Текст книги "Backs Against the Wall"

Автор книги: Tracey Ward

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

“It’s the non-living I’m worried about,” I grumble.

“It shouldn’t be.”

Two of the Risen descend on Ryan where he sits crouched, waiting. He must sense them or smell them because he reacts immediately. He lashes out to the right, deftly grabbing a Risen by the ankle and yanking its leg out from under it. It topples onto its back, cracking it’s head on the floor. But it doesn’t stop moving. Ryan stands quickly, still holding the ankle. He pushes his foot into the Risen’s groin, makes a sharp twisting motion and yanks up. The Risen’s leg snaps free at the kneecap.

“And he just got himself a weapon,” Trent muses proudly.

I don’t dare look at him because I’m pretty sure from his tone that he’s smiling and no part of me can handle that right now.

The second Risen is creeping up on Ryan’s back. I can see the third as well, coming around the far side of the Arena. It’s distracted by the people around the edges. It keeps grabbing at them, lunging to get through the barrier but the people are too quick for it.

Ryan takes firm hold of the ankle on the lower leg he’s holding, spins around and smacks the Risen behind him in the face. It stumbles but doesn’t go down. Reaching out with its gray hands, it grabs for Ryan. He feels its touch, jumps back a step, crouching low again. I watch in horror as he puts the leg on the ground beside him and waits, defenseless again.

The Risen comes at him, lumbering toward him with surprising speed. Ryan immediately tackles it at the knees, standing up and bringing it into the air. Then he spins, bringing the Risen back down to the ground. Hard. Its head bounces off the cement floor, then smacks down again. Ryan lands on top of it, quickly groping for the arms, then pinning them down with his knees. He’s straddling the chest as the Risen snaps at him, its arms flailing uselessly to get ahold of him. Ryan moves his hand to the top of the head, carefully feels down the sides until he has hold of the ears, then he jerks the head forward and slams it into the cement again. He rears back, bringing the head with him, then throws all of the weight of his upper body into the movement of smashing the Risen’s skull down again. He does it three more times, quick as anything I’ve ever seen, and the Risen goes slack. Motionless. Completely dead.

One down.

Or actually, two down but one is coming toward him, dragging itself over the ground. A Crawler. I hate Crawlers. Ryan ignores it or doesn’t remember it’s there, something I don’t believe possible after what I’ve seen so far. Instead of attacking it, he feels around the ground until he finds the leg he dropped. He removes the shoe from the foot and slips it on his own.

I cringe thinking of what the inside of that thing feels or smells like.

With the new, disgusting shoe on his foot, Ryan feels for the Crawler on the ground. His hand gets dangerously close to its mouth, making me gasp.

Trent shoots me a warning look. I glare back.

“Sorry, cyborg. I’m a little worried, it slipped out.”

He puts his finger to his lips, silently signaling for me to be quiet.

“Like he could hear me,” I say defensively, looking away.

Ryan is now dragging the Crawler to a bench, moving with sure feet as though he can see where he’s going. He has the thing by the head and wastes no time putting its face on the edge of the bench. Then he rears back.

“Oh no,” I mutter.

“Shhh,”

Ryan stomps on the back of the Risen’s head. There’s a crack that can’t be heard but it’s definitely seen. The Risen goes down, lifeless.

One left.

The only problem is, Ryan obviously doesn’t know where it is. He tosses aside the Risen he’s just finished off, probably to get it’s scent away so he smell the next one coming, but it’s not working. It’s close to him and getting closer. He stays crouched down low beside the bench, using it for some cover and probably to orient himself, but it’s making him vulnerable. The Risen is coming up on the other side of the bench, getting ready to lean over it. To grab Ryan by the shoulder.

And he has no idea it’s coming.

A shrill whistle sounds beside my ear, making me drop to the ground to defend myself. My left ear, the one beside Trent, is ringing painfully. It sounds again, two short, sharp shrieks. I look up to find Trent watching Ryan closely, his hand over his mouth. I jump up to look for Ryan but nearly drop down again when Trent moves his hand slightly and there’s another whistle, this time more pronounced. The two shrieks are slightly longer, more emphatic.

My eyes shoot to the Arena just in time to see Ryan reacting to the Risen closing on his left. He’s too late. It gets ahold of his shoulder, it’s vice like hands digging its fingers into his flesh. I worry he’ll cry out or panic. That he’ll lose his bearings because of the pain and it will all be over. But he only slouches slightly, instinctively trying to escape the pain. The he grabs the hand, pulls it toward him and topples the Risen over the bench. He breaks the hold it has on him. With his body free, with his blood pouring bright red and angry down his body, he slides the Risen onto the bench, feeling behind its head until the surface disappears and it’s dangling off the edge. Then he lifts his shoed foot and steps down hard. The neck snaps. The Risen is dead.

And with the wound he’s taken, there’s every chance Ryan will be too.

Chapter Twelve

“Gentleman!” the announcer calls out, appearing in the Arena beside Ryan. “I give you your champion of the Blind! Ryan Hyperion!!!”

There are scattered cheers, losers grudgingly accepting that their winnings are lost but their favorite fighter is still alive. Mostly there’s a tense, angry quiet. One that makes my muscles tighten and my skin crawl.

“Time to move,” Trent tells me.

He takes my upper arm as he ushers me quickly through the crowd. We jump down off the risers into the dark and head for the exit. He leads me away from the stairs, this time taking me through a different door that leads down an industrial looking hallway with brick walls and exposed wiring in the ceiling.

“Hey, wait,” a voice calls quietly from behind us.

I turn to see Elise hurrying toward us, her eyes nervously scanning the hallway.

“Here, take this. You’ll need it for his shoulder.” She holds out a small bottle and a jar with white paste in it. “Get him out of here now.”

“We’re already going,” Trent tells her, pulling me forward again.

“Thank you,” I call over my shoulder, holding up the jar and bottle.

She’s turned to leave. If she hears my gratitude, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

We jog down the hall until a door slams open ahead of us. The heavy metal door swings noisily, flying out, banging against the brick wall and rebounding back. Trent halts, his body going stiff as he watches. As he waits.

Ryan stumbles out into the hall. He’s still in the shorts, no shirt, but luckily the shoe is gone and he’s carrying his own pair in his hand along with the rest of his clothes.

“Go, man,” a guy says gruffly from inside the door. “Get out before it gets nuts in here. Don’t come back for a while either. People will forget but not any time soon.”

Ryan leans back against the wall, his head falling forward as he nods. “Hopefully I’m never coming back.”

“That’s what everyone says. Ask me how many times it happens?”

“Thanks for the help,” Ryan says in reply, wearily leaning forward and extending his hand.

A guy steps out to slap it once quickly with his. He spots us, his eyes locking on mine and I realize it’s the guy that led us inside Marlow’s office. The second bouncer. He hesitates for a second looking like he wants to say something, but then he quickly pulls the door closed and slams it behind him.

“Good show,” Trent tells Ryan.

He looks up at us with a wan smile, his face flushed and his hair flying wet and dark in every direction. I’m wound so tight, so freaked out and so relieved to see him alive that I lose my mind a little. Maybe a lot.

I run at him down the hall, pushing past Trent. Ryan sees me coming. His eyes go wide with surprise but he stands up straight, opening his arms to me. I’m a jerk because I know he’s tired. I know he’s hurt. But I’m selfish. I jump at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist and I cling to him hard. If I don’t do this, if I don’t hold on to him and reassure myself that he’s alright, I’ll cry. And I am sick to death of that feeling. As it is, I bury my face in his neck, worried the tears will come anyway.

“I’m bleeding on you,” he says softly, his arms wound tightly around me, hugging me to him.

“Good. It means you have a heartbeat.”

I need to let him go. We need to get out of here now, but first we have to deal with his shoulder. Who knows what fluids the Risen might have gotten inside him. The sickness doesn’t move nearly as fast as it used to, but an infection is still an infection. You shouldn’t mess with a corpse, whether it’s lying in a pine box or trying to sink its teeth into your eye.

“I have stuff for your shoulder.”

“It can wait.” He squeezes me tighter.

“No, it can’t.”

“Joss, how often do you let me hold you?”

I sigh against his skin. “Never.”

“Then let me have this.”

So I do. And it doesn’t hurt me to do it. It doesn’t make me anxious or twitchy. I don’t feel smothered even as I rebreathe my own hot air rebounding off his neck. He smells exactly as his bed did. Soap, sweat and dude. Like a man. A man who isn’t afraid to fight with me. For me. Who’d risk his life to keep safe something sacred that I very rarely thought about, not beyond keeping it hidden. Not until this moment when so much of his skin is hot against mine, when my body is wound around him like it was built to be here, made to hold to him. To be held against him. Now I’m wondering what better way there is to make sure it’s never stolen, never taken away like everything else that was ever mine, than to give it to someone. Someone who’s patient. Strong. Understanding. Someone who knows it’s worth so much more than a Benjamin, that you could never put a price on it, that it’s not rare because it’s hard to come by. It’s rare because it’s me. The last of me.

“Ryan,” Trent says, his voice a warning.

“I know,” he replies reluctantly.

He loosens his hold on me, lets me slide down his body slowly until I’m on my own two foot but I’m looking up at him with everything I’ve been thinking on my face. I could hide it. I know how. But I don’t. I let him see it and I watch his breathing change as he does. As he understands. And I know he’s thinking about it now too.

“Shoulder,” I say firmly, pulling away.

I hand him the stuff Elise gave me. He quickly uncorks the bottle and downs the entire thing in one long gulp.

“What is that?” I ask.

He grimaces as he finishes it, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“You don’t want to know.”

He tosses the bottle aside, letting it shatter on the brick wall farther down the hall.

“Oh, okay. That’s… littering.”

“Are you going to write me a ticket? Screw this place. Let’s get out of here.”

He leads us out a door that takes us up a flight of stairs to a blackened hallway. No lights at all in here. Ryan and Trent must know the layout, though, because when Ryan takes my hand, he leads me quickly through the dark without banging us into anything. I’m starting to wonder how much time these two have spent in this place.

Finally we burst out a side door into the cold night. The sky is dark, cloudy. The wind coming off the water is frigid and I worry about Ryan in just the shorts they put him in as he runs us down the worn, gray boards of the pier to the end of the building.

“Let’s see if Marlow is true to his word,” he says as we reach the end.

When we look down, we all stare silently.

There in the water tied to the pier is a small sailboat. Mast, sails and all.

“Captain Hook boned us!” I exclaim.

“What?” Ryan asks.

“It’s the Jolly friggin’ Roger.”

“It’s a daysailer,” Trent says sadly, looking it over.

“How do you know that?”

“I read.”

“What? Back issues of Yacht Club Weekly while you’re on the toilet?”

He grins at me. “I like sailing adventures. Pirates. Buccaneers. I got your Jolly Roger joke. Peter Pan. It was funny.”

I sigh. “I’m still mad at you.”

“For what?”

“For knowing everything,” Ryan says, glaring down at our boat.

It’s just over ten feet long and can’t be more than five feet wide. The three of us in this boat is going to be interesting. The fact that I doubt any of us know how to sail a sailboat is going to be a tragedy.

“Can you sail one, Trent?” Ryan asks hopefully.

He chuckles. “No.”

“Yeah, me either.”

“Well, whatever,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “Marlow’s a dick, but it is a boat so let’s at least see if we can figure it out. How hard can it be? You hoist the sails, they catch the wind, and we cruise across the water. There’s a rudder, I think. We steer with that? We’ll figure it out once we’re out on open water.”

“Sounds solid and not at all suicidal. Let’s do it.”

Once we untie the boat, or cast off or whatever it is, Trent gets to work figuring out the riggings and sails while I apply the white paste to Ryan’s shoulder. He’s changed back into his own pants and shoes, tossing the shorts into the water as we drift.

“How worried should I be?” I ask as I smear a huge glob on the worst of his wounds. This stuff smells like it stings.

“Not very,” he replies tightly. “I saw the Risen when they took the hood off. Its fingers were nothing but dry bone. That’s why it was able to dig into my skin so deep.”

“Did they do that to it on purpose?”

“I don’t think so. They keep them locked up in cages or cells in the building until they need them for a fight. That’s days or weeks of the Risen wandering around an empty room looking for a way out. They claw at the walls and if those walls are brick or cement, the skin will give out first.”

“I got it,” Trent says triumphantly.

He yanks a cord and I watch in amazement as a brilliant white sail raises sharply. It whips in the wind, fluttering bright against the dark sky until Trent pulls another cord, tying it off quickly while he grabs the rudder. There’s a snap above us as the sheet takes hold of the wind and then we’re off, jerking back toward the docks and the aquarium.

Trent curses, adjusts the rudder and another line. Soon we’re changing course, heading out into the Sound and dipping south. We’ll have to pass by the docks just outside the stadiums, but I’m sure Trent will swing us wide. Though our bright white sail makes us a little hard to miss, even in the dark.

I pat Ryan on the back twice, letting him know I’m done and he puts his shirt back on.

“Trent, you looked at the map. What is this island really? What was it before?” I ask. Now that all of the other threats (Marlow, his men, the Risen in the Arena) are fading small behind us, I’m focusing on the biggest, newest one. The unknown.

“It used to be called Vashon Island, thus the group’s name. People lived there. It was mostly residential with small farming. There are no bridges to it which is probably why the Vashons chose it. It was always isolated with good farm land. Easily self-sufficient in the right hands.”

“Crenshaw’s kind of people would be the right hands, I guess.”

“Why did you ask me what it really is? What did Crenshaw say it was? Narnia?”

I grin, happy I get the reference. “Elysium.”

Trent nods, the wind whipping his hair across his eyes. He squints against it and leans casually on the rudder. He looks every bit the sailor then. I think I should tell him that, that it might make him happy to know he’s living his dream, but then I sees several flashes of light behind him and my heart begins to race.

“Hey, guys,” I whisper. “I think I saw something.”

Ryan turns to see what I’m looking at. Trent keeps his eyes forward.

“What was it?” Ryan asks, his voice also hushed.

“There was light on the bank. Right there.”

I point to the shore a little bit south of the stadiums.

“What kind of light? Like a fire?”

“More like a signal.” I look at Trent, catching his eye. “Organized. Like they knew what they were doing.”

Not like they were desperate, grasping at straws in a last ditch attempt not to die on a roof surrounded by Risen.

“It’s probably the Colonies,” he tells me calmly. “They run constant patrols around the perimeter of the stadiums. Someone may have been signaling the all clear.”

“Or they could have been telling someone there’s a boat cruising through the Sound.”

He shrugs. “And?”

“And they could come after us,” I snap, my voice rising.

“Gasoline is gone. They’ll have to row or sail like we are. They won’t catch up to us. You worry too much.”

“Is that a joke?”

He smiles, but I don’t know if that means yes, that’s a joke or that he’s happy he pushed my buttons. Either way, he’s annoying me.

“We’ll be alright, Joss,” Ryan tells me. “If they come after us, we’ll go ashore and hide.”

“We’ll lose Marlow’s boat.”

Ryan snorts. “I’m planning on burning it when we’re done with it anyway.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Why do you hate Pretty in Pink?” Ryan asks me out of nowhere, his quiet voice breaking the silence we’ve been sailing in.

I grin, my eyes staying lazily fixed on the rippling surface of the water in the moonlight. It’s hypnotic, like fire.

“Because the girl is an idiot.”

“We’re all idiots when it comes to love,” Trent says philosophically.

I glance back at him, surprised. He smiles at me with is creepy, real boy smile on his Pinocchio face.

“Why was she an idiot?” Ryan asks, ignoring Trent.

“Because she chose the wrong guy to love. It makes me angry.”

“We don’t choose who we love, love chooses us,” Trent tells me.

I turn fully around to face him. “What is with you?”

“Nothing. Are we not discussing this?”

“Discussing what?”

“Love.”

“No,” I reply quickly, not sure why I feel embarrassed by the word.

“We’re talking about the movie,” Ryan tells Trent pointedly.

“That’s what I was talking about,” Trent insists.

“No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “You were talking about real life and I’m beginning to wonder just what kind of nautical adventures you’re reading? Are they the type with half naked women falling over the arm of a shirtless pirate kind of ‘adventure’?”

“You mean lady porn?”

“No!”

“That’s what you were describing,” Ryan says.

“No, it’s not.”

“Do you read lady porn?” Trent asks calmly.

I pause to cool down, to collect myself and not give anything away. To get angrier is to be too adamant in my denials and they’ll never believe me. And they’ll know that, yes, I do have lady porn. Sue me!

“Anyway,” I say tightly, “I get annoyed with Pretty in Pink because her best friend is in love with her but she brushes him off to date some rich guy who then brushes her off for his friends because they’re snobs and they look down on her because she’s all poor and crap.”

Ryan frowns. “That’s the whole movie? Sixteen Candles was way better.”

“Of course it was, but that’s not the end of the movie. The guy comes groveling back, apologizing for sucking and her best friend forgives her even though he still loves her and everyone lives happily ever after. Everyone but the friend. It’s stupid. She chose the wrong guy.”

Ryan nods thoughtfully. “Can I just hate it with you instead of committing two hours of my life to watching it?”

“No, it’s all or nothing. You have to feel the anger, Ryan. You have to live it with me to really appreciate the hate. You have to yell at the screen and tell her she’s dumb.”

“You can’t hate by proxy,” Trent agrees. “That’s lazy.”

“Can’t we watch Sixteen Candles again?” Ryan pleads.

I shake my head. “Not until you live the hate.”

“Lame.”

“No, you know what’s lame? Watching you cage fight three Risen blindfolded.”

That right there, that’s a mic drop. That’s an end of discussion because there’s no coming back from that and smart guy that he is, Ryan knows it.

After almost an hour of sailing, we see light in the distance. Nothing direct, just the yellow haze of civilization spread out and thriving. It’s the burn of electric life humming in the perfect darkness of a world gone dead. It’s strange. Eerie. And we’re headed right for it. I feel anxious. Like we’re headed somewhere I used to know but forgot about. Somewhere I’m not so sure I want to go again.

I glance at the Lost Boy ahead of me, then at the one behind me as the tall white sail snaps in the cold air above us. I want to tell them to turn the ship around, to take me back to Neverland.

I want to tell them I’m not ready for this.

“This is weird,” Ryan whispers.

“I don’t like it,” I agree.

Something floating in the water smacks the hull of the boat, startling us all. We fly past it, fast on the wind, but I look back to see a large, round object floating in the water. It’s painted hot pink.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Buoy,” Trent answers, his eyes fixed steadily forward. “Fair warning, there are more coming.”

He’s not kidding. We pass by another not long after. This one is bright green. Then a yellow. A blue. A white.

“What are they marking?”

“Water depth?” Ryan suggests.

“Maybe,” Trent says, not sounding convinced.

If he plans on telling us what he thinks they are marking, he never gets the chance. We’re nearing the shore. I can see it building in front of us, a black mass against the dark sky. The lights glow from far inside the island, but out here there’s nothing. Nothing but the strange buoys, the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the group of men standing submerged up to their knees in it with weapons in hand.

They appear out of nowhere. Shadows in black stepping out of the night, waiting patiently with clubs, spears and machetes held confidently. These weapons haven’t seen the constant use ours do in the city, but it doesn’t mean they don’t know how to use them. You can see it in the way they hold them. These are still hunters. Killers, as we all now have to be because we no longer have the luxury of someone else doing the dirty work for us. Military, police, hunters, farmers. Everyone who took lives for our safety and comfort are dead and gone. Or they’re us now. I wonder what I’d classify as, other than scared.

This is a huge unknown, sitting in this Hive boat in front of a group of mysterious men on an island I’ve never heard of. One that Marlow was way too interested in yet unwilling to approach himself. One that Crenshaw helped build once upon a time. One that he calls Elysium, Heaven, but that right now feels more like something sinister and better left forgotten.

Trent drops our sails. I’m surprised how quickly we lose momentum. I’m thrown forward, right into Ryan’s back. He doesn’t look back but he reaches for me subtly, keeping his movements hidden in the hull of the boat. I weave my fingers through his until our hands are loosely tangled together. I’m shocked by how much that small contact actually helps. How steadier I feel.

“You’re lost,” a man calls out calmly.

“Is this Vashon island?” Trent calls in reply.

“It was.”

“What is it now?” I ask.

I can feel eyes on me. It’s my voice. It just told them I’m a girl and I wonder what that changes for them. If it puts me in more danger or less.

“Nothing for you. Turn this boat around and go back the way you came.”

“We came looking for help.”

“You came to the wrong place.”

“That’s not what Crenshaw said,” I say clearly, playing the only card we have and hoping it lands.

“I don’t know what a crenshaw is and I don’t care,” he says, his voice turning cold. “Turn it around. Leave.”

“No.”

He takes a step closer, his machete cutting through the water as he approaches. I can see him better now. He’s stocky. Strong. Probably about 30 or so but he looks young enough, healthy enough, to be a problem for me with my messed up arm and an exhausted Ryan with an injured shoulder. I realize as I watch him approach that it was a big mistake coming here like this. In the dead of night in a boat full of injured people with no clear idea of how we’ll convince them to help us. Everything with The Hive happened so fast, we didn’t take time to think this through. To plan. But we’re in it now and there’s no going back.

I swing my feet out of the boat, slipping off the side to land in the water. I stifle the gasp that begs to explode out of me when my body registers the cold. I’m only in it up to my thighs, but it’s enough to make me want out. Cold and wet means sick and dead in my mind.

“They’ll leave, but I’m staying,” I tell him, working to keep the tightness out of my voice. “We need help. I want to talk to your leader.”

“Joss, we’re not leaving you here,” Ryan insists angrily.

“He’s right, because you’re all leaving,” the guy agrees.

I hold out my hands, pressing my wrists together firmly. “I’m not. You’re taking me with you back to your camp or whatever it is you have here. You can bind my hands and search me if you want, but you’re taking me back with you. Either that or I’m walking out of this water onto that beach and you’ll have to kill me to stop me.”

The guy looks at my wrists pressed together. He smirks. “I didn’t bring my handcuffs with me. Sorry.”

“You’re also not completely stupid. You don’t leave the house without a weapon, a piece of flint and a rope of some kind.”

His smirk becomes a scowl. “We don’t live like that anymore. I’d like to keep it that way, which is why you’re leaving.”

I step toward him. “Not until I talk to someone.”

He glares at him, his eyes shining hard in the faint moonlight. I’m beginning to shiver from the cold. From the wet, and I don’t know when or where I’ll get a chance to dry off and warm up. That scares me more than anything.

“Please,” I say softly, my eyes imploring.

I see it when he sighs. When he decides to help me. I wonder if it’s because I’m a girl or if it’s because he remembers what it was like to be me out in the crazy or if it’s just because he’s cold too and wants to get back inside. I don’t know and I don’t care. What matters is that he nods reluctantly, gestures for some of his boys to come to the boat to secure my boys and leads me up to shore.

“Do you have any weapons on you?” he asks, sounding bored and annoyed.

I nod, seeing no point in lying. I’ll be searched anyway. It’s then that it dawns on me that I was never searched going inside The Hive. Even to speak to Marlow. I remind myself to ask Ryan about it later.

“An ASP,” I tell the guy, “and a knife.”

“Take ‘em out. Toss ‘em on the ground over there.”

I do as he says. I can hear Trent and Ryan being asked to do the same with whatever they have. Farther up on the shore, three men with crossbows watch us all patiently, their weapons raised and ready.

“Is that it? Nothing else you want to tell me about?”

I shake my head. “That’s it.”

“I’m going to frisk you now. If I find any surprises, you’re getting your knife back in your chest. Got it?”

“Got it.”

He searches me carefully. It’s not the obscenely thorough inspection I got from the Colonists, but it’s for real. He’s quick. He never lingers inappropriately anywhere, but his hands touch me in places that no guy has ever touched me before. I’m tense, having to remind myself over and over again not to punch him in the throat. Finally, when I’m blushing and shaking from more than the cold, he steps away. When I meet his eyes, they’re tight but apologetic. Good to know he feels as weird about what just happened as I do.

He picks up my weapons then gestures for me to walk up the bank. I hear him fall in step behind me a few paces back. He’s giving himself space between us. Breathing room in case I try anything.

“That way,” a guy with a crossbow tells me, gesturing with his weapon.

I follow his directions, cutting left to walk along the shore. I hear them all walking loudly at my back and it makes me sick to my stomach but I don’t turn around. I don’t make any unnecessary moves. First, it’s dark and I can’t really see where I’m going. Second, I don’t want to get shot.

Eventually they guide us inland on a well-worn path that drops us in a parking lot. There are several abandoned cars, all parked with such orderly precision in the faded white lines that it makes me anxious. Chaos I can understand. This is just weird.

We walk for quite awhile in perfect silence, the sound of our feet on the dirt packed earth the only break. That and the crickets. It sounds like they’re everywhere, something that freaks me out. I can’t listen for the sound of approaching Risen in the brush over the noise of theses bugs and the constant crunch of so many men’s feet behind me. But then I guess there might not be any Risen here. That, like the straight lines in the parking lot, makes me anxious and angry.

Eventually we walk along an old driveway until we meet a fence. One of the guys goes up to it, speaks into a gray box and a few seconds later the black iron creaks, groans and swings open slowly. Once we’re ushered inside, I look over my shoulder to watch the gate clang shut behind us. It’s tall and imposing, but push come to shove, I’m pretty sure I could climb it. I will absolutely not be held captive again.

This area is all open field. There are trees scattered around the edges of the property, but for as far as I can see there are fences. There’s also the dark shape of a building looming in the distance, a scattering of lights on in each floor. I start to sweat thinking of all the people probably bustling inside. How many are sleeping in a huge room full of beds? How many will swarm us the second we walk in the door? How many voices and bodies will bombard me for the next few hours or days that I’m stuck here trying to do the impossible?

By the time we reach the front door of the large brown house, I’m ready to turn and run. To try my luck on scaling that fence and head for the water. When the door swings open and light spills out onto the porch, shining in my eyes like the sun, I hesitate. I don’t want to do this again. It’s different, sure, but a lot of it is the same. I don’t know what to expect in here. I don’t know anything about these people at all. Maybe they’re like the cannibals out there in the wild, feasting on other healthy, living humans. Hunting them for the sport of it. Maybe I’ll end up dinner or maybe we’ll become science experiments.