Читать книгу The Prey - Tom Isbell, Tom Isbell - Страница 12

I EXPLAINED THE BASICS: chores in the morning, classes in the afternoon, CC—Camp Cleanup—on the weekends. The boy in the black T-shirt didn’t ask a single question, but I got the feeling nothing escaped his attention.

When we exited the mess hall, I realized I hadn’t introduced myself. “I’m Book,” I said, trying to sound tougher than the name. “Who’re you?”

“L-2084,” he murmured.

Sometime after Omega the government made the decision to label all the boys John. Our last names were what distinguished us: a series of numbers matched with a letter for our camp—L for Camp Liberty, V for Camp Victory, etc. Our “identities” were tattooed on our right arms.

Apparently, all girls were called Jane, but that was only a rumor. We’d never actually seen any for ourselves.

“Not your official name, your nickname,” I said. “Like I’m Book because I read a lot, and there’s Red because he has a red splotch on his face and Twitch because he does and Flush because he doesn’t.”

The boy in the black T-shirt said nothing.

“What’d your friends call you back where you came from?” Then, in an awkward attempt to follow the colonel’s orders, I asked, “Where’d you say that was again?”

“I didn’t,” he growled.

We toured the rest of the camp in silence. Finally, I asked, “What’d you mean in the No Water? About getting out of here?”

“Just what I said,” he answered tersely. As if it didn’t need explaining.

“Why? This is a decent camp. And our grads do really well.”

A small sound escaped Black T-Shirt’s mouth. A grunt? A scoff? But when I turned to look at him, I didn’t get any reaction at all.

Neither of us spoke as we made our way across camp. As we passed two LTs, one of them knocked into me and I nearly lost my balance. The LT shouted out, “Who’s your boyfriend, Book Worm?”

They laughed. So much for making a good impression on the new guy.

Beneath the arched ceiling of the Quonset hut, a hundred-some bunk beds stretched out in long rows. At the base of each bed was a wooden trunk, storing all our worldly possessions. In my case: books. Dozens of them.

Black T-Shirt stopped, pointing to the very last bunk in the room. “This one taken?” He clambered effortlessly to the top and lay on his back like some Egyptian sarcophagus.

Apparently, the tour was over.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said.

His words startled me. “Get what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely to the barracks, the camp itself.

“I get as much as I need to get,” I said, suddenly defensive.

He shook his head. “You have no idea.”

I turned on my heels and stormed out, angry I had ever bothered to help save L-2084’s life in the first place.

I walked to the southwestern edge of camp. Below me lay endless desert; above me a jagged range of mountains. The cemetery itself was soundless. I made my way through a labyrinth of sun-bleached crosses until I found the marker I was searching for.

L-175. Known to us as K2.

A series of eerie images danced through my brain like fireflies.

Giant trees crashing to earth. Startled shouts. A final, haunted expression.

Pounding on a door. Red on white. Blackness darkening the edges of my periphery.

My face grew suddenly clammy. I squeezed my eyes shut and gave my head a violent shake, as if it were that easy to chase away demons.

It didn’t work, of course. Never did.

I opened my eyes to blinding sunlight and reached out a hand to the wooden cross, rubbing my fingertips over its weathered ridges. I tried to speak, but the words got stuck in my throat. Those twin demons, guilt and grief, clamped my mouth shut.

Poor K2.

I noticed a yellow school bus heading up the hill below me, trailing a white plume of choking powder from the gravel road.

I knew who was in it, of course. Orphans. Headed for the nursery, where they’d be raised by surrogates until—one day—they’d become LTs.

There were fewer and fewer buses these days. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. All I knew was that I’d go through the Rite and be long gone before these kids could even read or write.

The bus came up the rise. On its fender were three crudely drawn inverted triangles. Inside the vehicle were row after row of boys, some so young they were held in nurses’ arms. Others slightly older, their faces pressed against the window in a mix of fear and wonder. Years from now they wouldn’t be able to recall their mothers or fathers; what they’d remember was the day they arrived at Camp Liberty … and be grateful it wasn’t someplace worse.

I spun around and returned to camp. Gone for the moment was the shame of my past, the guilt I carried, replaced instead with those mysterious words uttered by Black T-Shirt.

You’ve gotta get me out of here.