Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Wren

Papa sitsacross from me at the table, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. To my right, Six finishes off his breakfast, lifting the cup of coffee to his mouth, but pauses when I brush my leg against his. Mid-sip, he grunts and sets the cup back atop the table, while I purse my lips to stifle the smile begging to escape.

Since his running away three weeks ago, Papa has allowed Six to eat inside with us. I’ve not yet convinced him to permit Six to sleep here, but then, he doesn’t know that Six sneaks into my window every night, so I don’t push it.

The sessions of singing him to sleep have turned into kissing and touching, but nothing more than that, as I’ve not wanted to provoke him to run again.

The tension between us has been so palpable, like some kind of magnetic pull that draws me to Six whenever he enters the room. I don’t know what it is, but I feel something winding in my stomach every time I see him, a craving that tugs deep inside my belly. With his hair growing in, and his body filling the places where hunger was once evident, he’s become irresistible.

As it is now, we sneak around Papa, stealing away during chores to kiss, and of course, every night, we lie beside each other, exploring the other. I’ve come to know the canvas of his body, his worst scars, and the places he’s secretly ticklish. Six initiates it every time, and he stops when it gets to be too much for him and his aggression begins to surface.

I never push him, and he hasn’t lost control since the day in the meadow.

Papa glances up, brow cocked, and I slide my feet back to their place. “I’ve a surprise for both of you,” he says, and I straighten in my seat, genuinely surprised by this. “Mrs. Johnston is a diabetic, as you know. We’re low on prickly pears, so I’ll be taking both of you with me to gather some for her.”

The community is divided amongst the few physicians we have, and though Papa isn’t a doctor in the traditional sense, he has a good handle on the use of certain medicinal plants and their effects on diseases. Many of the physicians who treated with antibiotics prior to the outbreak don’t generally have a clue how to approach their patients nowadays, so Papa’s knowledge is incredibly valuable.

My breath hitches, and I exchange a glance with Six. “Beyond the wall? But Arty … he knows us. Won’t he ask about Six?”

“We’ll be taking the truck. I’m going a bit farther out than usual. Six can hide in the back.”

A smile tugs at my jaw, the excitement hardly containable as I scarf down another bite. “When do we leave?” My question is garbled around a mouthful of food.

“I’ll pack some supplies in the truck. I want you to gather your sling and knife. Wear your leathers, and be sure to cover your head to avoid sunburn. There is no shade out there.”

Finished with breakfast, I damn near leap from the table, quickly washing dishes that Six dries and sets away. Since Papa is out of the house, I allow Six to pull me into his body for a kiss that lacks his usual fervor, and the way he holds back tells me this surprise bothers him. I pull away, and my thoughts are confirmed by the upturn of his brows, a look of worry darkening his eyes.

“You don’t want me to go, do you?”

He shakes his head, clutching me tighter.

“I’m going to be fine. I’m with the two most fearless men I know. And believe it, or not, I’m a pretty damn good shot with the sling.”

His sneer accompanies the roll of his eyes, and I playfully punch him in the chest. A chest that has doubled in size in the time he’s been here. He’s grown to the size of an ox, and twice as strong.

“Trust me.” Cupping his face, I draw him to my lips, while my other hand slides across the front of his jeans, and Six stumbles back. Tipping my head, I smile. “You see? I know how to disarm the enemy when I need to.” Tossing the rag onto the countertop, I race up the stairs with Six on my heels, giggling as he chases after me. We reach my bedroom, and he bends into me for the fourth kiss this morning. When he does that growling noise I love so much, I can’t help but smile against his lips.

“Will you ever tire of kissing me?”

His jaw shifts, and eyes glued to my lips, he shakes his head.

Rising up to my tiptoes, I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his one more time. “Me, neither. Now get out of my room, so I can change.”

He shakes his head again, wearing his wily Six smile that’s not really a full-blown smile, and exits my room.

* * *

“Careful out there, Doc.”Arty peers through the window at the driver’s side of the truck, stroking his jaw. “Getting some rebel activity about twenty miles out. Legions on it, but there could be stragglers out there. And I hear the Ragers been mutating. Much more aggressive these days.” He nods toward me, where I sit in the passenger seat. “Be sure to keep Miss Wren in sight. Still ain’t found that kid, either, and those S block bastards give me the willies.”

Papa doesn’t bother to look at the guard, instead keeping his gaze focused through the windshield. “Just gathering some plants.” For a physician, he doesn’t have the best bedside manner, barely walking the line of socializing when he comes in contact with others.

Arty taps the top of the truck and whistles to the other guards. Two seconds later, the wall moves slowly right, where guards line either side of the pathway through to the vastness of the desert. I sit up in my seat, taking in the miles at either side of us, dotted with the occasional tent, or broken down car, and a thud against the driver’s side door jolts my attention back to Papa.

A figure passes by his window, disappearing around the rear as we move forward. A woman.

“Who are they?”

“The rejected,” Papa answers. “The ones not permitted beyond the wall.”

“Why?”

“I don’t decide why, Wren.”

As we drive farther out, the tents become more abundant, a colony of them, made up of what looks to be families with small children.

I stare through the passenger window at a little boy, who spits at us as we pass. “They seem … hostile.”

“It’s not so much leaving Szolen as coming back that’s the problem. But they’re not the ones you have to worry about.” He looks out the driver’s side, as we pass a child whose clothes are ragged, hardly hanging off his bony body. “These people just want in so they can be safe. So they don’t starve to death out here.”

“Who are the ones to worry about?”

“The others who want in to take what we have.”

“I don’t understand why we keep these people out. We have plenty of houses in Phase Two and Three. And soon Phase Four will be finished.”

“Civilization has always been divided into those who have everything and those who have nothing. Even when the world goes to shit.”

The tents thin out the farther we drive, and within a couple of miles, there’s nothing at either side of us besides the mountains and cactus plants.

“So, what made you decide to bring us today?” I ask, glancing back to see Six sitting up in the back of the truck, staring out toward the desert while the wind whips at his gray T-shirt.

“I want to show you something. But the place we’re going, with the pears, I could use another set of eyes watching my back.”

I swing my attention back to Papa. “From what?”

“Ragers. The closer we get to the main cities, the more likely we are to see them.”

“City?”

“Las Vegas—or what used to be Las Vegas—is nearby.”

Papa turns off the dirt road, bringing the truck to a stop. Ahead of us stands the only tree I’ve seen for miles, set just short of a plateau of rock, surrounded by shrubs. Twisted in on itself, it lies bent over, with long, thick buttress roots that coil around each other, making for one gnarly-looking tree.

It carries a strange enchantment about it, though, that doesn’t belong with its surroundings. Like something out of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales I once borrowed from the library.

I slide out of the truck, keeping my eyes on the tree as I approach it. The spiraled roots on the outside weave around the hollow base of it, forming what looks like a cage inside the trunk of it. It’s the most unusual tree I’ve ever seen, enormous and sturdy, yet so broken at the same time.

There’s a carving in the wood, and rough bark passes beneath my fingertips as I trace the words there. Sam was here.

Something about the tree is somehow familiar, and as soon as I think that, a flash of memory strikes my head.

Hands reaching in through the bark. Growls. Blood. Pain. So much pain.

“There’s a story about this tree.” Papa’s voice breaks the images passing through my mind, and I turn to find him standing beside me. “They say children wandering the desert would take shelter from the sun inside the trunk of it, and hide here at night from the Ragers. It’s twisted and bent over from carrying the horrible stories of things that happened to those children.”

“What kinds of things?” It’s strange to think this battered and knotted tree, with its branches propping it up from the ground, could offer such safety, and yet, as I run my hands over the thick trunk of it, I believe him.

“That’s just it. No one will ever know.” He crouches down to the base of it and points inside. “Have a look.”

Past the ruined bark, I peer inside, where packs have been set out along with weapons and bottles of water, buried deep into the recesses.

“The packs hold cans of food. Some medicine. Enough to get by for a few days. Each time I come out here, I check on it to make sure no one’s stolen the supplies.”

“Supplies for what?”

A presence at my right has me swinging my attention to Six, whose eyes scan over the desert as if he’s watching.

Always watching.

“In the event something happens. If Szolen is overrun, or our safety is somehow compromised, I want you to come here.”

“There are only two packs in there, Papa.”

“I’ve not had the chance to stow away a third, yet. Promise me you’ll come here, if ever you’re in trouble.”

“Of course, but why would our safety be compromised?”

“Because safety is merely an illusion, Wren.” He straightens to a stand and heads back to the car, while my mind searches for the images from just minutes ago. Ones I’m certain held some meaning, some small bit of memory, but they’re gone. As fast as they arrived, they’ve disappeared to the blankness.

Six’s hand slides into mine, breaking my thoughts, and I squeeze his fingers to let him know I’m fine. “Just looks familiar to me for some reason,” I tell him.

We both head back to the truck and continue on.

* * *

Kneelingin the dirt beside Papa, I set the tongs onto a prickly pear and snap it from the thorn-riddled pad, tossing the fruit into the bucket. To the left of us, Six keeps watch at the perimeter, kicking a rock in boredom. We’ve filled one of the buckets and the other is half full already.

Papa cuts a few of the pads off, setting them atop the fruit. “I’ve been meaning to plant some of these. Insulin is running dangerously low.”

I give another glance back toward Six. “What’s S Block?”

“Nothing that should concern you.”

“Six is from S Block, though. Isn’t he? That’s what Arty was talking about.”

“You ask far too many questions, girl.”

I chuckle at that, tossing another fruit into the bucket. “And you never answer my questions. What can it hurt? I’ve not returned to the woods since I found Six. I’m just trying to understand him. For my safety?”

“As if you’ve ever been concerned for your own safety.” He snaps another pear and tosses it, then straightens, gripping his lower back with a groan. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” Tugging a cigar from his shirt pocket, he lights it up, watching me gather the last of the fruit. “S-Block is an experimental ward in Calico.”

“The hospital?”

“Yes. The hospital.” The cigar sticks out from his crossed arms. “Young men like Six are taken there if they … express certain genetics.”

“What kind of genetics?” I glance over at where Six stands with his feet set apart, his back to us, a stream of fluid between his legs as he takes a piss.

“Second generation can be carriers of the Dredge protein. It’s passed down through the mother. If she was exposed, as many mothers were during the beginning of the outbreak, the protein gets passed down to the child.”

“You’re saying … Six is a Rager?”

“No. He’s merely a carrier. But some carriers, known as Alphas, have certain traits, and the physicians in S Block seek to exploit those traits.”

“I know you’re going to kill me for asking, but what kind of traits?”

Instead of answering, Papa lifts his chin, as though listening for something.

I hear it, too. A low hum, that seems to be getting louder.

The click click click sets my nerves on edge, and I climb a nearby boulder to get a look beyond the plateau that overlooks a shallow dip in the landscape. About a hundred yards off, dozens of Ragers approach.

“Papa! They’re Ragers!” The sight of so many walking freely crystalizes my spine, paralyzing me where I stand. “Six!” I call out to him, where he still paces the perimeter, and when he spins around, the first Rager barrels toward him.

“Oh, God! Six!”

Half of me wants to run to him, protect him. The other half of me can’t move. My breaths hasten, and a cold sweat takes over me, the dizzying fear turning everything into a muted silence.

Papa tugs at my arm, and I break into motion again, gathering the buckets of pears. “Six, c’mon!”

A dozen more on the heels of the first rush toward us, but stop short mere feet from Six. Instead they pace, growling and reaching out, their eyes set on Papa and me.

Though, as if an invisible barrier stands between them and us, they don’t come any closer.

We toss the buckets of fruit into the back of the truck, and Six walks the perimeter, pushing the occasional Rager backward. They growl and bare their teeth, but don’t attack him. Some swipe out at him, but they keep their distance.

Once the fruit is loaded, I scramble to the cab of the truck and, pausing at my door, watch in awe. “Why do the stay away?”

Gaze glued to the windshield, Papa nods toward Six. “Him. We have to go. Now.”

With one hand on the passenger door, I whistle for Six, but a force strikes me from behind. The ground smashes into my face, and I claw at the dirt to get away. A sharp yank drags me back.

“Wren!” Papa’s shout hardly carries over the terrified scream that gurgles in my chest, as I reach out for anything to hold on to. Gripping the tire, I resist the pull of my legs and kick out, finally catching sight of the mutilated face scrambling toward me.

I can’t reach the blade at my hip while buried under the body of the Rager.

It bears its teeth, chattering them, as they do before they kill. It lowers its head as if to bite me, and in the next second, the creature is thrown into the air on a hearty growl. Arms slide beneath me, lifting me from the ground, and I wrap my trembling arms around Six’s neck as he carries me, setting me back inside the truck.

Ragers have surrounded us, getting closer. A thump against the window behind me stiffens my already rattled muscles, and Six throws the mangled figure out of the bed of the truck.

“Six! Get in!” Papa’s stern voice carries the slight wobble of fear.

Squeezing in beside me, Six slams the door on a charging Rager, at the same time Papa floors the gas, and we plow through the bodies, turning back onto the main road.

Strong arms pull at me, and I nuzzle into Six’s chest, mentally willing myself to calm down.

“Are you all right? Did they bite you?” Papa asks beside me.

“No. No bites.” The horror of the final moments replays inside my head, though. If Six hadn’t been there, the Rager would’ve bitten me. I would’ve become one of them.

“They’ve begun to roam farther out from the cities.”

I lift my face from Six, examining his arms, his clothing, looking for any bite marks. There’s nothing. “How did they not bite you?” The incredulous tone in my voice doesn’t reflect the lingering fear still pulsing through my body. I clutch his arm, taking deep breaths, willing my head to settle.

At the first sight of tents, Papa pulls off and directs Six into the bed of the truck, beneath the tarp, so as not to be seen by the guards. Once he’s out of earshot, I swing my attention back to Papa.

“Why didn’t they attack him? It’s almost as if they feared him.”

“Probably smelled it when he took a piss.”

“Smelled what?”

“Pheromones.”

I frown, trying to imagine how something I’ve only come to know as an animal trait might apply to Six. “How?”

“The mind of a Rager is something like an early reptile.” Papa doesn’t look over at me, just focuses on the drive. “Some hypothesize that they are reduced to the reptilian brain. A very primitive mind. They’re driven by three basic needs—eat, mate, and survive. And they survive by instinctively avoiding what they perceive as a much bigger threat.”

“They’re afraid of Six, then.”

“We should all be a little afraid of Six. He’s driven by the same needs, Wren. The second generation has a more symbiotic relationship with the protein, and he can function on a higher level. But he has urges. Some he can’t control, as much as he may want to.”

Staring out the window at the families scattered across the land in tents, I absorb his words, but they’re not entirely true. Six can control himself. During both of the attacks on me, he stopped himself from hurting me. “Will he die of the illness?”

“Naturally? I don’t know. Their life expectancy is much longer than the first generation Rager. But they’re not designed to live a long and happy life. They’re designed to sacrifice themselves for the good of the whole.”

“Six was trained to die?”

“He was trained to kill. Death is more of an occupational hazard.”

“This hospital. How do they get away with this?”

Papa keeps his gaze forward, but I catch the tight curl of his knuckles around the steering wheel. “By making us believe that Ragers are the biggest threat.”