Bonus Chapter
Max - Eight Years Old
“ S he’s a bit wild. I think I should mention that. We found her on their rooftop after we disposed of her mother. Her father died a couple of years ago.”
“By wild… do you mean wild like any kid can be, or more like… Max-wild?”
“Well… she bit two case officers while they were trying to get her to come in. She’s only six, but she fights like a feral cat, and she doesn’t stop even when she’s bleeding.”
“More like Max-wild then.” A heavy sigh. “We already have our hands full with that one, and now you want to bring another little storm into the house? We’re going to regret it.”
I scoff. Wild, they call me. Like I’m some story they tell to scare the new ones, like they don’t use me—my blood— for their little experiments. Use me when there’s a Walker close by and they’re too scared to dispose of it themselves.
Dumb-asses.
I’m on my belly on the roof, listening to the stupid headmaster and his stupider sidekick through the window below. They always keep it open a crack, like they’re begging me to hear their secrets.
The other kids think I’m magic ‘cause I always know first when there’s a transfer, or when new clothes are coming, or when the food’s about to be cut again. I’m not magic. I just listen . And they’re idiots for thinking I don’t.
The headmaster already hates me, so I don’t care if they catch me snooping. He never believes me when I say the others started the fight, not me. Says I’m making trouble. Says I’m lying. But screw him. I’m not planning on staying around much longer, anyway.
If it wasn’t for the fact I need food, I’d be long gone already. Maybe find a little abandoned house beyond the wall. Or make a treehouse where I can live.
Yeah. Treehouses seem fun.
I could live up there and kill Walkers whenever I feel like it, and no one would bother me about stupid rules or tell me I can’t go over the wall whenever I want or order me to sweep floors, share my stuff, stand in line.
There must be something better out there than this stupid orphanage.
“Hello. Do you wanna play with me?”
I jerk my head up from my shaded hiding spot behind the big vent box, and sure enough, there’s someone on the roof with me, someone I haven’t met before.
A girl . Younger than me, her dark hair pulled back in a braid, ratty, oversized clothes hanging off her, an old backpack on that’s so faded I’m not sure if it was once red or pink.
“How’d you get up here?” I ask as I get up and cross my arms.
She presses her lips together. “I assume the same way as you. I climbed .”
“You can climb?”
She shrugs. “I like to climb.”
“You’re a girl . Don’t you have a doll you need to bathe?”
A little frown appears between her brows and her fists clench. “Who says girls can’t climb?”
“I do.”
For a second, I think she’s gonna hit me. Her fists ball tighter, knuckles white, and her chin tips up like she’s daring me. Brave for a kid smaller than me.
Even if she’s a stupid girl.
I don’t like girls.
That’s when I spot the tag hanging on a string around her neck. Bronze. Ugly brown glinting in the sun.
“Ewww.” I wrinkle my nose and point. “You’re a biter.”
Her eyes go wide, then narrow fast. “I’m not .”
“You are. Bronze means you’re gonna be a biter. They said you already are. You bit your handlers.” I smirk, pointing down at the headmaster’s office. “Bet you tried to gnaw somebody’s arm off.”
“I didn’t!” she snaps, voice sharp, big green eyes blazing. “I only bit ‘cause they were holding me. I don’t like being held.”
I bark a laugh, loud and mean, ‘cause it’s funny. “You bit them anyway. That’s what biters do.”
“Why are you being mean?”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m always mean.” I lean in a little, flashing teeth like it’s part of the game. “That’s what they say downstairs. That I’m trouble. That I don’t care. They’re right.”
Her glare drops then, to the chain around my neck. “Yours is gold.”
“Yeah.” I pinch the tag between my fingers and let it dangle. “Gold means I’m Immune. Means I’m better than all of you. When you’re a stinking Walker, you can bite me all you want. I won’t turn.”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying.
I roll my eyes, then walk to the edge of the roof.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Over the wall.”
I don’t bother to look back once I’ve turned. Don’t bother to explain that the itch is itching again—that part of me that wants to hunt those dumb Walkers, cut them open and laugh when the blood pools out.
If they weren’t so strict, I could go more often. But today is shipment day. They’ll have their hands full with crates and new kids. Nobody will notice if I slip out and go out to hunt a little.
I grab the weather-beaten plank I use as a bridge to get to the roof of the next building that sits right against the wall.
From there, I scale down and keep to the shadow of the stone where the Watchers can’t see me until I’m at the bushes that hide my hole.
Once it was an animal burrow; I’ve widened it with my hands until I can squeeze through.
It took me weeks to make. I push the branches aside—the ones I use to cover it—feeling the itch in my chest ease a little when I crawl through and disappear in the forest on the other side.
I pretend not to notice the little tip-tap of her feet behind me, how they stop every time I halt. Her breaths are too quick, bright with adrenaline. She thinks she’s being stealthy, but she’s got a lot to learn.
I could turn her in. Say she was following me outside the wall. But then they’d know I was going myself. And then they’d find my little escape route. Then I can’t go outside anymore to kill Walkers.
Quickening my step, my boots crunching on dead leaves, I head west. On the west side there’s always Walkers flushing up ashore, then going into the woods, attracted to the wall where the people are.
The steps behind me go quicker, too. Maybe I should be worried I’m leading a girl into the woods beyond the wall, but it’s not like I asked her to come. Besides… she’s already a stinking Touched one; one more bite won’t hurt her.
When I break into a clearing, I halt and cock my head to listen. The steps keep coming, soft-soft-soft, until she edges up beside me like she belongs there.
“What’s your name?” she asks, like we’re not outside the wall, like there aren’t monsters in the trees.
“Max.” I don’t look at her. I’m listening. My fingers find the little knife tucked in my belt, the one I sharpen on the back steps when nobody’s watching. “Yours can wait.”
Not because I’m that rude, okay maybe I am, but because I hear it; the rustling. A wet drag through the bush. My head jerks left. There—branches shiver, and the sound starts up: that hungry, wet breathing, the low gargle like it forgot how to swallow.
It lurches into view. Seaweed stuck to its shoulders. Skin split like old fruit. It’s a big one. Very big.
A slow grin curls around my mouth. “Hello there, stupid zombie.”
I expect the girl to cower, to hide behind me, but she starts laughing, bouncing on her feet in excitement like she’s at a playground. She’s not scared. Doesn’t run away like the other kids do.
“Oh, this is fun,” she chirps—and before I can say anything, she yanks an old pocketknife from her backpack. My brows shoot up.
The Walker heared her and snaps toward us, jerking into a faster, ugly sprint. Wet feet slap mud. Jaws work like it’s chewing air.
I slide sideways, quickly, letting it barrel past. As it stumbles, I drop low and drive my knife into the back of its knee. Meat gives. The leg buckles. My heart soars. It would howl if it knew pain, but these stupid things don’t. They just keep coming.
It wheels around, big and dumb, arms windmilling. I slash across the other calf and hop back, staying out of grab-range as my grin starts to spread. It slows, but not enough. It can still do us harm. I could end it now, a clean stab through the eye and done, but I like to do this slow. Savor it.
But the girl doesn’t wait. With a sharp little grunt, she flings her pack aside, runs straight at it, and jumps. For a second she’s hanging off its shoulder, then she scrambles higher like she’s climbing a tree, knees digging in.
The Walker lurches, arms waving, and I move to keep clear as she throws her tiny arm around its neck. Her other hand snaps the knife open. She plants it just below the head and drives it in its neck, hard.
Then she stabs again and again. A manic little laugh escaping her as she rides its back like it’s a mean horse and she means to break it.
I stop whatever it was I’m doing and can only stare.
This girl… is nuts. Brave. Mine , something inside of me screams.
When she jams the blade into the soft part of its skull at last and it crumples to the ground, she hops off like it’s just another day, grinning, eyes bright and wild. “ More like Max-wild, ” the case officer said. They think that’s a bad thing. I think it might be a very, very , good thing.
“What’s your name?” I croak, completely blown away by this wildling.
She does a weird little bow-curtsy thing. “It’s Tass. Nice to meet you. Wanna go find another one? Still think girls are stupid?”
I bark a real laugh for what feels like the first time in my life, chest buzzing. “Yeah, let’s find another one.” I toe the dead Walker to make sure it’s not twitching, then flick my knife clean on its ragged shirt. “Girls are still stupid, but you—you’re all right.”
“Good. You're all right, too.” She grins, cleans her knife too, rummages through the backpack that is on the Walker, and pulls out—
“Are those… plastic ducks?”
“I think it's rubber! Look! The cranky one looks like you.” She squeezes it and a high-pitched squeak comes out the yellow, frowning duck, making her cackle. “The red one is mine. It looks like a strawberry. I love strawberries.” She gives me a smile as she puts the ducks in her own small pack, before pushing ahead of me into the dense scrub like she’s the leader of our little duo.
I blink at her for a beat, then follow.
I think I’m going to keep her. Yeah, she can live in my treehouse too. I’ll build it higher. I’ll make two beds, one for me and one for her, and carve our names in the railing so nobody forgets who lives there. The ducks can live there as well.
And if anyone tries to take her, I’ll bite harder than she does.