Читать книгу The Prey - Tom Isbell, Tom Isbell - Страница 13

ORANGE LIGHT FLUTTERS ON Hope’s face. She pulls a gutted rabbit from the spit and eats every last morsel, sucking the bones clean. As she pokes the embers, thoughts of Faith swirl in her head. It’s been nearly a week since they went their separate ways and Hope knows her sister has no flint. Has she been without fire this entire time?

But it was Faith’s decision to go off on her own. Besides, their father said they should make this choice. The thought of him makes her pat her pocket and feel the small gold locket. Also the crumpled bit of paper with that one word: Separate.

No. I can’t think about it.

What she thinks about instead is the boy with the piercing blue eyes. He’d come traipsing through just a few weeks past, looking for a night’s shelter from the rain. Her father allowed it, on the single condition that he stayed at one end of the cave and his two daughters at the other. Hope remembers how she and Faith stared at him long through the night: his sandy hair, the embers’ dull orange light sculpting his face, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept.

He was the first guy her age she’d ever seen, and she often wonders who he was and where he came from. Wonders if she’ll ever see him again. Or if she’s destined to be by herself her entire life.

She tries to sleep, and when she wakes just a few fitful hours later, Hope knows what she has to do. She douses the fire, packs her belongings, and heads out, her route reversed from the day before—she must find her sister.

Faith is ridiculously easy to track. She might as well have left painted arrows on the ground. Did she learn nothing from their father?

Hope suddenly stops. Something has caught her eye.

She retraces her steps. All around her, spring wildflowers poke through the earth: shimmering royal blue, egg-yolk yellow. And a carpet of miniature blossoms, the petals white as snow.

But one is stained with a single dot of red.

Blood. Fresh blood.

Other drops on blades of grass. Faith is bleeding.

Hope takes off in a jog.

Her father’s message echoes in her brain: Separate. What he failed to understand was that she doesn’t have a choice. Faith is her sister—her twin. As different as they are, there’s no separating them.

Late that afternoon, Hope finally spies Faith from a great distance: a solitary figure wading through waist-high weeds. She zigzags back and forth. Is it delirium that pushes her from side to side? Or loss of blood?

Hope has two options: race straight across the valley or hug the tree line and circle around. Her second option will take longer, but it’s obviously safer. A body walking through a barren meadow is just begging for trouble.

Despite her best instincts, Hope chooses the quicker route. Faith is in trouble. She needs Hope now. Hope begins to run, her heart hammering in her ears.

When she finally reaches her, Faith’s words are accusatory. “What’re you doing here?”

Hope is taken aback. “Coming to find you, what do you think?”

“I don’t need to be found. I’m just fine on my own.”

“You’re bleeding …”

Faith clenches her right hand into a fist, but not before Hope sees the thick slice across her palm. “It’s nothing. Knife slipped.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s nothing.”

Hope feels a surge of anger. Here she’s gone to the trouble to find her sister and put her life on the line and Faith wants nothing to do with her.

“Faith, you can’t do this. You won’t make it on your own.”

“I can make it on my own just as well as you,” she says over her shoulder.

“Oh, come on …”

Faith wheels on her twin, nostrils flared. “Why don’t you think I can make it? Because I’m helpless without you? Because he wanted us to separate so you could live and not me?”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“I heard him, Hope. He was telling you to go your own way. He wanted you to live. Well, guess what? I’m giving him what he wanted.”

Bug bites cover every inch of Faith’s face, and her eyes are nearly swollen shut. But even more painful for Hope is the haunted expression Faith wears. A look of genuine sadness. Hope doesn’t know what to say. What words can possibly ease her sister’s pain?

When Hope is finally about to speak, she’s interrupted by a low rumble. The earth shakes beneath their feet. Their father told them about earthquakes, but they’ve never experienced one. A flash of movement out of the corner of her eye swings her around.

It’s not an earthquake but a thundering of hooves. Horses. Dozens of them, headed straight for the two girls. Atop each of them is a Brown Shirt hoisting a semiautomatic rifle.

It only takes Hope a second to react.

“Run!” she screams at the very top of her lungs.

Hope drags her sister as best she can, tearing through the tall grasses. But there’s no place to hide. Their only hope is to reach the trees and pray the woods are thick enough to keep the horses from following. Then the Brown Shirts will be forced to dismount and lug their heavy weapons.

It’s a long shot, but better than none at all.

The rumble of hooves grows louder. The roar swells like a thunderstorm, hailstones slamming into the ground.

Both girls are sucking wind. Faith’s lungs make harsh, raspy sounds with each inhalation.

“I have … to stop,” she wheezes.

“No!” Hope says.

Faith bends over, clutches her knees. “Go,” she coughs. “I’m done.”

“You’re not done. We can do this.”

The horses are gaining speed. If the sisters leave right now, they stand a chance. But only if they leave this very instant. “Come on!”

Faith shakes her head. “Go,” she says. “It’s what Dad wanted.” She meets Hope’s eyes. “It’s what I want, too.”

Hope looks at her sister. And at the approaching Brown Shirts.

“H and FT,” she says.

Faith doesn’t respond.

“H and FT,” Hope repeats.

It’s their secret code. Has been since they were kids, since that awful day when their mother was shot before their eyes.

H & FT. Hope and Faith Together.

Finally, Faith says it back. “H and FT.”

Hope guides her. In her one hand is Faith’s arm; in the other is her spear. She veers straight for the sun, forcing the Brown Shirts to squint into the sunset. Forcing them to slow down to navigate creek beds and boulders.

The tree line grows closer and Hope can make out the dense underbrush. It’s all shrubs and thick tangles of vines. Good for hiding. Living hell for a horse. No way the Brown Shirts can navigate this maze. Hope realizes they’ve caught a break. They should just make it after all.

The first gunshots blast the trees in front of them. Bark explodes. Small birch trees are sliced in half. Faith slows.

“Don’t stop!” Hope yells.

“But they’re shooting at us.”

“And we’ll stop if they hit us!”

They’re a mere twenty yards from the woods when a lead horse circles around and cuts them off. Then another. And another. There’s suddenly no way out.

Still, when a Brown Shirt draws a pistol, Hope reaches back with her spear and sends it flying. It sails through the air, entering the soldier’s chest, the pointy end sticking out his back. A dazed expression paints his face as he tumbles off his horse.

A dozen other Brown Shirts raise their M16s and target them on Hope.

“Don’t shoot!” a voice cries out.

A trailing Humvee comes to a sudden stop and a man waddles forward. He is heavy to the point of obese, with thin, almost invisible lips. Unlike the men on horseback, he doesn’t wear the soldier’s uniform of the Republic, but a black suit with a white shirt and a thin black tie. His most striking feature is the soiled hanky he grips in his hand, which he uses to dab at the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t shoot,” the pudgy man says again, and rifle barrels lower. He appraises the twins with leering eyes. His sausage fingers cup Faith’s chin. “We’ve been looking for you two,” he says in a nasally voice. “Oh yes, we’ve been looking for you for quite some time.”