Chapter 25
The shouting started before sunrise. Mary Anne woke to the sound of running feet and voices carrying through the square.
For a moment, she thought it was another fevered patient, but the noise was wrong.
She pulled on her boots and stepped into the dawn.
The air was already warm. People were gathered near the food hut by the well.
The doors hung open, one hinge half broken.
Sacks of grain were torn and spilled across the ground.
Someone’s lantern lay tipped over, the flame smothered, but the smell of oil was still sharp. Hale was already there. His hair was damp with sweat, rifle slung over one shoulder. Freddie stood beside him, bent over the ground.
“What happened?” Mary Anne asked.
“Theft,” he said. “Sometime in the night.”
Freddie lifted a handful of spilled grain. “They knew what they were taking. Left the spoiled rice, took the beans and dried corn. Nothing random about it.”
“Anyone on watch?” she asked.
“Two men,” Hale said. “They fell asleep. Or claim they did.”
The crowd behind them muttered. Anger was a low rumble, ready to break. Mary Anne could feel it—the same tension that came before a storm.
Emily pushed through the crowd, her face pale. “How much did they take?”
“Half,” Hale said.
A man shouted from the back. “You mean the preacher’s ghosts came back for their share?”
Another voice answered. “Don’t joke about them. You don’t know what’s out there.”
Mary Anne looked at the torn sacks. The theft had been quick and clean. No signs of a struggle or wasted movement. Whoever had done it knew what they were doing. Freddie stood and brushed his hands on his pants.
“Tracks lead east,” he said. “Toward the mining road.”
Hale frowned. “That’s the same direction as Harlan’s people.”
“The prints are organized again. Boots, not bare feet. Lines. Whoever’s out there, they’re working together.”
“You said they were gone,” someone shouted.
Hale turned. “Quiet down.”
“They took our food,” the man yelled. “If they’re alive, they’re feeding themselves with what we had left.”
“Or someone else found them,” Mary Anne said. “Maybe they found our supplies, too.”
Freddie looked toward the ridge. “Either way, it means they’re close.”
Hale nodded. “I’ll take men to check the road once it’s light enough.”
“No,” Mary Anne said.
“You’d rather sit and wait?”
“We don’t know who’s out there. You go wandering into those hills and we lose more than food.”
“They’ll come again,” he said.
“Then we’ll be ready,” she said.
“Fine, but we tighten the watch. No one alone after dark.”
The crowd began to scatter, muttering as they went.
Mary Anne watched them go. Their anger had cooled, but it was still there beneath the surface, waiting.
By midmorning, the square was quiet again.
The spilled grain had been swept into piles.
The doors of the hut were braced with wooden planks.
The air buzzed with flies. Mary Anne and Emily sat at a table outside the clinic, counting what was left.
“Enough for two weeks, maybe three,” Emily said.
“Not if people panic,” Mary Anne said.
“You’ll have to cut rations again.”
“I know.”
“They’ll hate you for it.”
“They already do,” Mary Anne said.
At noon, Hale called everyone to the square. The sun was high and brutal. The townspeople stood in a rough circle, their faces tight with exhaustion.
Mary Anne stepped forward with a notebook in her hand. “Half rations,” she said. “Until we know what’s left beyond the ridge. Everyone gets the same.”
A man near the front shook his head. “That’s not enough to work on.”
“Then rest more. It’s all we can do.”
“What if the thieves come back? You want us weak when they do?”
“Anger won’t feed you, but discipline might.”
The words landed hard. Hale stood beside her, silent but solid. Eventually, the noise died down. People began to disperse, more slowly, shoulders hunched.
When the square was empty again, Hale turned to her. “You’re not wrong, but you’re making enemies.”
“I’d rather have enemies than corpses,” she said.
He nodded once. “Fair enough.”
The rest of the day passed in fragments. The heat climbed until the ground itself shimmered. The sound of insects filled the air, constant and sharp. Mary Anne moved through it like someone walking underwater. At the clinic, a man waited with a split lip and a black eye. His hands were scraped raw.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Argued over water. He swung first.”
“You swung back?”
He gave a small, guilty smile. “Maybe.”
Emily entered with another patient. “Same fight.”
Mary Anne sighed. “Sit him down.”
By late afternoon, she’d seen five more injuries. None were serious, but all came from the same cause—fear turning inward. Outside, the sky began to shift from white to gold. Hale walked past the window, talking with Freddie. His expression was grim.
Mary Anne stepped outside when they reached the clinic door. “Anything new?”
“Nothing good,” Hale said. “Tracks vanish at the ridge. We followed them as far as we could, but they spread out.”
Freddie rubbed the back of his neck. “Whoever they are, they’re watching us. You can feel it.”
“You think it’s them?”
“I think it’s someone who knows how to move. No fires or noise, just tracks. Organized and clean. Whoever took that food knew exactly what they were doing.”
Emily appeared behind them, arms crossed. “Then they’ll come again.”
“Maybe,” Hale said. “They’ll find us ready.”
He started assigning watch rotations, his voice firm and quick.
Mary Anne watched them scatter to prepare.
The tension in the air had changed. It wasn’t panic anymore, but focus, sharpened by fear.
As the sun disappeared, the temperature dropped, though the ground still radiated warmth.
The fire near the well burned low. She sat on the clinic steps with Emily.
The wind had picked up, carrying grit through the air. It clung to their clothes, their hair.
“You think it’s Harlan’s people?”
“I don’t know,” Mary Anne said. “If it is, they’ve changed.”
Emily pulled her shawl tighter. “I keep hoping they’re alive. Then I remember what being alive looks like now.”
The silence stretched. The fire cracked.
In the distance, Hale’s voice called out to his patrol.
The clank of metal echoed faintly through the streets.
When the patrols settled, Mary Anne went inside to wash.
She wiped her face, then sat on the cot and unlaced her boots.
For the first time, she realized how tired she was.
She blew out the candle and lay back, but her mind wouldn’t rest. Every sound from outside drew her attention. She closed her eyes and tried to count her breaths, but sleep refused to come. A knock at the door broke the quiet.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Freddie,” came the reply. “Nothing yet, but it feels strange out there. Too quiet.”
“Keep the fire high. Don’t give them any darkness.”
“You should rest.”
When he left, she closed the door but didn’t lock it.
The room was too hot to sleep in anyway.
She sat by the window, watching the square.
The shadows moved as the firelight flickered.
The stars were faint, blurred by a haze rising from the desert.
The night dragged on. Somewhere, a door creaked open, then shut again.
By the time she finally lay down, the horizon had begun to pale.
A shout split the morning. She was on her feet before she realized she’d moved.
Outside, Hale was by the well, calling orders.
The fire had burned out, but the eastern sky was glowing.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Smoke. Two plumes. Maybe more.”
Mary Anne squinted. The smoke rose thin and steady, drifting above the peaks. It was too far to see details, but it was enough. Freddie approached, breathing hard.
“Tracks again,” he said. “Fresh ones. Came right up to the edge of town, then turned back.”
Hale’s jaw tightened. “They were close.”
“Close enough to watch.”
Mary Anne turned away. “We’ll ration again. One meal a day until we know what’s coming.”
She spent the afternoon tending to the aftermath of another fight.
Two men who had swung at each other over a water jug.
She stitched one’s eyebrow and reset the other’s finger, but neither apologized.
By sunset, the square was empty except for the guards.
The fires burned low again. The air was dry and still.
She stood outside the clinic, arms folded. Hale was making rounds near the well.
She went back inside when the stars appeared.
The candle flickered against the walls. Her boots sat beside the bed, her knife within reach, but she didn’t bother undressing.
The night pressed close around the clinic.
The wind had gone still, and every sound echoed.
She lay still, eyes open, hand resting on the knife’s handle.
When she woke near midnight, the fire outside had died.
The room glowed faintly from the starlight seeping through the window.
She rose and crossed to the door. Beyond the rooftops, the mountains stood black against the sky.
High on the ridge, faint but visible, small points of light burned again.
She watched them for a long time, her body tense, her breath shallow.
For the first time in her life, the quiet streets of Rosewood felt predatory.