Huntress

by Christine Warren, Marjorie Liu, Caitlin Kittredge, Jenna Maclaine

  The crow slammed his beak into Maggie’s ankle, drawing blood. She flinched, giving him a dirty look, but the pain helped her focus. She looked at the people gathered, more and more arriving by the minute, because it was morning and this was where business got done. Word would have gotten around by now. Not much happened in Olo. Not many strangers arrived, riding machines that should have been impossible to fuel. Everyone would come see. Everyone was coming.

  In the distance, she heard a rumble; low, like thunder, and so deep and sonorous, she felt the sound in her blood.

  Not a scout, she realized. Bait.

  Maggie choked, frozen, and the roars ripped louder, wild and raw with throbbing heat. Folks started turning, looking around with frowns and whispers, and she fought for her voice, for movement, for anything but the paralysis sinking in her bones.

  Move, screamed the voice in her mind. Move now.

  The crow fluttered up to her shoulder, placed his beak inside her ear, and shrieked. Maggie cried out, knocking him away, but she found herself able to move, and screamed, “Run!”

  No one did. Men and women she had known her entire life stared at her like she was crazy. Maggie stumbled into the street, grabbing Otis’s arm. She swung the farmer around, searching his eyes, aware of the motorcycle man sitting straighter, staring holes into the back of her head.

  “Please,” she begged him, “Otis—”

  Behind her, the motorcycle kicked to life: a magnificent, mechanical snarl that cut through Maggie like an ax. She flinched around that sound—that beautiful sound—and glanced over her shoulder. She saw all of him in a flash—denim and muscle and steel, feathers fluttering wildly—and watched in terrified wonder as the motorcycle’s tires squealed, burning rubber, lunging toward her.

  Men and women scattered. Otis grabbed Maggie’s arm, trying to push her aside, but her legs locked as the motorcycle accelerated—and she finally saw what had been flashing in the sunlight around the man’s neck.

  Shark teeth, capped in silver, hanging from a chain.

  Maggie’s vision narrowed. Blood roared in her ears. A dark blur fell from the sky like a hammer, slamming into the side of the man’s head. He fell sideways and the motorcycle skidded, trapping him beneath. The crow began screeching, beating his wings with furious energy against the air.

  She started to run—running was all she wanted to do—but lurched to a stop after several steps, teetering and looking over her shoulder at the trapped man, who was shoving viciously at the motorcycle that had fallen on his leg. Maggie ran back to him, bent low to the ground. His head was turned away from her, and the sounds of her shoes on the pavement were drowned out by cries and shouts.

  He turned to look at her just as she reached him, and she saw his eyes were the same as Irdu’s: black, and filled with glints of gold. He snarled at her, but the crow swooped, shrieking, and under a flurry of black feathers, she reached down and snatched the necklace off his neck. The man’s hand flashed. His fingers snagged her wrist, his grip so tight, it felt as though he was crushing bone. A strange lassitude flooded her—a split-second desire to lie down and give up—but Maggie focused, and reached into her back pocket for a switchblade.

  She stabbed his arm—hesitating for one brief second before sinking the knife into his flesh. Wincing, even as the blade went deep and grated off bone. The man made no sound, but instead writhed, baring his teeth—sharp white teeth.

  His fingers loosened and she slipped free, falling on her backside. The switchblade remained in his arm, and the crow flew at her, cawing wildly. Beyond the bird, the man continued to stare, his gaze burning through her with power. But not the same power as Irdu’s. Weaker, different, like the heat of sunlight in winter and in summer.

  “Stay,” hissed the man, wrenching the switchblade from his bleeding arm. “Stay.”

  Maggie did not stay. She scrabbled to her feet, turned, and ran. Shark teeth dug into her palm. She barely saw the faces that stared at her, or heard their voices calling out. She wanted to tell them to run, but her throat choked, and she could not stop. Her legs refused to slow.

  She raced back to her bicycle, leaped onto the seat, and began pedaling hard. No direction at first; just steering across lawns and narrow streets, heading in a straight line out of town. Somewhere near, engines roared, and a bitter acrid scent filled the air. Burning gasoline, she thought, and suddenly glimpsed leather-clad men between the houses, all of them headed toward the center of town.

  They were already nearby, she thought grimly. And you knew. You knew they might be coming and warned no one.

  Behind her, screams filled the air, but all she could see were shark teeth, dangling and glittering. Trace’s good luck charm. She never took it off. Maggie tossed the necklace over her head to keep it safe. It was heavier than she expected, the chain cold. She rubbed her palm against her stinging eyes, and pedaled harder.

  The crow flew overhead. At the edge of town she rode through the old graveyard, heading straight from the walking trails into a farmer’s bordering land. Maggie threw her bike over the fence, followed awkwardly, and started pushing. Halfway across the pasture she heard the ripping roar of motorcycles, and dropped down into the scrubby grass. She could see the road from where she crouched, and glimpsed chrome flashing.

  Maggie flattened herself even more, but not enough to keep her from watching as thirteen motorcycles rumbled out of town. At least five of the men held women in front of them, dresses and shawls fluttering. They only seemed conscious: none were struggling, just sitting upright, eyes open and staring blindly. The man who had worn Trace’s necklace was easy to find—he was the only one without a shirt—and the feathery cape flowed behind him like wings. Blood flowed down his pale arm.

  Irdu led the pack. Maggie was certain of it. He turned his head to look in her direction, and she knew his face, even from a distance. She recognized his motorcycle, the only one that was unadorned.

  She watched the men until they rode out of sight, and when they were gone, the growls of their motorcycles fading, she rolled on her back and stared at a sky that was not quite as blue and a sun not as warm, and wiped her eyes and nose, trying not to cry.

  The crow landed beside her, making small throaty noises.

  Maggie rolled on her side, staring into his dark eyes, and clutched the jangling shark teeth in one hand, and then pressed them against her flushed cheek.

  “What do you know?” she asked him, certain now that he was no ordinary crow versed well enough in myths and fairytales of magic that she could believe in odd things. In a world where most everyone had died, it seemed to her that odd was the new normal, and that normal was in the eyes of the beholder … as the old saying went.

  The crow, of course, said nothing. But words were in there, crow words, ticking around his brain. Maggie knew it. She could almost hear them, and stroked his chest with the back of her trembling hand. “A necklace doesn’t mean much. She might be alive.”

  Or not. But the might be was stronger. So was Trace. She had survived the Big Death and the chaos that followed, and was still sharp and whole and healthy. Robber men and their motorcycles were nothing. Nothing.

  And if she told herself that long enough, she thought she just might believe it.

  Maggie did not go back to town. She could not bear it. She traveled cross-country toward home, pushing her bicycle among cattle and horses, and through idle fields waiting for their spring plowing. She walked through the forest, hauling her bicycle up and down the barren hills, and though she sweated and her muscles ached, she did not notice. All she could think of was the old woman. The shark teeth remained cold against her skin.

  It took her all day to return home. Sunlight was almost gone. The air still smelled acrid and there were wheel marks in the dirt of the yard. Maggie leaned her bicycle inside the barn, surveying her workshop: half-finished toys and other items she tinkered with, her tools, decades of junk stacked and neatly organized. Her sledgehammer was the only thing out of place. She
found it on the bench. A message had been written into the handle, in a thick black ink that Maggie had not seen in years.

  A test of truth. Find us, if you can. You know why.

  Maggie closed her eyes, pressing her brow against the cold, hard steel. She took the sledgehammer with her into the house and laid it on the table; then cooked a big meal. She fried up all the ham and boiled eggs. She made corn bread. She ate only a little and wrapped the rest, along with some clothes and a blanket.

  Maggie strapped on her tool belt, and slid the sledgehammer into place. She went outside and set her chickens loose.

  And then, carefully, Maggie locked her house, loaded her things onto her bicycle, and rode under the cover of darkness away from the junkyard. She headed north, because that was where Trace had gone, and the direction that Irdu had been leading his men. Fistfuls of stars glittered, rivers of stars, and the night was cool and quiet.

  Maggie listened for thunder.

  FOUR

  For the first two days, Maggie rode only at night, resting during the day off the road, inside the forest. She had been surprised twice by the motorcycle men, in broad daylight, and though she was quite certain that traveling at night provided little, if any, protection at all, it made her feel better. She could see well in the dark, and the crow rode upon her shoulder as she pedaled silently down the long road, listening to the tread of her tires, the wind, and the thrush of branches beneath the glittering stars.

  She met no other travelers at night, though she passed the skeletons of old towns, fallen into rubble. If folks lived there, they did so quietly—and Maggie did not linger. Enclaves might be full of busybodies and gossip, and folks who rubbed you the wrong way, but there was something to be said for familiar faces and community, and knowing you had a place in the world.

  Fixer, Maggie reminded herself, trying to bolster her courage. You fix things. You’ll fix this.

  “I don’t suppose you have a plan?” Maggie asked the crow.

  Not one you want to hear, she imagined his reply, masculine but soft.

  And because Maggie was more than willing to indulge her imagination, she replied, “Try me.”

  The crow fluttered his wings, giving her a sharp look, but she attributed it to a deep crack in the pavement that made the bicycle bump up and down. After steering around clumps of weeds, and a lonely hubcap that Maggie very much wanted to salvage, she imagined a quiet male voice whisper, You must trick them. You must be them.

  “I’m not anything like them,” Maggie protested.

  But the crow remained silent, even when she reached up and poked him gently in the chest. He merely rocked a bit on her shoulder, and then rubbed his head against her ear.

  It was near dawn when Maggie stopped to rest, venturing far off the road into the woods. She did not want to get off her bicycle. She was ready now, because of the crow, to go on the road during the day. A little faith, some trust, an idea that he would warn her if danger was close; all these things that should have been impossible she accepted, if with some trepidation—and desperation.

  I just need to know, Maggie kept telling herself, feeling her stomach sore with hunger and fear. Alive or dead, I need to know for certain what happened to Trace.

  But her body refused her. She could not go another mile without sleep.

  The redbud trees were blooming so thick in the undergrowth that in the predawn light, they seemed less like trees and more like a vast pink mist, delicate and rosy. Maggie brushed her fingers against the soft clumps of blooms and left her bicycle leaning against one of the stout little trees, then she unfolded her blanket and spread it over the dead leaves.

  She unbuckled her tool belt, and pulled the sledgehammer free, laying it on the blanket beside her. She ran her fingers over the message, and then through her hair, rubbing her scalp, searching for unusual bumps. It was too cool yet for ticks, probably, but if she stayed out in these woods much longer it would be a problem. She had cut her hair short for that reason, and because it was hard to keep long hair clean and out of the way.

  Maggie ate her last boiled egg, and shared small chunks of cornbread with the crow, giving him the very last piece in her handkerchief. The crow tilted his head, picked up the cornbread, and dropped it back into her hand.

  Maggie sighed, stroked his little head, and split the piece in half. She ate one chunk of it, and this time, he pecked away at the other.

  “You’re not normal,” she said to him, as he ate. “I get that. But why stick with me?”

  The crow did not stop tearing at the cornbread, though inside her head Maggie heard a soft voice whisper, You are not so normal either.

  Obviously, thought Maggie, scowling—stretching out on her blanket and trying to roll herself up into a warm ball. She adjusted the shark teeth necklace so it did not poke her skin. “And?”

  This is a new world. He stopped pecking at crumbs and gave her a long look that was uncanny and keen. A world where girls may speak to birds, and where birds might be more than feather and bone.

  “I’m imagining this,” she told him, eyes drifting shut. “I’m indulging voices in my head because I’m lonely.”

  The world has become a lonelier place, he replied, hopping close. Some of us miss the humans.

  “And some prey on them,” Maggie mumbled, half-asleep, not quite certain what was coming out of her mouth.

  She hardly felt the crow touch her cheek, and was barely awake enough to appreciate the surprising softness of his beak as it rested near her lips.

  There are some who prey on us all, he whispered, and that was all Maggie heard before drifting deep into sleep.

  * * *

  Maggie heard voices in her dreams, a swift endless chatter from the shadows. Soothing voices, familiar, and she drifted upon words and sighs, eavesdropping in her sleep though she could not understand a thing that was said. She woke slowly, and the warm thrush of voices continued unabated, chirring and sweet. A faint breeze stirred against her face. She opened her eyes, just a little, and found the redbud blooms rising off wizened branches to flit like fireflies, but with flowers instead of light. Maggie watched them, thinking she must still be dreaming, and smiled at the wee symphony of movement.

  Perhaps that was too much awareness. Flying flowers faltered. Maggie’s vision became blurred, and she rubbed her eyes. When she could see again, the dance had ended, and the world had resumed its natural order: still, quiet, and ordinary.

  She lay unmoving for quite some time, staring at those branches and the redbud blooms—taking note, too, of the blue sky overhead and the glint of sunlight through the trees. She did not think she had slept long, perhaps only to mid-morning. Maggie rubbed her face. Her nose felt cold. She untangled herself from her blanket, stretching out the crick in her neck. Two nights now, sleeping under the sky in the cold spring air. Not ideal. She jumped in place, rubbing her arms, trying to get her blood moving. She searched the trees for the crow.

  She did not see him.

  Dismay set in, and then concern. Maggie struggled not to feel either; or worse, not to feel fear. The crow was just that—a bird—and if he chose to fly about, doing what came naturally, that was his business. It did not mean he had abandoned her. At least, she hoped not.

  Maggie stumbled around the redbud trees, searching for a good spot to use as a latrine, and heard water splashing.

  She froze, head tilted, and then heard the sound again, faintly. She followed, pretending she was a ghost, silent as she picked her way over dead leaves, ducking under redbud branches. Petals floated down upon her shoulders and head.

  She found a creek nearby, flowing around the base of a small hill. Oaks and maples twisted their roots through the water, which rushed quietly over large glistening rocks. Downstream, where the current quieted, there crouched a naked man. He was ankle deep, bent low as he furtively spilled handfuls of water over his lean, muscled back. His dark hair, cut short and ragged, hung wet and rough around his face, which she could see little of except
for the profile of a strong jaw. His skin was golden brown, his hands large and elegant, moving with particular grace.

  Maggie stared, rooted to one spot. Suffering from a compulsion, not unlike the one she had experienced with Irdu, to draw near, to see more, to be close for no reason, other than that it seemed right. Only, this was her own particular desire, and not something forced into her mind, as she suspected Irdu and his men had done, to her and others. She remembered how docile those women had been, as they were carried away on the motorcycles. No woman in Olo was that meek, Amish or otherwise.

  Maggie took a step, and the man flinched, looking over his shoulder at her. She glimpsed a raging, burning gaze, wild and dark, and she felt a physical jolt, like a good shake. The man burst from the water, snatching up a dark robe from the dead leaves on the shore.

  He ran. Maggie stared, voice choking in her throat. She wanted to tell him to wait, but it was no good. He was too fast. The robe he clutched to his chest trailed around him, fluttering. It was made of black feathers, she realized—long, shining, and sleek.

  She thought about that for a moment, breathless, and then turned slowly and walked back to her bicycle, staring at nothing in particular as she stumbled through the redbuds, replaying that scene over and over in her mind. She searched those eyes. Considering the possibilities.

  By the time she started pedaling down the old road, the crow was high overhead, little more than a speck of shadow.

  Maggie reached Dubois Enclave late that afternoon. The border was marked with a single government-posted sign, jammed into the side of the road. It still looked new: bright green, with neat white letters. Olo’s sign was only five years old, and every now and then one of the Amish families sent their children out to weed around the wood post, and in the summer, to tend the petunias planted at its base. Dubois did not seem to care as much. Dead leaves and tall grass were its only decoration; but then, it was hardly spring.