Huntress

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

  She followed the road as it curved and twisted upward, into the hills. Her thighs burned, as did her lungs. The shark teeth were cold against her flushed skin.

  The crow swept low over her head, into the trees, their branches bursting with new buds of green leaves. The air was cool and smelled like rain, and the sunlight flowing through the clouds was silver. No vultures in the sky. It had been years since Maggie had traveled outside Olo, but she had never been this far north to Dubois. She passed dirt tracks that faded into the forest, and somewhere in the distance she heard dogs barking. Maggie saw no signs of people, though she felt watched—and startled a small herd of deer grazing at the side of the road.

  The barricade took her by surprise. She came upon it while pedaling up the curving road. A ravine was on her left, and a steep hill of jutting limestone on her right. She had to brake fast, front wheels wobbling, and she slammed her boots into the pavement to keep from tipping.

  Fallen trees blocked the road, a very deliberate wall of logs and branches, so freshly cut she could smell the sap and sweetness of new wood. Two men and one woman sat on the logs, holding axes, old hunting bows, and rifles that Maggie thought were probably not loaded (though she was unwilling to bet her life on that). All three were dressed in old pants and thick jackets, glimpses of synthetic cloth still visible between hand-stitched patches of fur, leather, and government-issued cotton.

  No one spoke as she drew near, no warnings, not one greeting—nothing but cold scrutiny and silence. Approaching them, Maggie felt a bit like a robber herself: dangerous, an outlaw. She watched their hands tighten around the weapons, and the shadows deepening in their eyes.

  “I’m looking for someone,” Maggie called out, dismounting slowly from her bicycle. “Trace, the Junk Woman. I know she comes through here sometimes. I’m worried she might have been hurt. By men on the road.”

  “Men on the road,” echoed the woman, who was as brown and wrinkled as stiff leather, though her fingers were supple enough to hold the ax handle. “Motorcycle men, though God only knows how those machines still run. Yes. We’ve had dealings with them.”

  “And Trace,” added another fellow, who had a different look about him, with his coarse black hair and eyes—Asian, maybe, or Native Indian. “She was here little over a week ago, stayed for a bit, and left. She was fine then.”

  Fine. Alive. Maggie struggled with herself. “Do you know if she went north?”

  “Up to Martins. Said there was a detour she had to make, but that she would take some letters for us.”

  Martins was another three days’ journey from here—never mind any detours. Maggie had a bad feeling that Trace had not arrived at her destination. She tapped her thigh, thinking about the message written on the handle of her sledgehammer, the necklace hanging heavy beneath her shirt, and felt those people scrutinizing her with an intensity that made her uneasy. Best not to linger, she thought. Strangers were unwelcome now.

  “I don’t suppose I could trade for food?” asked Maggie. “I won’t bother you for more than that.”

  The woman gave her a skeptical look. “Trade? You’ve got nothing I can see, except maybe your tools and the rig you’re riding.”

  Maggie took off her backpack and crouched. Carefully, a little afraid they would be bent or broken, she removed the small puppets and whirly-gig fans that she had intended to trade in Olo. Much to her relief, all the small toys were intact, and she dangled the puppets and made them dance; and blew on the whirly-gig until its fans spun and whistled like ghosts. The men and woman were not easy to make smile, but they did finally, nudging each other with grim amusement.

  The Asian fellow relaxed his hold on the compound bow, leaning it against his leg. “Just food, you want?”

  “That’s all I need. And I can only afford to part with one of these.” In case there were other Enclaves she needed to trade with, Maggie thought.

  The woman tore her gaze from the puppet to Maggie. “I know you now. You’re the Fixer from Olo.”

  She might as well have called Maggie a bad name. The men gave their companion a startled look, and then turned their sharp focus on Maggie. The little progress she had made in relaxing them disappeared. Distrust settled again in their eyes, and anger.

  “Is there a problem with that?” Maggie asked slowly.

  “One of the robber men mentioned you,” said the woman, eyes narrowed, but with thoughtfulness, and not the same suspicion as the men. “You, specifically. He made a point of telling us that you might pass through here. He said … you were good at fixing things.”

  “Like motorcycles,” added the other man; a freckled, tousled redhead who had been silent until now, and who had not stopped staring at Maggie since her arrival. “Is that what you did for them? Did you help those men?”

  “No,” Maggie replied sharply, giving him a hard look. “But one of them … knocked me out. Took what he needed.”

  “But not you,” said the woman. “He didn’t take you.”

  “He took enough.” Maggie stared dead into the woman’s eyes, daring her to interpret that as she wished. “Am I going to have trouble here?”

  “No,” began the Asian man, but he stopped as the woman’s frown deepened, and she chewed the inside of her hollow cheek.

  “I knew your grandfather,” she said finally. “I came to Olo once so he could fix my plow. I remember you. Little spit of a thing, not more than five or six. You told me my future that day.”

  “I doubt that,” Maggie replied, though a chill rolled over her arms. She bent to pack up her toys, and the woman crouched, touching her wrist.

  “You said,” she whispered, “that I would have no children of my own, but that I would take in new blood. You said to watch for the green man, because he would try to hurt my family.”

  Maggie went very still, memories rushing—memories that she had not known she possessed. She recalled a hot dusty day sitting in the shade of the barn, playing with a little wooden horse her granddaddy had carved for her. A long shadow had joined her, a woman in jeans and boots, with a long knife strapped to her waist. The woman had asked her a question about the toy, and her voice had melted into the shadows, sparking images; dreams, waking in Maggie’s head.

  She remembered that, and more, and it made her breathless, and ill. “Hello, Ellen.”

  The older woman rocked gently on her heels, rubbing her jaw. “Not long after I met you, some kids came in on the last of the refugee buses. I was forced to take them, even though I had no interest. But we got along. I loved them. And then a man came to town, one of those traveling types—a teacher, he said—and oh, what a fine green coat he had! But I remembered what you said. I kept an eye on him. And when I found him one morning with my little Eddie …”

  The woman stopped, and looked down at the puppets. “You saved the boy. Other children, too.” She fingered one of the toys, tweaking a small metal arm. “I’ll trade you for this one.”

  Maggie stared, stricken. But the deal was done. Ellen offered a jar of pear preserves, a chunk of dried beef, a loaf of bread, and cheese. Maggie accepted without argument, and the men—after a brief hesitation—helped drag her bicycle over the barrier of fallen logs. Neither one looked her in the eye. Maggie did not want to be around them, either. She did not trust herself—not her memories, nothing. She wondered what else she had made herself forget.

  Ellen did not invite Maggie into town. She left her to fetch the goods, riding away on a lean fast bicycle. Maggie waited uncomfortably with the two men, who sat with equal discomfort a short distance away, on top of the barrier. The crow perched in a tree above them, but she did not think they noticed.

  “So, you’re psychic,” said the Asian man finally, looking sideways at her from his survey of the empty quiet road.

  “No,” Maggie replied.

  The redheaded man muttered, “Your town was hit, right? People taken? Not a good psychic if you didn’t see that.”

  “I’m not psychic,” she said, wondering if
she would have to use the sledgehammer, after all; or make a run for it. But neither man moved, or looked at her, and after a short time the Asian fellow slowly, haltingly, shared a tale of men and motorcycles. Dubois, it seemed, had lost four women and two young men. Some had families. Nothing had slowed the kidnappers; not rocks, not baseball bats, not knives. They had not played bait and snatch, but simply roared in on thunder and taken what was in front of them.

  Maggie frowned. “Did you try to follow your people? To see where they were taken?”

  “We tried,” said the redheaded man hesitantly, a flush staining his cheeks. “They were too fast. We had others to think about, in case there was a second attack.”

  You gave your people up for dead, she thought, but hardly blamed them. Death had become common. It was survival that mattered. Maggie knew she was nuts to look for Trace. She knew, too, that she was cold-hearted for hardly thinking of anyone else who had been kidnapped—forgetting them, even. But she could not help everyone; couldn’t even help herself.

  Silence, after that. The men did not even ask about Olo, which under other circumstances would have been odd. News from other places was rare. They watched the road and Maggie, and Maggie watched her feet and the crow. She was almost sick with tension by the time Ellen returned with the food.

  Maggie turned down offers of a free bed, though her body ached for something soft to rest on and a hot meal. But the shark teeth were cold against her skin, and above her head the crow fluttered his wings. She packed up her toys and loaded her bicycle with food. She waved good-bye to the men, who acknowledged her only with a nod, and pushed her bicycle a short distance down the road, while Ellen walked by her side.

  “Are any old city forests nearby?” asked Maggie, knowing full well the answer, but wanting to gauge the woman’s reaction.

  The response was as Maggie expected. Even after twenty years, Ellen flinched, distaste and fear flickering in her eyes.

  She was old enough to remember the bad times, and Maggie was suddenly glad she had been too little, too well protected in the distant countryside, to do more than learn from afar that her parents had died.

  “Several days east of here, along the old freeway, if you’re on foot,” replied Ellen, a warning tone in her voice. “But I wouldn’t really know.”

  Maggie nodded, and swung her leg over the bicycle. Ellen grabbed her arm. “Those men had another message. It was also meant for you.”

  Maggie’s gut twisted painfully. “I’m surprised you’re letting me walk out of here, as much as I was mentioned.”

  “I’ll get flak for it. But you’ll be gone, and folks trust me.”

  Maggie shook her head. “What was it?”

  Ellen hesitated, grim. “Don’t give up. That’s what he told us to pass on to you. Don’t give up if you want to find your teeth.”

  A bad taste rose inside Maggie’s throat, and she swallowed the urge to spit on the road. Son of a bitch, her granddaddy would have said, and Maggie found herself mouthing the same words. Son of a bitch.

  Ellen had not yet released her arm, and her fingers tightened. “You, girl. Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “What I have to,” she said coldly.

  “And can you still see the future?”

  Of course not, Maggie almost replied, but in that moment her vision blurred, and images raced through her mind; a torrent of shadows shrouding petals, feathers, and chrome. She blinked once and saw Ellen sprawled facedown in snow. A brace of frozen rabbits hung from her belt. Her skin was blue. She was not moving.

  The vision broke. Maggie blinked again, rubbing her burning eyes. When she looked at Ellen, the woman was too bright, the entire world shining, and she had to squint just to see.

  “Girl,” said Ellen.

  Maggie looked down at her hands, searching for words. “If it snows … don’t go out alone. Don’t check your lines. Stay home. Stay home if it snows, Ellen, even if you’re hungry.”

  Ellen’s hand fell away. Maggie forced herself to look at the woman, and found her gaze hard and flinty. But Ellen tightened her mouth and nodded once, like she understood.

  Maggie said good-bye and pedaled away.

  FIVE

  Near evening it began to rain, winds kicking up with wild strength. The crow had led Maggie to an abandoned farmhouse, sagging on its foundation some distance off the road.

  “You’re sure no one’s in there?” she asked the bird, wiping rain from her face, hesitant to venture inside. Most of the window glass was gone, and an oak tree was growing through the porch.

  Trust me, the crow replied, perched on the edge of her bicycle’s basket. We’re beyond humans now.

  Maggie was still cautious, though. She kept one hand on the sledgehammer. Inside was dark, and a cursory examination revealed little that was useful. Most everything except the floorboards had been taken away, and she supposed that eventually those would go, too. Maggie would not have waited this long to harvest them. There was linoleum in the kitchen that would be worth a good trade, and the insulation behind the walls could be used in another home. The Formica countertops were still in place, but the cabinet doors had been taken. An old clock hung on the wall, tilted at an angle.

  The crow sat with Maggie during dinner as she curled up on her blanket, eating with her fingers and tossing him bits of bread and pear. She was in the dining room, just outside the kitchen. The wallpaper was peeling. Her tool belt lay beside her head, but she had pulled the sledgehammer free. She did not read the message on the handle, though it was impossible not to notice. The words, so large and black, seemed to crawl like spider legs in the corner of her vision. When she lay down, resting her head in her arms, she turned away from the tool and faced the crow. He remained at the edge of her blanket, and stroked her hair with his beak.

  “Why are you different?” she asked him softly, as the rain began drumming harder against the roof, and the winds howled. Shark teeth had spilled out from beneath the collar of her shirt, and the floor was cold beneath her blanket. When her fingertips brushed against the dark, scratched wood, she heard children laughing, and smelled sweet cake, freshly baked and warm.

  I am me, replied the crow gently. Just as you are you. We were born this way.

  “My parents were normal,” Maggie said. “I think.”

  The crow flipped his wings. There would be no shame in it if they were not.

  “And the men with their motorcycles?” Maggie peered into his dark glittering eyes. “What about them?”

  He ducked his head, busying himself with an invisible crumb. She touched his wing and pushed gently. He hardly budged. Sturdy little bird. Maggie thought about the man in the creek—lean, brown, effortlessly wild—and stopped stroking the crow’s sleek back.

  She imagined that he sighed, gently. They are not men. They are something older. Their kind existed before the humans died, existed while humans were in their infancy, but in secret. Always, in secret.

  Maggie thought of Irdu’s cold kiss, and shivered. “What do they do with those people they take?”

  They hurt them, said the crow.

  She closed her eyes. “One was wearing Trace’s necklace. You think she’s dead?”

  I think she is strong. I think there is time.

  “He was also wearing feathers.”

  The crow made a small throaty sound. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her, so intensely and with such sharp intelligence that she gave up thinking of him as a bird. Never again. He was only pretending, she thought. Wearing a mask.

  Maggie mumbled, “Why are you really helping me?”

  Lightning flickered outside, and thunder rumbled. The crow flinched, and hunched so deeply, his head almost disappeared within his ruffled feathers.

  Someone was stolen from me, he whispered. Very long ago.

  Maggie did not know what to say. Her hand inched close, but she did not touch him. She just waited, and closed her eyes. The crow, after a moment, pressed the side of his sleek, warm head
against her fingers.

  She was not certain who was comforting whom.

  Silence was heavy. Maggie tried to relax, but her thoughts stumbled over Ellen, and then Trace. She thought of her granddaddy, too. Big strong man, always pale, with large freckled hands and silver hair that sometimes in the sunlight revealed glimpses of red. Carver Greene. Maggie had some of his red in her hair, passed down through her daddy—who had been a football star before the Big Death. “Professional ball-thrower” sounded kind of odd to her.

  She tried to remember interacting with her mother, but that, as usual, was impossible. Maggie had pictures, but nothing else. She had been small, though very elegant and keenly dressed in suits and heels, which no one in their right mind would wear now, at least not in the Enclaves.

  Her family. She had never questioned those bonds, and still did not. But she was different from other people—just a bit—and she wondered where that came from. Granddaddy had been eccentric, she thought, but not … odd. Not strange—as in telling the future, or hearing voices.

  Maggie knew nothing about her parents, though. Or what they had known about her.

  There’s more you’re not telling yourself, came the unbidden thought. More you can do. More you can become.

  Maggie hoped not. She wanted nothing of it. Just her quiet normal life—fixing things, making toys for children. Playing with the relics of the past, and turning them into something new.

  She was still thinking about that as she drifted off to sleep and began to dream, gently, at first. She stood in her workshop, staring out the barn door into the meadow where the morning light trickled, sledgehammer in hand, and the foundry fires burning. But the gate bells jangled, and dread filled her heart. Maggie, in her dream, turned—and found herself plunged into darkness.