Chapter 21
CHAPTER
THAD
I’d risen before the sun, eager to see Charley. But so far, I was the only one up.
It was just me and hundreds of faceless names on the Wall.
I thought about the skull Charley had found.
Maybe it belonged to someone on this Wall, maybe not.
No necklace, no clue, Rives had reported last night.
Maybe he was a loner, maybe he was before our time.
The skull was as clean as the skeleton in my science lab.
I don’t know if he got a cross on the Wall, but he got one back at the Bay.
My fingers skimmed the wood, tracing my name. One cross above, one cross below, and my space empty, like Nil’s whacked-out version of tic-tac-toe. In eighty-five days, one of us would win. And one would lose.
There was no draw on Nil.
Ramia’s name caught my eye. So did her fresh cross, but I refused to start the day with Ramia. A new name begged for attention: Charley, with an e-y.
I wished I’d kissed her. Then I remembered the hesitation in her eyes, the reason I hadn’t. Damn, I thought. I wish she’d kissed me.
“Thad!”
Talla burst from the trees, her blond hair flying behind her. A red mark on her face stuck out like a burn.
“Rory,” she gasped. “He came in. I had watch at the Shack. Told him what he could take—a spear, a water gourd. A week of food.” Slowing, Talla took a breath.
“He told me to eff off, that he’d take what he wanted.
He grabbed knives, the last metal ones. I tried to stop him, but—he’s gone.
” She looked beyond pissed. “With knives and a net and God knows what else.”
Talla’s words hit home, and the reality cut deep. The last two metal knives, gone. Knives we can’t replace, knives we need. The only one left in the City hung at my waist.
“When did this happen?” I asked, already calculating my route. “And what happened to your face? Don’t tell me he hit you.”
“He hit me.” She nodded, her face furious. “Maybe twenty minutes ago? I’m not sure. I was out.” Her hand went to her cheek, which was already swelling.
I wished I’d punched Rory yesterday after all.
“Get Rives,” I told her. “Tell him I’m on it. And lie down, okay?”
Talla nodded, my cue to take off. The clock was ticking.
I took the easy trail out, the one by the Shack, the same one Charley and I had walked yesterday when we went to Crystal Cove.
The other paths were narrow and rough, or so open they didn’t look like a trail.
Worn and marked, this trail was like hiking for Cub Scouts.
Rory looked more resort-coddled than survival-campy. He’d go Cub Scout all the way.
Keeping low, keeping quiet, I jogged down the path, working through what I would say when I found him. Trees came and went. Nil listened quietly as I tracked Rory.
I passed the Cove, and when I was out of waterfall range, I paused, sifting through the stillness, searching for sounds of Rory.
Wind whispered, leaving echoes of silence.
No ocean now, which was telling. No animal noises, which was neither reassuring nor remarkable.
And no human sounds, which was disappointing.
The path narrowed, snaking inland through clumps of trees, toward the mudflats. I was at least two kilometers from the City now, maybe more. I was about to turn back when I heard him—crashing along like a hippo, which initially I thought he was.
Rory was lumbering along, swinging both arms, a bulging bag slung across one shoulder. Occasionally one of his arms would strike a branch, whacking it away, only for it to snap back, like Nil wanted to whip his ass, too.
I padded up the path, careful to avoid twigs or anything that might crack under my feet. I was only four meters behind him now. He’d never make it alone, I realized, not if he let me get this close without turning.
“Rory,” I said.
He spun. Seeing me, his eyes narrowed, and one hand flew to his satchel. “Whaddya want?”
To kick your sorry ass as payback for Talla. Restraining my temper, I tried diplomacy first. “Five minutes,” I said.
“Two,” he snarled.
Whatever, I thought, already tired of his tough-guy routine. “Fine. Two. So here it is. I know you want off the island. I get it. But you can’t steal, dude.” I pointed at his bag. “Not the net, and not the knives. So cough ’em up.” My voice went hard. “Now.”
Rory’s sunburned face sparked like an angry tomato. “I don’t think so. I’m not in your little island cult. I can do as I please.”
It took all my restraint to only use words. “You can’t knock girls out and steal crap that’s not yours. You can take clothes, a water gourd, a week’s worth of food. And a spear. Basic survival gear. But not the knives. They’re City property. Same for the net.”
Rory’s face went nuclear; his thin smile was gone.
“Who the ’ell do ya think you are, telling me what I can and cannnot do?
If ya think I’m gonna dodder around and sing campfire songs with ya, you’re out of your fucking mind.
Do you know who my dad is? He’s George O’Whirley, of O’Whirley Enterprises, a fucking Fortune 500 company.
A transportation company. If there’s a way to get me out of here, my dad’ll find it.
” He looked smug. “And he didn’t make his bloody fortune lolling around singing ‘Kumbaya.’”
Fury welled in me like lava, ready to blow.
“I don’t give a flying fuck who your dad is.
Because he’s not here, and no matter what you think or how much money he has, he’s not gonna get here.
All that matters is what goes down between us, right here, right now.
And right now you’re going to give back what you took. ” I paused. “Now.”
Rory looked amused, then his face slid back into a condescending sneer. “No can do, Holy Joe. I’m taking the knives and—”
A muffled noise at one o’clock caught my attention. Behind a pile of black rocks just past Rory, something rustled, then scratched. Something weighty. Listening intently, I tried to gauge what it might be, but it was hard to filter the sounds through Rory’s rants.
Rory was shouting now. “I don’t give a bollocks, you hear me?” A vein had popped out on his neck, and his flushed face splotched white.
“Whatever,” I said, wholly focused on Rory again. “Hand over the knives. Then you can go. I won’t stop you.”
“No.” Rory gripped the bag harder.
“Seriously. Don’t do this.” It was like a bad junior high moment when the kid says make me. “Give me the knives.”
Rory laughed. “Fuck you.” He spat at my feet, then turned and crashed up the path.
“Rory!” I yelled, dreading the coming fight. “Last chance!”
“Go to hell!” he roared over his shoulder.
“Already there,” I muttered.
I’d taken two steps when a massive creature exploded from the trees and landed on the path in front of Rory. Snorting and squealing, with two sets of stained tusks, bristles for hair, and patches of bare skin, it was the ugliest beast I’d seen on Nil.
Thing, I thought, pulling my knife. A mutant, scary Nil plaything.
As Rory skidded to a halt, the beast lowered its head. With a surprising burst of speed, it charged.
Yelping, Rory backpedaled, arms wild. I raced forward, angling right, gunning to intercept the beast from the side before it reached Rory. My attack window narrowed; Rory’s feet were slow.
Then Rory tripped and fell. The beast kept coming, barreling forward like a wild boar on ’roids. Too close to Rory, too far from me. Rory lay sprawled flat on his back, his legs at odd angles, but at least they were moving.
Get up, I willed Rory silently as I arced around the beast’s side. It’s impossible to fight when you’re not on your feet.
Still on the ground, Rory scrambled backward like a crab.
“Get up!” I shouted at Rory; I couldn’t help it. “GET UP!”
His eyes wide with terror, Rory struggled to find his feet. The shoulder strap circled his neck like a noose, and trapped beneath him, the loaded satchel pinned him to the dirt. Rory was still horizontal when the animal butted him with two quick strikes.
Rory screamed and threw his hands up to protect his face; at the same time, I targeted the beast’s side. The animal squealed and thrashed, its tusks flashing like weapons, making it tough to get a lock on its chest.
I lunged and barely nicked hide.
Before I could regroup, the beast charged Rory again, its head down, tusks in play.
This time the animal struck Rory with enough force to toss him a meter through the air.
As Rory flew backward, I struck the boar’s chest, then hacked down, and when I ripped my blade out, blood spurted from the wound, a weak plume.
Not enough, I thought, spinning out of tusk range. Not enough to kill, just enough to draw its attention to a new threat: me.
I sprinted sideways, certain the animal would follow, but when I looked back, it hadn’t moved.
Torn between Rory and me, its head vacillated erratically, its legs clumsy in indecision.
Taking advantage of the animal’s confusion, I ran back, directly toward the animal this time, and drove my blade deep into its chest with everything I had.
This time I felt my knife grind on bone.
Roaring, the beast swung to face me. I leaped back, but my knife jerked me to an abrupt halt. Hot pain slashed across my forearm as I wrenched my knife, hard.
Abruptly, the blade released. I stumbled away, bobbling my knife, watching blood gush from the animal’s chest. This time it was a geyser, a fountain of red.
The beast squealed in fury, and turning full on me, it charged.
I cut right, moving fast, fighting to grip my slick knife; my hold was dangerously weak, but I was determined to draw the boar away from Rory.
I cut right and the animal faltered. It was less than a meter away when it teetered and fell.
The ground shook. The beast twitched violently, then lay still.
Silence dropped like fresh snow.