The Prey (21 page)

“We don't mean you any harm. We just want to eat and get dry.”

The man took a closer look at the crew of us, eyes sweeping past the Sisters and settling on the guys. “Why should I trust a bunch of Less Thans?” he shouted, saliva now spewing from his mouth. “If it weren't for
you all, maybe those bombs wouldn't've gone off and we wouldn't be in the position we're in today.”

So there it was: exactly the kind of thinking Cat said existed out there. We'd been sheltered from it in camp. No wonder those Hunters wanted to kill us; in their minds, we were the source of the world's problems.

“Look, Mister,” June Bug said, “we didn't have anything to do with
the position we're in today
. All that happened long before we were born. If anyone's to blame, maybe it's you.”

The man gave his head a vehement shake. “Don't you be puttin' that on me. I don't bother no one. We've just been mindin' our own business.”

The word “we” prompted me to look around.

For the first time I noticed a neglected automobile off to one side. It was covered in a thick layer of dust and ash. Judging from the weeds and pine needles bunched around its tires, I guessed it hadn't been driven in years. Maybe decades.

“Now git!” the man went on. “I ain't fooling here.” He brought the gun up.

“You don't mean that,” Hope said.

“Try me.” He cocked the shotgun. “Then see if I don't mean it or not.”

No one said anything. We were desperate. Cold, half starved, weary to the point of collapse. The prospect of sleeping under a roof—even if it was the roof of an old
barn—seemed the height of luxury. And yet what could we do? He had a gun and, it seemed, every intention of firing it.

A pungent odor suddenly tickled my nose. Because I'd been the last to ride up, I was closest to the barn. The door was slightly cracked and I was able to peek in. I expected to spy some sickly farm animal lying in its own dung.

But it wasn't that at all.

“We'll finish it for you,” I blurted out, surprising myself.

The other LTs and Sisters looked at me as if I was half crazy. The old man turned my way, and I could see down the long, dark barrel of his shotgun.

“Finish what?” he asked gruffly. A dare more than a question.

“The grave,” I said. “We'll finish digging the grave.”

“I
AIN
'
T ASKING YOU
to do that,” the old man murmurs.

“We know that,” Book says. “But we'll finish it. It's the least we can do.”

At first, Hope and the others have no idea what he's talking about. But there it is in the barn: a coffin, handmade of polished pine, resting atop two aged sawhorses. A kerosene lamp hangs on a post and drops a yellow glow on the coffin's top.

Now that Hope sees it, it's easy to piece together. A coffin. The smell of a corpse. A neglected shovel next to a half-dug hole. It isn't for gardening at all.

The old man shudders. “It may not be possible. Soil's awfully rocky here.”

“I'm sure we can find a way to dig a hole,” Book says.

“It's gotta be long enough.”

“We know.”

“And deep. No less than six feet.”

“We've had experience with graves.” Hope notices the assurance in Book's voice. Like he knows what he's talking about.

“I ain't got food enough to feed you. Don't be thinking just because you do this I can be all loaves and fishes.”

“We're not expecting anything. We're just going to help you out, that's all.” Book dismounts, grabs the shovel, and spears the tip into the ground. It clangs when it hits rock. He lifts it and casts its contents to the side. In no time he's working up a sweat. After a few minutes, Red takes the shovel from him and he begins digging.

Then Hope joins in. And Scylla. And soon, everyone is bent over on hands and knees, some with knives, others with bare hands, all scratching into the soil to deepen the hole. The
grave
.

The old man's 12-gauge lowers to his side, forgotten.

When the grave is finished, the twenty-eight stand back and admire their work. Sweating, chests heaving, hands covered in dirt—but they've done it.

“I'm much obliged,” the old man murmurs.

Stars burst in the sky like popcorn. Little tufts of light against a coal-black backdrop. June Bug gives Book a nod and he takes a tentative step forward.

“What do you want us to do now?” he asks. The man's head snaps up, almost as though he'd forgotten they are there. “Shall we lower the coffin in the grave?”

He shifts his gaze until it settles on the pine box and gives a little nod. Hope and a group of others move to the barn and swing open the doors. When they get to the coffin, bathed in its cone of amber light, the smell is noticeably stronger. Rank, even.

They strain as they lift it from its trestles. Helen follows with the lantern. For the first time Hope can see the coffin's handiwork. Beveled edges, clean seams, the carved design of a rose—it looks more like fine furniture than something to be buried beneath six feet of rock and soil.

They reach the graveside, lower the coffin to the ground, and hesitate. Now that they have it out of the barn, how will they actually get it down into the bottom of the grave?

“Ropes,” Twitch says. “Two sets.” Hope has already figured out he's the engineer of the bunch.

Using ropes and aspen limbs they create makeshift pulleys and the four strongest—Dozer, Cat, Red, and Scylla—lower the coffin.

The old man rests his shotgun against the railing and shuffles to the graveside. He bows his head, mumbling something about shepherds and green pastures. When he finishes, his eyes glisten with moisture.

He picks up the shovel, thrusts its tip into the mound of freshly dug earth, and casts the contents into the yawning grave. He hands the shovel to Red and motions for him to continue. Soon all of them are scooping and kicking the dirt back into the hole.

When the ground is once again flat, the old man hobbles to the far side of the aspen grove and retrieves a wooden cross—two branches nailed together. He spears the cross into the earth and takes a step back.

“'Spect you'll be wanting someplace to stay,” he says.

“If it's not too much trouble,” Book answers.

“I don't run an inn.”

“Any shelter would be worth it.”

The old man considers it. “The barn'll do ya. You can spread the hay around.”

He turns and starts to go.

“And food?” Book asks.

The old man stops. “There's smoked fish drying from the beams,” he says. And then, grudgingly: “Help yourselves.”

He shuffles the rest of the way to the cabin, grabbing the railing to hoist himself up the steps. Before he opens the door, June Bug calls out, “Thank you.”

The old man hesitates. Hope thinks he is going to acknowledge the comment, maybe even thank them for digging the grave. Instead, he slips inside and shuts the door firmly behind him. The dead bolt clicks.

The Sisters and Less Thans stagger into the barn and see them: rows and rows of smoked fish—lake trout—hanging from the beams like icicles. Hope's mouth waters at the sight.

Twitch begins pulling them down and handing them off. They try not to eat more than their share, but it's impossible not to gobble the food ravenously.

Hope watches Book as he drifts away, finding a spot in a far corner to make his bed. As he's fluffing the hay into something vaguely resembling a mattress, he spies a rope dangling from a thick cedar beam. And a milking stool beneath it. The rope ends in a loop.

No, not a loop—a noose.

Another story easy to put together: an old man, unable to dig a grave for a loved one, was going to hang himself—and would have, if he hadn't been interrupted by twenty-eight young intruders.

Hope watches as Book steps up on the stool and untangles the rope until it's simply that: a coiled rope hanging from the ceiling. Hope notices the care he uses in untying the knot, how he quickly surveys the room to make sure no one sees him. But the two of them catch eyes—then quickly look away.

As her body collapses into her own crude bed, Hope wonders about Book's past . . . and the secrets that he carries.

D
UST MOTES DANCED IN
sleepy diagonals. Since falling asleep however many hours earlier, I hadn't moved an inch; I was in exactly the same position as when I'd lain down. So was everyone else: Less Thans in one part of the barn, Sisters in another. My eyes found Hope and lingered there. Her breathing was steady and calm—soothing to watch.

From outside came a steady, muffled
ffft . . . ffft . . . ffft
. It was too quiet for a hammer. Not violent enough to be an ax.

I staggered to my feet, ripe barn smell scenting the morning air. When I edged outside I saw Flush and Twitch firing arrows into haystacks. Flush pulled back an arrow and sent it flying. It sailed wildly,
landing in a bed of weeds.
Ffft.

“Any chance the old guy has more food?” Flush asked.

I shrugged. “Got me. We ate most of his trout last night.”

As if on cue, our gazes landed on the cabin. There was no hint of activity. No smoke from the chimney. After the coil of rope I'd found in the barn, I wondered if one of us should go knock on the door.

“I was thinking we could catch some fish before we leave,” Twitch said, letting an arrow sail. It impaled itself into damp earth.
Ffft.
“Assuming we can.”

We had never proven ourselves the most adept fishermen. Nor hunters. Nor the most adept at
anything
. Now I understood why: if the Brown Shirts trained us too well, we'd put up too much of a fight against the Hunters.

“You'd think we could catch
something
,” Flush said, nocking an arrow. It wobbled drunkenly in the air before falling harmlessly to the ground.

“What's going on out here?” a voice demanded. It was the old man. He was alive. Awake. And angry. He came charging down the porch steps, moving at a far faster clip than the night before.

“What do you think you're doing?” he asked, ripping the bow from Flush's fingers.

I stumbled for words. “Just some target practice. So
we're able to get food. Maybe even bring you back a buck before we go.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes, sir, because it's true.”

“Not shooting like that, it's not.”

“Huh?”

“I've been watching from the window and you all couldn't hit the ocean from the shore.”

Our mouths were agape. What bothered the old guy wasn't the fact that we were shooting his arrows, but that we were doing it so poorly. He was the first adult we'd ever met who was bothered by our incompetence.

He drew an arrow from Twitch's quiver, nocked it, and pulled the string back until his thumb grazed his jaw. He inhaled and held his breath, as still as a statue. His face was so relaxed he looked decades younger.

When he released the string, the arrow zipped through air, landing in the very center of the target with a resounding
thwack.

“That's how you use a bow and arrow,” he said. “Not all twisting and yanking and prying and pulling and hoping it'll somehow hit
some
where near the target. You gotta hold the draw.”

We all shared a look of astonishment. It was as if we were talking to a different man altogether. His temper was still intact, but there was suddenly a spring in his step that hadn't been there when we'd first met him.

“So will you teach us?” I ventured to ask.

The old man rubbed his jaw. “'Spect I'll have to, if you aim to actually kill something. You all haven't got the skills God gave a toad. But don't be expectin' no free meal. I barely got stores enough for me.”

“We're not asking for more food,” I said. “Last night's fish was enough.”

Flush sent an elbow in my ribs, but I meant it. If the old man could teach us how to use a bow and arrow, we'd be in better shape than ever.

The old man's gaze drifted toward the barn. “I thought there were a couple dozen of you.”

“The rest are still asleep.”

“Well, wake 'em up. If I'm teaching you, I aim to do it a single time. No point repeating myself.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and Twitch went loping off to get the others.

We stood there awkwardly, no one quite knowing what to say. Finally, I mustered up the courage and said, “My name's Book. What's yours?”

The old man studied me suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”

“If you're going to be our teacher, it only seems right we know your name.”

The man regarded the request a moment longer. “Frank,” he said at last, as though he'd not had reason to say his name aloud for many years. He cleared his
throat and said it again. “It's Frank.”

“Hello, Mr. Frank.”

“Not
Mr.
Frank,” he snapped. “Just Frank. Got it?”

“Yes, sir . . . Frank.” I'd never called an adult by his first name before.

When the Sisters and other LTs arrived, he began teaching us the finer points of nocking arrows and releasing bowstrings. He raised his voice and wasn't afraid to yell. Taught Dozer how to compensate for his one bad arm, and Four Fingers for his lack of digits. Showed Helen how to use a smaller bow and Scylla a bigger one. Even Cat didn't escape Frank's badgering. Frank told him he was relying too much on strength and not enough on form. Craft.
Technique.

“You've gotta think of it as an extension of yourself, not just a weapon. Do it your way and you'll be wildly successful some of the time. Do it mine and you'll be very successful
all
of the time.”

Cat didn't seem to mind the advice one bit.

As for the rest of us, we could barely suppress our smiles. Although we didn't know it earlier, it was the kind of instruction we'd been craving all our lives.