The Dead-Tossed Waves (11 page)

I dig my fingers into the dirty sand, unable to convince myself that I’m safe. Slowly I sit back and run my hands over my arms and legs, needing to make sure that I’m okay and wasn’t bitten.

While I do this I sneak glances at the stranger, wondering who he is and where he came from. He seems a year or two older than me. The white tunic he wears is soaked, plastered to his body. Two thick leather straps cross his chest and loop over his shoulders, holding scabbards against his back. I’ve never seen anyone dressed like him and I’m certain he’s not from Vista.

Finally he turns to me, holding out a hand to help me stand. His skin is warm, his grip firm. His fingers linger against mine for a moment before slipping away. He looks as if he’s about to say something but then he scowls and looks past me.

His head is shaved, making his cheekbones look sharp, his eyes light. Three parallel welts trace down the left side of his face and I realize that they’re from me, from when I clawed at him in the ocean.

My heart begins to pound as I assess this new situation. Yes, I’m safe from the Mudo, but I’m alone with a complete stranger in the empty ruins of the old city. Even though he’s wiry, he’s larger than I am—certainly stronger—and I have no idea if he’s alone or here with others. I have no weapon, my sickle still embedded in the Mudo’s neck, and I suddenly feel naked without any kind of protection. As my mother taught me: It’s not just the Mudo who can be deadly in our world.

He watches me as if expecting something. I take a step away from him, away from the fences and the Mudo. Water slowly drips down the back of my legs. “I’m sorry for earlier,” I say to my feet. My voice feels weak, high. “I mean, for hitting you. Thank you, though.” I glance up at him. “Thanks for saving me.”

He says nothing and I look over my shoulder into the warren of shadows, the familiar panic whispering in my ear. The buildings out here past the amusement park are crumbled, the streets full of rubble and brush and debris. There’s nothing I could use for a weapon except loose rock and stones; anything that could have been salvaged was taken years ago, leaving nothing worth anything behind.

The panic becomes more of a buzz, tracing along the hairs on the back of my neck. I’m not sure I could find my way out of here if I ran and I know that if I try to escape he’ll be able to catch me before I get far at all.

I struggle to push my hair out of my face but it’s wet and tangled so I fold my arms across my chest, clutching my elbows. My clothes are wet and stick to my skin, leaving me feeling exposed. Why did I take such a stupid risk?

“You’re …” He pauses and clears his throat. His eyes are wide, the moon hovering over the horizon highlighting the shadows of his cheeks and lashes.

“I’m Gabrielle,” I say, my voice a whisper. “Gabry,” I add. I can only glance at him, afraid to look him in the eyes. Afraid that I’ll see hunger or rage.

His eyebrows draw together and he just stands there staring at me, making me more uncomfortable. “I’m Elias,” he finally says. But he doesn’t move toward me, doesn’t hold out a hand for me to shake. Behind him the Mudo pulse against the fence, writhe for us. Their moans filter through my head,
mingling with the buzz of panic that tastes like old metal in the back of my throat.

I’m trapped on all sides by danger and I squeeze my elbows tighter. I finally glance into his eyes and see a flicker of confusion before he blinks it away. I look down, feeling strange and awkward. I don’t know what to say to him or how to begin to speak to a stranger. I want to ask him not to hurt me but somehow I feel as though it would be the wrong thing to say. If he really wanted to hurt me he could have left me on the beach. He could have left me on the ground after I jumped from the fence.

I remember the way his hand hesitated over mine as he pulled me to my feet. He didn’t feel dangerous.

He breaks the silence. “What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”

I’m taken aback. I’m the one who should be asking
him
these questions. I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m from Vista.” I glance over my shoulder into the darkness, trying to appear casual, trying not to let my voice quaver. “Are you alone?”

He doesn’t answer my question. “If you’re from the town, what are you doing out here?” He takes a small step toward me and the panic roars to life. I throw up my hands and try to walk backward but I stumble over the cracked concrete and start to lose my balance.

He lunges for me then and I swing at his hands, trying to push him away. But he’s stronger than I am and his fingers circle my upper arms easily, his grip tight.

The only thought in my head is wonder at how we focus so much on the terrors of the Mudo that we don’t think enough about the dangers of the normal world. Of the in-between places full of lawless and desperate scavengers.

For a moment we stand there with barely anything
separating us, his firm hold on my arms keeping me from falling onto the sharp edge of a broken wall. He could do anything he wanted to me right then. I could kick and scream and bite. But who would hear me? And if he’s survived out here in the world between the protection of cities, he knows well enough how to defend himself against biting. I stifle a whimper, not wanting him to know how scared I am.

He must see everything in my eyes because his face goes pale. He steps quickly away wiping his fingers across his tunic as if brushing off the feel of me. I’m almost light-headed with relief.

“I’m not …,” he says, stumbling over his words, “I wouldn’t …” He waves his hands at me as he continues to put distance between us. I see his throat tighten before he finally whispers, “I won’t hurt you.” He hesitates before adding, “Gabrielle.”

There’s something in the way he says my name. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown up knowing every way that my name can sound, every way it falls from the lips of the people in my town. And he’s someone new—a voice I’ve never heard before.

I nod. A sort of awkward silence stretches between us, my name the only thing floating on the air.

I try to bring us back to solid footing by answering his earlier question. “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” I tell him. “We were out here last night and he never came back.”

He lets out a long breath as if grateful for the change in topic. “Down at the amusement park.”

I tilt my head. “How do you know?”

He looks past me into the darkness and for a moment I want to turn around, afraid that someone is watching me. “I could hear the bells and some of the shouting.”

I stare at him and hesitate for only a moment before saying, “You’re not from Vista,” as if stating the obvious is important.

“No.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“I didn’t think anyone lived out here,” I press. I look around at the crumbled buildings, the fallen walls and caved roofs. So many dark shadows and crevices. This isn’t a place where people live; people don’t live in the in-between places.

After the Return the cities and towns were the most dangerous places, infection spreading and breaking too easily in larger, denser populations. But then as time wore on, people had to band back together. They had to build communities for goods, for food, for safety.

Cities and towns contracted, pulled in their borders, built walls. Which left a whole lot of space in between filled with nothing but Mudo. A few roads, like the long one from our town to the Dark City up the coast, are somewhat protected by the ocean and ruins on one side and the fence around the Forest on the other.

But still, travel is difficult at best, deadly at worst. It’s as if cities and towns are like islands in a world where most everyone is afraid of water.

Which means that someone who lives beyond the protection of a town or city is suspect.

I’ve grown up knowing the reality of our world: The lucky among us live in cities and towns, within the protection of society.

But not everyone is so lucky. Some are cast out for infractions, for failing to follow the rules. Many are deserters from the Recruiters, whose names end up on lists with prices on their heads. Some see themselves as traders—scavenging the ruins and edges of the Forest. Almost all of them are desperate, and I want to know which category Elias falls into.

He rubs his chin and then grips the back of his neck. “I think I know where your friend is,” he counters.

I narrow my eyes at him, not sure whether I can or should trust him. “How do you know? Why are you out here?” I ask, trying to figure out who he is.

He studies me and I see a brief flash of something cross over his face. Fear? Regret? Or maybe just the moon hiding behind a cloud before bursting through. “I’m looking for someone as well,” he says. His voice is quiet and even.

“Who?” I ask, wondering if everyone in the world is lost, all of us searching.

He stares at me a little longer, and then finally shakes his head. “Never mind,” he mumbles.

“Who?” I press.

He pauses before saying, “I just saved you from the Unconsecrated, which, I might add, are still after us. Who I’m looking for isn’t important. I’d think just the fact that I
am
here would be something you might want to be thankful for.”

I look at him closely, unsure if I heard him right. “You call them Unconsecrated.” I pause. “Why?”

He’s silent for a long moment. Waiting, I think, for me to say something. Then he shrugs. “Every town has its own word for them, passed down from the Return. It’s the one I like best.”

I’ve only heard my mother use that term. But then again, I’ve rarely met someone from outside Vista except the traders and Recruiters. “You said you’d seen my friend?” I ask.

“I think I know where he is.”

His eyes are so intense that I have a hard time looking away. “Will you take me to him?”

Once again he looks past me and then rubs a hand over his head as if forgetting he has no hair to tug at. “Are you sure, Gabry?” He says my nickname carefully, as if testing it out.

I start to say yes but the word won’t come. I have to force my lips to move, remind my chest to squeeze out air. “Yes,” I finally manage. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shifts his feet. “Your friend is infected,” he says.

I close my eyes, feeling the pain come back. Seeing the bite wounds on Catcher’s shoulder again.

“You have to trust me,” he says, almost tenderly, when I’m silent. “I know what infection looks like.” He seems to laugh a little then. Like a nervous sigh, just a puff of air. “He’s infected. He’s got a few days, maybe. But …” His voice trails off, slipping away to the sound of the moans behind him.

I nod. “I know.” And it feels as if it takes everything I am to say those words. Of course, I suddenly realize everything I am doesn’t exist anymore. For a brief moment under the shadows of the coaster with Catcher I thought I knew for the first time who I was and wanted to be. Since then all of that has been shaken.

The air around me seems too thick, too heavy. “I just have to see him,” I tell Elias. “I just have to see him again.”

When I open my eyes he’s looking at me, pain etched in the lines around his mouth. I wonder, then, if he’s lost someone to the Mudo. He said he knows infection, has seen it. I wonder if he’s watched someone he loved get bitten. If he’s watched the infection sear through the body, fester the wound, take control.

Elias turns and looks at the fence. The Mudo have multiplied, the moans echoing off the half-fallen walls around us. They pull at the metal links, which look too thin, too delicate to stop their onslaught. Elias reaches to the scabbard on his back and pulls out a long sharp dagger.

I see the flash of a pattern etched into the blade before he lunges at the gate, the tip of the knife slipping through the
links and piercing the skull of one of the Mudo. The movement is so abrupt, so unexpected, I gasp. Elias grunts as he yanks the weapon free and lunges at another. I watch the Mudo man stay standing just a moment longer before slumping to the ground. The ones around him don’t notice. Don’t care. Don’t stop. They don’t move away, just keep thrashing against the fence, which bows under their weight.

My entire life I’ve watched my mother behead the Mudo that wash up on the beach after storms and during strong high tides. I’ve seen her turn them over, examine their faces, before pushing her shovel-shaped blade into their necks.

It always seemed as if she was looking for someone. As if she was waiting, fearing, that someone she knew would wash upon her beach. As if she regretted her job—regretted what the former people at her feet had become.

Elias takes no such care as he goes about his task. And I find myself looking into the faces of the Mudo, wondering who they used to be. The Mudo washed ashore always seemed so lifeless to me. So dead and distant. I never had to get near them. Not like those beyond the fences in front of us, who push and moan and are too close. Who in a dark night could be mistaken as human. They all had mothers somewhere, sometime in the past. Some of them had lovers. Children. Dreams.

All they ever had is gone. Nothing more than a senseless hunger that will never be satisfied.

I wonder, then, if one of the women could have been my real mother. One of the boys my brother. And soon one of them could be Catcher. The thought hits me hard, reminding me why I’m here beyond the Barrier.