The Last Girl (21 page)

Zoey clenches her teeth. She’s not going to die out here, alone and for nothing.

She rises from the porch, grasping her rifle, because it is hers now, no one else’s. She stalks back to the river, steps steadier even though the hunger still rages on. There has to be something here, some way to find food. She approaches the cabins again but pushes past them toward the riverbank. She stands, watching the water flow by, searching its aquamarine depths for an answer. She’s about to turn over the boats to see if there’s anything useful beneath them when she spots something floating near shore.

It bobs there, white and out of place among the drifting sticks and muddy scum that extends the first six inches from the bank. Zoey moves toward it, stopping a few paces back when she realizes what it is.

The fish floats belly up, nestled among the water’s accrual. She can see one of its dark eyes looking sightlessly through a layer of algae. Its scales shine muted silver in the late sunlight, and as she watches the current tugs at the detritus around it.

Without thinking, Zoey snatches it from the water and walks back to sit down on the nearest overturned boat.

Its scales are wet and clammy, and a thin layer of slime covers its length. She doesn’t know what kind of fish it is or how long it’s been dead, but she’s eaten baked fillets before. At least once a week they were served a meal of fish with steamed vegetables. Nutritious, always nutritious.

Zoey wipes the creature off on her filthy pant leg. She brings it to her nose and sniffs. Definitely fishy. She hiccups a laugh.

How to do it? The hunger beckons. She searches the nearest rocks and finds a suitable one almost immediately, one edge blunt and rounded, the other curved like the moon and thinner than a fingernail.

Zoey holds the fish belly up and, before she can think about what she’s doing, slices through the white flesh of its stomach.

Pink and red ropes pool out over her hands, and she nearly yelps with surprise. She’s vaguely aware of the animal’s anatomy, but no text could prepare her for the sensation of its innards falling into her palms. She swallows her revulsion and cuts some more. The insides of the fish look nothing like the baked fillets she’s eaten before. She carefully extracts the intestines and small organs with shaking fingers. The cold slickness of the job nearly breaks her resolve. She can taste pine needles again.

Once the inside of the fish is relatively clean, she pries the bones free. It is a messy job, and she knows she isn’t doing it right. Her hands shake, and she utters a small cry as a particularly sharp rib bone slides beneath her fingernail. Gradually she scrapes the last of the bones away, revealing grayish-white meat. Despite the tangy smell and slime that covers her fingers, saliva pumps into her mouth. Slowly, she cuts through the scales and pries out a portion of meat that clings to her fingers in a translucent blob. She should cook it, but how? She understands the basic premise of cooking, how you need to heat food perhaps by fire, maybe by another method . . .

Without meaning to she shoves the dripping flesh into her mouth and chews.

The flavor is sour, the texture gooey and gelatinous. The fish had been rotting, she knows it now. She can taste it. Zoey squeezes her eyes shut as they begin to water.
Just get it down, get it in your stomach and you’re set.
She thinks of mashed potatoes, of warm bread, a ripe apple full of tart juice, a mouthful of walnuts.

She tries to swallow, and a scale sticks in the back of her throat.

Zoey lurches to her feet and is sick beside the small pile of offal. The milky blob of fish comes up, as well as a strikingly green mush of needles. She stands with her hands on her knees, trembling, hair hanging down with strands matted by her vomit. She spits out the offending scale that somehow remained stuck to the roof of her mouth, and shakes as a full-body tremor runs through her.

Try again
,
Meeka says faintly.

“No, I can’t do it,” Zoey answers out loud. She glances around, almost expecting to see the other woman standing yards away, arms crossed over her chest, a disdainful look in her dark eyes.

Quit saying you can’t. You’ve done the impossible, and now you’re quibbling over a little raw fish?

“You don’t know how bad it tastes.” Zoey stumbles back to the boat and collapses onto it. Her head hangs down, and she doesn’t have the strength to raise it.

Does it taste worse than death?

“I don’t know.”

Well, you’re going to find out if you don’t eat it.

“Go away.”

I already did, don’t you remember?

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Zoey raises her head and scans the little clearing beside the river. Meeka isn’t there. She never was, of course. Zoey stifles a sob and leans forward, already feeling the tears in her eyes. The fish’s carcass lies at her feet. The baleful dark eye staring up at her. She bends lower, grabbing it from the ground, and snatches her cutting stone from beside her. With an angry slash she cuts another small hunk of meat from the fish’s side, studies it for a second before placing it in the side of her mouth.

Zoey chews slowly with the steady determination of a machine performing a task. She doesn’t stop even when a stray bone jabs her gum. She bites harder, cracking it like a splinter until it is mixed with the rest of the meat.

She swallows.

The morsel travels down to her stomach and doesn’t rebound. Somewhere in the forest she hears Meeka’s laughter.

Zoey eats everything she can off of the fish. She strips the scales away to get to the meat better and devours it without thought. Her stomach accepts each bite, and soon her mouth is coated with an oily flavor she’s sure will never fully leave her taste buds. When she’s finished, the fish is only a head with a few scraps of skin and vertebrae hanging from it. She tosses it into the woods behind the closest boat before eyeing the intestines on the ground.

“Now you’re pushing it,” she says to herself.

Her stomach is full though she’s only eaten a few handfuls of meat. Weariness invades her like some type of parasite feeding from her strength. She makes her way back to the cabins, carrying the gun by its strap, thinking only of rest.

Zoey flops onto the bed in the first cabin after locking the front door. The fog of sleep surrounds her, and she barely has time to drape the rifle across her chest before it carries her away into a soundless slumber.

She wakes to a soft scuffling of movement in the next room. Her eyes come open, and the darkness that meets her is impenetrable. Zoey shifts on the bed, mind scrambling to associate where she is. The cabin beside the river. She’s in the bedroom, and there’s something outside the door.

Her heart steadily picks up speed until it hammers against her breastbone at a frenetic pace. She manages to sit up and grasp the rifle’s stock with one hand.

Something slides across the floor and falls silent.

It’s Reaper and his team. They’ve found her.

She releases a held breath and pivots to her feet, the rifle tucked against her shoulder. How did the helicopter not wake her? They must have landed miles away and moved in on her in the dark.

A bang from the other side of the door stops her in her tracks and clenches her guts into a cold mass. Why are they making so much noise? She doesn’t have time to think about it. There is a window to the left, but the chances of her opening it and climbing out without being detected are infinitesimal. If they’re in the next room, they’re outside as well.

She won’t go back to the ARC.

Zoey sets her jaw and crosses the room silently. She can’t remember if she left the rifle’s safety on or not. She feels its position and thinks it’s ready to fire but can’t be sure. She takes several calming breaths that do nothing to slow her racing heart before reaching out to find the doorknob. Her fingers graze it, clutch it.

She’ll have less than two seconds.

She hesitates, listening to the quiet in the next room, counts to three in her mind, and flings the door wide.

There is a terrifying second where her fingers scrabble around the flashlight’s switch before the beam lances the darkness away.

Eyes shine close enough for her to see the detail in the irises, and she nearly yanks the trigger, but their height is all wrong. The eyes hang only a foot above the floor.

Details register to her as they are revealed by the light.

A fluff of dark fur, rounded ears, black rings that fill up most of a pointed face.

The animal lets out a harsh shriek and lunges away toward the corner of the room. Zoey follows it, still pointing the weapon in its direction, but now more curious than anything. There is a small rotted area in the floor beside the bathroom wall that she missed earlier and the animal slides through it. There is the whip of a black-ringed tail that reminds her of its face, and then it is gone.

Zoey stares at the hole, waiting for the creature to reappear, and when it doesn’t, she steps to the window to see if she can get another look at it. A foot from the glass she stops, turning the light off as quickly as she can, and watches, wide-eyed, for a dozen breathless seconds.

The flickering of flames dance against trees past the lodge above her, and through the silence of the forest, comes the steady chatter of voices.

20

Zoey stands at the farthest corner of the lodge, watching the sinuous way the light rolls through the trees.

She holds the rifle ready across her chest, finger just outside the trigger guard. The voices echo to her through the forest in eerie layers, words lost in the distance. It sounds like several people all talking at once. She even catches a snippet of what could be song, the melody there and gone in the cool air.

She shifts in place, a chill creeping through her light clothing. She’d been warm and full upon falling asleep but now her belly aches again, the meal of fish no match for the strenuous pace at which she pushed herself for most of the day. The wound on her stomach throbs in time to the jumping flames. The voices are unmistakably male, and the knowledge fills her with dread. Why are there people here? The country is barren from the plague, and those still alive would be few and far between. She should’ve been able to travel for months without encountering . . .

But that’s it, isn’t it? She’s relying again on the information given to her by NOA.

Zoey shakes her head. The flames dance, beckoning.

She moves up the hill through the massive pines, their bark full of menacing faces created by the firelight and shadows. The rest of the woods are quiet save for the odd creak of branches far overhead moving in the wind’s embrace. Zoey steps over a fallen log heavy with moss and crouches on the other side. The voices are closer, words clearer.

“Bullshit, David. You seen it once, I was with you all day.”

“—ee times, at least. They’re . . . for someone.”

Laughter peals out, ricocheting off the trees.

“—aranoid!”

More laughter.

Zoey jogs thirty yards up to the top of the rise that sits between her position and the fire. There is a massive stump jutting from the ground at least three feet wide that towers over her, and she slides behind it before gazing around its far side.

The hill descends in a steady grade through a spattering of trees to a clearing that levels off before falling away again down the side of the slope. A small ring of younger pine trees grows to the left, while a line of sage curls in a half-circle opposite the conifers. Beyond the sage, the fire burns in orange tongues that lap the air. Around it she can make out the heads and shoulders of at least six men. Their faces are in shadow, but it is plain that most wear beards, and their hair is unkempt and falls to their shoulders.

Zoey watches them, studies their movements, how they gesticulate at the air. Their words are slurred, and they speak of things she doesn’t understand. “Fae Trade” is mentioned several times, and for some reason the term sends a shiver of fear through her. She is about to search for a better position from where she can listen to their conversation when the breeze changes, and with it comes the smell.

It is glorious. The odor of cooking food, its delectable scent nearly maddening in its potency. She can’t pick out a singular smell among the mélange of mouthwatering odors that coast on the air, but it is unlike any food she has smelled before. While the cafeteria meals always had a muted scent of boiled vegetables and bland rice, this food has life to it. She doesn’t realize her mouth is open, tasting the air, until a runner of drool drips over her bottom lip.

Her stomach growls, and she comes back to herself.

She focuses on the line of brush that hems in the little clearing. Through one gap there is a bag slumped onto its side, within reach if someone were to crawl partially through . . .

No. It’s too risky. They would catch her, and do God knows what to her. There are six of them, probably armed. She would be insane to try it.

Zoey shoots a glance to the other side of the stump and runs, bent over, to the following tree. She pauses there for a second before hustling on to the next trunk. Gradually she makes her way closer to the flames, their light shoving the darkness back only to let it flow forth again. She stops at the final mature tree before the line of young pines. Checking in both directions, she breaks cover, runs, and slides to a stop behind the thick, intertwining branches, listening for calls of alarm.

Only raucous laughter.

The fire is maybe forty yards away, and the smell of food is so intoxicating she sways with it even as she curses herself. This is too close.

She worms her way into the thick cover of the pines, gently pushing aside the prickly branches until she is only several feet from the open space on the opposite side. The sage still blocks most of her point of view, but the men’s words are more pronounced than ever.

“Just be sure you duck and cover if that chopper comes over, that’s all I’m sayin’, Reg. Never know what those black ops bastards will do if they track us back to the group.”

“Don’t worry about me, you old coot, I’m faster than all of you.”

“Yeah, and dumber too.” Laughter fills the night again.

“You wouldn’t say that if my uncle was here.”

“Listen, boy, the only reason you’re on this little scouting mission is because of your uncle. If not for him, we would’ve chucked your whiny ass into a ravine a week ago.”

A new voice chimes in. “Yeah, except then the ravine would’ve been full of bullshit too.” This is met by high, crazed laughter.

“Ahh, where ya goin’, Reg? We was only messing with ya.”

“Screw you guys.”

“Well, at least leave us the bottle, you little pig, you’ve been sucking off it all night like it was your momma’s teat.”

The loudest eruption of laughs and calls yet comes from near the fire, and Zoey realizes the men are drinking alcohol. Lee’s told her about it before, how it’s forbidden except for once a year in the middle of winter since it makes people act strangely, unlike themselves. But he also said the guards don’t abide by that rule either and it’s easy to find a bottle of the concoction at any given time being passed around in the guards’ dorm.

Lee. How she wishes he were here now. He would know a way to get food. He would find a plan that would work. Maybe some type of diversion. Zoey nods to herself. She has to figure out a way to get the men away from the fire so she can steal the bag on the ground. There’s bound to be food inside it, not to mention other useful things that could help her survive. Maybe she can—

But all thought goes dark as a large shadow approaches the line of pines, coming straight toward her with a single purpose. He’s so close she can see long, tangled hairs, lit by the firelight, sprouting from the sides of the man’s head, hear the crunch of his boots, smell him over the delicious odor of food.

He is five steps away.

Three.

Two.

She brings up the rifle, readying herself to break cover the moment she fires the first shot.

The man stops a few feet to her left and sighs. He fumbles with his belt, hawks and spits into the tree over her head. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch the toe of his scarred boot.

A spattering of liquid startles her, the warmth of it speckling the fabric on her arms and shoulder. She turns her head away, silently gagging as the urine cascades down through the thick branches and pools a few inches beside her. Reg grunts, shifting his boots farther into the soft soil. Every nerve in her body screams for her to move, to burst from her hiding spot and run. She has to get the urine off her, scour it away. She can almost feel it crawling on her skin, infecting her.

Slowly the man’s stream lessens and dribbles to a stop. He coughs and spits again and Zoey can’t help but flinch, sure that the phlegm will find its way through the cover to her face. And then she will scream, there will be no stopping it.

The man buttons his pants and turns partially away, scratching at his ass before meandering down the lane created between the young trees and the sage. Zoey loses sight of him in the cajoling shadows at
the edge of the clearing.

She scuttles backward as quietly as she can, rubbing the urine-
spattered
sleeve of her shirt in the soil as she goes. When she reaches the
opening behind her she crouches, eyeing the way opposite where the man was heading. A diversion, that’s exactly what she needs. Something to send them all scurrying away from the fire for a few seconds, just enough to allow her to snatch the bag and disappear again into the darkness.

She ponders her options as she sneaks back the way she came to the safety of the larger trees, scooting from one to the next to circumvent the open ground. Zoey stops beside the stump once again to catch her breath. There has to be a way to get the bag, she just needs to find it. Be like Lee, be a problem solver. Her gaze hovers on the flames, almost entranced as a niggling sensation crawls through the back of her mind. The man who’d relieved himself on her hasn’t returned to the fire yet.

She registers movement to her left a half-second before something strikes her hard on the side of the head.

The fire pinwheels as she rolls from behind the stump, and she nearly cries out when the rifle slips from her fingers. Her vision wobbles as she comes to a stop at the base of a tall pine, its exposed roots digging into her back.

Reg is there in the flickering dark. One side of his face is bathed in firelight, and a single hard eye gleams at her as he stalks forward, his hand on the butt of a pistol strapped to his thigh. His lips glisten with moisture as he stops and licks them, the eyebrow she can see rising in surprise.

“Holy shit. It’s a girl,” he says in awe. “Where the hell did you come from?”

Zoey works her jaw, but nothing comes out. Her eyesight is steadying, and the strength that fled her limbs with the blow is returning. Her skull pounds from where Reg struck her.

“Aren’t you something?” Reg says, his voice husky. “I’ve never seen one so young.” Zoey claws her way backward up the slope, fingers digging into the fallen layers of pine needles. “Where you going?” He follows her, slowly, carefully.

“Stay away from me,” she whispers, searching the ground behind him for the rifle. Reg tips his head to one side, wild hair floating in the breeze.

He lunges for her but Zoey is already up and moving, legs pumping up the slight hill. She can’t hear him but knows he’s right behind her, any second his fingers will clamp onto her shoulder and he’ll drag her down.

Darkness invades the trees, their trunks deeper shadows as they flash by on either side. Panic is a living creature in her chest, tearing at her heart and lungs, weakening her legs. She jags to the left in a ninety-degree turn, using the base of a deadfall to launch off from. Reg curses and there’s a soft snapping of branches and twigs as he flies past. She sprints lateral to the crest of the rise, eyes searching for a hiding place, a weapon, anything.

There is only the trees and wind.

Ahead a rough outcropping of rock appears, piled up on the inside of a bowl where the rise turns in on itself. She leaps up the first three boulders and releases a short yelp as the fourth gives beneath her foot.

Her knee slams into granite, the burst of pain a lightning strike behind her eyes. Her lips pull back from her teeth as she tries to force herself up the rock tumble.

Fingers snag her hair and yank.

She loses her footing and falls backward, tumbling once on an unforgiving boulder before rolling over the softer mass of Reg, who plummets with her.

Zoey flips once in a clumsy somersault and comes to a stop on a bed of needles. Before she can pull herself up, Reg is above her. One booted foot plants itself in her stomach, hard.

Her air rushes out and refuses to return.

“Why you gotta run, girlie? Why you do that, huh? Make it hard on yourself.” Reg stands near her feet as she struggles in vain to get her breath back. “God, you’re a pretty one. Best I’ve ever seen.” He begins to fumble with his belt. “I’m gonna be a rich man, you don’t know the price you’re gonna bring for me.” He lets out childlike laughter. “Can’t believe my luck. Go to take a piss and find a girl. Knew I heard something when I was walking away.”

“Please,” Zoey manages. Her lungs are two limp bags inside her chest as she tries to scoot away.

“Oh, I’m not gonna hurt you. Well, maybe I will. Guessin’ you’re a virgin so it’ll hurt a little.” Reg lowers his pants slightly and moves forward, crouching down over her like a bearded spider.

Zoey swings an arm out but finds only rumpled piles of needles. No rock, no stick, nothing to defend herself with.

Reg falls upon her, splaying her legs apart hard enough that her pelvis emits a pop. His face is inches from hers, hands fumbling for the waist of her pants. She is paralyzed, unable to even scream. The smell he gives off is a mixture of stale sweat and onions. The coarseness of his beard scratches her face, and she whimpers as his breath washes over her.