Читать книгу The Capture - Tom Isbell, Tom Isbell - Страница 8

THEY LOOKED AT ME with hollow, vacant stares—their sunken cheeks more like ghosts’ than human beings’. Festering sores tattooed their bodies, and their pleading eyes cut circles in the black.

Please, their expressions said, as they strained against the chains that pinned them to the bunker walls. Get us out of here.

There were a dozen of them, boys my age, and the more I took in their emaciated bodies—the bones pushing against skin, the bloodshot eyes and skull-like faces—the more I realized I didn’t know how to help them. I had no idea, no solution for unlocking their shackles and setting them free.

You must, one of them said, as if I’d voiced my thoughts aloud, and soon all of them were saying it—You must, you must—their voices growing louder and more insistent until it was a kind of song, a raspy chant from begging faces.

You must. Help us.

“But I can’t. I don’t know how …”

You must help us.

“I don’t know how!”

YOU MUST HELP US!

I woke with a start, my T-shirt damp with sweat. With trembling hands I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes … and the image from my mind.

“Same one?” Cat asked. He was hunkered in the shadows, his long knife scraping the edge of a cedar branch.

Every night it was the same: dreaming of those Less Thans shackled in the bunker beneath the tennis court. I couldn’t let it go. As bad as the memory was, my dreams only made it worse, distorting the boys’ bodies until they were more skeletons than living, breathing human beings.

It was why we had to get back to Camp Liberty. Why we had to free those Less Thans.

I lifted my head and looked around. Orange light from the campfire flickered across the faces of the others. With the exception of Cat and me, the others huddled around the fire and shared stories and laughter. Three squirrels roasted on spits; the grease sizzled in the flames. On the surface, at least, everything seemed fine.

Just one week earlier, twenty-six of us had crossed into the other territory—the Heartland. Eleven had stayed over there; fifteen had decided to return. Seven Less Thans, eight Sisters. For the past seven days we’d been gathering food, carving bows and arrows, setting up an archery range and firing till our fingers bled. Still, I wondered: Were we up for this? Could we really pull it off?

“Do you think it’s a mistake?” I pulled myself over to the log where Cat was sitting.

At first he didn’t respond. No surprise there—his least favorite thing was conversation. “Do I think what’s a mistake?” His knife dug into the wood. Cedar shavings whispered in the air.

“Going back?”

He thought a moment. His glinting blade stripped off a layer of bark as effortlessly as peeling a banana. “Nah, it’s definitely the right thing.” Then he added, “We don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell, but it’s definitely the right thing.”

I couldn’t argue with him. Who were we to take on Brown Shirts and Crazies, Skull People and wolves? What made us think we could even make it back to Camp Liberty, let alone free the Less Thans there? What on earth were we thinking?

“If the odds are so bad, why’re you going back?” I asked.

Cat shrugged. “Like I said at the fence, it’ll be the adventure of a lifetime.”

I got the feeling there was more to it than that, but there was no point asking. Cat would tell me only when he was good and ready.

Laughter erupted from the far side of the campfire—Flush and Twitch bickering like an old married couple. Tweedledum and Tweedlesmart. The oddest set of friends I’d ever come across. Twitch was tall and supersmart. Flush was short and, well, not as smart as Twitch.

“How about the others?” I asked. “Think they’ll be in it for the long haul?”

“Most of ’em,” he said, his sandy hair catching a sliver of moonlight.

“Not all?”

“Most,” he repeated.

I wondered who wasn’t committed. Flush or Twitch? Red or Dozer? Or was he referring to the Sisters? For obvious reasons I didn’t count Four Fingers. Ever since his head injury back in the Brown Forest, he’d been wildly out of it. On most days he was lucky to remember his name.

As my eyes passed over the others, it struck me how much we’d changed. The sun had weathered our skin. The baby fat had burned away. And we moved and spoke with a kind of quiet confidence. All this despite the fact that our clothes were nothing more than rags, dotted and shredded with holes, singed from fire, bleached from sun. After the inferno in the Brown Forest, all we’d managed to salvage were the essentials: the clothes on our backs, some canteens, a few weapons. The good side of that was that nothing was weighing us down.

Well, not physically.

Argos lifted his head and gave a soft moan. He came padding to my side. I reached over and petted him, the ends of my fingers disappearing into his fur. I was careful to avoid the burns from the fire. The wound from the wolves. The gimpy leg. He was no longer the cute little puppy stuffed in a backpack. He’d been to hell and back like the rest of us.

Cat’s knife bit into the branch—and then stopped. He opened his mouth to speak, but just as he began to talk, Flush set himself down squarely between us.

“Would you please tell Twitch I wasn’t the only one who ate the maggots?” he said. “Red did, too.”

Everyone’s gaze was directed toward us, waiting for a response. It figured: one of the few times Cat was actually going to start a conversation, and we were interrupted. Whatever he was going to tell me would have to wait.

“As I remember,” I answered, loud enough for the others to hear, “Red had the good sense not to like it. You enjoyed your maggots.”

That brought on a roar of laughter. Even though Flush pretended to be irritated, I got the impression he enjoyed being the center of attention.

As I prepared for bed that night, constructing a mattress out of pine needles, my thoughts returned to where they always went: Hope. She was the very last of the Sisters to join us—only reluctantly crossing from the other side of the fence.

Things were different between us now. We’d kissed that day after surviving the fire, but ever since, we’d been so busy—just trying to survive—that it was like we didn’t know how to act around each other. What I wanted was to take her hand, to hold her, to go back to the way we were … but I never had the chance.

So I contented myself with fleeting looks. Stolen glances.

There was something else, too. Something I couldn’t figure out. Her expression. It had changed these past seven days—it was no longer just the haunted appearance she shared with all the Sisters. It was something more. A kind of grim determination I couldn’t quite decipher.

And I saw the way she looked at Cat, her enormous brown eyes lingering on him a moment longer than they needed to. I couldn’t help it. Maybe it was my imagination, but then again, maybe it wasn’t.