Читать книгу The Prey - Tom Isbell, Tom Isbell - Страница 19

HOPE STACKS HAY BALES in the barn’s loft. The work is hard and repetitive, but she doesn’t mind. The intoxicating scent of fresh hay reminds her of the home she left ten years earlier.

A home with a mother and a father and life free of Brown Shirts.

A flash of movement out of the corner of her eye steals her attention, but when she peers through the loft window, all she sees are trees and the jagged cliffs of Skeleton Ridge. Strange. She could have sworn she saw something. Someone.

A moment later, it’s the sound of footsteps that causes her to stop midlift, muscles straining. A Brown Shirt races through the fields.

When she turns around to stack the bale, she’s shocked to see someone standing directly in front of her. He’s about her age, with light brown skin and dark hair. The bale falls from her hands with a thud.

“Who are you and what—”

“Shh,” he whispers. “I won’t hurt you.”

She takes an involuntary step backward but there’s nowhere to go. The heels of her feet peek over the edge of the loft. “You shouldn’t be up here.” She eyes the pitchfork that lies a couple feet away. If she’s quick enough, she can dive for it, reaching it before this stranger.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says again, palms raised.

Her fists clench. “What do you want?” He doesn’t answer, so she asks again. “What do you want?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but at just that moment the Brown Shirt comes stumbling into the barn, badly out of breath. The guy—the intruder—ducks behind the pyramid of hay bales, crouching in shadows.

Down below, the soldier circles in place, then raises his eyes until they land on Hope. “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“An LT—a boy. Came running through. Just a moment ago.”

Hope is about to speak but stops herself. She has no reason to trust this intruder—no reason at all—but she has even less reason to trust the Brown Shirts. Why should she help them? All they’ve done is make her life a living hell.

But if she covers up the fact that she’s hiding someone and the boy is found, she’ll be the one who’s punished. Why should she help him out—a perfect stranger? For all she knows, he’s the enemy. One of the Crazies her father warned her about.

“Well?” the Brown Shirt prompts.

Is it her imagination or does she feel the boy’s eyes boring into the back of her head?

“I didn’t see anyone,” she says at last.

“Then where’d he go?”

She shrugs.

The soldier does another circle, then makes a step for the ladder. “You sure he’s not up there?”

Hope spreads her arms wide. “Come see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

The Brown Shirt stares at her, unsure whether to climb up. Finally he hurries away and exits the barn.

Hope doesn’t move. Now that the soldier has gone, it’s just her and this intruder. If she’s made a mistake—if she’s misjudged him—she’ll pay for it.

She slowly pivots in place. At first, she thinks he’s disappeared—his departure as abrupt and secret as his arrival. Then she finds him—peeking through a crack between hay bales. His eyes flick anxiously from one side to another.

“He’s gone,” she says. “You may as well come out.” Just to be safe, she picks up the pitchfork. Her damp palms grip the wooden handle.

The boy eases forward, brushing hay from his arms. He walks with a slight limp.

“Thank you,” he says. “He would’ve killed me.”

“He would’ve killed me,” she responds, not hiding her irritation.

A look of regret sweeps across the boy’s face. “I’m sorry I put you in that—”

“You shouldn’t have. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought—”

“It’s bad enough the other girls want to kill me, now the guards will as well.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

They stand there, facing each other, saying nothing. Separating them is a slice of sunlight, dancing with dust.

“Can I just ask one question and then I’ll get out of your hair?”

She nods curtly.

“What is this place? What’s going on here?”

“Camp Freedom,” she says.

“Why are you here? Why’re there guards and barbed wire? Are you all criminals or orphans or what?”

She doesn’t know how to answer that—not in any brief kind of way.

“Look, I don’t have much time,” he says, “and I know I shouldn’t have bothered you …”

“I’ll say.”

“… and I’m sorry if I’ve gotten you in trouble, but I’m a Less Than from Camp Liberty and—”

“A Less Than?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s what they call us. We’re looking for an escapee and we thought he might’ve come here.”

She gives her head a shake. “Here? Why on earth would someone come here?”

“What I’m really asking is: If someone wanted to get to the next territory, what’s the fastest way?”

For the longest time Hope doesn’t speak. Ever since she and Faith came into camp, they’ve been ignored by everyone. Now, finally, someone is talking to her. Needing something from her. And that someone is this boy, whose honest expression and probing eyes set her heart racing.

“Can you help me or not?” he asks.

That’s when she realizes what she recognizes in him. It’s not like she’s met him before—it’s not like that—but there’s something in his eyes. Kindness. Maybe even warmth. She doesn’t mean to stare, but she can’t look away.

“The Brown Forest,” she blurts out.

“What about it?”

“That’s where you want to go.”

“Where is it? How do we get there?”

Hope leans the pitchfork against the hay bales and wipes a section of floor with her hand. “This is where we are,” she says, hastily sketching a map.

He crouches next to her. She can feel the heat from his body. Smell traces of sweat and musk and woodsmoke. Masculine smells.

“You need to get east of the mountains,” she says, her fingertips tracing the outline of Skeleton Ridge. “Until you hit the Flats.”

“The Flats?”

“A white desert. Cross it and you’ll reach the Brown Forest. Somewhere on the other side of that is the next territory.”

“Have you been to the Brown Forest?”

“Once. A long time ago. My father took us.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safer than here,” she says.

They happen to lock eyes at the same moment, and Hope feels the blood rushing up her neck.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods. Her breathing is unnaturally shallow.

“I’m Book,” he says, extending a hand.

She hesitates. A long moment passes before she reaches forward. “Hope.”

They shake. His grip is surprisingly strong, and it’s like a jolt of electricity shoots up her arm. She pulls her hand back.

From outside comes the sound of footsteps. Book shoots a glance toward the barn door.

“If we ever escape,” he says, “I promise we’ll come for you.”

“Don’t. Not if you want to live.”

A moment later, the Less Than named Book scrambles down the ladder and out the barn. Long after he’s gone, Hope can still feel the touch of his hand, the heat of his skin. For reasons she doesn’t understand, it’s the first time she’s felt alive since she and Faith were captured.