The Hunger(96)

When she woke him to get him to eat, George refused her. “I told you already, you shouldn’t waste food on me,” he mumbled, his mouth barely moving.

“You need to hang on just a little longer,” she’d said, the words floating out of her now by rote.

“I’m not afraid to die.” He closed his eyes. “You should take the others to the camp at Truckee Lake.”

He didn’t know everyone else had already gone ahead, along with the five hundred dollars from their savings that she had tucked into her daughters’ hands. She was terrified to give her daughters over—but even more terrified of what would happen if she didn’t. At least this way they would have a chance.

But Tamsen had stopped telling George what was happening weeks ago. He certainly didn’t know that Herron was dead or that the girls had left—and half the time, he still asked for James Reed or for Charles Stanton, apparently having forgotten they had split from the group weeks ago.

“I’m not going to leave you,” was all she said now.

She tried to press him to take some broth, but he refused it.

“Why did you stay? You could have saved yourself.” His voice faltered. “It isn’t because you love me.” He said it calmly, with acceptance. Then he closed his eyes, as if the words had exhausted him. “I haven’t given you much to love, perhaps.”

For so long she had wanted nothing more than to be rid of him. And yet now, given the chance, she couldn’t leave him—it felt physically impossible.

“You’re my husband, George.” It was by no means an explanation, but she knew it would be enough for him. To her surprise, she found she was on the verge of tears. She had thought she was long past crying. “Now drink.”

He died later that night, slipping away in his sleep.

Maybe it was her imagination, but as she sat there, next to his cooling, lifeless body, she thought she could hear the rustle of the pack sniffing closer to her tent. Scenting her loneliness.

She held the rifle to her chest all night.

In the morning, she built up the fire again, noting the strange, scrabble-footed tracks at the periphery of camp. She fished a shovel out of the wagon, determined to bury George deep so the monsters wouldn’t be able to get his body. But the ground was frozen hard. Her arms shook. She nearly fainted with the effort of it and was forced to give up.

So, using the blanket like a sled, she dragged him out to the bonfire pit instead. She stoked the fire higher, watched the column of smoke thickening to a pillar, then rolled the body of her husband into the flames and turned away from the choking smell.

She had to move quickly.

She would carry nothing but the rifle and ammunition, and a small satchel of herbs. Their remaining savings, thousands of dollars, she would hide in a hollow tree in the woods. If she lived, she’d come back for it later. She cut away strips from the hide hanging in the entrance to make her last meal, choking it down by telling herself there would be food waiting for her at the other camps. Bacon and biscuits and an orange, like Christmas. Huckleberry jam and hot tea with rose hips.

She stayed up for a second night in a row, hugging the rifle to her chest. Dozed off occasionally in her chair. Around midnight she was pretty sure she heard the beasts scratching around the burnt-out funeral pyre, looking for scraps. She fired a few rounds in that direction, hoping to scatter them.

In the morning, she wrapped herself in the best blanket, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and started along the creek.





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX





The sun had started its descent by the time Tamsen arrived at the far side of the lake. It was a scene of eerie stillness, so quiet that her first thought was maybe everyone had left or died.

The silence gave her a bad feeling.

Even from this distance she could see the huge blackened pits indicating old bonfires, just like at Alder Creek. The remaining wagons looked nearly abandoned; the canopies were torn, destroyed by exposure to the elements. The place had the feel of a ghost town—a hostile ghost town, as if within the silence was an echo of an angry voice. Had she made a mistake?

She could smell the stink of rot; it made her dizzy and sick. She was weak, and had to lean on a thin tree for a bit to fight down the urge to throw up. Where were all the people? If they were dead, where were the bodies?

She reached the first cabin, separated from the other cluster of lean-tos by a patch of trees. Inside, it was a mess, clothing and blankets scattered over the dirt floor, trunks emptied and overturned, filthy clothes alive with flies. She expected to find someone inside, a sick child or two waiting for a parent out fetching wood or water. She picked up a pocket Bible lying in the rubble. To Eleanor love Aunt Minnie, it read on the endpaper. May this be your comfort.

Then she saw it: Keseberg’s rifle. It was unmistakably his—she’d seen it in his hands many times, the way he carried it around casually as if to remind the others to keep their distance. Her heart rate picked up as she scavenged through the other belongings in the cabin. Had Keseberg done something to the others? Was that why it was so quiet? She felt sick again but swallowed her nausea, moving methodically through his things. Maybe she’d at least find something to eat—stolen rations from the others, dried meat, anything. She was shaking and cold and acting out of an instinct to survive. She’d pillage whatever he had, then be gone, search for signs of life in the other lean-tos, search for signs of her daughters.