by Galaxy Craze
A gasp sounded through the crowd. “Relax,” Tub cut in, giggling at everyone’s obvious terror. “No one’s been eaten… yet.”
“We meet back here at sundown,” Portia went on undeterred. “Good luck.”
One by one, she proceeded to call out the names of new recruits, who placed their hands into a cloth sack and pulled out numbered slips of paper. The number indicated how many paces you had to step away from the group before you could begin hunting. Mine was 574.
I put the number in my pocket and looked out into the forest, wondering how far 574 steps would take me. Vashti squeezed my hand and whispered, “Good luck.” Tub snickered as she began to count the numbers very slowly and loudly. I looked down at the muddy ground, then ahead at the trees. They all looked the same for miles and miles; bare, rotting trunks, with bark too damp to burn. I risked one glance back over my shoulder and saw Sergeant Wesley watching me. I whipped my head back around, my cheeks flaming, my face blank, as I walked off into the dead forest.
I counted the steps aloud as I walked, Tub’s voice growing fainter and fainter until there was only the sound of my footsteps and breath. The trees looked menacing, their twisted branches reaching out to snatch at me. I looked at the sevil, amazed at how perfectly thin and razor-sharp it was. Cornelius Hollister had invented it, a deadly kind of sword that could slice through bone. I paused, turning it on its side to look at myself. Everything I saw reflected in the blade was devoid of color. Gray sky, gray trees—even my eyes looked gray.
My boots made a squelching sound as I stepped over mud and mulch, jumping across the wide roots of trees that the rain had laid bare. Mushrooms sprouted everywhere, small and white with red tops. I brushed my hand over them, searching for something edible, but these, like everything else in the forest, would lead only to death. I considered bringing some back and using them to poison Hollister, but decided against it. I didn’t even know where he was, and when I did find him, I wanted to kill him with my own hands.
I stopped to examine the moss growing over the bark of a tree, emerald green and soft. I pulled off a section and chewed it slowly. It tasted of earth and grass, but it was clean and I knew it wouldn’t kill me. As I moved on, I tripped over something in the mulch, and looked down to see a bit of cloth wedged beneath a rock. It was brown from the mud, but I could see the pattern of the cloth underneath—checked gingham, like the kind we had used for picnics. My breath caught and my eyes blurred. I blinked away my tears, holding tight to that wall of steel inside me, fighting the spark of the real me that threatened to break through. There was nothing left of that life, I thought angrily. There would be no more picnics with checked blankets.
Still, I ripped off a piece of the cloth and put it in my hunting sack.
I moved on, passing through a patch of burnt oaks, when I heard a rustling behind me. I froze, reaching carefully for the sevil, ready to strike, as a shadowy figure came closer. I spun around and stopped short.
Sergeant Wesley had his gun out, aimed at me. “Lower your weapon,” he said slowly.
“I’ll lower mine if you put your gun away,” I challenged, eyeing him over the blade. If it came down to it, I could probably slice his jugular before he got a shot off.
“I don’t take orders,” he said, but he put his gun into its holster. “Your turn.”
My hand started to shake as I kept the sevil held out in a defensive position. Why was he following me? Had he figured out who I was and come here to kill me? Had he seen me in the closet that night?
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I came to help,” he replied evenly. His expression was so hard to read, I had no idea whether to believe him. “It’s hard finding anything out here—unless you know where to look.”
I hesitated, lowering the sevil. “You came to help me? Why?”
He didn’t answer my question. “Come on. We need to keep moving. We’ve made noise in this area and scared away all the prey.”
As he spoke, a cold wind shook the trees and the sky turned dark. Sergeant Wesley stopped, staring up at the blackening clouds with a frown. “I smell smoke,” he said slowly. Smoke was the first sign of a Roamer camp.
I sniffed. “That’s not wood smoke,” I said. But it didn’t have the sickly sweet tang of Roamer smoke either.
Suddenly the wind stopped. The air felt hot and still, like we were trapped in a room with no circulation. “Oh my God,” he said, the realization hitting us both at once. “Run!”
We took off sprinting as a flash of lightning stretched from the sky to the ground, reaching out toward us like the bright white hand of a skeleton. And then everything seemed to explode.
I lay against the base of a tree, my head reeling from the sonic blast.
Then Sergeant Wesley was there, picking me up and hoisting me over his shoulders. “Don’t pass out!” he yelled. I fought to stay conscious as the sky flashed red, then orange. A flame that looked like a house made of fire fell through the sky, and a baseball-size ember spun down to graze his left arm. It seared the fire-retardant fabric, turning it into a sizzling black mass of lava that melted on his skin. He dropped me and dove to the ground, rolling around to smother the jacket.
I took a deep breath, knowing I would have to run, and reached out a hand to pull him to his feet.
“There’s a rock cave up this way!” he shouted over the roar of fire in the sky.
“We should be going downhill,” I yelled.
“I know these woods,” he insisted. “Follow me.” Going uphill in lightning went against all my better judgment, but I swallowed my protests and followed.
We ducked into the cave just as a second sunball appeared, spiraling toward us. The whole hillside shook with the impact. I crouched at the mouth of the cave, catching my breath, unable to look away now that I was safe.
The sky was illuminated by a million flecks of light, sparkling and falling to the ground in a shower as thick as rain. I hadn’t seen this much light since before the Seventeen Days. “It’s beautiful,” I said softly, in awe. Like sparklers. Like fireworks.
“Beautiful, but dangerous,” Wesley agreed, his gaze lingering on me for longer than necessary. The sparks continued to fall from the sky around us, growing smaller and further apart until some were only the size of the flame on a matchstick.
Neither of us spoke. I tried to keep from looking at his gun. He kept it secured in its holster, but my sevil was melted and twisted, totally useless. If he wanted to kill me, I would have no way of stopping him.
There was a moment of quiet in the sky. Then as quickly as it had come, the fire vanished and the rains began. Pounding gray rains, turning the charred forests to wet ash. The rain fell in drops the size of icicles, spearing the earth.
“If it wasn’t for all the rain, England would be on fire,” Sergeant Wesley said as he pulled off his jacket, wincing as the fabric peeled away from the bright red burn where the fireball had touched his arm.
I gasped. “That looks painful.”
“It is.”
Remembering the gingham cloth I had found, I took it from my sack and held it outside in the cold rain.
“Here.” I leaned forward. Sergeant Wesley held out his arm, but I noticed he pressed his other hand tight to his gun as I approached. I wrapped the cool cloth around the burn. He gritted his teeth but didn’t speak. As I turned his arm over to tie the knot, I noticed something on his forearm—the crossed sword and sevil of the New Guard.
I tightened the knot quickly, my eyes lowered. “Thanks,” he said.
“It’s nothing,” I answered quickly. “You helped me too.”
We fell silent again, watching the rain. When it had slowed to a fine mist, we made our way out of the cave.
He walked ahead quietly through the fallen trees. The air smelled like rain mixed with burnt wood. “Careful,” Sergeant Wesley warned as we edged along a cliff.
“I’m fine,” I protested, though looking down made me a little dizzy.
&nb
sp; “Here,” he said, reaching for me. Reluctantly, I held out my hand toward his. His fingers wrapped around mine, and he guided me carefully away from the cliff, holding tight as we descended the slope.
When we were safely away from the cliff, he loosened his grip, and I let my hand drop to my side. A crow flew overhead out of the lonely gray sky. It was the first living thing I’d seen all day. We watched as the bird circled lazily above the high branches of a tree. Sergeant Wesley pulled out his pistol, aiming straight at it. But instead of shooting, he lowered his arm to his side.
“Why didn’t you kill it?” I asked.
“It’s circling its nest,” he muttered, “bringing its hatchlings food.” I looked at him in surprise. “I mean, we need those birds to grow up so they can be food someday too. We’ll find something else.”
We walked on, continuing down the slope of the hill in the gray midday light. It was strange how quickly the sunball had come and gone. I wondered if any of the other soldiers had been caught in it, and what would’ve happened to me had I been alone.
Suddenly he grabbed my arm, holding his finger up to his lips. I listened, and then I heard it too—the sound of light footsteps, coming from behind the trees. He pulled me behind him, holding out the pistol, ready to shoot.
A fox appeared from behind a pile of brush, followed by its offspring. They were so beautiful, so still, looking at us with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Once when I was walking on my own through the woods in Scotland, one had followed me, nibbling at the bushes. They were so rare that I’d considered it a small sign of good luck.
Sergeant Wesley turned to me. “I haven’t seen a fox since I was six or seven years old.”
I shook my head. “I thought they were all dead.”
“Maybe they’ve just been hiding.”
“The sunball probably made them flee their dens,” I agreed.
He dropped his pistol on the ground as he knelt down, holding out the palm of his hand, murmuring at the foxes not to be afraid.
I knelt down next to him. In my sack I still had the small lunch I’d been issued that morning. I broke off part of the potato, laying it on the ground for them like a peace offering.
The mother fox walked up slowly, her kit following close by her side. They stopped a few feet away, eyeing us cautiously.
“It’s all right,” I said softly, tossing the potato toward them. They must have been starving because they ate it right away. When they were finished, they stepped closer, moving slowly, silently.
I reached out tentatively and touched the baby fox’s head. It leaned in and nuzzled my palm. I laughed, feeling the coarse reddish fur between its ears as it turned its face to the side, like a cat, enjoying being scratched.
I looked at Sergeant Wesley in disbelief that they had come so near, so trustingly. For the first time since my father’s death, I felt something like hope.
Just then a glimmer shot through the air. The mother fox went still, its eyes wide open and staring at me. Before I even had time to react, a second arrow sent the baby to the ground, dead alongside the body of its mother.
“Bull’s-eye!”
Standing behind an old, rotting tree, lowering her weapon, was Portia.
14
PORTIA WALKED TOWARD US, HER BOW AT HER SIDE, GRINNING. “Sorry to disturb your little nature walk, but I’ve always wanted a fox stole.”
I stared at the bodies of the foxes. Their still-open eyes were glassy, the silver-colored arrows piercing their small bodies. Only a moment ago they were alive, part of the world.
“Why would you do that?” Sergeant Wesley said angrily.
“Survival of the fittest.” Portia pulled the arrows from the bodies of the foxes. She wiped the red blood on her riding pants, letting out a sigh. “The baby’s probably too small for a stole, but I couldn’t just leave it without its mother, could I? What child wants to live without its mother?”
Sergeant Wesley stared at her, his eyes narrowed in anger. “That wasn’t necessary, Portia.”
“Nothing is necessary,” she laughed. “And anyway, what are you doing with my new recruit?” She turned toward me and raised her bow in a single, fluid motion so the next thing I knew, she was aiming directly at the center of my forehead. I held my breath, feeling suddenly frozen in place. “As for you, fresh, I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.” I stared at her hard eyes as she paused for dramatic effect. “Maybe I’ll just save us both the effort and shoot you now. A routine hunting accident.”
“That’s enough,” Sergeant Wesley snapped. “You know better.”
She sighed, blowing her bangs up in the air as she lowered her bow. “Lighten up, Wes. You used to have a sense of humor.”
“Why’d you even come here? Are you following me?” A tightness pulled at his lips.
She paused, then broke into a smile, baring all of her perfect, white teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t following you, I was following the foxes.”
“Well then,” he said angrily, “if you wouldn’t mind taking your carcasses with you…”
Portia picked up the dead foxes by their tails, dropping them into her hunting sack and slinging it over her shoulder. “See you back at the bunk, Polly,” she added, giving me one last look.
Sergeant Wesley stared hard into the woods, watching her until she was gone.
The wind picked up, swirling with the ashes like dark ghosts, then vanishing. The sky was gray and still, like gunmetal.
Eventually, he spoke. “I’m sorry about Portia,” he offered. “She wasn’t always like that. She used to be…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Different.”
“You seem to have known her a long time,” I said carefully.
“Yes, I have. And I haven’t given up hope that the old Portia will come back.”
I knew how he felt. Wishing, waiting. “I understand.”
He looked at me, as if waiting for me to go on. “It was my brother. He was… sick,” I continued vaguely. “I used to hold on to the hope that he would get better. Even though there was no cure for him, I still hoped.” I remembered how I used to be so certain that Jamie would one day run and play like a normal boy.
Sergeant Wesley looked up sharply, a troubled expression on his face. He opened his mouth as though to speak, then closed it.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s getting late. We should head back.”
He led me quickly through the woods, following a trail I never would have found. It was almost completely dark out when we saw the flames from the bonfire rising up between the trees and smelled the smoke filling the air.
“Here.” He handed me a pigeon he’d shot on the way back. “Remember the rules.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Please,” he said. “Call me Wesley. And you’re welcome. Now you’d better go by yourself from here.”
He turned away, and I stumbled forward to camp, where Tub was checking the kills everyone had brought back. I held out the pigeon Wesley had given me. When they saw me, the other girls fell silent. Tub looked at Portia, then back at me.
“You killed a pigeon?” Portia asked, her eyes narrowing.
I nodded.
“Or did Wesley do it for you?” she said with a pointed sneer.
“Here, take it,” I said in defeat, tossing the dead bird at her. She caught it with a look of surprise. “You can have it. I’m not hungry.”
Later that night I stood in the girls’ bunk, staring down at my bed. The bodies of the two foxes were laid across it, the blood from their wounds staining the dark green blanket.
“A little prezzy,” a voice sliced behind me through the silence. I whipped around as Portia and Tub appeared.
“Do you sew?” Portia asked with a smirk. “I’m looking for someone to make me my fox stole.”
“And a jacket for me,” Tub added.
I held my hand over my mouth, feeling sick. The dead mother fox and her baby lay on my
bed, their bodies smelling sour, tiny black flies crawling in their ears and eyes.
I threw out the carcasses, but the scent of death lingered, rising up around me in the night.
15
I STARED OUT AT THE FIELDS AS THE TRUCKS CARRIED US DOWN the dirt road leading away from the palace. We had been told we were going on a raid in a village called Mulberry. I hadn’t asked questions. I knew better by now. It had been three days since Portia had left the dead foxes on my bed, and I had mostly tried to stay out of her way since then. The mantra I had made for myself my first night had become more important than ever. Stay calm. Don’t ask questions. Be patient. But I felt her eyes always upon me.
The moon was bright, and I saw windowless buildings surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence. I turned to the soldier next to me. He had bright brown eyes and only looked about fifteen.
“Do you know what those buildings are for?” I asked him quietly.
The boy peered out. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Never seen them before.”
By the side of each building, a giant trench had been dug into the earth and filled with loose soil. I pressed my face close to the glass. Sticking out from the soil, I thought I saw a human hand.
I put my forehead on my knees, feeling sick with dread. This must be where the bodies of the dead prisoners were taken and buried. Were my siblings’ bodies dumped in the dirt pile? Could that have been Mary’s hand, or Jamie’s?
The trucks rumbled over the broken-down highways for miles, then down narrow country lanes overgrown on either side with hedgerows. Suddenly the trucks lurched to a stop, throwing us forward in our seats.
Outside stood a small whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof like a brown cap. The windows of the cottage flickered with candlelight. A pea-stone path led through the front garden trellis to an arched doorway. There was a small boxwood garden and a stone birdbath. When I saw the red letterbox on the door, I knew exactly where we were.
