But lately there were different images. These came to her not at the FAYZ wall, not even when she was asleep. They weren’t dreams, exactly. Visions. Revelations. They snuck in behind other thoughts. Like burglars creeping inside her brain.
She felt she no longer had any control over what happened inside her head. Like she’d left a door unlocked and now there was no holding back a flood of dreams, visions, vague terrible imaginings.
These new visions showed her not just those who had escaped the FAYZ by reaching the magic age. These new images were of children who had died. And yet, who now held their mothers tight on the outside.
She had seen images of those who had perished last night in the fire. Agony followed by death followed by escape into the loving arms of their parents.
Even Hank. Hank’s father, not there waiting at the Dome, but notified by the California Highway Patrol. They’d called him on the phone. Reached him at a bowling alley in Irvine where he was drinking draft beer and flirting with the bartender. He’d had to press one hand over his ear to hear over the sound of rolling balls and crashing pins.
“What?”
“Your son, Hank. He’s out!” the CHP had said.
Orsay saw the images, knew what they meant, and felt sick inside from knowing.
“What are your dreams telling you, Prophetess?” Nerezza pressed.
But Orsay couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t tell her that death itself, not just the poof, not just the big fifteen, was a way out.
Oh, God. If she told people that…
“Tell me,” Nerezza urged. “I know your powers are growing. I know you are seeing more than ever before.”
Nerezza’s face was close to Orsay’s. Her arm squeezed Orsay’s arm. Nerezza pressed Orsay with all the force of her will. Orsay could feel it—that will, that need, that hunger—pushing her.
“Nothing,” Orsay whispered.
Nerezza drew back. For a moment a snarl flashed on her face. Like an animal.
Nerezza glared at her. Then, with a will, she softened her expression. “You’re the Prophetess, Orsay,” she said.
“I don’t feel well,” Orsay said. “I want to go home.”
“The dreams,” Nerezza said. “They don’t let you sleep very well, do they? Yes, you should get back to your bed.”
“I don’t want to dream anymore,” Orsay said.
TWENTY-NINE
11 HOURS, 24 MINUTES
HUNTER HAD SIX birds in his bag. Three of them were crows, which didn’t have much meat on them. One was an owl. Owls tasted pretty bad, but they had more meat. But two were the kind of birds that had colorful feathers and were juicy. Hunter didn’t know what they were called, but he always looked for them because they were tasty and Albert would be very happy to get some of those.
He was high on the far side of the ridge, north of town, hauling the sack of dead birds up. Hard work. He carried them slung over one shoulder in a pouch that mothers used to use to carry babies.
Hunter had a backpack with his sleeping bag and his pan and his cup and extra socks and an extra knife. Knives broke sometimes, although the knife he had in his belt had lasted a long time so far.
Hunter was on the trail of two deer. He had tracked them through the night. If he caught them he would kill them. Then he would use his knife and clean them like he had learned to do, spilling their insides out. He wouldn’t be able to carry both deer down at the same time. He would have to gut one of them and then hang it from a tree, come back for it later.
Hunter sniffed. He had learned that he could actually smell the animals he was hunting. Deer had a smell, so did raccoons and opossums. He sniffed, but now what reached his nose was the smell of fire.
Hunter’s brow creased in concentration. Had he recently made camp near this spot? Or was someone else up here lighting campfires?
He was in a deep cleft, dark trees all around and overhead. He hesitated. The fire smell wasn’t right for a campfire. It wasn’t just burning wood and brush.
He was standing there, unprepared, when a big deer with a full rack of antlers appeared out of nowhere. It didn’t see him. It was running, not in panic but at a steady pace, bounding nimbly along over fallen logs and skirting the thicker thorn bushes.
He aimed both hands at the deer. There was no flash of light. Nothing at all that you could see or hear.
The deer took two more steps and fell forward.
Hunter raced to it. The deer was hurt but not dead.
“Don’t worry,” Hunter whispered. “It won’t hurt.”
He held his palm toward the deer’s head. The deer’s eyes turned milky. And it stopped breathing.
Hunter slid off his pack and his bird bag and drew his knife.
He was excited. This was the biggest deer he’d ever bagged. No way he could carry it. He would have to cut it into pieces. It was going to be a lot of work.
He took a long drink from his canteen and sat down, contemplating the job ahead of him.
Hunter hadn’t slept in quite a while, chasing the two other deer. He was sleepy now. And there was no longer any need to keep going. Between the birds and this buck he had two days of butchering and hauling ahead of him just to get it all to town.
There were some shallow caves not far from this spot, but some of them had flying snakes in them. Better not to go near those things. Better to stay out here in the open.
He lay his head on a soft rotted log and fell instantly to sleep.
How long he slept he couldn’t know, he had no watch, but the sun was overhead when he woke to the sound of clumsy movement. Someone trying to be sneaky and not doing a very good job of it.