My tunnel ended abruptly and I was in another scraped-out chamber. I flashed my light around to see bones littering the dirt floor. Even more disturbing — the dead coyote at my feet. And was that a felox next to it? I directed my beam on the shuddering red fur and remembered my father telling me about the half fox, half cat creatures. My heart broke for it, trapped here, waiting to be eaten alive. But there was nothing I could do if there was no cure for the venom.
A movement in the corner caught my eye and I directed the flashlight toward it. This creature was on its feet, its yellow-furred back to me. It stood as tall as a small child. Maybe, like a human, it was too big to be fully paralyzed by a chimpacabra’s bite. But in the split second that I considered it, the creature flicked around, a rabbit carcass cradled in its taloned hands. An icy wave of understanding crashed over me. It hadn’t been bitten by a chimpacabra….
It was a chimpacabra! Real. In the flesh. And hissing! When I lifted the light to see its face, I glimpsed a flash of maggot-white eyes, but then the creature threw back its head and howled with rage. My muscles melted, leaving me barely able to stand. Flinging aside the dead rabbit, the creature bolted for the far side of the cave. From there, it peered at me with an apish face as yellow as old parchment. I eased back into the tunnel while keeping my gaze pinned on the creature’s blood-smeared mouth. When it sprang forward, I whipped the flashlight into its eyes again. The creature let loose an ear-piercing screech and ricocheted back. With the flashlight aimed behind me, I ran.
Holding the knife between my teeth, I yanked the rope, but it came too easily; there was too much slack. It would take forever to get to a level of tension that Rafe would feel. I dropped it and took the knife in hand again as I ran. The chimpacabra scrabbled after me, just beyond the reach of the flashlight beam, and with every turn in the tunnel I heard it make up ground.
“Rafe!” I screamed. Dashing through the hub room, I darted down the tunnel he’d taken. Every time I swerved the flashlight too far to one side, the chimpacabra lunged forward only to fall back as I straightened the beam. Rafe’s tunnel was so much twistier. Navigating it without looking was next to impossible, but I didn’t dare take my eyes from the creature, which was one pounce away. I ran past the other end of the rope, lying in the dirt. It took me a moment to register what that meant.
Rafe had untied himself and abandoned me!
Another bend in the tunnel and daylight blasted me as I ran into a dirt wall. A dead end, the bottom of a hole. The only way out was up. Roots lined the shaft, looking tough and thick enough to cling to. The chimpacabra couldn’t come out of the tunnel after me because of the sunlight, but that didn’t stop it from reaching around the bend and making a swipe for me. I pressed into the earthen wall and sucked in my gut as the four-inch-long talons narrowly missed my stomach.
I jammed the knife through a belt loop, shoved the flashlight in my pants pocket, and began to climb. Digging my feet into the soil, I created toeholds. Grabbing root after root, I pulled myself up. But long before I reached the hole at the top, I ran out of roots.
“Help! Please, someone —” The rope around my waist jerked taut, cutting off my cry. I tightened my hold on the roots but the tug from below turned into a steady pull, and I started slipping inch by inch as the chimpacabra dragged me toward the darkness.
My feet slipped from their toeholds, leaving me kicking at empty air. I couldn’t spare a hand to untie the rope; I’d fall before I could get the knot undone. The roots I clung to loosened under the pressure, sending dirt raining down on my head. Then the downward pull turned into violent yanks, and I screamed as my hands slid the length of the roots.
Just as the ends slipped through my fingers, a hand snagged my wrist. I looked up to see Rafe leaning into the hole, holding me in a viselike grip. As I twisted in midair, I grabbed his wrist with my other hand. But as hard as he tried to haul me up, the creature below was trying to drag me down in a game of tug-of-war that was going to tear my arms out of their sockets.
Suddenly Rafe slammed me against the wall of the tunnel. When a gunshot blasted next to my ear, I nearly lost my grip. I looked up to see the shotgun in his free hand. The pressure from below lessened for a heartbeat and he jerked me up another foot, but then the drag was back.
“Use your knife!” he shouted. “Let go with one hand and cut the rope.”
But I couldn’t get my fingers to uncurl from his wrist and couldn’t think where I’d put the knife. My belt loop. Rafe took aim again and shot past me. I forced myself to release my death grip on him and fumbled for the blade, nicking my hand in the process. I wiggled the knife free. Between the twisting and swinging I couldn’t see what I was doing. I felt for the rope and then pushed the tip of the blade under it and sawed. The snap was instant. The rope whipped from around my body and fell into the darkness. Rafe hauled me out and onto the ground where I spasmed in a fit of panting and moaning.
“This … this … did not just happen.” I covered my head with my arms. “It didn’t. It didn’t. It couldn’t.” Almost eaten by a chimpacabra. And all because … I sat up. “You took off the rope!”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding completely unrepentant. “I couldn’t reach the end of the tunnel with it on.”
“You weren’t going to come back for me.”
“I heard the chimpa scream,” he said defensively. “If you’d been bit, there was nothing I could do. And if it hadn’t gotten you yet, your chances were better if I came back with more than a knife.”
I didn’t love his answer, but how could I complain? I was in one piece, not paralyzed, and my throat still worked. I wiped my hands on my pants, leaving long smears of sweaty dirt.
“You okay?”
I shot a look at him, but his concern seemed genuine enough, so I nodded and got to my feet. In the sunlight, I was once again aware that his face was a heart-stopping combo of hard planes and a lush mouth. “Thanks for pulling me out,” I muttered.
“You’re lucky.” He holstered his gun and took a coil of wire from his knapsack. “You didn’t even get a scar to remember this one by.”
“This one?”
“Lesson. You know” — he pointed to a mottled line along his collarbone — “don’t lower your weapon until you’re sure the mongrel is dead.” He turned the back of his fist toward me to reveal another scar. “Don’t put a wet rock in the fire; it’ll explode.”
“Learn a lesson, get a scar?” I asked, brows raised. “You mean like this one I’ll have on my arm?” I pulled up my ripped sleeve, revealing Everson’s bandage. “Thanks, but I’d rather stay dumb.”
“Not dumb. Inexperienced.” He glanced at the bandage without even a murmur of apology. Then he went back to measuring a length from the coil and trimming it with wire cutters. “Want to know why we call the line guards silkies? Because of their skin. They come east with skin as lived-in as a newborn’s, like yours. And then there’s your boyfriend; he’s got to be the silkiest of the whole bunch.” He strode to the nearest light post, carrying his pack.
“He’s not my —” Stop. Who cared what this creep thought? “If you saw what most men in the West are like, you wouldn’t think Everson was so silky.”
“Uh huh,” Rafe said, disbelieving. “I was on Arsenal the day that stiff arrived. New recruits normally get dropped out of ’copters into the river. It’s part of their training. But not him. He flew over the wall in a sleek little two-seater plane.”
“Whatever. So, exactly what am I supposed to have learned from all this? Don’t fall down chimpacabra holes?”
“That’s worth knowing, but no. Try: You don’t belong in the Feral Zone. You’re too tame. So hurry back over the bridge and beg them to open the gate.” As he spoke he looped the cable over the neck of the post, and created a snare at the end.
If exasperation was a ledge, he’d just nudged me off. “I’m not tame.”
He snorted. “Right. You’re petted and pampered and fed on demand. All you’re missing is a jeweled
collar…. Actually, that would look hot.”
As insulting as it was to be compared to a lapdog, Rafe wasn’t completely wrong. I didn’t belong here. And now that I knew chimpacabras were real and had come close to being one’s lunch, I couldn’t imagine taking another step alone. “I know I didn’t get you out of the hole, but would you please walk with me? It’s only a couple of miles.”
He crouched to hide the snare in the tall grass. “If going alone scares you, you shouldn’t have come alone. I’m working.”
“You can’t take off one hour?”
“No.” Rising, he faced me, his expression intent — fierce, even. All the easiness about him had vanished to reveal what he truly was: a ruthless hunter set on a kill. “The feral I’m after, it doesn’t stay in one place for very long. Usually it starts a killing spree by taking victims that no one misses right away, so that by the time people realize there’s a predator in the area, it’s too late, and the feral has moved on.”
“You think it’s about to take off again.”
He nodded. “I’ve been tracking this rogue for two years. It lies low for months between sprees and there’s no knowing where it’ll show up next. So, this is it, my chance. Because I will be the one who kills it.”
“I see.” And I did. As soon as my dad completed the fetch, we’d go back to our side of the wall, and worrying about being eaten would seem as distant and fictional as a bedtime story. But to the people who lived in the Feral Zone, it didn’t get any more real.
“So, you’re going back to Arsenal now, right?” he said.
“No. You do what you have to, and so will I.” I spotted my dad’s bag in the grass beside the fissure.
Rafe frowned, brows knit, but he didn’t ask me what was so important in Moline. He probably felt like he’d wasted enough time on the tame girl from the West. Treading carefully, I made my way over to the messenger bag. The last thing I needed was to fall into another hole.
“Do you at least have a weapon?” Rafe asked.
I scooped up my bag. “A knife.”
He grimaced as if I’d offered him a glue-stick smoothie. “To do any damage with a knife, you have to get in close. Is that what you want?” he asked. “To get within a foot of a feral or some convict that got booted over the wall?”
No, I most certainly did not.
He waved me south. “Go back to Arsenal.”
“I’m going to Moline.”
“Suit yourself.” He started to walk away but then swung back. “Only if you’re going on the road, don’t act like prey and don’t go around being helpful.”
Right. What a terrible flaw — being helpful.
When I turned to head north, he snagged my sleeve. “I’m just saying, be smart. If you see a freak caught in a trap, walk away.”
“What if the freak is stuck in a chimpacabra hole? Should I walk away then?”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding dead serious. He released his hold on my shirt. “As fast as you can, without looking back.”
I slid my dad’s machete out of the messenger bag. “I’ll be fine.” At least I hoped so.
Rafe straightened, eyeing the machete. “That’s not a knife….”
I dropped my bag and stepped back, blade up. Weapons had to be valuable over here. Revealing my father’s machete was probably the same as waving around a wad of cash in a bad neighborhood. Rafe’s gaze shifted to my leather bag. “There’s nothing in it that would interest you,” I said, toughening my tone.
A smile pulled at his lips. “How would you know what interests me?”
I pointed the machete at him. “You said you had work to do. Why don’t you get going?”
He grinned outright. “You’re trying to relocate me. Just so you know, it’s useless. Predators always come back.”
“Is that what you are?” I demanded. “A predator?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m not, silky, and that’s a pack mule.” He pointed to my messenger bag. “Grab it and let’s go.”
“Go where?”
He zipped up his knapsack. “You wanted me to take you to Moline, right? Well, quit burning daylight.” He strolled past me, gear in hand, and headed north — toward Moline.
I shook off my surprise, snatched up my bag, and raced to join him. I wasn’t putting the machete away anytime soon, however. “What changed your mind?”
“I didn’t want to get cut.”
“Right. You were trembling in fear,” I scoffed. “You knew I wouldn’t do anything.”
“Sure about that? The Feral Zone has a way of bringing out the animal in people.”
I should drop the issue. Now I didn’t have to make the trek alone, and as far as escorts went, having a hunter along was about as good as it got. Still … “Seriously, why did you change your mind? Just tell me.”
“ ’Cause Mack wouldn’t want his daughter wandering around the Feral Zone alone.”
I stumbled to a stop. “What?”
“In fact,” he paused, eyeing me, “I know that he doesn’t want you here at all. Ever. So why are you here? Is Mack in trouble?”
“How — how do you know my dad?”
“He’s a popular guy over here.”
“Okay … but how do you know who I am?”
He raised a brow as if the answer was obvious. He gestured to the machete. “That’s Mack’s and so’s the bag. Doesn’t take a genius IQ to guess that you’re his daughter. We don’t get a lot of silkies popping over. Especially one as clean and shiny as you.” He swept his hand, indicating me from head to toe. “It’s like you just broke your seal and slipped out of your plastic wrap.”
“Why does everything you say sound obscene?”
“You look like a doll that’s never been played with. That’s all I’m saying. I can’t help it if you have a dirty mind.”
“I don’t have —”
“I answered the question, Delaney. Now, spill it. What’s going on?”
“Lane,” I corrected. I couldn’t think of a reason not to tell him. It wasn’t like he could march up to the line patrol and turn my dad in for being a fetch — not when he was wanted for stabbing someone. “You know it’s illegal for people in the West to come over here, right? Unless you’re a line guard.”
“Kind of figured that went along with the giant wall.”
“Well, if someone does get caught coming over here or if there’s evidence proving —”
“He’s executed by firing squad. Are you saying they have something on Mack?”
I nodded. “But he can fix it if he does a fetch for an official.”
“Nice to know that people are the same no matter which side of the wall they’re from.” Rafe’s smile was bitter. “Okay, let’s go. If Mack is in Moline, I know where he’ll be.”
He set off down the road, moving at such a quick pace that I had to race-walk to keep up with him. Between breaths, I gave him the details of Director Spurling’s offer. When I mentioned where my dad had to go for the fetch, Rafe made a face. “What?” I asked. “Are there a lot of ferals in Chicago?”
“Yeah, but I hear the humans are worse.”
“Keep your eyes open,” Rafe said as we entered the outskirts of Moline. “There are mongrels all over the place.” He gestured to the empty buildings that lined the shattered street. Several doors bore remnants of yellow quarantine tape. “And I guarantee they’re sniffing us out right now, trying to decide if we’re easy pickings.”
I scanned the trees and other plants that poked through window frames and spilled out of gutters. In some cases, woody vines and ivy cloaked entire houses, obliterating them from view. It was as if the buildings themselves had gone feral. When we came to a whole block of scorched rubble, I asked, “Was Moline firebombed during the epidemic?”
“Nope. Gas leaks did it,” Rafe said cheerfully. “Least that’s what I’ve heard. Houses are always blowing up because of the paint and chemicals stored in them.”
I glanced in the broken window of a store as we passed. Th
e darkness inside seemed to shift and writhe. I veered toward the other side of the street where dead leaves swirled past rusting cars and an overturned school bus.
“Don’t get so close to the cars,” Rafe warned. “Things nest in them.”
I snapped back to the center of the road. “What about the feral people? Where do they live?”
“They’re around and they’ll bite if you get close. Other than that, they’re as dangerous as the animal they’re infected with. For example, a guy infected with tiger — very dangerous.”
“He’s still part human,” I pointed out.
“So?”
“So humans can control their impulses.”
He cocked a brow at me. “What humans have you been hanging around with?”
I knew I should let it go, but for the tiger-man’s sake I didn’t. “His name is Chorda and he didn’t act dangerous. He was very polite and —”
“Polite how?” Rafe demanded, stopping short.
“He thanked me and introduced himself.”
“And you understood him?”
“Perfectly.”
Rafe frowned. “He didn’t say anything to me.”
“Maybe because you were hitting him with a crowbar!”
“So what?” Rafe started walking again. “There’ve been other ferals that could talk.”
Well, that didn’t sound defensive at all. I caught up with him. “Are you saying most ferals can’t talk?”
“How should I know? I don’t go around chatting them up.”
I hooked his elbow and got him to face me. “You’re mad because you know I was right to stop you.”
“Yeah, I’ll toss and turn all night, crying over that grupped-up beast.” He snorted, amused at his own joke, and then pulled free of my hold to jog up the nearest stoop. “We’re here.”
“Where?” It looked like every other five-story building we’d passed.
“We’re making a quick stop.”