Chapter 13
It’s only been five days and I’ve given up trying to figure out where we are.
It’s not Manhattan, that’s for sure.
It’s a lot of outdoors. I was lucky enough to convince him to let us scavenge through a couple of houses yesterday so I could refill my water again, then wash up at the sink, but if I had grand visions of a cold shower, he shot that down real quick.
He didn’t want to linger, and I only hoped that he knew how to read that compass and the map he keeps poring over.
Maverick seems to think our safest course is staying close to the trees during daylight. There’s enough light to guarantee that the lurkers won’t come after us. Then, at night, the threat of the lurkers aren’t anywhere near as bad as they would be if we marched through infested neighborhoods.
I’ll tell you what. I never knew there were so many parks and woods, rivers, brooks, and streams within (technical) walking distance of old Madison.
All I can remember of the before times are the roads and the power lines; I took all of the nature of the Garden State for granted until now, when shade represents safety and an open stretch of flat grass makes it easier to spot any lurkers on the hunt after dark.
After what happened our first night, Maverick and I come to an arrangement that works for us: we continue to split the night watch, a strict four-hour shift so that there’s always someone watching out for lurkers.
I don’t think he ever expected one to come so close with the fire burning bright, youngling or not, and I have this phobia that he’ll let the fire die and we’ll both end up lurker food.
We still light it religiously, hoping to deter the adult creatures, but the nightly watches are more important than either of us initially imagined with younglings on the hunt.
The only problem is that, for me, getting only four hours of sleep a night isn’t nearly enough after a good sixteen hours’ of walking each day.
After Hallie’s accident and before I left the Grave, I used to get at least ten hours a night.
I know this is making me move a lot slower than Maverick would like—especially five days in—but there’s nothing I can do about it.
His muttered comments and barely masked sighs aren’t helping, either.
Thank you, Mr. Police Officer.
So far, I know three things about him: his name, that he was a former cop, and that he hates lurkers with a passion he doesn’t show toward anything else.
He’s quiet and stoic, as mysterious as he was when we first met, and no matter how often I try to strike up a conversation so that we’re at least on a more even footing, it doesn’t work. .
He knows way more about me than I would like.
He’s super observant, too—a fact I figured out when he came up with the rope idea—and he’s also smart enough to keep his mouth shut when he notices that I don’t use it.
He might not tell me anything about himself, but he’s asked me a few pointed questions about Rory and Hallie and Jack that leave me uncomfortable enough that I close my own trap.
I do, however, ask him if we’re getting any closer. He says we are, but as my blisters start to get blisters, I have my doubts.
The night before, we camped on the edge of a park, near a sign that is half-burned, half-gnawed, and dotted with the rust-colored spray of spilt blood.
It says anco Park, leaving me to wonder what the rest of the name used to be.
One thing for sure: we’ve left the Grave far behind us, and my habit of staying close to home in the before times is biting me in the ass.
I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that we’re both traveling blind, with only an outdated map and a compass to guide us.
Wherever we are, Maverick wasn’t happy with the park. Something about him had him anxious, and when we were settling down across from the fire he built, he didn’t put his lighters in his lap.
Nope. He took out his gun, perching it on his thigh.
It’s a revolver. Mav might not tell me about his life before the Turning, but when I asked him about the gun, he was at least willing to answer some questions about his weapon.
And that’s how I know that there are only two rounds left in the revolver.
Was there six to begin with like most guns? Yup. One shot told him that a lurker was vulnerable in the first twenty-four hours after they Turn. Another told him that they weren’t after that marker passed.
Do I know what happened to the other two rounds?
Rogues.
He’s had to fire on two rogues.
I didn’t get any further details on that.
Just enough to know that Maverick spent the first four months since the Turning in a settlement a few miles away from his hometown before he went on the hunt, a rogue himself.
It’s only the last eight weeks that he’s been focused on taking out the New York City nest, and after six other settlements turned him down, he found himself in the Grave.
I know there are rogues out there. He heard screaming our first night together, and, well, we’re both rogues now, too. I want to say we’re not dangerous, but then I think about how easily I made a flamethrower to take out that youngling. I ask myself: if someone came after us, am I a threat?
Yeah. I am. I’d kill to protect myself, and one look at Maverick when he doesn’t think I can see his expression tells me that he’s more than willing to do the same.
He fired on two rogues, and I’m damn sure he killed them.
This is the world now. It’s us versus them, and sometimes the them aren’t just lurkers.
The high-pitched cry of some bird pierces the early afternoon air.
Maverick freezes.
So do I.
Birds… I haven’t heard birds in ages. The entire time we’ve been out in the woods, there’s been no sign of any sort of wildlife.
If there is any, they’re hidden well enough that they can avoid lurkers, and that means they’re as good as gone.
So a bird? A small sliver of relief flashes through me as I think that there was at least one that the lurkers—or the flames—haven’t found a way to destroy.
That relief is short-lived when it sounds again and, this time, it’s not birdsong.
It’s a whistle.
My stomach sinks to my boots.
It’s not queasy. I don’t sense any lurkers approaching us. Of course not. The sun is still shining brightly, another warm September day, though my whole body goes suddenly cold. They’d shrivel in the sunlight like a vampire if a stray sunbeam hit any of the unnaturally pale skin under their cloaks.
Only there’s no way it’s a lurker.
Lurkers can’t whistle.
“Rogue?” I breathe out.
Maverick sucks in his breath, his cheekbones jutting out of his face as he goes gaunt. “Worse.”
Worse?
“What do you mean, worse?”
Rather than answer me, he slips his pack from his shoulders.
It lands with a thump on the grass. There’s a velcro section on the backside that he tears open with a crunching sound that makes my teeth ache.
He yanks out a battered old baseball cap that’s covered in a mixture of dirt and ashes that makes the dark blue look like it’s speckled with brown and grey.
He tosses it at me. “Put this on.”
“Why—”
“No time for questions,” he snaps. “Just do it.”
I jam the hat on my head.
“Better,” he mutters. “Too bad we don’t have time to get the sweatshirt out. The hood would’ve covered you up more. Does that jacket have a zipper?”
“What? Yes. Yes, it does.”
“Good. Zip it up. We gotta hide your tits.”
I don’t know what freaks me out more: that Maverick finally acknowledges that I’m a woman after all, or that there’s some reason that he really wants to conceal that fact.
Well, duh. Isn’t that what Chase was so worried about?
He thought that Maverick might make a move when it was just the two of us outside of the Grave.
He never has. Up until this moment, I got the vibe that he was treating me like I was one of the guys, or—thanks to his nickname for me—a little girl.
He did. The rogue who’s out there might not. And I’m wearing a dingy white tank top and a stretched-out bra. My cleavage has been on display for days now, a fact that I’ve gotten used to… until right this very second.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I grab the zipper. It catches. I mutter a curse out loud as I tug anxiously. Yes! The leather releases, allowing the zipper to go all the way up to my chin.
His eyes dart past me, over to where we might have heard the whistle coming from. I don’t know what can be worse than a rogue survivor traveling through the Outside, but this is the most worked-up I’ve ever seen Maverick and, for the first time since I left the Grave, I’m undeniably nervous.
“What’s going on?”
His lips purse the way they always do when I ask a question he doesn’t want to answer.
And then, before I can prod him to explain, he says, “I fucked up. Kid… I’m sorry, but I fucked up.”
My heart lodges in my throat. “How bad? Is this like a ‘I put the fire out’ kind of fuck-up or—”
“It’s worse.”
Damn it. Not “worse” again. “What do you mean?”
“I read the map wrong. I thought there was enough distance between us, but either I fucked up real bad or they’ve expanded their territory. I thought I could avoid them. I don’t think we can now.”
Panic. This is pure panic raging through me.
I reach forward, clutching his sleeve. His shirt is dirt-stained and worn, and he traded it for a different one in his pack yesterday morning when we had a rare chilly dawn.
I dig my fingers in, almost ready to tear the fabric as I demand, “What are you talking about? Who? What?” I shake my head, squeezing him. “Where are we?”
“We’re right on the edge of East Jersey,” Maverick says quickly before adding, “Here, tuck your hair up under the cap. Don’t let any of it hang out. And dirt—lots of dirt. Put some dirt on your cheeks, that should help.”