The Prey (23 page)

Hope can see the color rise on Westbrook's face. It's obvious he isn't used to being addressed this way. “And whose grave might it be?”

“My wife's. Buried her a few nights ago.”

“I see. And you built the coffin?”

“If you don't believe me, I'd be happy to make one for your friend there.”

Westbrook actually smiles. “That won't be necessary. I'm sure you're a man of many talents.” Then he adds, “Let's just hope lying isn't one of them.”

Frank doesn't respond. Hope can see his jaw is set,
his teeth clenched. It's the Frank they encountered when they rode up that first night.

“So you built this coffin by yourself?”

“I just said so, didn't I?”

“Where?”

“Where else? The barn.”

“And carried your wife to it?”

“She weren't but skin and bones by the time she passed.”

“Right, right.” Westbrook paces around the room. “So I'm not clear on one thing. How'd you get the coffin to the grave?”

“I dragged it,” he sputters, not nearly as convincing as before.

“By yourself?”

“That's right.”

“All the way from the barn to that grove of aspens?”

“If you want, I'll demonstrate with your friend there. He's dead weight.”

This time Westbrook allows Sergeant Dekker to unholster his weapon and point the barrel at Frank's forehead. “I'd be careful about getting on Sergeant Dekker's bad side,” Westbrook says. “He happens to have a bit of a temper.”

Frank doesn't flinch. Finally, Westbrook leads the Brown Shirts to the door.

“You keep an eye out for those boys,” he says, then
steps outside, the screen door slamming behind him. A few moments later Hope hears the coughing ignitions of six dirt bikes, and the buzz of their engines receding in the distance.

Frank lowers himself in his chair. It's another fifteen minutes before he makes even the slightest move.

By the time they all reassemble in the cabin, Frank has a map spread out on the dining room table. With a shaking index finger he points to a snaking line of mountains due east—on the other side of the lake.

“There's a trail here I used to follow when I'd hunt elk. It's steep and rocky, but you should be able to hike it.”

“Where's it lead?” June Bug wants to know.

“To a pass. Follow that along the ridge to the very end. There's a desert down below called the Flats. You'll want to avoid it for as long as you can. And keep your eyes open for wolves. They're different now.”

“Different how?” Twitch asks.

“Just different.”

Hope tries to swallow but can't.

“And once we get down the mountain?” June Bug asks. “What then?”

“Cross over the Flats and make your way to the Heartland.”

“The Heartland?”

“The next territory.”

A silence falls over the group. For many of them, it's the first time they've heard the name of their destination.

“You still haven't told us how we get there,” Dozer demands. “You're pointing to a ridge, but how the heck're we supposed to get across the lake?”

“How else? Boats.”

They make their way to the shed. The
boathouse
.

It isn't much bigger than an outhouse and it lists to one side, its black timbers old and rotting. They peer into the dark interior and there before them are the mingled shapes of wooden crates, rusted bicycles, old TVs . . . and two rowboats. Everything is piled atop everything else.

They clear the rowboats and drag them to the thin grass that borders the lake like a margin on a page. Even in the falling twilight Hope can see holes as big as fists in the rotting planks.

“If we plug those gaps, you could leave in the morning,” Frank says.

Their eyes widen. “So soon?” June Bug asks.

“I have a feeling those goons'll be back in a day or two.”

Hope thinks some of the Sisters—and Less Thans, too—are going to break down on the spot. It's crazy, but in a few short days this place has begun to feel like home. And now they have to leave.

“Why can't we fight 'em? There's twenty-nine of us and only six of them.”

“They've got guns,” Frank reminds them. “All we have is one twelve-gauge, a rifle, some crossbows, and bows and arrows.”

“And slingshots,” Flush adds.

Frank pats him on the back. “I don't think they'll be any match for M16s. Even though I'd rather have you twenty-eight on my side than hundreds of them.”

Maybe he's just saying it, but Hope doesn't think so. She thinks he means it.

“So how do we plug the holes?” Dozer asks.

Twitch breaks the silence. “You're not planning on driving anywhere soon, are you, Frank?”

Frank looks at him, confused. “No, son.”

Twitch smiles and takes off running.

They spend the rest of the evening sawing planks to replace the rotting ones. In a fire pit behind the barn, Twitch boils a steamy cauldron of black rubber, melted down from chunks of the Jeep Cherokee's tires. They slather the noxious goo onto the boats' hulls and let it harden.

Frank drags out a cardboard box full of old clothes, neatly folded and smelling of mothballs. His sons' things, he tells them. “They're yours if you want 'em.”

They're thrilled, of course, and some of them even fit—hoodies and flannel shirts and wool socks. It's like
a Christmas they've never had, and Frank seems as pleased about it as them. Before they say good night, Hope finally asks him the question stirring within her: “So, what's the Eagle's Nest that Colonel Westbrook mentioned?”

“Near as I can tell, the headquarters of our chancellor.”

“Who's that?”

Frank emits a low growl. “Chancellor Maddox. The head of our territory. Makes Westbrook look like the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

Hope doesn't get the reference, but she understands the gist.

“Have you ever seen him?” she asks.

“
Her
. And only on TV, back before Omega. Former beauty queen turned Midwestern congresswoman.” He doesn't bother to hide his disdain. “When Omega happened, she just plain took charge. It was her idea to scrap the Constitution. And she was the one who came up with loyalty oaths and the notion of Less Thans.” He drums his fingers on his chin. “I have a feeling she's up to something, but what that is I have no idea.”

Hope knows who he's talking about. The woman with the blond hair. The one who's taken such pleasure in humiliating her. She wrote the letter to Colonel Thorason demanding he “leave no trace.” A shared look with Book tells her he's thinking the same thing.

“That's why you're wise to leave this territory,” Frank says.

“You think the other territories are better?” Hope asks.

“They can't be any worse.”

“And we can't convince you to come with us?”

A smile creases Frank's weathered face. “I'd just slow you down. No, it's better this way.” Then he turns away, eyes damp with tears. “But I'm much obliged to you for asking.”

When they crawl into their makeshift beds that night, muscles aching, Hope thinks of everything these few days have brought them: new skills, good food, preparations for the rest of their journey. And a friend in Frank.

Despite all the dangers, a new and better life seems close at hand.

T
HE SHARP BUZZ OF
engines startled us awake and we raced to the barn door. The jostling headlights of dirt bikes fell on the trees.

“Come on,” Cat whispered, motioning us toward the rear exit.

The twenty-eight of us edged along the lake until we reached the boats, our breaths frosty in the dark.

“What about the rubber?” Twitch asked. “There's no way it's set.”

“It's gotta be,” Cat answered.

We lifted the two boats from their sawhorses and eased them into the water. Eight Sisters in one boat, eight in the second. As I held one of the boats steady, I noticed it had a name scrawled in faded white paint along the hull.

Gloria.

Frank's wife.

Feet slurping in mud, we pushed the two boats away from the shallows and into the lake. As the Sisters paddled silently, the boats drifted away. Every noise was magnified a hundred times, but the drone of engines drowned out all other sounds.

The boats reached the other side of the lake just as the six dirt bikes returned, spewing gravel. Colonel Westbrook marched up the steps to the cabin porch and pounded on the door. So much for returning in a day or two.

The boats were headed back now for the rest of us: Hope rowing one, Scylla the other.

I looked behind me and saw Frank in front of his cabin, lit by the glare of dirt bike headlamps. He wore a nightshirt, his pants' suspenders hanging limply by his sides, his white hair sticking out in odd angles. He and Colonel Westbrook were arguing.

The two boats returned and we stumbled on board as quickly and quietly as we could.

“You okay?” I asked Hope.

She nodded yes, but I could see her shirt was damp with sweat. Flush and June Bug took her place at the oars to give her a breather. They began easing us into the lake.

We weren't far when Hope gestured behind us, back toward the cabin. I turned just in time to see a Brown
Shirt run up to Colonel Westbrook, pointing toward the barn. Then my heart sank as I heard him shout the word “mattresses.”

I watched as Colonel Westbrook unholstered his sidearm and fired twice at point-blank range.
Pop, pop.
Frank crumpled to the ground.

My hand went to my mouth and all of us froze, paddles suspended in air, our breaths shallow and gasping. Red—big, tough Red—emitted a strangled sob. Just loud enough for a couple of Brown Shirts to look our way.

The dirt bikes came to life, their lights bouncing off the side of Frank's cabin, not stopping until they reached the shore. Their dim beams pointed in our direction.

“Book,” Red said.

“I see.”

Although the soldiers were just now reaching the shore, I knew they couldn't chase us across the water. Ours were the only two boats in the boathouse.

“B-Book,” Red said again.

His eyes led me to the bottom of the boat, where a foot of water sloshed from side to side. The rubber hadn't set. It had held for one trip across, but now the lake was pouring in.

We lifted our feet to avoid the icy wet, and Argos jumped up to a seat. The gunwales were nearly even
with the lake itself; if we didn't act fast we would sink for sure.

I ripped off my hoodie. “Start stuffing!” I cried.

Once the others figured out what I was doing, they did the same: tearing off layers and jamming bunched-up clothing in the keel's gaping fissures.

“Hands!” I cried.

We cupped them together like ladles and began flinging water back into the lake. In no time my fingers were numb with cold. The water level lowered, but whenever we stopped to catch our breath, it rose again, just as fast. It didn't help that there were seven of us on board.

“Keep going!” I commanded, looking over at the other boat, hoping they could come to our rescue. Their situation was no better.

Suddenly there was another sound: deep, slapping splashes.

“B-b-bullets,” Red whispered, and my stomach knotted. A glance back toward shore showed me the silhouettes of Westbrook, Dekker, and four Brown Shirts calmly firing at us as though we were ducks on a pond. Target practice.

“Come on,
Gloria
,” I whispered, dipping the two numb stubs that were my hands into the water. “Get us across.”

Flush and June Bug rowed harder than ever, and I didn't know if it was the bullets or what, but for the
first time we were actually moving in something resembling a straight line, gliding atop the black surface of the lake.

“That's it,
Gloria
. Almost there.”

A bullet whizzed past, followed this time not by a splash but by a sickening thud. The sound of a knife slicing into a too-ripe melon. June Bug slumped forward, his hands releasing the oar. It slipped through the oarlock and into the water.

“June Bug!” I cried. A dark stain was visible on his chest. When I yanked open the shirt to get a better look, a gaping hole was spitting blood like a garden hose. I ripped off my T-shirt and bunched it up, placing it on the bullet hole to stanch the flow of blood.

“Keep rowing!” I shouted to Flush, his eyes as wide as coins.

“But there's just one oar.”

While he worked the lone paddle, the rest of us dipped our torsos over the sides and shooed the water backward with our arms. We were like some primordial beast, propelling ourselves awkwardly forward. The air sang with bullets.

“You're going to be all right,” I kept repeating to June Bug. “You're going to be all right.”

But whether I meant it or not, I couldn't honestly say, and the sight of the blood spurting from his chest prompted a nightmare of sights and sounds.
Squealing
fingers on white tile. A knife's blade rimmed in red. Stomping of feet.
My face grew clammy and the horizon tilted wildly.

“B-Book!” It was Red, pointing back behind us.

An orange glow erupted on the shoreline like a rising sun. For an instant everyone stopped paddling, and all we could hear was our own heavy breathing and the gurgle of water slapping the sides of the
Gloria
.

“What is it?” Flush asked.

“The ranch,” Hope answered flatly. “They're burning the ranch.”

T
HE FLAMES LICK THE
black underbelly of night until it's impossible to tell where embers end and stars begin. The cabin is on fire. And the barn. All the books, the canned vegetables, the
home
where Frank and Gloria lived for twenty years.

The other boat's keel scrapes the shore and they stumble onto dry earth, where they huddle by the lake's edge. Some holy mixture of luck and sheer will have delivered them across the lake.