by Carrie Ryan
“I have never seen the ocean,” I say. I wonder what Jed would have thought, taking in the expanse of water. If Travis would be proud that I finally made it. That I survived. I collapse onto my knees and the man jumps in alarm.
He turns to squat next to me and together we look out at the way the sun sets the water sparkling.
“It's usually not so full of debris,” the man says. “Storms like the one last night will cause a lot of timber to pour out of the river, will churn things up a bit and make the water cloudy. But I've never seen so many Mudo before.”
I like the sound of his voice. Its depth, its tone. It reminds me of Travis, melts into my memory of Travis's voice, of the way the words slipped from his lips.
“I live in the lighthouse up there,” he says, pointing up the hill past the sand to a tall tower painted with slanted black stripes.
“My job after the storms is to come decapitate all the ones that wash up so they can't get into the town.”
I look around me. At all the bodies of the Unconsecrated littering the beach. “So much carnage,” I say.
He shrugs. “The tide will come in and wash them back out again,” he says. “In about six hours you'd never know there was anything here other than sand and surf. The beach will be what it always is. Just a beach.”
“But there will be more of them,” I say. “There are always more.”
He shrugs. “That's just the way life is. Some days you wake up and the beach is clear and you forget about everything that surrounds us. And some days you wake up and it looks like this. That's the nature of the tides.”
He shifts his weight a little. “That doesn't mean it's not worth being here.”
I sway toward the water and dip my fingers in. “Is it safe?” I ask. “Out in the water?”
He shrugs once more. “Safe enough,” he says. “It's an outgoing tide; it won't be pulling up any more Mudo from the ocean.”
I slip into the water. Waves push me and I fight them to go deeper. Until my feet lift from the ground.
The man stands on the beach and watches, the tip of his shovel buried in the sand in front of him, his hands folded over its handle. Waiting for me to return.
I kick my feet and fall back and allow the water to cradle me. I touch my lips with my fingers, licking the tang of salt from them.
For a while I let the water push and pull me, lift me, hold me as I fall. I watch the sky, the clouds, the sun, the birds darting overhead. I wait for peace and happiness but I can only think of Travis and Harry and Cass and Jacob. About how I have lost everything but this place. I try to think about Jed, shame holding me back from remembering how he came after me. How he died saving me. But a part of me also thinks he could be proud that I made it, that I survived. That he knew what he was doing when he stormed into that Forest after me.
I feel the burden of carrying his hope with me.
I raise my head from the water and realize that I have drifted down the beach. I pull myself against the current, let the waves push me to the sand. I walk back down the beach toward the man, my limbs feeling gangly and heavy out of the water. He smiles at me as I approach and I can't help but smile back.
“Do you mind if I ask where you came from?” he says as we watch the waves crash on the shore.
“From the Forest,” I say. “The Forest of Hands and Teeth.”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “I've always wondered if there were folks in there,” he says. “Though I've never heard it called by that name. Apt, though, I guess.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean, I grew up here. On the edge of that forest. And everyone always says there ain't nothin' but Mudo past that river, beyond the fences. That's why they took out all those fenced paths that led from the forest to the town when my grandpa was a child. Too many kids thought the path led somewhere special and got into trouble. The bridge is still there, over the top of the falls, but there's a gate at the end and nothing beyond.”
I think of our gate, of how the rain masked the sound of the waterfall until we were right up on it. Of how dark the night was, how impossible it was to see past your own body. How we were so focused on the Unconsecrated and escape. I shudder to think that we were that close. That there had once been a path but that we had fallen off track in the slippery darkness.
“Folks don't like to talk about those things,” he says. He holds a hand over his eyes as he looks out over the water, surveying the world around us.
“Maybe they're right,” I tell him. I think about Cass and Harry and Jacob and how there must be a way to rescue them from the Forest of Hands and Teeth. I think about Argos and the way he dreamed of happier times, feet twitching and tail thumping in the morning, one ear flopped up. I think about Jed and the way he smiled at me the night before. The way his eyes shone as he talked about the possibility of life and a future.
And then I remember Travis pulling me against him and telling me about hope. His voice in my mind is soft, just out of reach like a spent echo. I wonder if these memories are worth holding on to. Are worth the burden. I wonder what purpose they serve.
Already the ocean is washing around the Unconsecrated on the beach, pulling them back into the water, reclaiming them. For a while I stand and watch, until the beach is clear and the man takes my hand and leads me to the lighthouse.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people say that writing is an isolating profession. I have been phenomenally lucky to have found wonderful support and friends through the process of writing, and I am grateful to everyone who has cheered me on, offered advice and listened to my meanderings.
I owe a very special thanks to my agent, the thoughtful and hilarious Jim McCarthy, for taking a chance on me and pulling The Forest of Hands and Teeth from the slush pile. Also to my genius editor, Krista Marino, whose enthusiasm and dedication are astounding. Many thanks to the fantastic team at Delacorte Press, who work tirelessly to make sure every detail is correct; to Vikki Sheatsley and Jonathan Barkat for their vision, and to Beverly Horowitz, Orly Henry, and Colleen Fellingham for all of their time spent with Mary.
Diana Peterfreund and Erica Ridley offered wonderful critiques, enthusiasm and motivation. The Davis family understood when my head was in the clouds, and Jason Davis and JP offered their wealth of biological and parasitological expertise to help me fine-tune the world of the book.
I am very proud of and honored by the support of my family. More thanks than I can express to my mother, Bobby Kidd, who always believed she'd be able to buy my book in a bookstore one day; to my father, Tony Ryan, who has always indulged me in long talks about world-building; and to my sisters, Jenny Sell and Chris Warnick, who have always been my biggest fans in whatever path I have chosen. Thank you and I love you!
Finally, to John Parke Davis, for somehow talking me into going to that first zombie movie, for holding my hand and warning me about the scary parts so that I could make it through and for spending countless hours afterward debating how to survive the zombie apocalypse. And above all, for telling me to write what I love, even if that meant writing about zombies. Without you, this book would not exist.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in Greenville, South Carolina, Carrie Ryan is a graduate of Williams College and Duke University School of Law. She lives with her writer/lawyer fiancé, two fat cats and one dumb puppy in Charlotte, North Carolina. They are not at all prepared for the zombie apocalypse. To learn more, please visit Carrie at www.carrieryan.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Carrie Ryan
All rights reserved.
Delacorte Press and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ryan, Carrie.
The Forest of Hands and Teeth / Carrie Ryan. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Through twists and turns of fate, orphaned Mary seeks knowledge of
life, love, and especially what lies beyond her walled village and the surrounding
forest, where dwell the Unconsecrated, aggressive flesh-eating people who were
once dead.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89197-7
[1. Horror stories. 2. Fantasy] I. Title.
PZ7.R9478For 2009 [Fic]—dc22 2008006494
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
