Blight Page 13

  I swallow and get a better grip on the bag. Then I slide it out the rest of the way—slow, gentle, quiet.

  I sit back, clutching the seeds to my chest. Alder never has to know. AgraStar never has to know. All I have to do is—

  “What are you doing?”

  I snap to attention.

  He sits up. “What is that?”

  “Nothing.” I rock back on my heels and stand in one quick motion.

  He’s wide awake now. “You were going to do something to me. What were you . . .” His eyes go first to the gun, then he slaps his pockets. He jumps up. “Give it back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  Alder rushes me. I turn to run, but he grabs my hair. “Give it back! I know you have it.”

  I spin, trying to wrench myself free, and come face-to-face with him. His eyes narrow. I scowl back. “It’s not what you think. I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Enough.” Alder snatches the bag of seeds and shoves me back. I sprawl on the floor, shocked and winded. I was trying to do the right thing.

  “I can’t believe I trusted you.” He stuffs the bag in his pocket. “Stupid. You’re just another unthinking cog bitch, like all the rest of them.”

  “Don’t say that.” I stand. I hate that word. “I’m not—”

  “Shut up. I don’t care. You killed Eden.”

  “I—”

  “You killed Eden!” he screams.

  “And you killed Ellison!” I scream back. “You killed everyone I know. I had my whole life planned out, and you took that from me. You took everything from me!” I grab the front of his shirt and twist it in my fists.

  “Go on,” Alder says through his teeth. His face is wet. His chest heaves beneath my hand. “Do it. Kill me.”

  The words bring me back into my body. I’m not going to lose control. He can’t make me. I let go of his shirt and back away.

  “What, are you afraid?” Alder holds out his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t want to take me on without your fences and your guns?”

  I shake my head. My body is hot with anger. There’s nothing I’d like better than to pound Alder’s face in, and I’d probably win. I’m better trained, better fed, and just as angry. But it’s what he wants, and I’m not going to give it to him.

  “You’re nothing.” Alder spits. “Without that cog compound, you’re nothing at all.”

  “What are you, then?” I pick up my backpack, trying to keep my voice calm. “Leeching off us? Nothing but bottom-feeders and parasites.”

  “We’re free,” Alder says. “More than you’ll ever be. Even after all this, they’ve still got your mind. You’ll never be anything but a cog.”

  “Better that than a shirk,” I say, and shove out into the night. I’ve spent too long with Alder, been too soft. I’ve let him push me off track. I need to head southwest, to AgraStar, back to what I know. The moonlight hits me, and I run.

  .11.

  SILVER DOLLAR PLANT

  LUNARIA

  The forest gives way to a field, and I stop. I’ve been going west for an hour or so. The moon is full and bright above the tree line. I stare at the scrub and overgrown grass in front of me. Open space means no cover, nowhere to hide. I check left and right. The field is more than a field, now that I look closely. It’s a long, wide break in the trees, as if someone clear-cut the whole tract of land at some point. A dull glint catches my eye. Railroad ties. Of course. AgraStar doesn’t use the old rail lines, but our transport routes cross them, and I’ve seen their steel bones out on eradication missions a few times.

  I adjust my pack and check my ammo. Something about the tracks raises the hairs on the back of my neck. It’s been decades since anyone used freight trains. Shouldn’t this whole area be overgrown with saplings and brambles? Unless someone has been clearing it . . . I step back and chew on my lip, looking for movement in the grass and shadows. Nothing. I don’t like the idea of exposing myself and running across the tracks, but I don’t have much choice. There’s no other way to reach the safety of the thicket on the other side. Better to go now, when I have a little more cover than I would in daylight.

  I dart out at a crouch, trying to keep my head below the grass and weeds. Swift and silent.

  I’m nearing the other side. Only five yards, then two . . .

  “Tempest!”

  I hit the ground. What the hell?

  “Tempest!” Alder hisses again. “Wait!”

  I crawl the last few yards to the trees and hide behind a cluster of lunaria. Its round, paper-white leaves shine in the moonlight. I catch sight of Alder racing across the field, jumping the rails. Idiot. What’s he doing?

  A pair of headlights flash on. Alder freezes, caught in the high beams. An engine revs—a diesel roar breaking the night—and the lights lurch forward. Alder bolts, first toward me, then back in the direction he came from. Whoops and shouts rise above the engine. The vehicle jolts and jumps over the uneven terrain, careening after Alder. Jackers. They cut him off, circle him, drive him back into the open. I can’t make out any faces, but it’s men’s voices taunting him as they let him run, then drive him back again. Shaved heads above the open-top jeep. M4 carbine rifles on their shoulders. They’re playing with him.

  I press my back against a tree and check my rounds again. What am I going to do? Me and a clumsy pistol versus a truck full of men with M4s that have probably been modded to be fully automatic? The math isn’t good. If I had my rifle, my scope, a better vantage point, maybe. . . . The best I can do with a pistol is cause a distraction before they spot my muzzle flash and come after me. The image of that captured clearer, naked and covered in blood, flickers through my mind. I see her walking, the flames of the R&D facility rising behind her, the corn shriveling beneath her feet. It’s not real. It’s only a story. You’re mixing it all up. My breath comes short and fast.

  A burst of machine-gun fire echoes across the field. Alder is frozen in the headlights, but he hasn’t fallen. He holds his hands above his head. One of the men climbs down from the jeep, his movements slow. I saw a swamp cat once on wilderness training—a mountain lion, Rosalie called it, even though there are no mountains for at least a hundred miles west of the compound. This man moves like that. Slow and sure. Dangerous, as if he’s conserving his energy to strike.

  He looms over Alder. I hear a muffled exchange, some kind of question, and Alder shakes his head. The man steps closer. Alder shakes his head again. The man raises the butt of his M4 and clocks Alder across the temple. Alder falls, a dark shape beneath the high beams. I clap a hand over my mouth.

  The man who hit Alder points to the others and then to the woods. They pair off, two on one side of the jeep, two on the other, raise their rifles, and point them at the trees. Shit. At me. They’re pointing them at me. The clearing explodes with sound. Bullets rain against the trees and zip past my head. I scramble back on my hands and knees. A wide trunk. An oak. I throw myself behind it and hunch down, arms over my head, squeeze my eyes closed. Hold still. Stay silent. Make yourself small.

  The gunfire stops. Don’t come into the woods. Please don’t come into the woods. I try to listen past the ringing in my ears. Shouting. Rustling. Laughter. Then car doors slamming. The engine guns to life.

  I raise my head and draw my nine-millimeter. I peek out from behind the tree. The jeep’s brake lights wash everything in red. I catch sight of something on the tailgate as it lurches over the railroad tracks and pulls away—a crudely drawn hand. I’ve seen that symbol before, but where?

  Alder is nowhere to be seen.

  My blood is ice. This is worse than AgraStar catching him. I could maybe have made things easier for him if it were one of our patrols, stopped them from killing him outright, the way he stopped his people from murdering me before Deacon Ward had her say. The scavengers and us, we both believe in some kind of order, some kind of justice. But these men . . . jackers. What are they going to do with him?

  I step out of the trees and hol
ster my weapon. I study the trail of flattened grass the jeep left behind. To the south, I make out two receding spots of red light. I can’t let them have him. He’s going to make it home, back to his people, the same as me. I break into a jog and follow the jeep’s tracks.

  The brick wall is ridiculously low. It must have been made for decoration, not defense, back during a time when that sort of thing made sense. CA TON WOOD, the rusted letters read. Smeared handprints surround the words. Past the sign, down an arrow-straight boulevard broken by weeds and potholes, stand rows of nearly identical two-story houses. The clapboard siding has fallen off in places, and the windows are dark. Kudzu and creeper vines have grown over some of them. Downed fir trees have crushed the roofs of others.

  I crouch in the ditch across the street from the houses, trying to figure out my next move. If I were these men, I’d post guards, give them coms and rifles and have them watch the road. Which means I should approach from the side or the back, unless I want to be target practice.

  I slink into the woods and circle around to a hill overlooking the houses from the northwest. The hand. Crake kept a file of the road jackers’ signs and symbols. He used to make those of us training for eradication duty flash through them. A V with its wings bent like a bird for the Carrion Brothers. A wheel for the Blacktops. An eye with lashes like daggers for Las Zorras, one of the few all-female gangs. A smeared handprint, bloodred and dripping.

  The Red Hand.

  Las Zorras and the Carrions and most of the others, they’re ruthless, but not cruel. You can bargain with them, give them something in exchange for your life. But AgraStar and the other company-states won’t even negotiate with the Red Hand. If they’re the ones who get you, you’re counted dead. I sift through what little I remember from Crake’s dossiers and cafeteria gossip. Pockets of them throughout the southeast. Homogenous—everyone is white, with shaved heads, tattooed with the same symbols, crooked crosses, numbers, lightning bolts. If there are Red Hand women, they don’t go out on raids. Religious, but not like Alder’s people. I feel sick.

  I crest the hill above the development. From up here, I can see their whole compound. A cluster of houses built around a cul-de-sac are lit up. Floodlights and generators, men sitting on the hoods of cars, razor wire accordioned around the perimeter. I catch sight of the jeep, but not Alder. I’m guessing they’ve taken him inside. The surrounding streets are shadowed and deserted, dark buildings lined up like identical ghosts.

  This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I should go, run, and be glad it isn’t me down in that compound. But the image of Alder caught in the high beams still burns against the back of my eyes. He was looking for me. Never mind that he was being an idiot. They never would have found him if he hadn’t been looking for me. He would never have been looking for me if we hadn’t fought. And we never would have fought if I hadn’t stolen the seeds.

  I check my pocket to make sure I still have them. Seth and all the other perimeter guards would laugh at me, trying to save a scavenger. But Seth and all the rest of them are dead.

  I half crawl, half slide down the hill and approach the houses from the back. Dark windows watch me. The chains on a swing set creak in the breeze. The lights from the Red Hand base, several streets over, bleed up into the sky. I stick close to the walls and overgrown bushes, darting from house to house as I make my way closer to the lighted cul-de-sac. Every window could hide a lookout, a sniper. Every corner, a guard patrol. I keep my body low, my feet soft.

  I spot the gutted frame of a car in the middle of the street, duck behind it for cover, and then dash to the next row of houses. I need an exit plan, a way out. Maybe I can steal the jeep? But they have other cars, and they outgun us. Better to sneak out, never let them see us in the first place.

  I peer into the darkness. Someone has built an enormous chain-link cage in the dead grass, top open to the sky. The fencing is twelve feet high, and each side is twice as long. A tennis court? We have one of those—had one of those—near the living quarters at the R&D facility. Someone has strapped floodlights to the corners, but they’re dark. A single cloud drifts over the moon, deepening the shadows around me. Something thick and uneven covers the court’s floor. I creep closer. The gate is padlocked.

  Gravel crunches under my foot. One of the shapes on the court sits up.

  I suck in a breath. It lifts its head and lets out a low growl that raises the hair on the back of my neck. Eyes flash phosphorescent green. Other shapes shift around it, and then more eyes wink on in the dark, more throaty rumbles join the first. Dogs. They erupt in barks and snarls. One of them lunges at the fence, eyes rolling, white foam frothing around its mouth. I stumble back. The others throw themselves after the first, their eyes wild. There are dozens of them.

  Rabid. They’re rabid.

  I run. Houses flash past, blurs of white in the moonlight. Behind me, the floodlights stagger on, and shouts echo across the empty streets. I throw myself behind a garden shed, panting. What the hell? Why is the Red Hand keeping rabid dogs? I close my eyes and pull my knees close to my chest. Crake had me put down a raccoon with rabies one time. It had that same vacant, glassy look in its eyes. “You’re doing it a kindness,” Crake said.

  I peek out. Several men with shaved heads are down by the court, one of them inspecting the chain link, the others fanning out with flashlights. I pull my head back and press myself flat against the shed.

  “Anything?” someone yells.

  A beam of light sweeps the house beside me. “Nah.” The light moves the other way. “Probably just a possum or something. They’re all worked up ’cause they’re hungry.”

  “You hungry, huh?” The fence rattles. “Are you some hungry dogs?”

  The snarling and barking start up again, savage and deafening.

  “Stop riling ’em!” another man shouts over the racket. “They’ve got a job to do. You’ll wear ’em out.”

  “You hear that?” The first man says to the dogs. “You’re getting fed soon. But first we’re gonna have some fun.”

  Something about the way he says it sends a chill through me. Alder. What are they planning to do?

  I crawl away from the shed and work my way back toward the cul-de-sac. Slow. Quiet. Invisible. I strain to hear past the rushing in my ears.

  A makeshift barricade of razor wire, old cars, and fencing surrounds the houses on the cul-de-sac. Floodlights face out, forming a perimeter, as bright and dangerous as day. There are six houses on the circle, a hodgepodge of trucks and armored cars parked on the curb. Music blares from one of the cars, all thumping bass and shrieking guitars. A hoarse, gravelly voice shouts along. Several men sit on the hood of a low-slung sedan with reinforced sides, drinking and pitching empty bottles over the razor wire. One of them has his shirt off. An enormous cross in a circle covers his pale back, with numbers flanking it—an 88 on his left shoulder blade, a 14 on his right. A chill runs down my spine. Crake might have known the exact meaning of those marks, but even I can tell it isn’t anything good.

  Thump. Something hits the window of the darkened house above me. I freeze. Isn’t this place empty? It’s outside their perimeter. Slowly I lift my head. It’s nothing. Nothing. Only an animal. Only the wind . . . I look up. There’s a man’s face pressed against the glass several feet above me. I stumble back, biting off a cry. He moans—a low, animal noise—and slaps his palm against the window. He’s looking at me, but I don’t think he sees me. His eyes are vacant and drool seeps down his chin. Like the dogs. Exactly like the dogs.

  I circle around to the front of the house and peer in through the big bay window beside the door. Bodies cover the floor, some of them moving, some of them not. A faint odor of rot and feces seeps through the walls. Two people stand silhouetted against the glare of the floodlights bleeding in through the back windows. One of them sways in place, like a pine tree rocking in the wind. The other stands stock-still, a statue listing to one side. I cover my mouth. The dogs . . . all these people . . .


  Rabies. Don’t they have the vaccine? With all those dogs around, they must know the risk. Fever, hallucination, dying of thirst but afraid to drink. Then death. Unless . . . I steady myself against the house. The dogs. “But first we’re gonna have some fun.”

  Sadistic fucks. They wouldn’t let their own people suffer like this. These must be prisoners, captives. They’re exposing them on purpose. Is this what they do to people who don’t cooperate? Or who don’t have anything left to offer?

  The moaning starts again. A woman this time, though the noise she makes is barely human. Another voice joins her, then another, and another. Thump. Thump. Thump. Hands on walls. Hands on glass.

  I run.

  .12.

  YELLOW NUTSEDGE

  CYPERUS ESCULENTUS

  More clouds roll in, snuffing out the moon. I work my way along the empty streets and crouch in the shadows when a Red Hand patrol rolls by. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m angry, and they are going to pay.

  I stalk up to the dog pen. A low growl rises from the pack. No hesitating. Time for a distraction. I raise my gun, aim it at the padlock looped through the gate, and fire.

  The night explodes in howls and snarls as the dogs burst through the opening. I sprint around the closest house just as its lights snap on and two men tumble out the front door.

  “Hey!” I hear behind me. Then, “Shi—” The word dissolves into a wet scream, a wild snarl, and a burst of gunfire.

  I glance back. One of the men is down already, the body of a dog slumped over him. The other is turning, bringing his M4 to bear on the oncoming rush of teeth and fur. Then one of the dogs leaps for his throat, and the pack overwhelms him. Engines rev to life and shouts fill the night. I put on a burst of speed. Three lots down, there is an empty house with an unlocked door. I made sure of it. Now I have to reach it.

  A growl, the clicking of toenails on the street. Shit. I push myself faster. Ten feet to the door, seven, five, two . . . I crash into it, fumbling for the knob, fall into the open foyer, and twist around as the dog leaps over the front step, teeth bared. I kick the door and it swings shut right as the dog’s body collides with it. The door rattles. I can hear the animal throwing itself against it, scrabbling with its nails.