Wilder Girls(19)

Welch fires her gun into the air, the sound exploding into my head, and the bobcat springs back with another growl, circles us with its tail lashing.

“On my signal,” Welch says, “make for the house. I’ll catch up if I can.”

Turning, turning, the gun shaking in Welch’s hand, and I can’t tell anymore which way we came from, which way I should go. But it doesn’t matter. The beat of my pulse telling me run, run, run.

“Ready?” Welch says. The bobcat is still growling, snapping its jaws as she aims the pistol between its eyes.

No, I think. But it’s too late. A squeeze on the trigger, and a scream from the cat as a bullet rips along its side. Welch shoves me away. “Go!” she’s yelling. “Now!”

She’s muffled by the ringing in my ears, but my body hears it. I hoist my bag over my shoulder and break for it. Feet thundering against the earth, and I’m gasping into the cold air, throwing myself forward, pushing as hard as I can. Another gunshot behind me. I don’t look back.

The pines rush past as I weave through them. Fear like a veil, and everything looks like something else, like danger, like hurt. A path opens in front of me. I follow it, the hair on my arms prickling. I’m too exposed out here, too vulnerable, but I think this is one of Mr. Harker’s trails, on the south side of the island. At least I’m heading the right way.

   My lungs burning, a cramp starting to set in my leg, my bag thumping painfully against my hip. Ahead I can see a stand of spruce trees, their branches ducking low to the ground. If I get inside, I’ll be hidden from anything following me, and I can wait for Welch.

I shoulder through the thicket of branches and find myself in a small, sheltered space, the air green and spiced, the whole world shredded by a crosshatch of needles. Beyond, the woods look still, nothing moving. No flash of red on Welch’s clothing. I search through my bag for my hat and balance it on one of the branches, so that Welch will see it if she passes by.

If she doesn’t come in a few minutes, I tell myself, I’ll keep moving. But the thought of going out there again turns my stomach. I never spent time out here alone before the Tox. I always had a class of girls with me, all of us on a nature walk for biology, or I had Reese and Byatt as we tramped through the forest to Reese’s house for dinner. And it wasn’t like this, then. The trees didn’t grow so close. There was more air to breathe.

I crouch down at the base of one of the spruces and push some of the dead needles into a pile to sit on, to keep me farther from the frosted ground. But there’s something here, hidden under the brush, something hard and hollow.

I scrape off the dead leaves, ignore the scattering beetles that cascade like glossy black beads. Something tangy and rotten tickles my nose the more dead foliage I move, until what’s hidden underneath is clear—a cooler, vivid blue plastic and folded handle, like someone’s left it behind after a picnic.

   I glance over my shoulder before prying the cooler open with my dirty fingernails. Probably just an old tackle box of Mr. Harker’s, but worth checking.

I’m expecting moldy bait, a bundle of hooks and some fishing line, but it’s not that at all. The outside of the cooler is covered in grime, but inside is clean, as though it’s been wiped down. And sitting there at the bottom, in a clear plastic bag sealed with bright red tape, is a vial of blood, labeled “Potential RAX009” in handwriting I almost know.

“Hetty?” Welch’s voice drifts through the trees, urgent and clipped.

I slam the cooler shut and pile the leaves back onto it. Whatever this is, I don’t think I was ever supposed to see it.

“Are you there?” Welch calls again, and I get to my feet, hoist my bag back up over my shoulder.

“Here,” I say, pulling my hat from the branches and climbing from the spruce stand.

She comes hustling through the trees, all noise and frantic steps. Blood on her cheek, a rip in her jacket, her hair coming out of its braid. In a second she’s in front of me, and she grabs my shoulders, gives me a shake.

   “What the hell, Hetty?” she says, and she’s not Miss Welch, scolding me for missing curfew. She’s just another girl left threadbare by the Tox, left worried and worn. “You were supposed to keep going.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just…I was worried about you.” I was scared to be on my own, that’s the truth, but I’m not about to tell it. “What about the bobcat?”

“It’s dead,” she says. “But, Hetty, I gave you an order. Next time you have to follow it, okay?”

I nod quickly. “I will.”

She checks over my shoulder, eyes lingering on the spruce trees, and I shift a little. I want to ask if she knows about the cooler, if she knows what RAX009 means, but I remember the way she looked at me on the dock. The way we know things we’re not supposed to talk about. Is this another test? Is keeping this secret part of my job, too?

Welch frowns. “You okay?”

Better safe than sorry.

“Yeah,” I say, and paste on a smile. “Let’s get home.”



* * *



—

We cut back to the road, move quick toward the house. Here the beginning of a path, there an open patch of grass, rubble scattered like gravestones. I blink hard, feeling the blindness in my right eye.