Tails of the Apocalypse (29 page)

Normally I’d refuse the gift, but I need food. It’s been two days and I feel weak and shaky. I nod my thanks to Bode and eat, avoiding Gunther’s glare. The rabbit is tough and gamy but I devour every bit of it. Then I suck the bones.

“Thought you might want to know where we’re headed,” Bode says between bites.

“I can follow your trail,” I say. The clan knows how to hide their movements from hunters. They’re good at it, but I know what to look for.

“Where’d you find that Icarite?” he asks.

“About a mile out. On the grassland.”

Bode levels a long look at Gunther and tells him, “Go find Jase. He’ll want to know. Icarites might come around thinking we’re to blame.”

Gunther’s sour expression deepens. I can tell he wants to argue. He wants to find a way to blame me for the dead hunter, for Bode’s order, for all the wrongs heaped on him.

“I’ll go,” I say.

They both look at me, no doubt a little surprised that I’m offering. Bode nods. I get up and make my way through camp, ignoring the iron glares of clan members as I limp past. No one cares for me much. I’m sure Gunther has a lot to do with their collective opinion. They condemn me because I’m a woman who doesn’t follow the rules. Since I contribute little, I’m worth even less. Truth be told, I prefer it that way. It’s easier for me to come and go as I please—to mostly stay away as I please.

I find Jase stuffing his belongings into a rucksack. Jase is the leader of the clan, as much as we have one. He’s the mediator of disputes and clashes. He represents us to the other clans. On his say-so, the group moves and resettles. He’s sharp minded and able bodied, which is saying a lot for a Feral. I like Jase, but I know the feeling isn’t mutual. He glances at me once and continues to work.

I squat down and wait for him to say something before I speak. It’s a gesture of respect we grant to those in leadership. He gives me another glance and says, “Hand me that cord there.”

I do as he says, watching as he shoves it into his pack.

“Something on your mind?” he asks, without looking up.

“I found a dead Icarite about a mile from here. Out on the grasslands. He had an arrow in his chest. Bode says you’d want to know.”

Jase pauses and considers my words. “Was it your arrow?”

I bristle at his question; it feels like a backhanded insult to my weakness. An indictment of my disobedience. Women aren’t allowed to handle a bow. But even if they were, my weak arm and mangled hand make it impossible.

“You know it wasn’t,” I reply in a cold voice.

His gaze shifts briefly to my hand. The look in his eyes confirms his assessment of me as useless. “You recognize the arrow?”

“Looks like Jamison’s clan.”

He nods. “Storm’ll be moving in by morning. We’ll be out of here before then. I doubt hunters will be wandering around with a storm lashing their heads.”

Sometime I get bad feelings, like an itch I can’t reach. They’ve saved me more than once from walking into danger. I have one of those feelings now.

“Maybe not hunters, but…” I trail off, reluctant to finish my thought. I know how Jase will receive it.

He throws me a skeptical glance as if he’s read my mind. “Flamers? You think those Icarite bastards are gonna hit us with flamers? When’s the last time that happened?”

I remember when. Eight years ago. I was a little girl, maybe ten, and our clan was on the move. We came upon another camp engulfed in fire as four flamer vehicles drove away from the massacre, back to the safety of Icarus. Why they’d unleashed such a demon on the clan, we never knew. Where was the sport in that? We couldn’t even tell which clan it was. The bodies were burnt beyond recognition.

“Maybe it’s been too long,” I tell Jase. “Maybe the demon can’t be held back anymore.”

Jase glares at me under a furrowed brow. “What the hell’s wrong with your head, girl?”

I stand up and step back. Jase won’t listen to me. He thinks I’m crazy, and I am. I know I am. My mind is slowly surrendering to the disease. I feel things,
see
things that aren’t shared by others. My thoughts are twisted. The disease mostly attacks the body, but for an unlucky few, it worms its way into the brain as well. As much as I try to fight it, I know it will take me—all of me.

“Never mind,” I say. “Do what you want.”

“Get the hell out of here, Anya,” Jase says, irritated. “I’ve got work to do. Unlike you.”

Anger fuels my need to get away. I’m mad that Jase has dismissed my concerns. Fear moves my feet. I’m afraid he might be right, that the bad feelings roiling in my gut might be a symptom of the chaos in my head. I don’t know what to trust and what to ignore anymore.

So I leave the camp, because alone, I can deal with it. Alone, I can let it knock me down like an angry gust of wind. I can wait until it passes, until I can rise up from it and see again. Until I can find my feet and my way again.

Dusk is settling in and a chilly wind has kicked up, chasing the day’s heat away. It’s a portent of what’s to come, I’m sure of it. Storms are always worse than expected. They’re unpredictable and violent, filled with fury. At least this time there’s some warning.

Despite my stiff muscles and fatigue, I find a steady stride through the woods as the rabbit settles into my stomach. I run quietly, my ears alert to danger in its many forms. There are hunters in the forest, and not just the human kind.

I make my way north to the foothills, where I know I can find safety. The clan will probably head the same direction. I’ll be able to find them easily enough if I want to, after the storm passes.

When I reach the hills, my jog slows and my ascent becomes a fight for every step, every handhold. I stop and rest more often than I should, but the energy given to me by the meager meal is almost spent. Thunder rolls like drums in the distance, and the cold wind carries a bite now. I shiver as I push on toward a place I know—a cleft in a rock face nearby, where I’ll be able to take shelter from the storm.

I’m nearly there when I hear the clatter of loose gravel behind me. Without looking, I know—an Icarite hunter is trailing me. Sometimes, no matter how careful I am, they find me.

He’s a damn fool for being out at night with the storm approaching. He must be inexperienced, with no idea what he’s in for. I could find a way to ambush him, but I don’t need to. The storm will do that for me.

I just need to run.

Adrenaline surges, and my fatigue dissolves. In the growing darkness, I change direction, heading further up the slope. I duck behind rocks, zigzag through trees and scrub to throw him off my trail. The wind’s fury intensifies as I climb. Needles of ice prick my skin. Flashes of lightning turn the night to day, revealing my position. This storm wants me, but I refuse to let it have me. Perhaps an Icarite sacrifice will appease its hunger.

I stop for a brief moment to catch my breath. I listen, but the shrieking gale is all I can hear.

Then I notice a glow in the distance. My heart drops. Fire consumes the forest, whipped to a frenzy by the winds. I understand now why the hunter is here.

My premonition has come true. Flamers have found my clan. The demon is free.

The storm lets loose all its rage. Is it punishing me for escaping the wrath of the fire? The wind knocks me to the ground as the clouds break open, unleashing a stinging downpour of icy rain. It hammers my body against the mountainside. Torrents rush down the slope, threatening to wash me away. I have to find cover. I scramble over rain-slick rocks and muddied ground, with water surging around my feet. I grab at anything I can to keep me anchored to the earth. I find a pocket under a tumble of boulders from an ancient rockslide and climb inside, shivering with cold as the driving sleet peppers the rock face. The storm blows in behind me, pursuing me, lashing at my back and legs. To escape it, I scramble deeper into the hole.

It takes me a moment to realize the pocket is actually a small tunnel that leads upward. I hesitate to crawl further in. An animal lives here—I can smell it. There’s the scent of old rot, and a pungent, musky odor.

The wind and sleet pummel the outside of the cave. Lightning cracks the air. I flinch, fighting back panic. My mind races through the possibilities of what animal might live here. I’ve faced predators in the forest and on the grassland—wolves, big cats, even bears.

Confronting any of these predators in a den terrifies me, but I have nowhere else to go. If I go back outside, the raging storm will kill me. If I stay in the tunnel, the cold and wet will pull the last bit of heat from my body and I’ll die of exposure. I’ve survived worse storms, but not when I’m exhausted, underfed, and weak.

I crawl a few more inches in. The air feels warmer. I’ll take my chances.

It’s pitch black inside. Lightning flashes don’t show me enough of the cave to ease my fears. But I feel my way along and find a dry floor covered with dirt and leaves. I huddle against the cave wall and close my eyes so my ears will open wider.

There are clicking and popping noises, followed by a series of huffs. Something grumbles low in its throat.

Bear.

My pulse races, and I weigh my fear of this creature against my fear of the storm. Maybe if I sit still enough, if I don’t act threatening in any way, it’ll leave me alone until the storm moves on and I can get out.

I don’t mean to trespass
, I think to the darkness.
I’m just afraid.

I curl up tight and press into the wall, shivering. I can’t see the bear, but I know it sees me. I hear it breathing. So close I can almost feel its breath across the hairs of my arm. Or maybe that’s my fear brushing against me.

Every time I shift the slightest bit, the bear huffs. But it doesn’t attack. Maybe it’s just as afraid of me. Or maybe it understands I’m only looking for shelter.

I try to focus on the warmth in the cave; it’s a welcome relief. Gradually I relax, and my shivering stops. I fight to stay awake, as if that will somehow protect me if the bear chooses to attack. But soon I surrender to exhaustion, and the wailing storm invades my dreams.

When I open my eyes, I forget for a moment where I am. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I’m still curled up, my muscles stiff with an ache that reaches into my bones. My head feels thick and cloudy, and sparks of light fill my vision. The kaleidoscope of colors again, the beautiful disease.

I blink and clear my eyes. The storm has spent itself. Daylight has eased into the small space. Then I remember the bear and my pulse quickens.

From the opposite wall, I see it now, watching me with dark, round eyes. It’s close enough to reach out and touch. Its breath smells of death. I’m afraid to move.

The bear huffs once and wags its head as if to say,
you’re a sad sight
.

“Sit up, child,” it says.

I blink and stare. The bear didn’t speak. The disease is making me hear things that aren’t real. I slowly right myself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain shooting through my body.

“The demon has worn itself out,” it says.

I shake my head, as if the effort will somehow resettle my infected brain properly. I look around and see a small mound, now decayed, only fur wrapped around protruding bones. A dead cub. A steel arrow juts out of its side. I recognize that arrow; it’s not one of ours. Her cub was killed by an Icarite hunter.

She leans toward me, thrusting her nose in my face and over my body, exploring me by smell. Her warm breath blows across my skin and raises the hairs on my neck; it
was
her breath before, after all. I pull my knees up to my chest and close my eyes. Pressing myself into the wall, I wait for claws to rake me, or teeth to sink into my flesh. If Gunther finds my body, I wonder, will he mourn or rejoice?

Instead, a warm tongue washes my face. I open my eyes and meet the bear’s dark, appraising gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s the best I can do. I’m sick, you see.”

“So am I,” I whisper. I can’t hold the words back. They seem pulled out of me.

Her dark eyes gleam. “I know. I can smell your disease.”

I glance over at the dead cub. “You’ve lost your child. To an Icarite hunter?”

“Yes,” she says, blowing out a breath long with suffering. “But now you’re here.”

I don’t know what that means. If I’m imagining this conversation, am I trying to tell myself something?

“I have to go,” I tell her.

The bear shifts in her corner, grunting. “I’m hungry,” she says.

I’m hungry too.
What I feel, she feels
, I think, though I can’t explain where the knowledge comes from. My sickness is her sickness. Is this real? Or is my mind doing this?

I slip out of the tunnel into a bright day. Clouds still linger in the sky, but a chilly wind pushes them past the sun. To the west, a black scorch stains the forest. Wisps of smoke still rise and catch the wind, even after the storm’s deluge. I’m afraid to go there, but I’m drawn to it, as if I have no choice but to bear witness to the devastation.

I make my way down the mountainside, stopping once to look back. The bear emerges from the den and watches me. In the full light I see that she’s a grizzly, and so bony I don’t know how she’s still alive. She looks after me a moment, as if I might not return, then ambles off.

I continue my descent. The ground is puddled and slippery. I lose my footing so often that by the time I make it halfway down the mountainside, I’m covered in mud, scrapes, and scratches.

In a patch of ruined trees I come across the Icarite hunter who pursued me. His body is twisted around a broken sapling, half covered by a slide of rocks. His head is crushed, and a branch protrudes from his gut. The storm has taken its sacrifice and spared me. Looking at his mangled body, I feel little but relief.

When I finally approach the charred aftermath of the flamers’ attack, the acrid odor of burnt, wet wood hits my nose first. Then I see my camp, burned and ruined before me. The scene hurls me into my memories and I’m a ten-year-old girl again, feeling the horror of it.

I’m not prepared for this. The loss of my clan hits me hard. These blackened, misshapen bodies are people I knew. I never felt a strong connection to them, but now that they’re gone, I feel it—the bond severed, conspicuous in its absence. It’s a hollow ache inside my gut, worse than the hunger that always seems to be there. Much worse.