The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) (6 page)

I drank my fill of water and tucked an extra bottle in my pack. I felt the weight of it, but it would soon be gone. Luckily, I knew of a creek that ran along the trail in the direction I was headed, so I was unlikely to run into trouble for a few days.
 

I took one last look around the house and left out the back door. I couldn’t bear for the spray-painted “
XX
” to be the last image I took with me of my parents’ house.

There was no point in doubling back to the trailhead; I was headed in the opposite direction. It was easy enough to hop the railroad tracks and step through the trees to get to where the trail ran behind my house. A layer of dead leaves crunched underfoot, and I hoped there were no carriers nearby. I couldn’t run quietly if I tried.

There was a slight fog hanging in the trees as the sun peeked between the fiery leaves, which only added to the scariness of being completely and utterly alone. As my body heated up, I could appreciate the damp chill in the air. It was good running weather, even if it pricked the hairs on the back of my neck.

By midmorning, I was in unfamiliar territory long past the stretch of trail that I knew. The towns I passed through seemed just as deserted as mine, so I was glad to have a pack full of enough provisions to last me for a few days.

After three hours, I began to feel lightheaded, so I slowed to a walk and looked for a spot out of sight to eat some lunch. I chose a cluster of trees at a good vantage point to see the trail and sat back on my heels, anxiously watching for movement in the trees. I nibbled on some jerky and stale cereal from the pantry and drank the bottle of water.

Although I was reluctant to lose more time, I walked for the next hour to allow the food to settle. My legs still felt all right, but my back and shoulders ached from running with the heavy pack. How would I do this all day, every day for weeks and weeks?
 

I pushed the thought out of my mind as soon as it came. I couldn’t afford to think about next week or next month — I might not be
alive
by then if I didn’t focus.
 

Move your feet, find food, avoid carriers
, I thought to myself. Reinvigorated by my rest, I quickened my pace until I was jogging again.
 

The sun was starting to fall in the sky. I still needed to find a good place to make camp, build a fire, cook something to eat, and set up a shelter. It was going to be a cold night.
 

The trail curved slightly, and it took me several minutes to register that the quiet, rushing sound I heard was the whisper of a small creek running parallel to the trail. That was good. If I had reached the creek on the map already, that meant I was slightly ahead of schedule.
 

After the persistent thirst I’d experienced the last few days on the run, camping near water seemed like a good idea. I could purify enough to drink and cook a meal and fill up my canteen for the next day.
 

The network of trails Greyson and I ran was built along an old railroad route. In many places, the trail banked steeply on one side where the land had been carved out, leaving a deep ravine. On the other side, there was a sloped bank that flattened out at the top that was still protected by the canopy of old trees. This would be the ideal spot to make camp.

The creek was situated down in the ravine. I half walked, half slid over tree roots and soft dirt downhill until I reached the water. It was shallow and muddy, but if I followed it a hundred yards down, it was deep enough to dip my water bottle in and bail out some water. I filled my kettle and water bottle, clipped them to the carabiners dangling from my pack, and began to crawl back up the bank.
 

Using saplings as handholds, I climbed up until I could walk normally. Crossing over the trail and climbing the opposite upward bank, I counted one hundred steps into the shelter of the trees to find a place out of sight, gathering dry grass and twigs for kindling as I went.

I chose a relatively flat spot protected by a triangle of trees. It wasn’t hard to find some dried-up logs from fallen trees nearby, so I sat down my pack and began building a fire. The temperature was falling, and since I hadn’t seen carriers since that first night, I decided hypothermia was a bigger threat.
 

It took me several tries to light the fire, but I was getting much better with the flint striker. A twig caught spark with a satisfying whisper. As my pile of tinder engulfed in flames, I put the kettle on to boil and spread my tarp over the ground. Once the water was hot, I rationed out some rice and beans to cook.
 

My stomach growled impatiently, and I tore into a piece of jerky while I waited, gnawing greedily as the full bite of my hunger hit me. The food I had now was good for a couple days, but I needed a long-term strategy for feeding myself. What was I supposed to do? Hunt?

The thought of trying to kill a squirrel for dinner was both laughable and sobering. It was ridiculous to think I would be able to hunt when I’d never used a weapon before and didn’t even have the proper tools. Greyson had included fishing line and hooks with our supplies, but he had fished many times with his father before he died; I had never bothered to learn from my dad, and now I never would.

Thinking about my lack of wilderness survival skills, I put away the rest of the food and resolved to spread the jerky, nuts, and fruit out for my lunches over the next few days. I ate what I had cooked and ignored the growls of my stomach demanding more food. I boiled a bottle of water for drinking instead and warmed my hands over the fire.

Huddled in my sleeping bag after dinner, it occurred to me how awful I smelled with four days’ worth of sweat soaked into my clothes. I had bits of leaves in my hair and dirt under my nails. It was definitely a mistake to miss showering at my parents’ house when I had the chance.
 

My parents.
They were gone. It was no longer their house. I didn’t have a house anymore either.

Tired, cold, and feeling sorry for myself, I pulled the edge of the tarp over my head to block the wind. With my hunger mostly satiated and my muscles throbbing from the run, I fell asleep almost instantly.

I awoke to the sound of chirruping birds overhead. Stiffness in my bones from sleeping on the hard-packed dirt kept me from drifting back to sleep, so I got up, drained my water bottle and fetched some more for boiling. I allowed myself a cup of rice and a few nuts to ease my gurgling stomach before rolling up my sleeping bag to start the day. The air was still cold, but the sun felt warm on my skin. It seemed as good a time as any to clean up a bit.

The trickling creek water was freezing, but I was filthy, and this could be the last time I would have enough running water for a bath. I brought my spare set of clothes down to the water and stripped and washed half of my body at a time to stay warm. I raked my fingers through my matted hair and used my canteen to pour a stream of icy water over my head.

I didn’t have a towel, but I was already beginning to dry in the moisture-wicking athletic fabric of my clean clothes. I scrubbed my dirty shirt and leggings in the deepest part of the stream and, hesitating slightly at the early morning chill in the air, dunked my sweaty jacket in as well.

Laying my wet clothes out on the tarp to dry, I warmed my hands by the fire and pulled my hair into a ponytail to get the chill off my neck. I leaned back against the tree and felt my eyes growing heavy. Even a full night of sleep did not mean a restful one on the cold, uneven ground.
 

As I nodded off against the warmth emanating from the fire, I heard the crack of a branch a few yards off. I sat up straight. Then I heard it again. Leaves crunched nearby, and I held my breath as the sounds got closer. I could definitely discern footsteps.
 

Paralyzed, I considered my options. I didn’t dare run; the footsteps were too close. I would never escape undetected. Moving with absolute care, I pulled my pack onto my shoulder, abandoning my drying clothes. Slowly, deliberately, I crawled on my hands and knees away from the fire toward a cluster of large maple trees.

Trying to move in silence, I listened intently for the sound of voices. I heard none.
 

Instead, the sound of low, gravelly breaths caught my ear. It was a throaty, wet intake of air that sounded like a death rattle. I recognized the sound instantly, and the icy feeling of dread laced through my chest.

Concealed by the maple tree, I peered through the darkness for a look at the intruder.
Intruders.
There were three of them.
 

There was no mistaking the look of their pale, sunken faces and dead-looking eyes. Carriers. The expressions they wore betrayed a vacancy of emotion. The light was out, and no one was home.
 

These carriers appeared to be recently infected — only a few months along, by the looks of it. They did not have the revolting, oozing sores or the rabid slobbering mouths like the ones on TV. These monsters were merely feverish, disoriented, and weak — still very human in their appearance, but without a doubt beginning their horrific transformation.

I watched as one approached my fire, breath shallow in my throat. He was just yards away, and I could see the dark hollows of his eyes. I was much too close. If I could stay out of sight, it was possible they would keep moving. But I knew once they saw my fire and clothes, they would be on the lookout for me.

During my desperate train of thought, I had lost sight of one of the carriers. The two I could see had noticed the fire. One was ambling over to where I had left my things, examining my wet clothes. I immediately wished I’d had more clothes to lay out so they would think they were outnumbered. Now they knew I was traveling alone.

To my left, I heard it again: the deep-throated raspy breathing that made my heartbeat throb in my ears. I heard the crunch of leaves behind me too late to move or scream. My breath caught in my chest as a pair of cold arms grabbed me around the shoulders.
 

I heard a chilling scream echo through the trees and realized it belonged to me. The carrier didn’t bother to clasp a hand around my mouth to muffle my scream. It didn’t matter. There was no one to hear me, no one to care.
 

I felt a shock to the back of my head — almost like a sudden blow of heat — and my vision went black.

Somewhere far away, I could hear the crackling of a fire. At least it seemed far away. I was much too cold and damp to feel the warmth. And everything seemed so very, very distant.

I awoke slowly, fighting the splitting sensation in the back of my head to gain consciousness. I opened my eyes and peeled my face away from where it rested against rough tree bark, squinting in the bright light. I was slumped on the ground against a large tree, although I had no recollection of moving there.
 

What was wrong with my head? The back felt cold, and my hair was matted to my skull with . . . blood?
 

I tried to feel it, but my arms wouldn’t move. They were wrapped uncomfortably around the trunk of the tree behind me, and my wrists were bound together with two loops of hard plastic that I could not see. They cut into my skin painfully.

The panic broke like a dam in my chest and rushed through my entire body. What was going on?
 

My head pounded, and I worried I had sustained brain damage. The wound was so wet and fresh, I could feel the blood trickling down the nape of my neck.
 

Tears of fear and confusion welled up in my eyes, and I held back the desperate, choking sobs burning in my throat.

The carriers,
I thought suddenly. Where were they?
 

A few yards away, my campfire was still burning. The fire was larger than before. Whoever had made it wasn’t worried about attracting unwanted attention. Then, my vision focused in on the lumpy shapes around the fire. As my mind cleared, an idea of the likely scenario unfolded slowly. They had grabbed me, struck me on the head, and tied me up.

I hadn’t spotted them at first because they were so wild and dirty from living in the woods that they blended right in with the leaves and trees. They were sleeping around the fire, their dark, dead eyes tucked back into their skulls.
 

My food packages were strewn around them, now completely empty, as though the carriers had binged and fallen asleep after Thanksgiving dinner. There were four of them. How had I miscounted them before?
 

How had one subdued me on his own? Their bodies weakened by the virus, carriers weren’t supposed to be very strong. What made them dangerous was their overwhelming numbers and a complete lack of human emotions. The fourth must have been lurking in the trees and struck me on the back of the head so the others could grab me.
 

I had never seen carriers before, except on the news. They wore raggedy scraps of clothing so filthy they were barely recognizable. One of them was draped in the remains of an Orlando Magic basketball jersey. Another, clearly female, wore a torn pink sweatshirt with Greek letters and dirty, ripped jeans.
 

Their skin had a pale, sickly yellow pallor, and they were bald except for a few patches of downy fluff. Their mouths looked chapped — red and raw — but there were no signs yet of the oozing sores carriers developed around their mouths. Some people said it was an infection from feeding on the raw, rotting flesh of dead animals, but scientists seemed to agree it was a symptom of the disease itself.

 
Carriers were not cannibals, but they nearly always killed their victims. That was what bothered me most: Why hadn’t they killed me yet? Carriers didn’t take hostages; they ripped apart any living thing they came in contact with.
 

The scientific community only spoke to the press about carriers in hedged language with a liberal use of “we believe” statements because no one had found any scientific proof of what caused the disease or how it worked. It was widely accepted that the virus ate away at the part of the brain that allows humans to feel empathy and control their impulses.