by Kyla Stone
Raven straightened the cinderblock, used it as a stool, and peeked inside her window. Everything was dark, drenched in shadows. The door was closed. She grasped the windowsill and carefully inched it up. The lock had broken years ago. There had never been a reason to fix it.
The window scraped against the wood. Raven paused, stiffening.
No change. The loud voices continued. Nothing moved inside. Nothing moved outside.
She pushed the window all the way up, braced her elbows on the frame, and used the cinderblock to push herself up. She clambered inside, careful not to kick or bump anything on her dresser directly to the left of the window.
She stood in her bedroom, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Rumpled bed. Clothes strewn across the floor. Dresser cluttered with dusty wooden figurines and scattered wood shavings. It smelled like something unwashed, mixed with a whiff of her green apple shampoo.
Exactly how she’d left it.
She found the faded army-green hiking backpack leaning against her bed and yanked a camouflaged raincoat from her closet. With her undershirt, a sweater, and her raincoat—waterproof, but with an inner synthetic lining for warmth—she should have enough layers to withstand the cold October nights out-of-doors. She wore her good hiking boots and two pairs of socks to prevent blisters.
She pulled two granola bars from a side pocket, unwrapped them with fingers trembling from hunger, and practically inhaled them. She took a long swig from her water bottle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, already feeling better.
She paused, scanning the shadowed room for anything else she might need. Something glinted in the back of her closet. The old hoverboard her mother had bought for her birthday, that Raven had refused to use on principle.
Maybe it would come in useful. She could travel faster, without leaving tracks. She grabbed the hoverboard, too. It was solar-powered and fully charged.
She unzipped her pack, shoved the board halfway in, and dragged it over to the window. She had no way to lower the pack silently. She’d just have to dump it and hope no one heard. She hefted it and pushed it out the window. It hit the ground with a thud.
Still, the voices down the hall were loud enough to cover her movements. They were so loud she could almost make out the words. She turned away from the window, straining her ears. If she opened the door a crack, she might be able to hear them…
She glanced at the window and the door, torn.
Maybe they were talking about the wolves. Maybe they were talking about her. The more she knew, the better prepared she’d be.
Raven crept toward her bedroom door. She grasped the handle, twisted, and slowly pulled the door open about six inches.
The long hallway was dark. The doors to the two guest bedrooms on this side were open, but no light filtered out. There were three more guest bedrooms on the other side of the kitchen.
Her father’s door was closed. She let out a relieved breath. The bikers probably smelled the stench of sickness still emanating from the bed. She’d thrown out the sheets, pillowcases, and comforter, but it didn’t seem to matter. The bedroom still smelled like death and despair.
At the end of the hallway spilled a semi-circle of warm yellow light from the lanterns in the kitchen. Thick swirls of smoke hung heavily in the air. In the center of the kitchen, she could see at least a half-dozen men hunched around the scarred wooden table she’d eaten breakfast at almost every day of her life.
They were playing some sort of card game, drinking and smoking, placing bets and roaring with laughter, scowling with frustration, a few bleary and unfocused, all of them drunk.
She could make out a thread of conversation over the ruckus—closer than the kitchen table. A man’s shoulder jutted against the opposite wall into the space at the end of the hallway—leather vest, long, greasy ponytail. Jagger. The others were likely sitting at the bar chairs at the counter peninsula, just around the corner from her line of sight.
“When are the others coming?” She recognized Jagger’s low, gravelly voice.
“Phillips went to get them.” Cerberus’s deep, ringing baritone was unmistakable. “He left yesterday afternoon. By the time they gather their supplies, get the truck, and make it back…I’d reckon sometime tomorrow night.”
“I’d kill for a working SmartFlex.” Damien’s voice. “This lack of communication blows.”
“Wouldn’t we all, kid,” Cerberus said with a dark chuckle. “But look on the bright side. Instead of focusing on what’s been destroyed, focus on what we can build from the rubble. A new world. A new society, with order and rules that make sense—even better than the last one.”
“How many men is he bringing?” Jagger asked.
“I told him twenty. We’ll need that many to load all that food.”
“There aren’t enough beds for them,” Damien said.
“They can sleep on the floor, or out in the tiger’s cage for all I care.” Ryker’s voice—smooth as honey to hide the poison beneath.
“We’ll make do,” Cerberus said. “We always do. This was a lucky break. We need to share the wealth.”
“And then we head back home?” Ryker asked.
“Thought you wanted that girl,” Jagger said.
The hairs on Raven’s neck stood on end at the mention of herself. Her stomach lurched. She gripped the door with whitened knuckles.
“To hell with her,” Ryker spat. “This place is creepy. Don’t you feel it? All those savage beasts screaming and howling all night long?”
Cerberus let out a booming laugh. “Homesick? Don’t you worry. After we load up our goodies, you can burn this place to the ground for all I care.”
“And the wolves? Do we get to pick?” Jagger asked.
“Let me guess,” Cerberus said, mirth in his voice. “Damien wants the tiger.”
Ryker snorted. “You’ll have to grow into that one, boy. You still have to earn your chops.” His tone was teasing, but there was something mocking in the way he spoke.
“I will." Damien sounded frustrated, petulant. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Enough sitting around,” Cerberus said. “The night is young! We’ve got work to do.” A chair pushed back, scraping against the tile. Cerberus’s broad back appeared as he shoved the chair in place, tattoos squirming across his neck and bulging arms. “Remember, the white one is mine.”
Heart hammering in her throat, Raven shut the door and stumbled back. More of them were coming. They were going to take all the food in the storage buildings—the food she was depending on to stay alive.
Her stomach twisted. What were they going to do to the animals? Kill them for sport? For meat? Burn them alive in their pens?
She had to get out of there, think things through somewhere else, somewhere safe. She lurched for the window.
The bedroom door swung open.
18
Raven had just enough time to dive into the shadows between her dresser and the bed, hunkering down beneath the window. It was a pathetic hiding spot. But with no light, she might have the barest chance. As long as she didn’t give herself away, didn’t move or breathe.
Carefully, silently, she reached into her pocket for the knife. She had to shift her thighs for access, leaning hard on the side of the dresser. She pulled it out, but didn’t flick it open. It would make noise. She grasped the handle with both hands and held it to her chest, knuckles white, every muscle taut.
The intruder was nothing but a murky shape among murkier shadows. He shut the door behind him. She heard the click of the lock being turned. There was a soft thumping sound. Then, silence.
Her lungs burned for oxygen. Her body screamed at her to suck in deep, ragged breaths. But she couldn’t. She breathed shallowly through her nose, fighting against the panic slithering up her throat, squeezing her windpipe.
The intruder was still completely silent, except for his breathing. Laughter from the kitchen filtered through the door, dim and far away.
What was he
doing? Had he spotted her? Did he know she was there? Was it a trap? The not-knowing wound tighter and tighter inside her, until she was about to crack wide open.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dark. His had not. She gathered her courage and leaned forward cautiously, peering past the edge of the dresser.
She recognized the tall, lanky figure. Damien slumped against the door, head back, his breathing uneven and rasping. His arms hung at his sides, his hands clenched into fists. His expression was grim, tense. It looked like his eyes were closed. It was hard to tell.
Outside, the fog thinned for a moment. Moonlight poured through the window, bathing everything in a silvery glow.
Maybe she should have ducked back behind the dresser. She didn’t.
Damien was just standing there. His chest rose and fell rapidly. There was something uneasy and haggard in his face. His piercings glinted. As he breathed, his fists slowly unclenched, his tense expression relaxing, like he was free now, like he’d just escaped something.
She tightened her grip on the knife handle. Her palms were damp. Her pulse thudded in her throat. She’d never attacked anyone before, animal or human. She didn’t want to start now. Just go, just go.
Instead, Damien opened his eyes and looked straight at her.
For an infinite second, she stared back at him, frozen.
He looked at her blankly, as if she were a ghost he didn’t quite believe was real. Until his gaze lowered and fixed on the knife in her hands.
Raven exploded into motion. She leapt to her feet and lunged at him, flicking the blade open as she ran, no thought in her head but to stop him from shouting and warning the eight hardened criminals sitting less than twenty feet away.
She thrust the knife to his throat before his face had even registered surprise.
He grunted and let out a curse. “What—”
“Shut up!” she hissed. “Do or say anything to alert your friends, and I swear to you, I’ll slit your throat.”
He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “And if you do that, they’ll come looking for me, find me dead, and then they’ll know you’re here.”
“I thought they already did.”
He gave the faintest shake of his head, wincing as she pressed the blade deeper. “Suspecting is different than knowing. Ryker saw which way you turned. He wanted you. So we followed, driving around aimlessly, looking for you until we stumbled on this place. They think you’re here somewhere, but they don’t know. They’ve all been distracted by the food and the zoo. You kill one of their own, what do you think is going to happen? They’ll hunt you down in earnest.”
“You’re insane if you think I’m just gonna let you go.”
The hard planes of his face were shadowed in moonlight. He attempted a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “You can. I won’t say anything. I told them I was going for a piss. But really, I just needed—Look, I’ll just go back and drink and eat and laugh, and none of them’ll be the wiser. You don’t know us, but we’re not bad people. I’m not a bad person. We look tough, but—”
She shot him a scathing look. “Nice try. I know what you did. I saw what happened to Carl. I saw you point your gun in Phil’s face.”
His eyes widened. “You were at the pharmacy.”
“That’s right. Your pretty face and your pretty lies won’t work. I know what you are.”
“You don’t know what things are like out there, how bad it’s gotten.”
“I saw Clay Creek, what was happening there.”
He started to shake his head, stiffening as the blade sliced through a layer of his skin. “That’s nothing. The world is chaos. It’s kill or be killed, eat or be eaten.”
“Carl was unarmed.”
“Okay.” His eyes flickered around the room, searching for something, probably a weapon, but coming up empty. He pursed his lips, trying a different tack. “Okay. Ryker is…I know what it looks like. It’s been six weeks since this Hydra bioweapon started killing everyone. The national supply chain broke down over three weeks ago. Do you know how much surplus food stores hold? Three days. People are murdering each other for a can of green beans. If you don’t align yourself with the type of people who can protect you, then you’re already dead.”
“And who are the people you’re with?”
“They’re a gang, call themselves the Headhunters. They’ve been around for years, operating in Georgia and parts of North Carolina. But once the virus started destroying everything, they saw a window, an opportunity. They’re traders and service providers. Surviving communities exchange their resources in fair trade for services rendered, like protection from thieves, marauders, and various unsavory criminals.
“The Headhunters travel around scavenging, searching for anything of value. They can get people whatever they want or need—illegal weapons, drugs, expensive, rare medications. Pretty much anything.”
She caught how he spoke of the Headhunters as “they” and not “we,” trying to distance himself and generate sympathy. She scowled. “What other kinds of services?” She could guess, but she needed to know. “Why do you want me?”
“I’m not sure. I’m just a low-level guy. I don’t know everything—”
She tilted the curved razor-edge of the blade just enough to draw blood. “Tell me.”
He swallowed. The edge of the knife bobbed along with his Adam’s apple. “Sometimes, they trade in…people.”
Her blood went cold.
“There’s no law anymore. No one to stop those with certain…appetites. They pay for people. Mostly girls. Young, pretty ones that can be trained.” His lips pressed together. “I’m not a part of any of that. Mostly it’s trading in good things, helping people survive, get what they need. I’ve—I’ve never even killed anyone.” He said it like a confession, like it shamed him.
Me either, she almost said. But that would’ve defeated the purpose of the knife—and the threat behind it. Just because she hadn’t killed before didn’t mean she wouldn’t. If she had to.
“Let me go,” Damien said.
“No way.”
He sighed. “Then we’re at a standstill. Either you kill me, or you don’t. Eventually, Ryker is going to come looking for me, and then what are you going to do?”
She had no idea, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “Then I’ll kill you now and take whatever head start I can get.”
“I won’t say anything.” His voice was still even. He didn’t sound afraid. “Isn’t that worth the risk? You kill me, they hunt you down, whether you have ten seconds or ten minutes, they will find you. You let me go, there’s a chance I’m true to my word, and they’ll never know you were here.”
She despised his logic, but it rang true. An image of Shadow’s jaws closing around her throat flashed through her mind. An alpha was the one with the power to kill, but chose not to. She didn’t want to kill this guy. Even though she was fairly certain he was lying through his pretty teeth. She didn’t want blood on her hands.
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “Are you going to let me go now?”
Abruptly she was aware of how close she was to him, his breath rustling her hair, the hardness of his body, spare and wiry, pressed against her own. His piercings glinted in the moonlight. She could make out the individual lashes brushing his cheeks when he blinked.
Her breath caught in her throat. “No.”
“Yes,” he said, “you are. Because you know I’m right.”
“You’re the bad guy.”
“That’s a matter of perspective.”
“Tell that to Carl.”
“You’re running out of time,” he said, his voice still infuriatingly calm. But his frequent swallows betrayed his nervousness.
She watched the blade ride up and down his throat. She hated that he was right. She hated that she didn’t trust this guy as far as she could throw him. But in the end, she had little choice. Only one option made sense.
“Fine,” she said grudg
ingly. She inhaled sharply and stepped back, removing the knife from his neck but keeping it up and ready, half-expecting him to scream. Or attack her.
He did neither. He stood still, hands loose at his sides. The way he was looking at her, curious, a little wary, fascinated even—it was jarring. She didn’t like it. She wasn’t one of the animals to be stared at, examined with impunity.
“What is your name?” he asked, that cunning, fox-eyed look back on his face.
“None of your business.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.
She pointed her knife at him. “Stay back.”
From the kitchen, someone shouted. “Damien! Hurry the hell up! Let’s go!”
Both Raven and the boy froze. Would he yell now? Betray his promise and reveal her presence? How many seconds did she have? Five, ten? Not enough.
“Run,” he said. “Run, and don’t look back.”
She ran.
Raven pivoted, feeling far too exposed and vulnerable, and clambered out the window. Her heart raced, waiting for a knife or a bullet to the back. None came.
She dropped to the ground, hoisted her pack over her shoulders, and ran without a backward glance.
The fog was thicker now, drifting in hazy white ribbons, making visibility poor. Behind her, a few lights bobbed like spotlights in the murky gloom.
She swerved sharply and plunged behind the meat storage building. She pressed her back against the concrete and peered around the corner. The fog both helped and hindered her. What hid Raven also hid any skulking Headhunters. She could barely see forty feet ahead or behind her.
She watched the bobbing flashlights draw nearer. She held her breath, waiting for the cries of alarm. They didn’t come. There was no shouting. No Headhunters running toward her, guns blazing.
Maybe that boy had kept his word after all. She couldn’t understand it, but now wasn’t the time to figure it out.
She eased around the far corner of the building, heart thudding, as she waited for the group of Headhunters to pass. She waited for their voices to dim, for their footfalls to fade into silence.
In her frazzled state, she didn’t remember the hoverboard until she’d started running again. She was too scared to stop. She stayed off the main path and kept to the rear of the exhibits, weeds and thorns snagging at her pant legs. She ran and ran, legs pumping, adrenaline shooting through her veins, cold breath searing her throat.
