Cured (12 page)

Kevin nods. “Good. I'll check this house while we wait.” He turns toward my hiding place.

The raider grabs his shoulder, stopping him before he can step up onto the sidewalk. “What happened to your arm?” he asks.

Kevin pauses and glances at the dark-stained bandage tied over his biceps. “I got in a fight with Jack.” My eyes grow round, and I press myself a little harder against the ground, hand clenching my gun.

The raider chuckles. “Jack's got a temper.”

“Yeah, and he's surprisingly quick,” Kevin says with a laugh.

“No he's not. You're just slow.”

They step up onto the curb together and start walking toward my hiding place. The raider peers into the trees—my trees. His eyes gleam in his hairy face.

“Hey! Look!” Kevin whispers. The raider's gaze jerks away from me and follows Kevin's pointing finger to the house next door. “I think I saw something in that house. Let's go check it out.”

He leaves with the raider. And I'm a sitting duck. And the dog is coming. And despite the fact that I've read an entire library of survival guides and karate guides and self-defense guides, I have
no idea what to do. None of the guides covered being trapped in a copse of dead trees, surrounded by raiders. My head drops to the ground, my forehead in dirt, and I fight back panic.

Not even a minute later, I hear a dog bark and my stomach clenches, making me want to vomit. Another sound slowly oozes into my hearing, a sound that tugs at my memory, bringing me back to the world before bees died and before children turned into beasts: the low, steady rumble of an engine. I cautiously lift my head and look toward the sound.

Moonlight reflects off of a machine zooming up the street toward me. A four-wheeler. A dark shadow sits in the driver's seat, and another shadow lopes alongside the four-wheeler—a dog. A
big
dog. The raiders move out of the road to give the four-wheeler room to drive. One raider backs up until the heels of his steel-toed boots are within my arm's reach. I don't dare move, not even to put my head down. A sour smell wafts to me, burning my sinuses, and I realize it is coming from the man standing in front of me—a body-odor, dead-animal, unwashed-underwear smell. It might be the last thing I ever smell in my life.

My throat clenches. My eyes sting. If I die here tonight, my parents will never know what happened to me. Why did I want to find my brother? I want to go home. I never want to leave my house again. I am so dead.

My dad told me once that if a man falls off a cliff, he has a terror-induced heart attack before he hits the ground. He's dead by the time he lands. As I lay here in the trees, my heart is on the verge of exploding in my chest. Maybe I will die before I am found. Death by terror. It's an appealing way to die from where I am right now.

The four-wheeler stops and the driver steps down. Even in the dark I can tell that he's a top-heavy guy, with a thick neck and thicker shoulders. He hooks a chain onto the dog's silver-spiked collar, and just in time. The dog turns toward my hiding place and yanks the chain taut. The animal's barking fills the night, and every single raider turns in my direction.

“Looks like we're close, Hastings,” someone calls over the dog's barking. “Let's surround this house and—”

“I found something!” a man shouts. Everyone's attention is drawn from my direction and switched to the house next door. Kevin is leaning out of a broken upstairs window, my knife in his hand. The raiders swarm toward the house. The man with the dog yanks on its chain, forcing it to come with him, when all the dog really wants is the thing hiding in the aspen trees. The animal digs its feet into the dead grass and lurches toward me, but the raider holds the chain firm. He curses and kicks the dog squarely in the ribs. The dog yelps and skulks behind its master.

Within ten seconds, the yard is empty. Cautiously, I get onto my hands and knees and see Jonah's backpack—the extra water that Fo and Bowen are so touchy about. I try to lift it but barely move it two inches from the ground, so set it back down. I can't carry it, not when it will weigh me down. With a pang of regret, I jump to my feet and start sprinting toward the house in the opposite direction the raiders went.

Before I've stepped onto the next property, someone grabs me from behind, a rock-hard arm around my waist, and I start swinging my elbow into firm ribs. The person grunts and whispers, “Jack! It's me, Kevin! Let's take the four-wheeler and get out of here!”

I stop fighting. “What about Jonah's backpack? The water?”

“Forget the backpack! We'll get more water when we're not about to die!” We start sprinting toward the four-wheeler, my backpack thumping against my back. I jump onto the seat behind Kevin and throw my arms around his waist as he revs the engine. The machine lurches forward. I tighten my hold on him
and watch in horror as the raiders pour out of the house, guns pointing at me—us. Kevin ducks. So do I. Bullets fly through the air around us, something tugs on the back of my neck like I'm being pinched, and then we turn onto another road and the sound of the four-wheeler overpowers the sound of fading gunfire.

Kevin sits up straight and I loosen my hold on him a bit. “Wahoo!” he hollers. And then he does that thing again. That
laughing
. I press my face against his back and cry. Wind tugs on my tackle vest and rushes through my short hair, and I can't stop crying.

We drive for maybe fifteen minutes, circling dark streets in every direction, and then Kevin stops the four-wheeler, turning it off.

“Will you drive me home?” I ask with a sniffle.

He climbs down and looks at me. “Are you crying?” His voice is soft and almost gentle. I dab my nose with the back of my hand and nod. Kevin leans toward me and wipes the tears from my cheeks. His fingertips are as rough as sandpaper.

“Come on, Jack. We need to ditch the ride.” He helps me down, and it's a good thing because my legs are so weak I can hardly stand. Kevin fishes in his pocket and pulls out a small ball of something. He unwinds some of it, and I realize it is thread-thin wire. In less than two minutes, he's used the wire to anchor the four-wheeler's steering wheel so the tires are aimed north down a long, straight street. Next, he winds wire around the handlebar of the four-wheeler—the accelerator. “Hold the brake down with your hands,” he says. “When I say let go, let go and jump out of the way.” I nod and press the brake down with my
hands. He cranks the keys and the four-wheeler roars to life. “Let go!” he shouts. I do and watch as the vehicle peels out and speeds down the road, the roar of the engine fading until it is eventually replaced by silence.

I look at Kevin, my jaw hanging open with shock. “Why did you do that? I could have driven that thing home and been there in an hour!”

He shakes his head. “The engine would have brought every raider within hearing distance. You never would have made it back to Denver alive.” He tugs on my backpack and I let it slip off my weary shoulders without protest. His fingers find the back of my neck and touch a spot that's aching with tension. He pulls his hand away and sticks his fingers in his mouth. “Were you shot, Jack?”

“No,” I say.

“Then whose blood is all over your neck?”

I touch the back of my neck. My skin is slick with sticky moisture. Bringing my fingers back into view, I gasp.

Kevin leans close and looks at my neck. “I don't think it's deep. Tell you what. If you doctor me, I'll doctor you. Deal?”

I start to nod but stop. The pain in my neck is growing stronger with each heartbeat. “Deal,” I say, and sniffle one last time.

Careful not to bump his knife wound, Kevin puts his arms into my backpack's straps and loosens them so they're not straining against his chest. “We have to hurry,” he whispers. “And be sure to keep your voice down. But I'd be willing to bet a packet of coagulant that the raiders are going to be following that four-wheeler for a while.”

We start walking through a world aglow with eerie red moonlight. I look up at the sky. All but the brightest stars are hidden behind haze. “The moon looks like blood,” I whisper.

“There's a fire burning somewhere,” Kevin says. “The smoke makes the moon look red. So, where are you headed anyway?”

I firm my shoulders and cringe at the flare of pain in my neck, so let them slouch. “None of your business.”

“Really?” His voice is full of mock surprise. “That's where I'm headed too.” He starts walking west toward the massive shadow of the Rocky Mountains, and I follow a step behind, but he slows his pace until we walk side by side. He veers into the closest yard and starts walking on the dead grass, and it reminds me about what the vagabond said.

“We need to try to stay off the roads and sidewalks,” I say.

“Agreed.”

“You know . . .” I look at his profile. “It's pretty lucky the raiders left the keys in the four-wheeler.”

Kevin laughs. “Yes, it is. I'm generally a pretty lucky guy.” He takes a long look at me. “So, what's with the kid that big guy's been carrying around?”

“He's a beast,” I whisper, peering into the windows of the house we're passing.

Kevin pauses and the moon highlights the planes of his face. “You're traveling with a tainted one? Is he still infected?”

“Tainted one?” I have never heard a beast called a
tainted
one. “Where are you from?”

He starts walking once more, and I stay a step behind, but he slows his pace so I am walking beside him again. “I'm from
here. I've been surviving here for about four years—ever since they branded the vaccinated kids.”

“Are you a Siren?”

“Siren?” he asks without slowing his pace.

“They lead people away from the raiders.”

“I think they're just a myth.” He glances at me. “Why?”

“I'm trying to find my brother. I thought that maybe, if the Sirens were real, I could see if any of them met him. His name is Dean. Have you ever heard of him?”

“So, you're out here looking for your brother Dean,” he says. “Is he from Denver too?”

The hair on the back of my neck bristles. “How do you know I'm from Denver?” I place my hand on my gun.

“Why is it the small guys always go for the guns? Look, I am only trying to help you out. I know the day you left
Denver
because the raiders shot off four flares. If you're worried about trusting me, think of this: we were standing in the middle of twenty raiders, and I saved you.”

“Yeah, but you walked right into the middle of them like you're one of them.” I fight the sudden urge to run. “They talked to you! They told you stuff like they knew you! Like you're a raider.” I stop walking. “
Are
you a raider?”

“I already showed you my hands and arms. I'm clean.”

“I didn't look,” I whisper.

He sighs and walks up to the nearest house, onto the front porch. Stepping into the darkest recesses, he leans against the front door and folds his arms over his chest. “Come here,” he whispers. I slowly walk onto the porch, wondering what in the world
we're doing standing in the shadows beside broken flowerpots. “How many raiders do you think there are?”

“Thousands?” I shrug. “I have no clue.”

“Neither do they. If you think about it, there have got to be guys coming and going all the time, right? So many men started coming and going from the raiders' camps that they had to mark themselves so they'd know who belonged where. That way they couldn't just walk into each other's headquarters and steal food or guns.” He holds his hands out to me, palms up. “Feel.”

I place my hands on top of his and gently trace his palms. His hands are wide and warm. Thick calluses coat the skin between the lines, but there are no brands—no raider marks.

“And here.” He moves my hand to his forearm, the place where the southern raiders mark themselves with knife-slash scars. He leans over me, and all of a sudden I feel awkward touching him. I pull my hand away and take a step back.

“I promise I won't hurt you, Jack,” he whispers. He steps toward me, takes my hand in his, and very slowly brings my fingers to the skin just below the bend in his arm. It is smooth beneath my fingertips, and warm. I trail my fingers down to his wrist. There are no markings. He sweeps my fingers over his other arm and it is the same. Clean. “Does that help?”

I nod and clear my throat and look at the ground, wondering if my heart is pounding from fear or from touching Kevin. Or both.

“Good. Now try to relax a little bit. You're so tense I'm getting a headache.” He presses on his temples.

“How can I relax? I'm stuck out here with nowhere to go,
trying to find my brother!” I bite the side of my cheek and stare beyond the front porch.

“I already told you that I know a place where you and your friends can crash for a day or two—a safe place where the wolves won't get you, that the raiders don't know exists. You can plan where to go from there.”

“Wolves? I thought they were in the mountains.”

“They are, but that's where we're going. Come on.” He steps out of the shadows and waits for me to fall into step beside him. “So, you left Denver yesterday. Did you leave family behind?”

My throat constricts with unshed tears. Unable to speak, I nod.

“Aren't you afraid they'll follow you?”

“I wrote them a note and said I'd be living inside the wall,” I whisper. “They won't follow me there.”

“How old are you Jack?”

“Twelve,” I say, voice firm. When he doesn't say anything, I look at him.

“Twelve?” He shakes his head. “You've got to be the most capable twelve-year-old I have ever met. Bowen's lucky to have you along.”

I stop dead in my tracks as a new realization sets in. “I don't know where the lake is that we're meeting them at tomorrow.”