The Prey (12 page)

I didn't waste a minute getting back to my horse.

Later that morning, we heard the sound of faraway engines. Generators. We dismounted, tied up our horses, then crawled forward on our bellies. When we reached the edge of the ridge, a wide valley spread out before us. There was a barn, a large vegetable garden, a grove of birch trees . . .

. . . and a camp.

The girls' camp.
Hope's camp.
While it surprised me,
it also made a kind of sense: of course there was a trail connecting the two camps. “Let's go talk to 'em,” Flush said.

“How do you suggest we do that?” Dozer asked. “Or maybe you didn't notice that little fence down there.”

“We can talk through it.”

“Right. And the goons in those guard towers are just gonna let us stroll right up to it. Maybe they'll even throw us some food while they're at it.”

“We've gotta make contact somehow. . . .”

“Why? That one chick already told Book Worm where we had to go. What else do we need from 'em?”

He was partially right; she
had already given me directions, but maybe that was why I thought we owed it to her—to all of them—to let them know our plans.

“I'm going to go down there,” I said.

“Gonna talk to your
girlfriend
?” Dozer mocked.

“I'm going to leave them a note.”

“A note. Awww.”

“Just to let 'em know where we're headed, that's all.”

“Fine. Your funeral.”

“I don't think I have a choice.”

“Sure you have a choice. Don't do it!” Then he added, “Well, don't expect us to come.”

“I'm only telling you what I'm going to do. Nothing more.”

I looked to Cat.

He sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But we're not waiting for you. Catch up on your own.”

“I need a couple of guys to go with me.”

“You get one.”

“I need a couple.”

“You get one.”

It was obvious there was no changing his mind.

So it was set: that night, under the cover of darkness, Four Fingers and I were going to sneak past the guard towers and the Brown Shirts and their semiautomatic weapons . . . and back into that barn. All because of a girl named Hope.

H
OPE LIES ON THE
floor, absently fingering her father's locket. The kerosene lanterns have been switched off and the only illumination is a rectangle of moonlight.

She thinks about Book. She hasn't told anyone about his visit, in part because—outside of Faith—she doesn't trust anyone. But also because she doesn't want to share him. It was
her
he visited. And although it's probably crazy to think this way, she allows herself a moment of flattery. That maybe he picked her out of everyone.

And the way he looked at her and touched her hand. It was like he recognized something in her—just as she did in him. Almost like they'd known each other in some past life. Were friends perhaps. Maybe even lovers.

The thought sends a rush of blood to her cheeks, and even as she wonders who he is and where he came from, she traces his name in the dark, the tip of her index finger pressing against the night as though it were his skin, imagining his touch.

Book,
she writes.
Book Book Book.

She gives her head a shake and lets her hand fall.

Who am I kidding? He's either back in his own camp or on his way to the Brown Forest or killed by soldiers. In any case, I'll never see him again. And even if I did, so what? I'm just a bald inmate wearing a prison uniform that reeks of manure. Why would he want anything to do with me?

The thought of it—of where she is and what she looks like now—forms a small lump in the back of her throat.

Live today, tears tomorrow,
her mind reminds her, but her heart won't listen. A lone drop of moisture escapes her eye and trickles down her cheek. She gives it an angry swipe.

Stop it!
she tells herself, but the tears keep coming, especially when she remembers the compassion in Book's voice, the deep eyes filled with intensity, the firm, reassuring touch of his outstretched hand. And even though she wants to luxuriate in that memory, she won't let herself. It's too painful. Not if she'll never see him again.

She rolls to her side and tries to rock herself to sleep.

The tears have finally stopped when rattling chains jolt her awake. The front doors swing open and four Brown Shirts come marching in—thugs in Republic uniforms interrupting everyone's sleep.

They head straight for Hope and Faith, grab them beneath their arms, and yank them to their feet. Hope kicks and screams every second of the way. Faith is limper than a rag doll, her heels scraping the pine floor as the Brown Shirts drag the two girls from one end of the barracks to the other. The door is locked behind them.

The sights and smells of the infirmary are the same as before: peeling paint, bar-covered windows, the sickly aroma of mold and burning hair. From somewhere down the hall, Hope hears the crunch of a saw tearing through bone followed by a girl's muted screams. Faith hears it, too. Her taut limbs strain against the straps.

“Normally, we like to give Participants time off between visits to the infirmary,” Dr. Gallingham says. He busies himself at a small desk. “To clear the bloodstream, as it were, so the experiment is pure.”

“Why are we here then?” Hope asks defiantly.

The doctor looks up from his paperwork. “Sometimes behavior dictates otherwise.” He dabs his eye.

Hope wrestles with the leather bindings. No give whatsoever.

“Who was that woman?” she asks.

Dr. Gallingham's eyes peer at her under heavy lids. “You honestly don't know?” He gives his head a mournful shake. “It's disturbing how uneducated the youth of today are.” Hope realizes he has no intention of answering her question.

“You won't get away with it, you know,” she says.

“Won't get away with what?”

“Whatever it is you intend to do to us.”

A phlegmy laugh erupts from the back of the doctor's throat. He pushes himself up from the chair and waddles over until his jowly face is peering down at Hope.

“You're so much like your father, you know. Stubborn. Vain. Headstrong.”

The blood in Hope's veins runs cold. It's the second time Gallingham has spoken of her father.

“Oh, don't tell me he hasn't mentioned me. I'd be so hurt.”

Hope makes no attempt to hide her hatred. “You never knew our father.”

“Didn't I?” He reaches over to the rust-spotted tray, picks up a syringe, and holds it to the light. “There was a time when we worked together very closely, he and I.”

“That's not true,” Hope bursts out. “How dare you even say such a thing!”

“I
dare
because it's true. Why do you think we've been after you all these years?”

Hope's mind scrambles as she tries to remember what her father said about his past. Whenever she and Faith asked, he told them he was a scientist and left it at that. “That was a different time,” he'd say. “It's the future I'm interested in now.”

Yesterday was yesterday, today is today.

“Oh yes, he did good work, your father. In fact, much of what I do here is based on what I learned from him.”

“You lie! He never did these kinds of things to people!”

Dr. Gallingham goes on as though she hasn't spoken.

“He was quite skilled. I've never seen anyone manipulate a scalpel so effectively. Of course, then something happened and he just . . . disappeared.” Gallingham pretends as though he can't remember, before slapping his forehead. “I know: his wife gave birth. To
twins
. That's when he went into hiding. What an odd coincidence.” He smirks at his own cleverness.

Hope is stunned. She's never heard this before.

“He really didn't tell you about his past?” Gallingham asks. “The famed Butcher of the West? Curious. What some men hide from their children. Tsk-tsk.”

Hope is so startled she barely notices when the needle pierces her skin.

“Time to serve the Republic,” the doctor announces cheerfully. He goes to Faith and injects her as well. “Sweet dreams,” he says, and shuffles out the door.

It's worse than before. Whatever strain of illness they've been given, it leads to the most intense aches and fever Hope has ever experienced. For days she's in a cold sweat, bubbling perspiration. Her body radiates pain. Her throat is so constricted she can barely swallow the most meager sips of water.

Worse still are the nightmares. In one, Hope, Faith, and their father are tearing through thick underbrush when they come to a wide chasm. Far below them lies a river. The only passage across is a flimsy bridge made of frayed ropes. It sways in the wind. Their father goes first. When he reaches the other side, he motions for the girls.

Faith follows, her body rigid with fear.

“Come on!” her father yells. “You can do it.”

But the skies turn dark and a gust of wind turns the bridge on its side. Faith topples to the rope floor, the lower half of her body sliding off.

“Help!” she screams. “Save me!”

Hope looks across the chasm for her father, but he's no longer in sight.

“Help!” Faith screams again.

It's up to Hope. She crawls forward, stretches out her hand to grab Faith's wrist, then leans backward and begins to lift. But the wind is strong and the bridge is swaying. Rain is pouring down. Hope's grip is slipping.

“Don't let go,” Faith cries.

“I won't,” Hope answers, but the more she holds on to Faith, the more she's being dragged off herself. Suddenly, her father is back again, as if he's been there all along. “Let her go, Hope!” he screams. “Let her go!”

“I can't!”

“Let her go!”

And Hope does, she lets Faith go, and Faith plummets through the airy expanse of the gorge, falling forever, her eyes firmly locked on Hope until she disappears into the river with a crushing splash.

Hope wakes with a start. Perspiration soaks her body.
It's just a dream,
she tells herself.
A drug-induced nightmare.

There was something else, too. On the far side of the chasm, standing alone in the pouring rain, was the Less Than: Book.

His clothes were soaking wet and he looked at her with a pleading expression, hand outstretched. When he opened his mouth to speak, she couldn't hear him through the wind and lashing rain. But she could read his lips.

Come join me,
he said.
We'll run away from here.

And more than anything in the world, Hope wants to.

S
ITTING UNDER THE UMBRELLA
of an enormous pine tree, I stared into the dark, serenaded by a thousand frogs. The steady snores of Four Fingers and Argos filled the night.

Although the possibility of seeing Hope again had buoyed my spirits, there was no mistaking the feeling behind her final words to me:
Don't come back. Not if you want to live.
The message couldn't have been clearer.

I pushed myself up from the ground and left my two sleeping companions. I needed to do this on my own. If someone was going to put their life at risk making contact with Hope, it had to be me.

I
wanted
it to be me.

The night was dark, and as I circled the camp I hid in the black shade of thick trees. The silhouette of a guard tower was etched against the night sky. In front of it stood the barn, where I had first spoken with Hope. I eased forward and slipped into it.

There were animals, of course—goats, cows, some chickens—but no people. Still, I tiptoed across the straw-covered floor and checked every nook and corner. Just to be safe.

I clambered up the ladder, the mingling aroma of hay and dung reminding me of my first visit there. Although I half hoped, half prayed I'd see Hope in the loft, of course she wasn't there. Not in the middle of the night. There were just stacks and stacks of hay bales.

I fished the note from my pocket and reread it for the umpteenth time.

Headed to Brown Forest. See you there?
Book

As I searched for the best place to hide it, a piercing scream sliced the night. It was a girl's scream—terror filled—and it raised the hairs on my arms.

Was I crazy to think the scream might have been Hope?

It came again, even more panic-stricken than before, and it was an unbearable eternity before the night
swallowed the last echo of sound.

My hands fumbled for the note . . . and I had a change of heart.

I would stay until the morning. I wanted to see Hope for myself. To make sure she was okay. I'd spend the night, talk with her when she came to the barn, and then sneak away when the guards weren't looking.

If it didn't work out, fine, I'd still leave the slip of paper with its few scrawled words. But if I
did
see her, well, what could be better than that?

Making my way to the far corner where I'd originally hid, I carved a makeshift bed in the narrow space. I lay down and tried to sleep, but it was no use. Not as long as Hope was on one side of the fence and I was on the other.

O
NCE AGAIN,
D
R.
G
ALLINGHAM
administers a full dose of medicine to Hope and half a dose to Faith. Even when Faith's fever eventually breaks and her pain ebbs, her ribs press against her skin and her stare is vacant. For Hope, it's like looking at a total stranger.

They're released from the infirmary and the two girls hurry back to Barracks B. Settling in for sleep, Hope clutches the tiny gold locket in her hands. Even in the dark she can feel her parents' stares. She squeezes her eyes shut and prays for dreamless sleep.

Her prayers aren't answered.