarperCollins who tackle all the tasks of editing and copyediting and book jackets and designs and marketing and on and on and on: please know that I continue to be wowed by your artistry and smarts, and humbled by your commitment to this series.

In particular, I want to thank my editor, Alyson Day, who manages to find that delicate balance between encouragement and criticism, and who is unfailingly respectful, professional, insightful, to-the-point, and, above all, cheerful. How did I ever get so lucky as to get to work with you?

I'm also blessed to have friends who are writers, who teach me and inspire me, and who offer wise words when I'm wise enough to ask for them. Sarah Pekkanen and Joshua Bellin, thank you for all you've done, both emotionally and practically. I'm honored to call you friends; I'm honored to call you comrades. It's a great blessing to get advice—and encouragement—from such good writers.

I also want to pay tribute to all the terrific writers—and writers writing about writers—in the Duluth area: Margi Preus, Claire Kirch, Barton Sutter, Louis Jenkins, Sheila Packa, Christa Lawler, Sam Cook, Linda LeGarde Grover, Tony Dierckens, Lucie Amundson, the late Joe Maiolo, and many more. It's an inspirational time to be a writer in this town. I attribute it to the water.

Once more, I am thankful to those readers who offered early feedback and helped steer me through some dark tunnels, especially when I couldn't see the light. In particular, I want to mention Gracie Anderson, Katie Caskey, and Ryan Gallagher, who all offered wonderfully specific criticism, not all of it easy to hear, but all of it absolutely necessary.

Thank you to my students and colleagues at UMD, past and present, who inspire me, who remind me of the value of storytelling and the joy of imagination. Whenever I despair for the future, I walk into a classroom . . . and hope returns. Thank you for the gifts of inspiration, laughter, and tears. (And all the
Prey
selfies!) It's no secret why I'm crazy about you all.

I also want to thank you, dear readers, who read
The Prey
and offered your loving criticism. Your comments have lifted me, instructed me,
moved
me, and you complete this sacred triangle of Author, Story, and Reader. Without you, those first two elements would cease to exist.

I've dedicated this book to my three older siblings,
who have always loved and supported me, cheering my first steps as a baby and also as an author. Every human should be so lucky as to have such loving, living guardian angels. Just as every person should be as lucky to have the kind of parents we had, who nurtured and encouraged us and loved us unconditionally. I miss them every day.

And finally, to Pat, who is my first reader, my best reader, my true companion, who is there every step along the way, who teaches me to laugh, to mourn, to
love
, to live today and live tomorrow. I am a lucky guy to travel through life with you.