Red Fox (24 page)

“But he was more worried for you because Warden wanted
the job
done,” Whil lets that idea hang a moment. “I suppose it doesn’t matter why he did it, the point is he got us out and we owe him a lot.” His fingers brush against my cheek and I remember that I must look terrible with half of my hair ripped out from Felix’s attack and yet another throbbing gash on my head. I touch the spot where Felix smashed my head in the counter and find it feels crusty with dry blood.

Though there is still a small, baldish patch of creased skin on Whil’s head from his old wound, his hair falls over it and hides the scar. The only imperfection he has is slowly fading away, while I seem to get more scarred and wounded every week. I think of Madison and Jacob—Jacob is a plain looking man while Madison is stunningly beautiful but neither notices the difference. I suppose the same applies for Whil and me. Truly beautiful people like Madison and Whil don’t judge books by their covers.

The forest becomes thick around us once more and throws darkness over the non-existent trail we follow.

Ahead, I can hear our companions traipsing noisily. I sigh in dismay. Some of these folk will not be suited to living in the wild—they don’t even try to be stealthy or quiet. Even knowing no one is on our trail, I place my feet where no footprints are left: on rocks, or grass tussocks or tree roots. But the trail of my companions is clearly visible in the soft dirt and would be easy to follow. Suddenly Isobelle emerges from the fernery, drenched but grinning from ear to ear. There is a sparkle of light playing in her blue-green eyes that I haven’t seen before.

She looks at Whil’s arm around my shoulder and gives a smirk. “Is this Whil?”

I glare at her and give the tiniest shake of my head. In the facility, I confided all of my secrets in Isobelle. Including all of my spite for Whil, and every tear I’d shed over him. The last thing I need right now is Isobelle pouring out my secrets.

“I am,” Whil says. “Nice to meet you…?”

“Isobelle,” the girl says. “I’ve heard all ‘bout you from Freya.”

Whil looks at me, a smile playing on his lips. “Have you? What have you heard?”

“Lots of things, but I ain’t allowed to say,” Isobelle falls into stride next to us. “She was mad at you for ages. She swore a lot and cried too. But don’t worry, she reckons you’re drop dead gorgeous and pretty sweet.”

Blood raging in my cheeks, I lunge at her. “Get out of here!” I cry out. Isobelle dances out of my way with amazing swiftness and with a musical laugh, vanishes into the ferns ahead.

Face burning, I snap a twig off a wattle tree and begin picking at the fluffy yellow flowers on it. Whil laughs in the same rumbling thunder way I remember.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“I didn’t say it like that,” I say defensively. “I didn’t say you were drop dead gorgeous.”

“So you don’t think I’m gorgeous?”

“Don’t push me,” I grumble. He chuckles again, but I’m only half joking. I don’t want to get into a big emotional discussion about how much more brilliant he is than me.

Before we can start talking again, we come to a stop, for our group has halted in front of a large, fast moving stream.

24.

The water is clear but bubbles foam around its edges and leaves and bark have fallen into the torrent. They swirl downstream and cascade over rocky, little waterfalls. Speckled black and white granite boulders line the edge of the creek like soldiers, and many are sheened with bright green moss. The gurgle of the stream muffles everyone’s voices and adds to the serenity of the forest. I drop to my knees and drink the water, which tastes pure and cool, while Seiger discusses with his guards which way would be best to travel. They decide to head upstream, for the terrain is steeper and more rugged—a perfect place for deserters to hide.

Everyone takes a drink and we continue. The further we go the larger and more slippery the granite boulders by the creek bed become. Soon, each step is perilous. I try to scale the rocks, but the moss on them is slick and my hands can’t grip to the smooth surface. When I do manage to get over one, another lies directly in my path. Sighing, I look back over my shoulder and find our group looks like mountain goats battling up a rough cliff face. The stream runs faster and wider and people stop often to bend down and scoop up a drink of water, much to Seiger’s dismay. He’s so massive he seems to leap up the boulders, while we smaller folk are constantly searching for safe footholds and pant loud enough that we can be heard over the rushing stream.

Whil or Lance helps me when I can’t scale one of the larger obstacles, which is quite often. The boulders are so tall they can’t be jumped and so round that grappling them is impossible. Although our large group struggles along at a gruellingly slow pace, Seiger insists we follow the stream.

As the day progresses, the air in the rainforest becomes hot and sticky. It’s moist and I feel like I’m inhaling droplets of water with each breath. Sweat pours down my face and dampens my t-shirt. I removed Seiger’s jacket a long time ago. Not even my self-consciousness could stop me shedding any extra layers of clothing. Madison is wearing her flannelette pyjamas tops and bottoms and though it is stinking hot, I can’t see a bead of sweat anywhere on her. She looks just as flawless as usual.

“Seiger!” I snap when Lance hoists me up the side of another boulder and I know he’s staring straight at my bum. I glare over my shoulder and see a smirking Lance beneath me. When I’m safe on the top of the boulder, I lash out with a foot and he jumps out of the way with a playful laugh. Whil joins in the laughter and I scowl. “Are there going to be clothes at this place?”

“How should I know?”

“Well, do you know anything about it? Are there houses?”

“I don’t know, Walker. I haven’t been there before.”

Suddenly, someone at the front of the group screams and gunshots fire, making birds launch from the tree branches, screeching in alarm. The gunshot echoes and I clamber to my feet and my eyes dart rapidly, trying to find the source of the noise. My heart leaps into my throat when I see what has brought our slow moving group to a sudden halt.

Fierce looking people surround the front of our group in a semi-circle  blocking the way forward. Their faces are painted black, so no features but their flashing teeth and the whites of their eyes can be seen, and they hold a mixture of primitive looking spears and modern guns towards Seiger’s guards, their expressions dark. Wreaths of ferns are tied around their biceps and waists, over black clothes, so they blend into the forest and seem to move amongst the shrubbery like flickering light. There are eight of them, four face to face with our own guards and the other half lingering in the tree line beside the stream, waiting to attack on signal. Vicious, wild expressions show on their black faces and they bare their pearly teeth like a pack of wolves surrounding its prey.

Seiger’s guards have their rifles pointed at the camouflaged men and the Bs are huddled behind them, some crying, and some looking simply petrified. I snort to myself. The people the government thought were wild and violent are all cowering behind bodyguards because of a few jungle men. Only two or three of the Bs straighten up and look unfazed by the attackers, including myself.

“Who are you all?” one of the forest men with a gun asks, thrusting the barrel towards Seiger.

Seiger’s own rifle is pointed at the forest man’s head and I know how easily he could, and would, pull the trigger. I glance between the two men, and both are glaring, their muscles taut, stances commanding, as they demand authority. It is clear neither intends to speak further, that both are ready to fire, and that our freedom, our very lives, wait on the precipice of this single moment.

“Stop!” I shout, dashing forward, tripping over boulders, slipping on slick surfaces, and finally coming to stand between the head jungle man and Seiger, which places both of the chilled metal barrels of their guns against my back and torso. The jungle man narrows his eyes at me distrustfully. Seiger tries to shove me out of the way, but I stand firm.

I can’t tell what the leading forest man looks like because his whole face is painted black. What I do notice is the blazing green glint in his eyes as the sun strikes them, as if the forest itself lives within. For a moment, I am enveloped by the beauty, by the powerful influence of these eyes, but then I realise that both the man and I are sizing one another up, deciding who is the dominant person like wolves fighting for dominancy over a pack. Not wanting to fight, I lower my head slightly in a sign of submission and the man gives the tiniest incline of his head to show he understands.

“We aren’t here to hunt you down,” I tell him over Seiger’s snarls to get out of the way. “We’ve escaped from a government facility created for the people who became Bs during the rallies. These guards helped us escape and we are all innocent.”

The snake-green eyes stay focused on me, calculating and so fierce that they seem to pierce my soul. “How do I know that what you tell me is true?”

Pursing my lips, I pull up the sleeve of my t-shirt to expose my B brand. Behind me, my companions do the same and look ashamed as they show off their scars. There is nothing else we can do to convince the forest men that we are harmless. They have to protect their home and their people.

Seeing our brands, the forest man gives a rumbling ‘hmm’ and lowers his gun as he does so. His green eyes look me up and down in a measured way. But then, with a throaty laugh, he uses the end of the rifle to flip the hem of my scant t-shirt. “This isn’t exactly rainforest attire,” he says, the sparkle of his smile standing out on the painted black face.

Grinding my teeth, I slap the gun away and for the thousandth time today, yank my t-shirt further down my legs. “Are you the people who escaped before the rally?”

The man casts a wary glance at the guards and then nods. “We are. I suppose you lot will be looking for somewhere to stay,” then he adds with a sigh, “as if we didn’t have enough mouths to feed already.” He turns around, gives a wave over his shoulder and begins walking upstream. Unsure whether he wants us to follow or not, but not about to be left behind, I shuffle after him, as do his seven other forest men, who move with sure-footed, powerful movements.

People relax when they realise we haven’t walked straight into danger and follow the jungle leader. I trot beside him, trying to keep up with his long, swinging gait, which floats over the rough terrain. His camouflaged troops disperse among the Bs and strike up casual conversation, obviously happy to have some new people to talk to, but the leader stays silent as we walk. I notice that he, too, picks his path wisely and tries to leave no footprints.

“What’s your name?” I ask eventually, after the granite boulders no longer litter the edge of the creek and we can walk and talk freely. Madison, Jacob, Whil and Isobelle all walk by my side, eager to hear from the leader of the deserters.

“It’s Kharanshu, but people just call me Khar,” the man says.

“That’s an unusual name,” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Not really,” he says. “How about your lot?”

We all introduce ourselves, and Khar smiles, his teeth a brilliant white. “You think my name is strange. You have such plain names.”

Madison snorts. “Flattery at its finest.”

“So what is it the Bs group was used for anyway?” Khar asks, ignoring Madison’s remark.

None of us respond and I feel the binding emotions of shame and guilt tying the tongues of my companions. Finally Khar looks at me. Unwillingly, I explain about the government’s plan to mate the Bs and breed wild children. The camo guards all stare at me with disgusted expressions, and when I’ve finished talking, they burst out in furious tones. I hear the words
repulsive
,
perverted,
and
vile
used many times, along with a few terrible swear words, which are like poison to my ears. They continue divulging their disgust for the government until the sound of crashing water starts to overpower their voices. As we move along, the noise becomes louder and louder, like the rumbling of an earthquake.

“What’s that noise?” I ask tentatively.

There is a bend in the stream, which has widened and is flowing much faster now, and as we round it, the other newcomers and I draw a gasp in unison and come to a stop in the sun-dappled forest.

Before us is an incredible, gushing waterfall that flows white, frothing foam over a cliff. The waterfall towers a good twenty metres above us and smooth, green tinged boulders form the rocky cliff it cascades down. The water hits a large, deep pool at the base of the cliff with a crashing noise that drowns almost all other sound out. The falling water beating into the pond is rapid and noisy, but the outsides of the pool are still and peaceful like the rest of the forest. I can clearly see every bronze rock, golden stone and wizened fire-red leaf on the bottom of the pool. It’s as if there is another, perfectly still and perfectly silent world beneath the rapids.

But the waterfall isn’t what amazes us.

All around the pool, perched in dozens of mountain ash trees, are incredible houses woven of sticks, bark and ferns. The tiny yurts are circular and small, only long enough to fit a couple of sleeping people in each, but hanging rope bridges are slung between the huts to connect them to one another. The houses aren’t even supported by branches like a normal tree house. They are scaffolded halfway up the trunks as if the trees have grown them there like malformed, enormous burls. Ropes hang from the topmost huts and drop to the ground as ladders. Some of the huts even have tiny porches and people stand on them, staring at us. There must be twenty of the tiny huts and dozens of swinging bridges leading to and fro, all of it a good thirty feet from the ground. Safe from predators: both animals and humans. I look at the single rope ladders and make a face. I doubt I’ll be able to climb them.

“As you can see, we are already a bit tight on space. You lot will have to pull your weight and earn your living, got it?” Khar says.

There is a murmur of agreement among us. We’re all too astonished to respond properly. I feel like I’ve just stepped into Robin Hood’s old base camp. It’s incredible. The Bs and Seiger’s guards all bustle off to explore but I stay rooted to the spot and just stare.

“How long have you guys been here?” I gape at Khar.

“Mm…” he rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Well, we all left before the rally took place but I was the first here. A few people from the nearest town came here to hide and found me. Slowly, word just spread somehow. There are only about twenty people here now. We might have been here for two months now.”

My heart sinks. “Only twenty people escaped the rallies?”

“I doubt it. There were probably plenty of people smart enough not to go and they are probably hiding elsewhere.”

I try not to feel offended by his words. My family wasn’t smart enough to run away before the rally happened. We knew it wasn’t going to be a good outcome but somehow we still didn’t have the courage to flee.

“Don’t take it to heart, Freya,” Whil says, placing a hand on my shoulder and glaring at Khar’s back. “No one expected what happened. Only the paranoid people of the world were prepared for such a thing.”

He says it loudly enough for Khar to hear and I feel the tension building between the two men like a trip wire. Madison glances between the two. She looks eager for some drama, as if our lives aren’t dramatic enough at the moment. If Khar heard what Whil said, he doesn’t respond to it. He tells his forest guards to go and hunt for food. The seven men who followed Khar like shadows immediately take off into the forest and vanish. I hardly hear them go, their footsteps are so light and carefully placed. Khar turns to us.

“For tonight, you’ll all be sleeping on the ground. We won’t have enough swags for all of you but I’ll send a team out tomorrow to go to search for supplies. The men will find food tonight. You can all rest for now. Enjoy it while you can because tomorrow you will work like the rest of us.”

So hospitable,
I think sourly as Khar bends down to wash the black paint from his face in the waterfall pool. The stream picks up the paint and makes it swirl in the water like ashen smoke.

“Where is this rainforest anyway?” I turn to Seiger, who is still gawking at the tree huts. He looks astonished—I’ve never seen him look anything other than calm and reserved, and more recently furious.

“Far away from the Bs compound,” Seiger says. “We didn’t expect anything like this. Thought maybe a few rag-tag kids were camping here. But this—”