Outpost (13 page)

She leaned back against the wall, her expression pensive. “When I was small, there were twenty of us. Four or five families.”

“Where did you live? In the ruins?”

Tegan rubbed her eyes, as if they itched with tears, but when she took her hand away, they were dry. “In the university science lab. It was a good place to scavenge, central, and the building had lots of useful stuff. We grew our own plants for a while, just outside, on the lawn. There were all kinds of seeds.”

“The gangs didn’t bother you?”

“Not when there were more of us. I was pretty happy,” she added softly. “I had my mom and dad, other kids to play with.”

“What was life like?”

“We grew food. Prepared it. I helped in the gardens, mostly.”

“You were a grower, then.” It explained why the gangs found no use for her apart from breeding. They didn’t plant things in the ground and wait for them to sprout; they scavenged and hunted to survive. “Why don’t you volunteer for the summer harvest? I bet they could use you in the fields.”

Tegan tilted her head in consideration. “I might, if it’s slow for Doc. There’s generally less sickness during warm weather.”

I already knew how her happy life came to an end. People in their small colony got sick and died off, one by one. She lost her dad first, and eventually, it was just Tegan and her mom, running from the gangs instead of living safe and happy in the university science building. There was no need to make her relive that.

Yet I had other questions. “Do you ever wonder why some people take ill and die and others get well?”

“Yes,” she replied fiercely. “And why some people never get sick at all. It seems there must be a system to it, but I don’t know what that is. Neither does Doc.”

“Frustrating.”

“That’s part of why I love working with him. I want to understand why the world works like it does.”

“I hope you can figure it out,” I told her.

“Me too.”

That seemed to be my cue to turn down the covers. I dimmed the lamp, but not all the way, and then I got in bed. Tegan climbed in after me. As I’d told her, the bed was big enough that we shouldn’t bother each other. It seemed miraculous that we didn’t have to hunt our breakfast; someone would cook it for us when we woke up.

“You know the Oakses have a son who never comes to see them?” I spoke into the dark, rolling on my side to face her.

“Why not?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. They had a falling-out, but I don’t know what it was about.”

“That’s too bad,” Tegan said softly. “I’d give anything to see my parents again. I miss them so much.”

“I know.”

I hugged her in the dark but she didn’t weep. This was a loss grown old and dull, like a knife left out in the rain. But Tegan returned the hug with full strength, and it made me feel important, worthy of her friendship even if I didn’t come from perfect people. I’d bet none of her new friends received such confidences.

“Do you miss anyone from the enclave?” she asked eventually.

“My brat-mates, Thimble and Stone.”

Tegan propped herself on one elbow, curious. “What’s a brat-mate?”

“Someone who’s raised up in the dorm, the same time as you. Brats often bond into packs of three or four and stay close, even after the oldest ones are grown and earn their names.”

“Your brat-mates were older than you?” she guessed.

I nodded. “They left me behind … and it was awful. Lonely.” I realized then that I’d never told her the whole story. So much of our time and energy while we traveled had been devoted to survival.

“Then you had to leave them for good.”

In a rush I explained things to her fully—the rules about hoarding, the blind brat, how the elders treated Fade, Banner’s alleged suicide, and how the headman routinely sent people on the long walk to put fear into the enclave’s heart, which led to Stone being accused of a crime he didn’t commit. By the time I finished, I had a knot in my chest, and Tegan’s hand rested on my hair, not petting, just making contact, like she knew it was all about to overwhelm me. I hadn’t grasped that it still hurt so much, but the ache lessened as I fell quiet. Sharing helped.

“So that’s why you left. That sounds pretty horrible, Deuce.”

“It was,” I said softly. “I just didn’t realize that while it was going on.”

She sighed. “Because you weren’t raised to know better.”

A verbal reply was beyond me. So I nodded.

“In the ruins when you told me to give Stalker a clean slate, I hated you for it. But I think … I finally understand. Maybe he didn’t see that he was doing wrong, until later. Maybe he knows now. I’ll … try to judge him according to his actions.”

“I don’t care if you ever forgive Stalker,” I said quietly. “That’s between the two of you.”

“Thank you for that. Thanks for being my friend.” It was good knowing I had the power to comfort her too.

I hugged her words close to my heart as I fell asleep.

Disaster

A week after the party, I convened at the barracks before dawn along with the rest of the summer patrol. The days were warming up, and the light lasted longer; but for now, Longshot hoped to convey the planters safely to the fields under the cover of darkness. There had been a few runs at the walls over the past two weeks, but nothing like the numbers when we’d stepped outside. These recent strikes felt more like the Freaks were testing our resolve than really trying to get inside the town.

Or maybe they hoped we’d run out of ammo. But Salvation had been making its own gunpowder for ages, and the smith who worked with Stalker knew how to make bullets for the rifles, so it wasn’t likely that would ever happen.

Unless they got smart enough to attack the trade caravans that left for the other settlements in the fall.
I forced that thought aside. Even if they were no longer creatures of pure instinct, as they had been, Freaks couldn’t be that crafty.

Longshot held the opinion that we’d decimated their population, and the rest of the season should pass uneventfully. I had seen too many shifts in Freak behavior to put my faith in that rationale, but I didn’t contradict our leader. He had more years of experience in this particular war, so I contented myself with following orders. That had been my lot down below too, and at least Longshot appeared to have a good head on his shoulders.

That wouldn’t stop me from keeping my weapons ready, however.

Fade greeted me by quietly taking my hand. Though I wasn’t comfortable with open affection, I didn’t pull back, and my forbearance paid off when he smiled in delight. I’d never get enough of his smiles, as I hadn’t seen many of them. Down below, he was known for his intense personal reserve and brooding air.

Stalker strode past us without a glance in greeting, joining the older guards, who seemed to like him well enough. I managed not to follow him with my eyes, but I heard his words in my head.
He won’t make you happy, dove. He’s soft in ways you and I aren’t. Ultimately, you’re going to break him.

I won’t,
I told myself. I, too, was softer than a Huntress ought to be. I’d proven it time and again, so that made me a perfect match for Fade. Didn’t it?

Pushing those doubts aside, I fell into formation as the party moved toward the gate. There were no wagons this time, just the planters walking inside our line for protection; they carried the tools of their trade: shovels, spades, hoes, and buckets for ferrying water from the lake that lay beyond the fields. In the past weeks, it hadn’t rained as much as the seedlings required, so in addition to weeding, we’d also be irrigating the fields to make sure there was food for the winter. Those were new words to me—“weeding” and “irrigation”—but I gleaned their meanings from the context.

The group shared a tense and sober mood … and after what happened last time we left the walls, I understood why. I slid my knives free from their thigh sheaths, attracting a glance from Fade. Then he nodded, acknowledging my instincts. With a shake of his head, he told me he disagreed with Longshot; the trouble wasn’t over.

Instead, I had the dark and unsettling impression that it was just beginning.

We marched out to the first field without seeing a single Freak, but the reason became clear. They’d already destroyed everything. Fragile green plants had been torn from the ground, and they lay dying, tiny roots exposed to the air. They had raked the neat furrows repeatedly with their claws until it was impossible to tell this had once been a site of renewal and hope.

To make matters worse, the Freaks had left us a sign, an unmistakable offering. We had lost six on our last patrol, two growers and four guards. Now there were six heads, mounted on stakes—just reasonably straight branches, true, but it reflected a forethought that chilled me to my marrow. These poor folk had been half consumed, faces and all, and the putrid, ragged skin showed slices of bone. They’d removed the brains, to eat I assumed, and left gaping holes in the back of the skulls.

A cry went through the growers as they noticed, and a few fell to their knees, some vomiting up their breakfasts, and others weeping for the lost. The guards held themselves more stoic, so their revulsion revealed itself only in the way they cut their eyes to the sides, unable to look on the desecration for more than a few seconds at a time. As for me, I took a long look, for this was the new face of an old enemy.

As warnings went, this one was masterful. Not only did it instill terror and revulsion, it also told us there were more Freaks hidden nearby. Watching. Waiting. And we had no idea of their numbers. Longshot thought we got most of them, but some had clearly hung back, then crept out after we left and eaten our dead. Horror crawled up my spine like a many-legged insect, insidious and inexorable.

“They’re trying to starve us out,” I said softly to Fade.

He nodded. “That’s not simple instinct. That’s—”

“Strategy,” Stalker finished. It was the first time he’d spoken to me since he came in my window, but apparently he judged this situation worth setting aside his personal grievances.

“I don’t like this,” I muttered.

“It’s a caution,” Stalker went on. “The gangs post similar messages, just not with heads.” He didn’t elaborate on the difference, and I was glad.

Genuine fright flared. Though there was plenty of food now, one bad growing season could destroy Salvation’s prosperity. Momma Oaks had a small kitchen garden for us to augment the crops planted for the whole town—and of which each family received a share—but it wouldn’t be enough to last the winter. Other families didn’t have the space or inclination to plant anything at all.

“What do we do?” a grower asked Longshot. “Do we clean up and sow a second time?”

It was an excellent question. But now that the Freaks had worked out the importance of this site, they could easily return. More substantial measures were required, and by his expression, Longshot knew it. He conferred quietly with other patrol leaders—all seasoned men who spent their winters guarding the wall. Finally, after some argument, and with the rest of us watching the horizon and sniffing the air, they came to an accord.

“We’ll put the problem to the council,” Longshot said. “Something’s shifted in the way the Muties act. No point in hangin’ around here waitin’ to be ambushed. Let’s get back and call an emergency meeting.”

As we returned to town, people discussed the problem in low tones.

“We could build a wall,” one of the growers suggested.

Another laughed with quiet scorn. “It’s all we can do to get out for planting and tending, idiot. How would the patrols protect builders
and
planters? And you know how much trouble it would be to fell and haul that much timber?”

I followed the man’s gaze out to the dark forest that bordered Salvation. Plenty of wood, sure, but it was also the staging ground for the last Freak incursion.

A second guard shook his head. “You couldn’t pay me enough to go in there, even to protect men sawing down trees for the good of the town.”

His misgivings made sense. There had to be another way.

“We could put a permanent guard on the fields,” someone else offered.

That sounded more doable to me, but it would be dangerous. There was no shelter, just the endless threat of a sudden, gruesome death. The isolation and uncertainty could crack a lesser soul.

It went without saying that I’d volunteer. I was distracted, trying to work out how I’d present this to Momma Oaks when the world exploded with tooth and claw.

The Freaks hit us at the gate this time; it was quite a process to get the wheels and pulleys moving so our party could pass through. They came in low, around the sides of the walls, instead of a direct assault. These monsters had learned a measure of cunning; they had camouflaged themselves—even their hideous smell—with natural earth and greenery, so when they came at us from the sides, they were already closer than anyone could have imagined. They must have hunkered down during shift change and waited for us to return.

Another two minutes’ better timing, and they’d have breached the walls,
I thought, fear spiking in my head.

My knives slid into my hands by instinct alone. Those of us who excelled at hand-to-hand, including Fade and Stalker, planted ourselves before the gates while the other guards fired. It was pure madness with the report of rifles, howling, growling Freaks, snarling their intentions through blood-frothed mouths.

“Lock it down!” Longshot shouted.

And the gates groaned as guards towed on the ropes, slowly hauling the heavy wood back toward them. In their haste, one of them pulled too hard, unbalancing the mechanism and a metal piece sheared with a horrid twang. Behind me, the gate stood open by two feet, and over my head, men cursed as they ran for replacement parts.

The planters ran, screaming, toward that small gap. They thought walls still represented safety, but there was none outside of your own strength. I’d believed it down below, and I still did as I received the first rush, Freaks maddened by the possibility of success—and a feast greater than they’d ever known.