The Three Most Wanted (13 page)

9

A DISTINCT LACK OF BUTTERED PARSNIPS

Bane and I woke with sniffles and Jon something more like a full-blown cold. It would be him, he’d been the most tired before. We slept a couple of extra hours out of consideration for our general exhaustion, then breakfasted on some of the perishable food, which was doing just that: perishing. Bane bolted his portion and went back to going through his stuff, over and over.

“It’s not there, Bane,” I said finally, as he made to take everything out yet again.

“Gah!”
He snapped his rucksack shut again. “How could I lose something that valuable? To say nothing of useful!”

When we’d tried to check the news first thing, Juwan’s phone had been nowhere to be found.

“You probably dropped it when we heard the dogs. S’pect you pocketed
your
phone automatically, but you’re not used to having a second one, are you?
Yours
is actually much more valuable to us, anyway, because it’s untraceable and has trig mapping.”

“I know, I know. It’s just... well, it wasn’t even mine, was it?” Not that Juwan was likely to be needing it, unfortunately... “Come on.” He heaved his backpack on at last. “We’ve got to get away from that river. The EuroGov aren’t totally stupid, y’know. Okay, they probably won’t come this far, but we don’t want to take the chance.”

Jon’s “just a cold” lasted for several days, but he trekked stubbornly on, refusing the rest day Bane eventually offered him.

“Unless we can do better than this,” Jon said, as yet again we had to supplement our day’s gathering with a sachet, “we’ve simply got to get where we’re going as fast as we can.”

But the hungrier we got, the slower we went. A single sachet served as soup for breakfast and we had no lunch. We set snares every night, and caught nothing. Nettles were the only supposedly edible thing we could count on seeing—every forest clearing had flourishing patches.

“Told you boiling got rid of the stings,” I said, the first time we resorted to eating them, and cooked seconds at their eager request.

Nettles became the mainstay of our morning and evening stew, quite often the only component. They didn’t taste bad—a bit like beans—but talk about monotonous! Sometimes we found dandelions, and occasionally wild garlic, which we couldn’t eat in any quantity, but the taste made a nice change. Too early for acorns and most nuts, but once or twice we found wild fruit trees with ripe fruit—we filled up the scentSeal food bag, then loaded our packs as well. No choice now. Starvation was a far nearer danger than bears.

“I am never going to look at a nettle in the same way again,” I said, as I munched our breakfast stew. Bane had put aside the bare minimum of sachets we’d need for crossing the Alps, but all the others were gone now.

“I’m never going to be
able
to look at a nettle again!” But Bane dipped his spoon into the pan with alacrity and passed it on to me.

“I’ve never had to look at a nettle,” said Jon faintly, “so I don’t know what I’m missing.”

Bane and I glanced at each other. The light-hearted remark was so welcome. Jon had gone very quiet again. He was pale and thin and had energy for nothing other than walking and sniffing for food. Every time we successfully identified an edible plant, we’d give it to him to smell. He’d found several more patches of edible mushrooms, and a number of times his pausing and making me look more closely around an area had resulted in a find.

Light-hearted remark or not, he lay down on the moss that evening without even taking off his backpack, and went to sleep as though he’d been clubbed over the head. I spread out the sleeping bags myself and wrapped them in the foil blankets, then started shredding nettles into the pan with leaden hands.

“Bane,” I said, when he came back with the wood, “where did you put the sachets?”

“We
can’t
. We won’t have enough...”

“Bane, we’ve no choice! There’s nothing in these nettles—okay, five percent protein or whatever, better than most plants, blah, blah, but it’s nothing compared to meat! They fool our brains, but they can’t fool our bodies. What’s the point worrying about what we’ll eat going over the Alps if we’re not going to get there? Hand one over!”

Bane pulled a face, but rummaged in the bottom of his main compartment, and came out with one of the little foil packets. My stomach ached dully. I could’ve ripped the packet open and eaten it raw and dehydrated and to hell with the other two...

“Found something?” Bane eyed my handful of leaves hopefully.

I scowled at my bookReader. Put my hand over the bottom of the screen and showed it to him. “Is it a match? Take a good look.”

Bane took a leaf and held it by the screen, comparing. “Yep.”

I drew the Reader away momentarily—held it out again. “Sure? Look closely.”

Bane rolled his eyes and checked again. “Yes, it’s definitely the same plant.”

I groaned.

“What? Can’t we eat them?”

“Well, you just confidently identified them as one plant, which is edible, and also as another, which is poisonous, so
no.”
I flung the leaves into the nearest bush.

A pheasant exploded from underneath.

“Grab it!” I yelled.

“Get it!” Bane blocked the bird’s path. It swung around and hurled itself into the air, heading for Jon. He lunged for the flapping thing—it swerved and pretty much flew into my chest. My desperate hands closed around it.

“Meat!” said Bane.

“Protein!” I licked my lips. A while since even the cutest and furriest animal had looked like anything else. All the same...

The pheasant scrabbled frantically, head bobbing from side to side.

“Uh, get your knife, Bane, hurry up…”

“Oh... yeah... uh...”

If a dangerous human came into sight, Bane would’ve had that knife in his hand in about two seconds, but now he just groped around in his jacket, muttering. The pheasant went on struggling, eyeing us with wide, panic-stricken eyes.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” The books were pretty clear. Turning the bird around carefully so as not to lose it—I’d have sat down and wept!—I gripped it round the neck; twisted and yanked as hard as I could. “Ugh!” The bird’s head hung by a few folds of skin, its feet jerking spasmodically. “Think I overdid it!”

“Margo! I’d have done that!”

“Yeah, in about half an hour when you found your knife! Poor thing was frightened out of its tiny mind. Better to be quick about it.”

Bane bit his lip. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to
me
. Shall we eat it now or keep it for later?”

“We’d better keep it for later.”

“Huh?” Jon started as though he’d been dozing standing up.

“Pheasant,” I said.

“Oh... I didn’t dream that, then... We never catch anything...”

True. We’d scrambled after a number of rabbits and pheasants over the last few weeks—increasingly frantically as hunger began to bite. All the others had shown us a clean pair of heels.

“This is the last sachet,” said Bane, how many days later? I was seriously losing track... “Do we have it now, or keep it?”

The last one. We’d been making do with a sachet every other day, but...

“Perhaps we’d better save it.”

Bane plunged it back into his backpack.

“I keep thinking how one of us might get food in a town,” I said, starting to shred nettles.

“The question’s moot. No towns around here.”

“None?”

“None. This region’s practically deserted. We’d have to walk so many kilometers out of our way that we’d hardly gain anything even if we got food.”

“Oh. Bother. Pass me Jon’s bag...”

Bane handed me the scentSeal bag. Almost empty. Jon just stumbled along between us like a zombie now.

“Let’s see the map, Bane,” I said, once the stew was cooked and the last scrap consumed. “That might cheer us all up.”

“Doubt it.”

“Oh. Never mind.”

Cold struck up through the smooth tiles, seeping into bones and flesh. Sometimes heat filled the tiny cell, thick enough to choke on. How much more?

The silence pounded like hammer blows. Hum, scream, anything to break it but no, no,
I must not speak
.

Why...? Lips clamped together, and together, and together, aching with trying not to speak, to chatter with cold, to sing... why not sing? Maddening, surely...

No.
I must not speak
. Why not? Why?

Body aching, cold and pains mingled... Is it night or day? Are the voices even real?

Speak...

Sign here...

Then you can rest...

The pain will all go away...

The door creaks—they are here... real now... body tensing into cowardly knots... so confused, where, what, why... only know the pain will start now, the real pain...

Only know... teeth chattering, body shaking, hands seizing, heart hammering and lurching, agony in anticipation... and all I know...
I must not speak. I must not speak. I must not speak
...

“Margo, wake up...”

Someone was shaking me but I kept my lips tight closed, conscious only of an overwhelming need to remain silent and utter terror of what was about to happen...

“Margo? Are you awake? Talk to me...” Bane’s voice. A glow suddenly illuminated his face—he’d switched his phone screen on. “Are you all right, Margo? It was just a nightmare.”

A nightmare... yes. I shuddered. “I’m fine, Bane.”

I managed to relax, then peered at Bane’s face. His hair was plastered damply over his forehead and he looked a tad wild-eyed himself. Beside me, Jon was whimpering, hands fighting to escape the sleeping bag. We slept like a pile of puppies these days, the way we had when we got out of the river. It was the only way we could stay warm.

“Are you okay, Bane?”

“Fine. I had a nightmare too, though.” He reached over me and shook Jon firmly. “Something we ate, I reckon. Jon, it’s just a nightmare, wake up...”

Jon woke with a choked cry and jerked his fists clear of the bedding with unusual aggression. Bane grabbed his wrists.

“Jon, nightmare, calm down.”

Jon blew out a long breath... let his arms go limp. Bane released him.

“Thanks for waking me,” Jon said.

“You’re welcome. I suspect those berries. We’ve never had those before.”

“And we’re not having them again,” I said immediately. “Unless they’re the last edible thing in the forest.”

“I second that,” groaned Jon, turning on his side and closing his eyes again.

“Motion passed, then,” said Bane. Not protesting that food was food? His nightmare must’ve been bad!

I woke in the morning, head fogged from a night of horrible dreams, as Bane ran a hand up my ribs.

“Not thinking of misbehaving?” I mumbled. “I can be relieved you’ve got the energy, and slap your face at the same time, y’know...”

“Alas, no. Margo, you’re
so
bony.” Very unhappy he sounded about it.

“Speak for yourself, Bane. And Jon—s’like having a skeleton curled up next to me.”

Bane sighed—didn’t speak. We were, totally
un
metaphorically, starving.

All the same, we made do with nettles for breakfast, though edible leaves were getting harder to find as the season changed and they died back, shriveling into gaunt stalks. Stomachs full if not wholly fooled, we dragged Jon upright and set off. At lunchtime, we shared what little we’d found which didn’t need cooking, a bare mouthful each. Bane divided everything exactly in three, and when I redistributed a little of mine as usual, he said, “Give it to Jon,” so I did. Jon didn’t seem to notice; he ate mechanically and we towed him on again.

Several hours later Jon crumpled and went down like a felled tree. I grabbed for him, couldn’t hold his weight and went thudding to my knees beside him. “Jon? Jon?”

Bane dropped down on the other side of Jon. “What’s wrong?”

“He just collapsed!”

“Keep your hair on, he’s probably just passed out. Can’t blame him.” Bane wriggled Jon’s rucksack off and inserted it under his feet.

Couldn’t blame him, either. I was lightheaded all the time, like I was floating around. I’d taken to being rather careful about fast movements and so had Bane.

Bane was balancing his own pack under Jon’s feet as well. Too tired to want to hold Jon’s feet up himself, for however short a time. “Come on, Jon, wakey-wakey.”

Jon’s forehead felt cold and clammy. Slipping off my backpack, I pulled out my sleeping bag, unzipped it and tucked it around him.

“Come on, mate, wake up...” Bane kept patting Jon’s cheeks and after several anxious minutes Jon stirred, muttered drowsily, turned on his side and went sound asleep. Bane sighed and desisted. “I think he’s okay.”