Watching from above safe and secure, Kilt was now sorry for the creature. Those scientists could really mess up a perfectly beautiful animal. Its mind had been so rattled that it couldn’t even stop itself from bashing its own brains out if it went into the red zone. He had always heard the rumors about genetically modified beasts ruling the terrain outside of the Kradle, experiments gone terribly wrong, or terribly right depending on what they had in mind. And if those lab rats’ idea of success was creating a super moose which harbored severe aggression toward anything that moved, then yes, one would say their creation was a success. Bravo boys.
The moose took off, charging angrily, the horn slamming against its muscular jaw, blood trailing down its nose.
BOOOOM! This time its head split open and flecks of bark clung to the wound. The tree was wet with sticky blood.
“Stop,” Kilt said, feeling sick. “Go. Just go little buddy. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
The moose staggered once, falling to his knee before regaining its footing. Then he stood there for a moment as if posing for a picture before letting out a long sigh like the pressures of life had just become too much. Its breath clouded in the cold air. The majestic beast, his eyes now one red and the other black, looked up at Kilt, who thought maybe it had a moment of enlightenment, and would cut its losses and leave, but then it lowered its head.
Kilt was straddling the branch so he leaned back against the trunk to brace himself. He shook his head. Such a shame.
The moose ran full force, blood pouring into its eyes, its breath heaving and high pitched, giving Kilt the chills. It swerved toward the tree this time, unable to run in a straight line. Kilt hoped it would miss.
Crack! This time it smashed into the tree and stopped.
Kilt looked down and cringed at the awkward angle of its neck, its tongue hanging out the side over white teeth. He rubbed his dust filled eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
Damn scientist could never leave well enough alone.
Chapter 37
After the moose incident he was on high alert, keeping his eyes and ears open, often finding himself checking out trees for low growing branches.
Before leaving the moose carcass he used his big knife to cut off slabs of meat and then wrapped it in some stray cloth from his bag. At first he felt bad about taking it, but in the end decided it was more of a shame for his death to go to waste.
He then walked all day without stopping for a break. For breakfast and lunch he munched on some jerky and tomatoes from the Balinski’s camp.
That evening he cooked the moose meat over a small fire. It was a warm night so he extinguished the flames and made his bed up in the cradle of a tree. He wasn’t taking any chances.
The next morning he awoke with a terrible crick in the neck, and decided he needed to figure something out soon because he could probably only stand this tree business for one more night. After a quick breakfast of leftover moose he walked until mid-morning pausing when the slurp of rushing water reached his ears. He followed it and came upon a new river or perhaps an extension of the same one back with the Balinski’s.
He whistled. “I guess my luck is changing,” Not fifty yards away, there was a camp with a wooden lean-to shelter.
Up close, it looked a lot like Jack and Joe’s hut. Kilt shook the memory away. Right now was no time to lose his edge.
He approached the area carefully, his eyes and ears alert, but the place looked long deserted. The fire pit was cold, the ash wet and putty-like, almost non-existent.
Even from the outside, it was clear this lean-to was sturdier than the Balinski’s and better protected. Bigger too. Instead of leaving the sides open whoever built it had added walls so it was a fully enclosed house.
The wall that was supporting it turned out to be a large rock formation—the terrain was becoming thicker with them as he moved north east.
He approached the hut cautiously, knife out. He pulled the door open, the hinges emitting a long, slow creeeeek. Inside it was dark and cool with no light leaking through the spaces between the boards, a mark of a good craftsman. He lit a match and entered. The space was plain and empty. There was no bed but it had a natural, flat rock floor, due to an extension of the rock formation. He nodded approvingly. They could have done a lot worse in their camp choice, that was for certain. Whoever had lived here had probably stuck around for a year at least, maybe longer. What had made them leave?
He went all the way inside, allowing the door to close behind. The wall was angled so it shut with gravity. In the corner, against the rock was a mass that appeared to be a stack of logs. Holding the flame, nearly down to his fingers now, he knelt closer. “Jackpot,” he whispered. The previous owners had built a small stone fire patch in the corner complete with a makeshift chimney. There was even a pair of dusty torches left behind, leaning against the logs. With heat and light readily available all night, it was about the closest thing to a hobo’s paradise as he could imagine.
“Not too bad.” He turned full circle, shaking the match stick, the salty smell of smoke filling the room. “Not bad at all.”
Once outside he surveyed the campground and was pleased to find a wood lined potato cellar in front of the hut. Inside there were three black potatoes huddled in the corner, which had to be from the small, weed infested garden sitting at the northeast end of camp. He shut the wooden lid, deciding he would clean it out later.
As he headed back out into the forest for firewood and supplies he was lighter on his feet. Tonight he would be back sleeping on the ground like the dog that he was.
Chapter 38
Mevia
There was no fire burning inside the Poacher’s cave and the weak sunlight was swallowed by the black rocks. Mevia pressed her shoulder blades to the wall, and held her breath, listening, nearly gagging at the wretch. Soon her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the blurry shapes of the stoic rock took form.
The familiarity of the cave was almost overwhelming. It was as if she had never left, and in a way she hadn’t, for this was the tomb where her nightmares dwelled, dragging her back into the misery every time she shut her eyes. She squeezed a sharp rock jutting from the side, hoping that by holding on, it would keep her feet from running away.
Do what you came to do. She forced herself to step away from the wall and with deaf footsteps, snuck deeper into the cell.
The air was cold and thick, reeking of spoiled meat, mildew, and bad breath. The acidic fumes of urine and feces burned her nostrils. Their lives were so recycled with filth they couldn’t even smell their own waste.
Two lopsided red coals glowed in the distance, seeming to hover mid-air like frozen fireflies. Mevia went toward them.
But her foot caught on something and she fell, skidding on her stomach.
“Who’s there?” called a voice.
Mevia lay still. “Flora?” she whispered.
“M-Mevia?” She sounded breathless. “What are you doing here?”
“Are we alone?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Shh.”
“You need to get out!” She was just a voice hidden in the dark
“Is anyone here?”
Silence and then she answered, “Grunt. But he’s passed out.”
Mevia crawled over to the glowing embers. Her hands landed on a pile of dry leaves. She grabbed fistfuls and threw them into the light, then blew, rejuvenating the small fire.
The flames illuminated the space revealing absolute squalor. Lying among the animal bones, rotting fruit, firewood, and knives, was Flora blinking like a little mouse in the new light.
Mevia’s breath caught in her throat at the girl’s transformation. Disintegration was more accurate. She was a painful contrast from the young spark she had met just weeks before. Now, she was snuffed out, ashy. Her hallow eyes had sunk into her translucent skin, thin as a fly’s wing. Her cracked, scabby lips were wafer-like, almost invisible against her grey face. Pink hair, the only identifier o
f her former self, had grown out at the roots, and the salon straightening had depleted leaving a frizzy, matted mess. A twig stuck out from the side, just above her ear, tangled in a web of hair and mud.
“It’s really you,” her voice was strained. She was lying flat on the ground, without so much as a cloth for padding, her body sprawled, and limp.
Mevia went to her side and stroked her hair. “Don’t cry,” she said, wiping away Flora’s tears.
Flora smiled. “I didn’t know I was.”
She wondered how long Flora had been laying there like a corpse. Her eyes were slits, barely open. Mevia touched her skin gingerly and to her horror, found that Flora was caked in bedsores. Round scabs the size of coins dotted her body like leopard spots.
Mevia turned and glared through blurry eyes at Grunt’s heaving torso. He was lying on his side, breathing heavy as if he were running. There was a large scar from a poorly healed gash across his head. Most likely a punishment for Mevia’s escape.
“Flora, I’m so sorry,” she said.
Her almost invisible eyebrows furrowed. “For what?”
“Escaping. Leaving you.”
She gasped, a whisper of a breath. “No…don’t be,” her voice was shaky and she seemed to be using all her strength to talk. “Why would you come back here?”
“Ssh. Just rest.” She checked over her shoulder and listened for danger. “Look. I came to make sure you were still alive. I live with another tribe and I told them about you. We’re going to come back and get you. I just had to make sure you were still here.”
A tear slid across Flora’s temple, leaving a lone clean trail. She was so dirty Mevia’s heart almost stopped.
“Why?” Flora sucked in a lung full of air. “Why would you…risk—“
“I couldn’t live with myself leaving you here.”
Flora’s eyes looked past Mevia. “You need to go. Get out while you can.”
“It was awful thinking of you back here alone. I can’t…I won’t just leave you.”
Flora took a deep breath. “I’m sick.”
Mevia looked down at her, thin, degenerating limbs, only just now really seeing how swollen, and purple her skin was. Bruise colored trails spread like tentacles from yellow, oozing bed sores.
Mevia’s chin quivered. “We…we have medicine. Ointment.”
“I can’t see my body, but I know how bad it is.”
“No,” Mevia whispered. “I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry. I should have come sooner.” Again she looked over her shoulder and then stood up. “Wait. It’s not too late.” She grabbed a burning stick and rushed over to the edge. She peaked out of the cave. James’ brown face appeared, sticking out from behind some bushes. She signaled him to come up.
He was out of breath by the time he got there. He gagged and nearly threw up when the smell hit him. “What are we doing in here? I thought you were just going to take a look.” He had the tail of his shirt pressed over his face.
“Come on.” Mevia led him to the back of the cave.
His face changed when he saw Flora. He dropped the material from his nose.
“She’s sick. We have to take her now,” Mevia said as she positioned herself over Flora’s ankles. “I can pick up this end, but you’ll have to take her head. Carefully.”
James remained planted in place. “Mevia,” He whispered. “I don’t know if—“
“Hurry!” Mevia spat. She checked that Grunt was still sleeping.
James moved to Flora’s head.
“Mevia, what are you doing?” she croaked, her throat gurgled with strain.
“We’re getting you out of here.”
“You can’t carry me.”
“When we’re far enough away. We’ll build a stretcher or something. Come on James.” She knelt, but James remained standing. His eyes fixed on Flora.
“Mevia. I just don’t know…“ he repeated. “She’s in pretty bad shape.”
“Just fucking do it!” She hissed.
They all tensed as Grunt stirred. He shifted his weight, once, twice, before settling back down.
“Listen to your friend, Mevia,” Flora whispered.
“No!” Mevia hit the ground with her fist. “We can do this, James.”
Slowly he bent down and delicately placed his hands under Flora’s bone thin shoulders.
“On three,” Mevia whispered, looping her elbow under the ankles. “One. Two. Three.”
They heaved her lifeless body.
“Careful,” Mevia repeated as she struggled with her footing.
They got to the edge of the cave and set Flora down, propping her against the wall.
Mevia stuck her head out and looked in every direction. “Not a sight of them. Where are they?” She looked down at Flora.
“Hunting.” she was breathing so hard sweat was dripping off her brow. Her head hung against her shoulder, reminding Mevia of her mother in the hospital, the very last time she saw her.
Mevia shifted the weight. “Good,” she said, her heart rattling against her chest. She could barely think. “We can carry her down the rocks.”
“Mevia wait,” James pleaded.
“No James! I took you to get your goddammed power module and now you’re going to help me.”
“Ok, ok. You’re right.” He reached behind Flora and lifted at the same time as Mevia.
They hustled down from the cave mouth, Flora’s face pinched with every bumped.
Once they reached the ground they stopped for a break. “Are you ok?” Mevia asked.
Flora shook her head. “No. I’m too weak.” She threw up. Yellow bile ran down her cheek and chin.
Mevia wiped it with the hem of her dress, then she grabbed James by the elbow. “We don’t have much time. We have to get her to Sandra.”
Getting her over the hill and into the jungle was depleting. Mevia fell once in the climb and skid her knee.
They found a bushy area that seemed to be a good hiding place and rested. Flora threw up again as soon as they set her down.
“Please,” she begged. “Leave me here.”
“Just rest,” Mevia said breathlessly. “You’re safe now.” She looked down at her knee oozing with hot blood. The skin around it was white and dusty from falling on the rock.
James wheezed loudly, sucking lungful’s of air. It didn’t seem to be doing him any good, almost as if he had sprung a leak.
It was getting dark. Mevia stood. “Come on. Let’s get as far as we can. Then we can bed for the night. In the morning we’ll make her a stretcher out of some long sticks and some vine.”
James nodded. “We can use some of our clothes too. My shirt.”
“Good thinking.”
They went along silently through an erratic jungle filled with a roulette of ghastly squawks and carnal screams, assaulting branches scratching and slapping, them keeping their heads down as if shuffling through a mutinous crowd, anticipating the first punch, the righteous passing through the rioters, the hunted passing the hangman.
When night settled and the darkness thickened and they could no longer decipher tree from toad, they stopped and made camp.
“No fire,” Mevia said, removing the blanket from her pack, wrapping it delicately around Flora, trying to make her as comfortable as possible as if she was tucking a life sized doll into bed. “Here drink.” But Flora shook her head as if the water was poisoned. Mevia kept trying but then Flora’s little doll eyes shut and she was asleep.
Before turning in Mevia felt of Flora’s bone thin chest, making sure it was still rising and falling. Her breastbone protruded under her skin, clammy and thin as a jelly fish membrane. Her whispering heart was beating so close beneath her hand it was almost as if she were touching it.
She crawled over to James and spoke in a low voice. “She’s breathing steady.”
“Listen Mevia,” he said softly, his voice just a sound in the dark, even his outline was hardly visible. “I’m happy to take her to Sandra.”
“Good.
”
“But…I just…I just don’t know what she and Thomas can do.”
Mevia didn’t reply. She ran a cold finger over her hot, scabby knee, her snarled hair falling around her face. Without another word she rolled over and fell asleep.
Chapter 39
Mevia awoke from the flat of her back. There was a thin sliver of moon hiding behind the canvas of leaves like a peeping tom. It was the middle of the night. What had stirred her? She was cold, shivering, but that wasn’t it. She sat up and listened.
Someone else was moving too. James. James was sitting, shaking, just visible in the light. She frowned, still drowsy and delusional. She opened her mouth to speak, but then he raised his finger and pressed it to his lips. His eyes were wide. He was staring into the woods.
Then, Mevia understood what had woken her.
Someone was out there.
Leaves rustling. Twigs breaking. Voices of several someone’s getting closer.
Mevia slowly rose to her feet and leaned over, placing her head next to James. “We have to go.”
He nodded.
Mevia leaned on her stump, reached over and was about to place her hand on Flora when James whispered “She’s dead.”
Mevia halted, her hand hovering mid-air. She turned to James and in the pale moonlight there was a flicker of sorrow in his eyes and then he immediately looked afraid again.
Flora’s cheeks were sunken, almost hollow looking in the shadow of the moon. Mevia laid her hand upon Flora’s chest, moving it up to her thin neck. Her collarbone stuck out sharply from beneath cold, lifeless skin.
Suddenly James was on his feet. He grabbed Mevia’s elbow, jerking her up. She was barely able to get her footing and grab her pack. Stabs of hot pain rose from her knee.
“Run!” he ordered.
Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1) Page 22
