Shadows (35 page)

End of the road.
She trudged along, following the sashaying sway of Spider and Leopard in their wolf skins. She should’ve been frightened, but she was too tired. Her shoulders ached from Daniel’s weight, and she was drenched in a hard sweat. She’d practically carried him, semiconscious and feverish, these last ten miles. He’d only dragged along, his boots scraping over snow, like a malfunctioning robot. The closer they got, the more the heavy smog-stink of boiled roadkill clogged the air, churning into a general fug. She could feel her throat trying to close against the oily stench. She spat, working to clear her mouth, but the fetor was stubborn and had glued itself to her tongue.

Then she caught something new. The contact was very brief, the product of the merest shift in a light breeze. Considering Daniel’s sickness, the fume of sewage, and the salt grime of her own skin, it was a wonder she snagged any stray scents at all. But she did, and when she caught it, just that little whiff, she went instantly rigid, Daniel’s nearly dead weight around her neck forgotten for the moment.

No, it can’t be.
Alex threw a wild glance to the west. The moon wasn’t up yet, but the horizon was a wash of scarlet and neon orange. The day was dying and the breeze, too, and yet the scent feathered her nose, just for an instant: an aroma that was earlymorning mist spread across the dark shadows of a mirrored lake, and just as evanescent.

Chris?
The realization coalesced in her throat as a hard lump. An image of the last time she’d seen him—unconscious in a startling splash of blood that stained the snow—floated from memory. Chris was alive and he was
here
? No, that couldn’t be right. She sucked in another breath, but the breeze must’ve shifted, because that fleeting odor was gone. She worried what was left, letting the smell ball and roll around her mouth. No, it wasn’t quite a match, was it? There were elements of Chris there, though. Maybe it was the general fug of the Changed, but the smell reminded her of—

No.
The idea was so stunning she sucked in a sharp gasp.
He’s dead. It can’t be—

Spider suddenly stiffened. A moment later, a hot, noxious odor, sharp as a quill, needled Alex’s nose. The stink was bitter with fury and frustration and reeked of dread. At his place by Spider’s side, Leopard had also gone very still. Their heads were thrown back and their mouths hung open as they drank in that strange scent. Then Spider swiveled. Her silver eyes, glittery with hate, pinned Alex with a glare. Alex stumbled back a half-step as if struck, and she felt herself drawing in, trying to grow small like a geeky kid anxious to avoid the notice of a class bully. Spider’s wound was better, probably because they’d taken their sweet time getting here. Leopard and the gang kept the larder stocked, so Spider had eaten well for over two weeks, when she wasn’t screwing her brains out. (Being Daniel’s roommate had been a mixed blessing, considering. But the way Leopard’s gaze continually scraped over
her
, Alex was just as happy that Spider kept him busy. God help her if Leopard ever got her alone.) But the rip in Spider’s cheek would never heal completely. Honestly, Spider looked a little bit like the villain in that Batman movie, the one who’d gotten half his face eaten away so you could see naked teeth and bone and muscle. Two-Face?

At that moment, Alex felt Daniel twitch and try pulling out of his slouch. His eyes, sick and bleary, fluttered. His breath was foul from vomit. “Wuhhh?”

“Daniel?” He hadn’t said much all day. She gave him a little shake. “Daniel, it’s Alex. Can you—”

“Uhhh,” Daniel groaned, and then his knees tried to fold.

“No, no,” she said, bracing him up. “Come on. Try and walk, Daniel. We’re almost there, and soon you can rest.” Ahead, she saw that Spider and Leopard had started on their way again, but they were worried. The smell of it fizzed like soda bubbles popping against her nose.

She could see the entrance clearly now: a maw, bristling with icicles, ready to eat her alive. Its breath was a stale fog of death and blood, of grimy flesh and sweat from the many other prisoners who must be down there, of cold stone. And the Changed, of course.

She shifted Daniel’s weight across her shoulders. Behind, she heard the slow, resigned shuffle of the older prisoners as they came abreast and then broke around her and Daniel. None looked their way. Having spent the last two weeks virtually sequestered with Daniel, she hadn’t had a chance to get to know them at all, and they’d kept their distance, especially now that Daniel was so sick. She wasn’t sure she blamed them.

If I go in there, I’m not coming out again.
This, she thought, was her last chance. Run for it, or not. She eyed the Changed milling around the entrance. An easy fifty right there, and all of them armed, although she was fairly certain they wouldn’t shoot her. Spider had other plans.

Besides, even if she somehow made it past all these Changed, what future would she be running toward? Rule? Chris? No. She’d never make it to either. She knew because she had smelled him, just as Spider and Leopard had on that stray finger of wind. And Alex wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about this or what it meant.

Because it wasn’t Chris out there.

It was Wolf.

“And they always leave a symbol?” Nathan’s skin was drawn so tight, his cheeks were knife blades. “Never a name or address?”

“No, it’s always a hex sign,” Chris said. He pressed a finger to his temple, trying to massage away a headache that just wouldn’t quit. The red line of his pack’s mini-thermometer just kissed freezing, but night was coming on and the temp outside the two-man was dropping fast. Turtling deeper into the sleeping bag, Chris jerked his chin at the drawing of a blue and red pentagram set against a white circle and done in rough strokes of colored pencil. “The colors are important, too, because the first time I went into a barn with the same design but different colors—a blue background, and alternating red and white for the star—there was nothing.”

He looked up at the sound of a zipper. The tent grayed and then Lena squirmed through the double flap, dragging a gout of frigid air and just the tiniest hint of sour bile in her wake.

“Cold.” Her breath steamed. Quickly zipping the flap shut, she burrowed into the only other sleeping bag. “It feels like it’s minus a hundred out there, and it’s getting windy, too.”

Nathan tugged at his right jowl. “Everything come out all right?” “Ha. Ha.” The tip of her nose was wind-burned, but her face was nearly transparent. “Bet I haven’t heard that since second grade.” Nathan spread his hands. “Just trying to lighten the mood.” Chris said nothing. They were all exhausted, but Lena was getting sicker, and her breath was heavy with the stink of vomit. A creep of dread walked his neck.
The longer we stay out here, the worse it’s going to get. I can’t keep putting this off.
But he still might be wrong. Nathan was just as experienced, and yet he’d said nothing, not a whisper. When a girl got sick every morning and stayed sick all day, there might be another reason that a man old enough to be her grandfather might be uncomfortable mentioning.

“I think there’s another storm coming, too.” She drew the bag down tight until only her face showed as a pale oval. “The sky’s kind of inky north of us.”

“Better hope not.” Nathan’s fingernails rasped over salt-and-pepper stubble. “Bad for us if we get stuck again.”

“God, it’s been
weeks
. How much further?” Lena asked.

“Maybe another two days if the weather holds and we stop for a whole night. The Changed are pretty thick, though, so I think it’s best if we keep moving. Rest for shorter periods, stagger our hours. Be to Oren that much faster, and then we can find a place to hole up while we figure out where to look. Speaking of which . . .” Nathan proffered the penciled drawing. “You know all these hex signs?”

“Sure. I just don’t know which barns have what.” Still swathed in the bag, Lena cocked her head and gnawed at her lower lip. Most of the skin was chewed off. Ugly scabs beetled over her mouth. “But it’s like I told Chris. They call that one the Five Wounds. Most barns have a bunch. I don’t know what they all mean, but . . . yeah.”

“Oh, I know this one. Five wounds of Christ. Pentagram was an early Christian symbol, way before the Cross,” said Nathan. “Is it always the same symbol?”

Chris shook his head. “It’s like I said. When they want me to find them, they leave a drawing in the bookmobile’s dictionary. Then it’s a matter of going barn to barn until I find the right one. Takes a while.”

“Well then, I guess the bookmobile’s our first stop. Unless we get lucky and they got sentries posted.” Nathan eyed him. “Anyone ever take a shot? You get the sense of someone keeping watch?”

He had, but that wasn’t new. Ride out of Rule often enough where there were raiders or Changed or both, and his eyes never stopped pinballing. “Sure. On the other hand, I’ve never come in this way before or brought anyone with me—to the bookmobile, anyway. I made Greg and the others wait just outside town. Plus, I’m early. There may be nothing.”

“God.” Lena let out a long sigh. “What do we do then?”

“Panic.” He meant it as a joke, but when she didn’t smile, Chris put a hand on her shoulder. What he didn’t like was that he had to think twice about that. “The big difference this time is you. If they see you, they may realize it’s okay to show themselves.”

“Maybe.” Lena’s tone was as dry and lifeless as a shriveled corn husk. “But it’s not like I was all that popular.”

“What about this guy, Isaac Hunter? You’re absolutely sure you never heard the name?” When she shook her head, Chris looked to Nathan. “You’ve got to know something. Yeah, yeah, I know you trust Jess and if she says he can help, you believe that, but we’re not in Rule now and Jess isn’t calling the shots. So even if it’s only rumors or educated guesses, anything you know or suspect might help.”

He watched Nathan think about that. “I never knew the name,” Nathan said, finally, “but there
was
this story floating around from when I was about your age. So . . . sixty years ago?”

“About Hunter?”

“No.” Nathan ran a hand over his chin. “About these wild kids. No, no,” he added when he saw Chris’s expression, “it’s not what you think. We’re not talking kids going native or something. It’s something the Amish kids do, though.”

“You mean
rumspringa
,” Lena said. She propped herself up on an elbow. “I know about that.”

“Well, I don’t,” Chris said. Merton was far enough southeast that anything he knew about the Amish came from movies, which translated to
not much.
“What is it?”

“An Amish custom,” Nathan said. “It means ‘running around.’ The Amish are different in a lot of ways, and especially when it comes to baptism. Children aren’t baptized into the church at birth. It’s a lifestyle they have to choose with their eyes open, and the Amish believe that only adults, who’ve experienced the world, can do that. So at sixteen, they let the kids run free to do anything they want. The theory might be sound, but it’s a terrible idea.”

“How come?”

“Because they don’t know anything. None of those kids has the faintest idea of what’s beyond their settlements, in the
English
world, and when they get cut loose like that, with no one to guide them, they run wild.” One corner of Nathan’s mouth tugged down in a wry grimace. “I met . . . quite a few girls. That was something we boys took advantage of, because no girls
we
knew would go as far as those Amish girls. All those kids partied hard. Looking back, it’s not something I’m real proud of.”

“Okay, I think I get it.” Chris felt his own skin heat with embarrassment. The last thing he wanted was to hear a guy his grandfather’s age reminiscing about all those great hookups from the good old days. “But what’s
that
got to do with
this
?”

“Maybe nothing,” Nathan said. “In the end, most Amish kids run around for a couple years before choosing to follow Amish ways. They get themselves baptized and that’s the end of it. But there are always kids who don’t want to come back or do and
then
leave, which takes a thousand times more guts.”

“Guts?”

“Yeah,” Lena put in. “If they leave after they’re baptized, then they’re
shunned
.”

“Shunned.” A small
ding
of recognition. “You mean, like the Ban?”

“I mean, almost exactly that,” Nathan said. “It’s called
meidung.
Basically, it’s the Amish version of tough love. People will still talk to them, but that’s about it. They can’t take communion, participate in the community, any of that. The idea is to get them to repent and change their minds. I don’t remember how long a person’s got before it becomes permanent.”

“Permanent? As in, no going back?”

“As in excommunication. If that happens, it’s like you’re a shadow, or dead. These poor kids got nothing: no education, no family, no resources, nowhere to go.” Nathan paused. “But it would be natural for them to stick together and try to help each other.”

“Like an underground railroad.” The slow dawn of an idea glimmered in his mind. Chris could feel his brain grinding through the implications, making connections. “Is that what I’m looking for?”

“Well.” Nathan paused. “Jess thinks you found it. A piece, anyway.”

“I don’t get it,” Lena said.

“A breakaway community. A settlement of kids made up of those who chose to leave. But they’d need help, maybe even someone who knew what they were going through because he or she had been excommunicated . . .” Chris’s voice trailed away as another idea bubbled from whatever stew his mind had been brewing these last few weeks. He looked back at Nathan. “They’d need
help.
”

“You said that,” Lena said.

“Jess,”
Chris said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that
Jess
had to be one of them.” He looked back at Nathan. “That’s right, isn’t it? She’s Amish, or she used to be.” He saw the hesitation cross Nathan’s features and added, “Come on. The only way she could know about them in so much detail, enough to give you a
name
, would be if she’d lived there.”