Chapter 11
Call me ridiculous and bitter if you want, but I refuse to speak to Maverick the whole next day. I don’t even know if he realized, as quiet as he is as he constantly checks his compass, picking his way through the ruined streets and half-burnt trees. Probably not.
I don’t care.
And he put it out. It’s not like he nodded off and it went out. He extinguished it purposely all because he thought he heard a rogue.
What happened to the gun, big shot?
Ugh.
So I keep quiet, stewing silently, and that actually works in my favor.
The morning’s march is rough. Maverick is relentless.
Whether he’s trying to make up for his mistake last night or he was just going easy on me yesterday, who knows, but he’s like a machine.
He doesn’t stop at all for the first few hours, not even when he checks his compass, and he only pauses long enough to make sure I’m still behind him as we tromp through whatever woods he can find.
Maverick seems impressed that I’m there every time he checks. Of course I am. Anger has a way of keeping me motivated and I refuse to let him see me falter.
But no matter how pissed-off I was when we first abandoned our makeshift campsite, I’m not used to this; my anger can only take me so far, and don’t forget that my sleep was cut short. My legs start to tire around midday, and the renewed thirst comes soon after.
It’s not helping that I’m sweating so much.
Summer’s returned with a vengeance. It might be mid-September, but it’s got to be at least eighty degrees outside. I wore Denise’s hooded sweatshirt at night when it dips down below sixty degrees, wrapping it around my waist now that it’s day.
Rory’s jacket, though? I’m stubborn enough that I wear that no matter what.
And then, by early afternoon, I stop sweating at all—and that’s a problem. It’s like someone stuck a pin in the back of my throat, that’s how much it hurts each time I swallow. The last thing I need is to get dehydrated, but I don’t ask Maverick if he has any water left in his bottle.
Mine was empty by lunch, and though we’ve exited the latest patch of trees we were in, cutting through a neighborhood with that same rotten stink that tells us it’s infested, that means we’re nowhere near a house where we can refill it. I still ignore how bad I need some water.
Shit. My pride is going to get me killed.
Maverick swears by his compass; turns out that one of the pieces of paper he keeps pulling out and looking at is an old, outdated map he took from the closed gas station back at the Grave.
From his travels, he has some idea where we are and where we’re going, but once he has a street sign to navigate by, he slows down.
For the last two hours, he’s begun to pause every now and then to consult them both.
I don’t mind. I start to recognize the signs and, after the third time he takes the map out to glance at it and make a turn down another side street, I know when to expect a small break.
And I need it desperately.
My boots fit well, but twenty miles in two days is enough to make any feet tender.
Rory’s jacket is weighing me down; so is my backpack and the sleeping bag.
My gifted sweatshirt keeps untying, the sleeve dragging in the dirt.
I yank it off, draping it over the edge of a cracked curb, then plop my ass down.
Looking as if he doesn’t even feel the heat or the pace, Maverick crouches down next to me. He pulls out his crackers again, plus a half-empty jar of peanut butter from his pack.
Snacktime.
I’m not very hungry. The heat’s doing funny things to my appetite, and the thirst is awful.
Still, when he offers me a cracker with a dollop of peanut butter on it, I know better than to refuse; not when my own supplies need to last. Though it’s thick and tough to swallow, I eat it because it has both protein and fats, and together it’s more filling than just the crackers are.
I think of yesterday’s meal of cookies and pancakes and wish that we had thought to save some for today. Of course, that means that I go on to think about what Mrs. B is baking today and… yeah. I stop that train of thought right there.
You left the Grave, I tell myself sternly. Leave it where it is: behind you.
After he finishes up his snack, Maverick decides we can wait a few more minutes before continuing. I don’t argue. Right now, I’ll take any respite he’s willing to offer.
At first, I think he’s feeling a little guilty that we’ve been moving since the fire went out early this morning, that he’s giving me the chance to recover before we resume our trek.
Then, after a few minutes of continued silence, he clears his throat, and it hits me that he has some sort of ulterior motive.
“So,” the former cop begins, taking a lazy sip off of his bottle of water, oblivious to just how bad I want to snatch it from his hand, “last night. The lurkers.”
Yup. I was wondering when he was going to say something about that. Smart move, I have to admit, that he waited until he fed me, then let me sit for a few minutes after half a day’s walk. I’m not nearly as angry now as I was this morning.
Still super wary and suspicious, though.
“What about ‘em?”
“Can you tell me what happened? Not the fire going out,” he says without shame because we both know he did that on purpose when he thought he heard a rogue, “but the lurkers… how did you know?”
I shrug, playing dumb. “Know what?”
“How many there were. Telling they were out there… anyone can catch the lurker stink and know they’re there. But counting them without seeing them? I didn’t know it was possible.”
Really? “You don’t have sensors where you’re from?”
He frowns, thick lines furrowing his brow. “Sensors?”
“Yeah. You know. Survivors who have this strange ability to, well, sense lurkers.”
“You’re fucking with me,” he says flatly. “I know that’s not possible.”
“Sure it is. Not everyone can do it, but there’s enough who can for it to be a thing.”
And until last night, I didn’t know I was one of them. So used to Hallie being the one to tell me when she could sense them coming, counting them for me while I busied myself with building a rig, I never paid attention if I had the same unique ability.
And why wouldn’t I? We were identical twins. If she could do it, it only makes sense that—given the opportunity—I could, too. It just took until I was out of the Grave, woken from a deep sleep on the edge of the woods, the lurkers lurking ever closer for my sensing ability to kick in, I guess.
As if thinking the same thing as me, Maverick points out, “You can.”
“I’m as surprised as you are. Back home, we had a handful, each one partnering up with a hunter whenever the lurkers got too close.
Hallie’s the best one we have. She’s never wrong.
” A lump rises in my throat, and it takes me a second to realize why: I was talking about Hallie as if she’s still alive.
He might not have any clue who she is, and I’m not about to tell him, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
“Anyway, I relied on her so much that I had no idea I could do it, too. She always sensed the lurkers, then I killed them.”
“What about now? Can you sense them now?”
That’s a good question. It took a good twenty minutes into our race through the woods before my stomach settled enough that I was sure we’d outrun the lurkers. Since then, I’ve had a twinge here or there, but nothing like the absolute certainty we had at least four on our tail.
Was it a fluke? That’s possible. At the very least, my stomach is calm, though the rest of me definitely isn’t. “No.”
“But you sensed them last night,” he reminds me. As if I forgot.
There’s nothing else I can do but admit it. “We’re twins, okay? Hallie and me… we must’ve had the same ability or something and I just didn’t know it since Hallie wasn’t there to sense them for me last night.”
Maverick caps his water bottle, slipping it back into his pack. Damn it. “Maybe we should’ve brought her along. Another little blonde girl who can sense lurkers might’ve worked in our favor.”
Was he trying to lighten the mood with his comment? If so, he failed. Miserably.
A muscle tics in my cheek. “That would be impossible.”
Maverick lifts his eyebrow. “Your sister have a better sense of self-preservation than you?”
If only. “She’s dead.”
“Oh.” He lifts his hand, rubbing the back of it against his mouth. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He pauses, and then, “Lurker attack?”
In the before days, people usually left it at “I’m sorry for your loss”. Even if they were curious, it was bad form to be like, hey, what did they die from to someone who is still basically a stranger.
The Turning changed all that. If you died anytime after the new year, odds are the lurkers were the reason why.
When Maverick asks if it was a lurker attack that stole my twin from me, what he really wants to know is if she Turned herself—what happens when the lurkers bite a survivor and they escape—or if she was devoured, one bite turning into another into another.
“Fire killed her,” I admit. “A hunt gone wrong.”
Maverick opens his mouth.
I push myself to my feet, snagging the sweatshirt so I don’t leave it behind.
“I’m ready to go if you are,” I announce, wiping my dusty hands on my even dustier jeans. “The rest helped, but if we can refill my water, that would be great.”
And if we can never talk about Hallie’s death again, that would be even better.
Maverick pulls out his water bottle, offering it to me. “Have some of mine.”
I take it, hesitating before I uncap it.
He shares his food. He shares his water.
He’s given no inclination that he wants anything from me in return except for joining him on this hunt, but you never know.
Just like I’m not too sure I buy his story that all he wants to do is take out a lurker nest for no other reason than it’s a boon to humanity.
So it seems like I can sense lurkers now.
Pity I can’t figure out what Maverick Brooks’ story is without digging into it.
And since poking and prodding and asking questions of this stranger might make him think that I’m willing to be an open book, too, I just drink enough to quench my thirst before passing the water bottle back to him.
We make it another twenty minutes in silence until Maverick clears his throat. When I don’t acknowledge it, he says my name.
Crap.
“Yeah?”
“You know, maybe you should take off the other jacket you’ve got on. Stow that and the hoodie in your sleeping bag, roll it up, and you won’t have to lug them around separately. You might cool off a bit, too. You’ve got to be dying in that thing.”
I am. And, honestly, shoving Denise’s sweatshirt into my sleeping bag until night time is a pretty smart idea. But Rory’s jacket?
“I’m fine.”
His face calls me a liar. “You sure?”
“The jacket stays on,” I say, firm enough that he has to know that’s the end of the conversation.
He frowns. “Why?”
Because he doesn’t need to see my burn. Because it’s like a security blanket for me, and I need it. Because—
“Because it’s Rory’s.”
Drop it, Mav. Drop it—
“Who’s Rory?”
None of your business.
That’s what I want to say. That’s what I should say.
But I don’t.
“My older brother.” I grit my teeth. “He died, too.”
That’s all he’s getting out of me.
I already feel like I made a mistake in telling him about Hallie. I won’t repeat it with Rory.
In fact, I decide right then that I won’t give anything else away until the stranger decides to open up himself. And maybe Maverick agrees. As we hike down another empty, broken street, he finally gets the hint and shuts up again.
Now if only I could stop my mind from screaming at me just as easily.
Who’s Rory?
Rory Holden, Engine Company 33, Ladder 26. Five years older than Hallie and me, he turned twenty-eight last October. He had a long-term girlfriend. Nina Patton, a sweetheart who worked as a young lawyer for a non-profit. Like Rory, she got the Injection through her job.
Like Rory, she was one of the first lurkers to Turn.
I don’t know what happened to Nina. With Rory working on New Year’s, she went out with a few of her girlfriends and wasn’t in Madison when the Turning began.
Still, I figure it’s the same thing that happened to Rory, and if there’s one small mercy I cling to, it’s that they didn’t have to suffer the way that Chase suffers now.
They died together, regardless of how they perished.
Sometimes, when I think about the accident, I wonder why the same thing couldn’t have happened to me and my twin—and then I wonder if Chase would’ve been willing to take my place if it did.
He loved her as much as Rory loved Nina, but if there’s something I’ve learned since January, it’s that love… sometimes it’s just not enough.
Give me a match and some gasoline any day.