Wilder Girls(18)

It takes them a while but eventually, they’ve emptied the bags and packed away what they want to keep, food still in its regular packaging, crackers and jerky and even a sleeve of bagels turned hard as rocks, and that’s when Julia pulls out her knife to pry the first of the cartons open. Shavings of paper come flying out in the wind, dusting across the surface of the water like ash.

There are four cartons in all. One is full of medical kits, bags for biohazard material, those masks doctors wear over their mouths, and we chuck about half of it and take the rest. The second is filled to the brim with ammunition, and the third holds a pair of pistols, neatly packed in foam. Welch takes the guns and tucks them away in her bag, passing some of the boxes of bullets to each of us.

And then we open the last box. It’s mostly paper and straw, but buried in the middle is a bar of chocolate, real chocolate, and dark, the good kind. We crowd around Welch as she lifts it out of the carton.

   “Is that…?” I say, but I don’t get to finish because Welch is tearing the foil and you can smell it, and I’d forgotten what it was like, the way the sugar climbs out into the air like a vine growing, and before I know it I have my hand outstretched.

Carson laughs. “Hold on, you’ll get some.”

“Have you had this before?” I ask, and Julia nods. I know I should be angry. But jealousy is all I can manage.

It makes the best sound I’ve ever heard when Welch snaps off the first two squares, a thick sound, a real sound, like it’s actually there.

“They send one every time.”

“Well, not every time,” says Welch. The second two squares are in Julia’s hands now. “But often enough.”

And it’s my turn, and it’s already melting against my skin, and I cram it into my mouth so fast I think I might choke, but who cares, honestly, who really cares because it’s so damn good.

When we’re finished, and it’s after a while because I keep licking at my fingers, trying to get every last bit of chocolate, we pick up the bags and carry them back to the road. The pallet is clear. Welch pushed the cartons into the water, too, and when I asked her why, she said it was because if we left anything there, they’d send us less next time. We leave it bare, even though we’re only taking maybe a third of it.

I know it’s the same road that we took on the way out, but the farther we get from the pier, the more different it looks. Maybe it’s the light, which is more yellow now than it was in the morning, but maybe it isn’t, maybe it’s something else. The seagulls have taken off, and they’re wheeling overhead, cries feverish and sharp. I’m pulling the flaps of my hat more firmly over my ears when Welch stops, so suddenly that Carson stumbles into her.

   “Sorry,” she says, but Welch isn’t listening.

“What is it?” says Julia.

Welch turns around to look at us, something pinching at the corners of her mouth. “Something’s coming.” The gulls are gone, leaving a brittle silence in the air. “Split up,” she says. “Pairs. Stay off the road and meet back at the gate. Hetty, you’re with me.”

Julia and Carson exchange a look and then disappear into the brush, until I can’t see the red on their clothes anymore.

Welch leads me into the forest, our pace quick, bark catching on our clothes as we wind our way between the pines. Over my shoulder, the gloom thickening, and every sound an animal prowling through the trees. Deeper and deeper we go, the bag I’m carrying starting to slip in my clammy palms.

“Welch,” I say, but she doesn’t answer, just reaches back to grab my jacket and haul me along.

At our left, a crack in the brush. Welch jerks to a halt. Stock-still, her arm thrown across my chest. Around us the pines hemming in, scattered in broken ranks, slicing the horizon into slivers. I can’t see anything moving. Maybe we misheard, I think, maybe we’re home free. But it comes again, and I catch a flicker. Movement. Eyes glassy and yellow before they disappear.

   “What was that?” I whisper. My heart stuttering in my chest, and I can feel my lungs tighten as panic clutches them closed.

“Not sure.” She fumbles at her waistband for the pistol she’s carrying, holds it at her side, finger off the trigger. “I didn’t see—”

Something cuts her off, a soft rumble from behind us. A growl, and the snap of a branch. I turn.

It’s a bobcat, gray fur, body long and crouched low. Pointed ears lying flat, teeth glinting as it snarls. Maybe ten yards out and coming closer in careful, stalking steps, the frost crunching underneath it.

Before the Tox they were small and skittish. You could scare them off with a gunshot. This one, though. I can see its muscles rippling under its fur, its massive shoulders nearly up to my waist.

“Get behind me,” Welch whispers. “Slowly.”

I can barely breathe, my eye locked on the bobcat, but I slip in behind Welch, feeling the ground with my boots before I take each step. The cat lets out another growl, drops its chest to the ground. It’s closer now, and I can see dark spots on its back, dried blood crusting where its skin has fallen away in patches. Sores bubbling along the inside of its front legs, bile staining the white fur on its neck.

   A step forward, and another, its tail flicking from side to side. Welch pushes me back, and my foot snags on a root. I stumble with a curse. The cat hisses and darts forward. Lets out a grating scream.