Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. (14 page)

“Bite… infected,” he manages. He tries to indicate his leg. “Hoped to get further.”

“Don’t be stupid!” I’m appalled that he would choose to continue on, knowing that he needed medical attention and rest. Why didn’t he say something? “We can camp here, there’s enough space for the tent.”

“Keep moving,” he mutters, but I ignore him.

Dump him in the bushes and run, part of me is saying. The other part, my conscience, is appalled that I could be thinking so coldly. I’ve settled on a happy medium, which is to make him comfortable and give him a chance to recover from the wound, and I’ll move on with his monitor.

The first thing I do after trying to settle him on a dry fern under the trees, is rummage around in his pack for the monitor and triggers. I know I’ll feel much safer with them out. Taking the monitor with me, I can see no activity. I backtrack along our route and leave one down the trail. I set another further into the bush, and a third at the stream ahead of us. Only three - not ideal, but I don’t want to waste too much time. Glancing at the sky, I estimate that I might have about an hour of daylight left. I’d like to use it to put as much distance as possible between myself and my Polis guard. Even with his suggestion that I keep moving, I don’t trust him. He intends me to keep going in the direction he has planned. I don’t. I want to be well away from him by the time he has recovered enough to follow. Putting him between the tracker and me is just a bonus.

With the triggers activated, I watch the zone captured on the monitor immediately widen. I can see five hundred metres from each trigger point. I spot my chosen campsite easily, with Hayes’s motionless form as an indication. My breath freezes in my lungs when I notice a presence on the screen to my south. I continue my return to the campsite, but keep my eyes on the monitor screen. My tracker is moving away from the riverbed shown on the monitor, making his way further upstream on the southern bank. As I arrive at the place where I left the gear and Hayes, the form moves out of range completely and is lost from view.

I pull the tent out of his bag and set it up. It pops into its dome shape and I spread the tarp out on the bottom. I look at Hayes, lying down in the ferns. I’m going to have to get him into it, but if he’s unconscious I haven’t a chance. There’s no way I can lift him.

I crouch down next to him and can hear his laboured breathing. His arms are wrapped round his stomach and a fit of shaking takes him.

“Hey, wake up,” I urge him, tapping him on the cheek. His eyes crack open. “Into the tent, come on.”

I help him onto his side and then, on all fours, he crawls the two metres into the corner of the tent where I’ve laid a blanket. He curls up again.

“… me alone…” he mutters.

“Nothing would please me more,” I tell him, thoughts of my departure already giving me jitters of anticipation. My inner voice is knocking on the door to my thoughts. I sigh. I’ve been trying not to listen, but I know it’s not going to stop until I do something about the damp clothes. What good is a tent when he’s cold and wet? Right now, hypothermia is as big a threat as the tracker, and just leaving him here, even with shelter, is as good as leaving him to die.

I sort through his bag, shaking out items on the floor of the tent as I find them. I’ll look more closely at them later, although I do notice that none of them are wet - the bag must have a waterproof lining. I pull out some dry clothes. They comprise the Polis uniform he was wearing when he first turned up at our pod. The sight of them brings back the memory of sitting with Grandad, holding his hand as he died. I stifle the feelings of sorrow and loss that I experience at the touch of the uniform. It’s all he’s got.

Getting the wet ones off are a challenge. At first he fights my ministering, trying to stay in a ball and my cajoling does nothing. I simply can’t move him; I can’t even get to his shirt buttons. Eventually, in my frustration, I bark at him.

“
Sit up, Soldier
!” To my surprise he attempts to obey immediately, his eyes blinking and his body still trembling uncontrollably. My fingers are cold and fumble as they undo the buttons, but we manage to get the wet shirt and singlet off. I’m threading his arm into the soft cotton of a black T-shirt when I feel the rough texture of his damp, exposed skin under my fingers. In the dim light of the tent it’s hard to see clearly, and I squint at his back as I pause in pulling the shirt down.

Wiry as his build is, after seeing him shirtless I could never doubt his strength. Well-defined shoulders draw down to narrow hips. I brush my fingers over taut muscles from shoulder blade to waist as I guide the shirt on. The skin is cold and covered with goosebumps, but that’s not what drew my attention. His back is criss-crossed with bleak, raised lines. Healed scars from biting lashes. These were not caused by a stinging whip wielded to teach small hubbite youths a lesson. These lashes were given to leave an impression. A woollen shirt goes on top and as I button this, I wonder what he could have done to deserve such savagely repeated discipline.

He immediately lies down again and groans. I look at his damp pants and decide they will have to do. I have no idea how I’d get him out of them and I already feel as though I’ve invaded his privacy far too intimately. I feel a faint flush in my cheeks at the thought. Instead, I take my knife and cut away part of the pants leg under which I can feel the bulk of his bandage.

In his bag, I find a first aid kit which contains a few basics such as a needle, dressings and creams. A small tube of antiseptic cream is almost gone, and a few painkiller tablets rattle loosely in their bottle. It’s finally clear how he was able to cope with the “small scratch” and keep moving. Maybe he should have listened to the warning the pain was trying to tell him. It occurs to me that he’s taking his task very seriously, if he would choose to ignore it in favour of moving on. How important is it that I reach the Polis?

I cut away the dressing and find that Hayes was absolutely right - the wound has festered. I make an involuntary grunt of disgust at the sweet smell and the small tear in his flesh that is visibly yellow. The skin around is red and swollen. This must have been uncomfortable for some time. It has pulled open, weeping into the dressing.

After cleaning it as best I can, I apply some antiseptic to the wound. It’s clear that the tube in the Polis kit hasn’t been completely successful in fighting the bacteria, so I apply some of my own, then wrap a fresh bandage around his leg. I put dry woollen socks on his feet, then unfold the square, silver blanket I found in his backpack and cover him as best I can.

“Sleep,” he mumbles.

I check the monitor again before seeing to my own garments. It remains clear, apart from the blob in the centre which is us. I quickly strip off my damp clothing and put on some dry leggings, fresh underclothes and a long woollen shirt. My chilled skin thanks me straight away. I rub my arms and legs to get the circulation going. By the time I’m done, Hayes’s breathing has settled into a rhythm and the shivering stopped. I turn to the items in his bag.

As well as the Polis uniform and silver blanket, I find the heavy lenses we used yesterday to see at a distance. Could be useful… I put these to one side. I pull out a long length of heavy cord tied neatly in a figure of eight, a coil of wire and a small igloo of plastic which sits easily in the palm of my hand. I look at it from all angles but I can’t fathom its purpose until I press it in the centre. It ignites immediately, and a cool white light illuminates the tent. A lamp… fantastic. I leave it switched on for the moment, but I’ll definitely be taking it with me. In a side pocket are his matches and the triggers for the thermal imager.

I also discover some sealed foil packets stored inside his lightweight camp pot. Some contain the dry biscuits we have already eaten today, and in another I find a powder with a rich foody smell. My stomach growls and I realise how hungry I am. I’m guessing it mixes up with water to make soup. I hope that it’s okay cold because I have no intention of taking the risk to get a fire going.

I snap the clasp on the First Aid kit. This will definitely come in handy. I hold it in my hands for an instant, looking at the Polis insignia on the bag. My conscience is whining again and it occurs to me that my conscience has Grandad’s voice. Its current disapproval comes from knowing that Hayes is likely to need the First Aid kit more than I.

“Well, I’ve got further to go,” I mutter to myself, and firmly place the kit next to the lamp. The dazer I return to his backpack without a thought; I want nothing to do with it. Just touching its cold metal gives me the creeps.

I take the two canteens and duck outside for water. In the time since putting out the triggers the forest has darkened a great deal, and in amongst the trees it’s becoming difficult to see. I make my way carefully to the stream and fill them, realising that I will have to accept that I’m here for the night. I’m doubtful that he’ll be in any fit state to pursue me by morning, but even if he were, I’m confident that I could knock him out. I still have my pouch of poisons, and now I also have his medicines as well.

I crouch beside the water for a moment, listening to sounds of the forest around me settling in for the night. The sky is still light, but down in the gully the water is inky black. The stream continues its gentle course, and I hear the tell-tale sounds of minute splashes as fish feed in the changing light. The calls of birdlife have all but ceased, shrill daytime noises replaced with the quiet calls of owls. I hear the snick of a bat’s wing flap overhead, and its black outline is briefly visible as it swoops through the gully.

Although I’m looking forward to moving on alone, staying will give me some much-needed rest. Surprisingly, I find that the decision to stay is more of a relief than a frustration.

When I return to the campsite, I notice that although I left the lamp on, the only light that comes from the tent is through the slit of the half-open door. It’s good to know that the material of the tent, although it lets light in, doesn’t allow any to escape.

Back in the tent I zip the door right up, then look at the monitor again. It remains clear. I know that there is a setting which would sound an alarm if the perimeter is tripped, but I have no idea how to set it so I hope it’s already in place. I zoom out to have a look at the whole map. I can see the Polis clearly marked to the north east, and the route Hayes intends to take towards it, roughly north then east to approach one of the three main gates into the City. I use the controls to trace the route further north, towards Sector Nine.

My plan isn’t as appealing to me as it once was. It’s highly likely that the northern pass is now firmly under Polis control. Going that way would mean sure discovery. With Sector Nine no longer free of Polis rule, I have fewer options. Travel further north, skirt round the city and then up the coast towards the northernmost point of the island, or double back and head south for Rakiura. The only two spots on the sector map which are dark red. I rub my chin while I try to decide what would be best for me. Heading south is something my tracker wouldn’t expect, although there is the danger that I will run straight into him. Would heading south be something Hayes might expect me to do? Perhaps, in order to check on Bastian.

With the thought of Bastian, guilt threatens to wash over me, and I push it back. I need to concentrate on my own survival right now.

I realise that tomorrow morning when I leave the tent I will have two pursuers to worry about. A chill runs down my spine. I take a deep calming breath.

North, that’s all I can do. Keep heading north. Away from the tracker, away from the soldier. Away from Bastian, away from the Polis, away from anything I have ever known. Decision made, I push my thoughts of being hunted away. I can only prepare so much. The rest I will have to deal with tomorrow.

I add some of Hayes’s purifier to both bottles and use the water to mix with the powdered soup. Even hungry as I am, it doesn’t look appetising. I briefly toy with the idea of setting a fire, but decide against it. It’s far too risky. I force a few mouthfuls and find it’s not actually that bad. I set some aside with more water to see if I can get Hayes to eat it.

All the time I’ve been back in the tent, he’s not moved. When I check on him though I find that he has warmed up. In fact his forehead feels hotter than it should. I frown and feel mine for a comparison. Definitely hotter. I don’t know whether to unwrap him from the silver lining or not. When I feel sweat on his temples it decides me, and with an effort I turn the blanket back.

“No, please…” he whimpers. “No more.”

His eyes are closed and he doesn’t acknowledge me. I wipe his burning forehead with my sleeve and try to get him to drink from his canteen. Most of the water dribbles away but I think I’ve managed to get him to swallow some.

Hayes, hot and feverish, has begun to twist about on the blanket. He’s also mumbling to himself, some words of which I can make out. I place my fingers on his wrist the way Grandad showed me and find a pulse. I test my own as a comparison, and find that his is far too quick. I try to get him to drink some more water but he spits most of it out.

“I’m a tracker,” he whispers, his eyes vacant and unfocussed.

A tracker? At least once, he pursued a fugitive through the wilderness as a hunter stalks a deer. I shake my head to clear images of the Roberts family which come into my mind, unbidden. What was it he’d said when we’d found them?
Not all of us are like that
. My hands are shaking and I put the canteen down.
I’m better than anyone they send…