My gaze moves on, and this is confirmed. Two tan SUVs with Agency insignias and one pickup truck sit parked near the campsite. They’re systematic, calculating as they look over the dead bodies. One man walks to each one and snaps a photo of their faces. Done with that, the rest of them then lift and deposit the corpses in the back of the truck, tossing them like sacks of corn. I flinch at the thud of each body. Soon they’re all gone, collected like garbage to be discarded.
That could have been me.
If I hadn’t walked away when I did. Sweat beads my face, and I shake. I squeeze my eyes in a tight, pained blink. Lucky doesn’t begin to describe it. Maybe it’s fate. Or maybe there is a God . . . some entity greater than everything and everyone, looking out for me. The instant I think this, I feel sick. Selfish and stupid. Why would I think myself any more important than all those people in the back of that truck? No. Not people anymore. Bodies. Corpses.
The men survey the campsite again, tossing a few bags and other miscellaneous items into the back of the truck, leaving nothing behind.
Doors slam shut as they clamber inside the vehicles. Engines rev and dust billows in the air as they drive off, their taillights fading away in the morning light. Except for the still ripe scent of blood in the air and stained earth, it’s like nothing ever happened here. I wait several moments, half-afraid they’ll come back. Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe they left someone here and he’s crouched out in the brush, waiting for me to surface. Maybe that guy who stared in my direction knows I’m hiding out here somewhere.
Or maybe I’m all alone. Stranded.
I drop my forehead against the ground. The grit grinds into my skin, but I don’t care. My shoulders shake with silent sobs. I’m alive. But for how much longer?
* * *
The bombing of Agency headquarters in Los Angeles only further confirms the necessity of our role in a country ever closer to chaos. This is not a time to weaken our resolve. Greater measures need to be taken to fight carriers. We need to find the head of the snake and cut it off. . . .
—Dr. Wainwright
in a private hearing before Congress
EIGHTEEN
I’M NOT SURE HOW LONG I STAY PUT. AT LEAST LONG enough to convince myself that they are well and truly gone. Long enough to stop shaking so very badly. Long enough to decide that I have to try and get to Caden. Tell him what happened. Warn him.
By the time I lift my face and sit up, it’s well into morning. The sun is high in the sky. My scalp feels burning hot beneath my hair, and I wish I had brought a hat with me.
I think of Caden and how when he found me out here we only traveled at night, seeking shelter during the day. There’s a reason for that beyond avoiding patrols. I understand that now. The heat is misery, and it’s only going to get worse as the day advances.
Rising to my feet, I look around, rubbing my sweating palms on my thighs.
The cicadas’ song congests the air, loud as an angry army. I survey the empty camp. Caden will come looking for Tabatha when she fails to return, but I can’t stay here. What if the men with guns return? They could, suspecting just the thing that I do—that a search party will venture out.
Glancing up at the sun, I try to determine which way is west. Whoever knew that I’d be navigating a desert on my own?
I’m pretty sure it’s not noon yet, so with the river at my back, I face west, surmising from my cursory glance at the map that the compound is that way. I set off in that direction. I know it would be best to travel at night and rest during the day, but I don’t see any semblance of shelter nearby, and I’m not going to just sit down where I stand and let the sun roast me. Hopefully I’ll run into someone from the resistance. And soon. Before I pass out from sunstroke.
And hopefully it will be before I meet more people okay with killing little redheaded girls.
The heat ripples on the air. I almost laugh when I think that I grew up in Texas and once thought I was immune to heat like this. It’s easy to consider yourself tough when you can dive into air-conditioning at a moment’s notice. My feet move, one after another, a slow and steady rhythm that I’m convinced will get me somewhere. Eventually. As long as I don’t stop. If I stop, if I slow for even a moment, I’ll drop and never get back up.
My head aches, the sun beating down on me. I applied sunscreen this morning, and for that I’m thankful. However, I didn’t apply it to the back of my neck. When it starts to sting, I lift my collar to try to offer some protection to the exposed skin there.
The day slips away. I work my mouth, parched and desperate for a drink as I stumble along. I study the horizon as I move, holding a hand over my eyes as I gaze into the rippling waves of heat, looking for signs of life. Nothing.
I push ahead through the night, finding a little more energy as the temperature dips to a bearable degree. There’s enough moonlight to keep going. At this point, I’m not sure which way is west, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I know where the compound is anyway. Funny, considering that was Marcus’s first gripe with me. That I wasn’t blindfolded when Caden took me to the compound. That I might lead the wrong people back there.
I laugh brokenly, the sound brittle to my ears, filling the empty space all around me and echoing out into the night. I can’t even lead myself there. Forget about anyone else.
I step into a hole and lose my balance, fall face-first on the hard ground, my reflexes too slow to catch myself. I roll to my side, my chest shuddering. My nose smarts and I reach up to gingerly touch it, pulling my hand back. A hissing breath escapes me at the dark splash of blood on my fingertips, visible even in the night.