Everland(4)

“Let me in,” he pleads, the glass muffling his words as he pounds on the windowpane with his fists.

Immobilized by fear, I shake my head as my pulse quickens. My quaking hand reaches for my dagger. I unsheathe the blade and point it at him. He slaps both of his palms on the window, making the glass vibrate. Startled, I inch back farther from the window. He stares with such intensity my breath catches. The gruff voices in the street grow louder, drawing his attention. His clenched, stubbled jaw twitches and he turns his jade gaze back to me one last time. His face expresses something akin to frustration or disappointment—which, I am not sure. It ignites the sickening feeling of guilt I’ve become so accustomed to. He is not the first I have turned away, sacrificed for the good of my own family. Nor will he be the last, of this I am sure.

The boy pushes off the glass and darts across the residential street. Effortlessly, he leaps over the wooden fence, lands on the top of a rubbish bin, springs onto a second-story balcony, and with the expertise of a gymnast, pulls himself onto the rooftop. Standing on the peak of the two-story Victorian home, he looks back at me with a curious expression. Other than his forest-green coat, its tails fluttering in the wind, he is dressed entirely in black.

The glow of the moon shines on his handsome face. Fixing his gaze on me, he bows and slips a pair of goggles dangling from his neck over his eyes. He holds his cupped hands to his mouth. With the call of a rooster, he cries into the broken clouds and star-embezzled night sky before vanishing over the roof peaks of this suburb. Puzzled, I sit back on my heels and stare at the spot where he stood, half expecting him to reappear. The angry shouts grow louder and another group of military men passes the house. I duck below the sill, risking another glance out the window.

Two soldiers, only a few years older than me, stop just outside of the house.

“Which way did they go?” one of the Marauders asks, peering through the window.

I press my body and face to the dusty carpet. Fear chokes me as I listen to the other soldier respond.

“The girl took off up the street and the boy went over the roof,” the other soldier growls menacingly with a thick, deep German accent behind his helmet.

“Check the backyards for Immunes,” the first soldier says.

“Yes, sir.”

The two Marauders race across the street and climb the fence, disappearing behind the house. I sigh, letting go of the breath I did not know I was holding.

Immunes: the vile name they’ve given to children who have not died of the Horologia virus. We are the survivors of the outbreak and valued for our antibodies. The Marauders are our abductors.

Ten restless minutes slip by before I make my way to the alley behind the house. Sprinting, I keep to the rubbish-littered backstreets, haunted by ethereal shadows cast by jagged rooftops. With the Marauders out patrolling, I backtrack through unfamiliar passageways and find alternative routes. For the last few months, they have hunted for survivors, children orphaned and left on their own in the streets. However, I have never seen soldiers search the suburbs this far outside the borders of what once was London proper. Not London anymore, I remind myself; they call it Everland now.

After an hour, I hide behind a row of hedges and watch for movement along the dark street. I have the uneasy feeling that I am being watched, but see no one. Sprinting to the fire-escape ladder, I scramble as fast as I can, the cold metal leaving its bitter bite on my fingers. When I reach the landing of the fifth floor, I climb through the window frame and throw myself to the concrete floor. I sink my teeth down on my lip, trying to quiet my rapid breathing as I listen for anyone following behind. The night echoes my silence.

I let out a breath, relieved to be greeted with the quiet of our refuge, our sanctuary … for now, at least. Standing, I brush off the dust from my coat. A candle sputters on the far side of the room next to three empty mattresses. The sweet smell of rum stings my nose, and I know instantly something is wrong.

Joanna and Mikey are nowhere to be found.

My gaze darts throughout the room, searching for my brother and sister. I tiptoe across the floor, being as silent as possible. Something large rustles near the shelves to my right. An icy chill races up my spine. My fingers graze the copper hilts of the daggers sheathed on my hips. A whimper emanates from inside the metal rubbish bin. With caution, I lift the lid.

Two watery brown eyes glisten at me, the moonlight reflecting in their frightened gleam.

“Mikey!” I reach for him, pulling him from the bin. A colander covers his head like a helmet and he wears makeshift armor over his tattered pajamas. He looks like he’s ready for war.

“They came, the pirates!” he says, sniffling.

“Not the Marauders,” I beg, my voice weak.

“Joanna said they were pirates. She told me to hide. I did just what she said. I hid in the bin and was as quiet as a dormouse. Even quieter.”

My pulse races and my cheeks flush with panic as I settle Mikey to the floor and dart across the room, searching other hiding spots for my sister.

“Where’s Joanna?” I ask frantically, lifting one of the mattresses.

“They took her,” Mikey says in a fresh burst of tears. “They took her away.”

I run to the window, but the streets are quiet and there is no sign of the Marauders. Mikey rushes me, jumping back in my arms and burying his face in my neck. I look out into the distance and a deep ache festers in the pit of my stomach as a new realization settles over me.