Inhuman (12 page)

As the huge gate rolled open, the captain stepped in front of Bangor, who had begun to sob. “Please let me talk to my wife. Our baby is due next month. I need to tell her —”

“I’m sorry about this, son,” the captain said. “Truly, I am. But you’ll have to find another way to live now. I’ll see that your compensation check gets to your wife.”

He moved aside and nodded to the guards, who then cut Bangor’s bindings and heaved him through the open gate. I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming at them. I’d never seen anything so deliberately cruel in my life.

Bangor hit the bridge hard and lay there, moaning. Here was my chance, and yet I didn’t move. I couldn’t just step over Bangor, who looked like he’d gone crazy again, rolling side to side and howling his despair to the sky. The sound made me want to claw out my ears. Then without warning, Bangor shot to his feet and threw himself at the diminishing gap in the mechanized gate, but as hard as he yanked, he couldn’t stop it from clanging shut. Skin glistening, he leapt onto the gate. He had a bullet in his thigh, his pants were soaked with blood, and yet he started climbing the fence effortlessly.

“Get down, Bangor,” Captain Hyrax yelled, pushing back his jacket to draw a gun from his shoulder holster.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and my fingers brushed the Lull inhaler that Everson had tucked there the night before. Great. If things got any uglier, I could always knock myself out.

“Let me tranq him, Captain,” Everson said, lifting the dart gun. “He’ll wake up calmer. Maybe then he can handle this.”

“Get back, Cruz,” the captain snapped. “Last warning!” he shouted to Bangor and took aim. But Bangor didn’t see the gun. His yellow gaze was fixed on the top of the gate. He reached the jutting metal blades strung with barbed wire and, as if he were immune to pain, he gripped the wire and swung away from the gate, trying to get enough momentum to flip over the angled blades.

“No!” Everson yelled at the same instant a shot rang out.

Bangor hung from the wire for a second as red bloomed across his shirt, and then his fingers uncurled, and he dropped onto the bridge with a thud and lay without movement.

The guards who had been carrying him went to the gate and peered out at Bangor’s prone form.

“He’s dead?” Captain Hyrax asked as he jammed his gun back into the holster.

“He looks dead, sir,” a guard called back.

“Open the gate,” the captain ordered. “Get his body.” He looked over at Everson. “When they’re coming at you, you kill them. Period.”

Going by Everson’s clenched hands, he wasn’t on board with the coming-at-you-kill tactic. “I will never kill a man in cold blood,” he said under his breath. “Never.”

The gate rolled aside once more, and an icy feeling washed over me. It was as if they were collecting my father’s body after his execution. The guards spilled onto the bridge and surrounded the lifeless man.

“Take it to the incinerator,” the captain told them. “Burn it and send the ashes to his family.”

Fate was offering me one last chance. I started toward the open gate but a hand clamped onto my arm. “Don’t even think about it,” Everson hissed in my ear. “You want to end up infected?”

I struggled in his grip as he dragged me back. No one paid attention to us. The surrounding guards were watching the men carry Bangor’s body through the gate. I tried to dig in my heels but Everson was like the outgoing tide, an impassive force dragging me off. Fighting him wouldn’t get me free — not even if I struck one of his five vulnerable areas. He was too big and too well trained. But I had another way to stop him. I pulled the inhaler from my pocket and squeezed a wet cloud of Lull into his face. Everson reeled back, releasing me as he gagged.

“I’m sorry.” I lifted the strap of the messenger bag over my head so that it crossed my body.

He blinked at me, uncomprehending, and then crumpled to the ground. I paused over him. He looked so much younger asleep — spiky lashes against flushed cheeks. Sweeter, too, with the crease between his brows smoothed out. I wanted to look longer, linger even, but the creak of the gate snapped up my gaze. I sprinted for the narrow opening, barreling past the guards carrying Bangor’s body.

Someone yelled, “Whataya doing?” as I squeezed through just before the gate clanged into place. I skipped over the smear of blood and dashed across the bridge.

“Who is that?” the captain demanded.

I reached the fog bank at the far end and glanced back to see several guards clutching the chain link. “You’ll die over there!” one called.

I really hoped not. I turned and stepped into the fog. All that waited for me in the West was loneliness and the possibility of seeing my father executed. Given that, I’d rather take my chances in the Feral Zone.

The bridge ended at a blockade of stacked sandbags, sheet metal, and scaffolding. I slipped through a narrow opening and stepped into a windswept meadow. A few rusting tanks jutted above the waist-high prairie grass. I paused, listening for the sound of boots crossing the bridge, but heard only the breeze in the surrounding trees, many of which were showing fall color.

On the eastern horizon, pink and purple gave way to orange. I took out my father’s map and traced my finger along Route 92, which ran parallel to the river all the way to Moline. If I stuck to the road, I should run right into the compound. Easy … provided I could find the road. According to the weather-beaten sign in front of the blockade, I was at Twenty-Fourth Street, which fed onto Route 92, but I didn’t see anything that qualified as a street. I took another step into the misty meadow and realized that the meadow
was
the street. The prairie grass had broken the asphalt into a huge jigsaw puzzle with wildflowers providing sprinkles of color.

I set out along the shattered road, scanning the trees to my right — the woods of my father’s bedtime stories. With most of humanity hiding beyond the wall, Mother Nature had reclaimed this area with a vengeance. I decided to jog. At the crest of a hill, I came to the turn off for Route 92, although the sign bore other words as well, added in spray paint. “All who bear the mark of the beast will drink the wine of God’s wrath.”

What a comforting thought to share with infected people. Although, really, was this graffiti any less brutal than building a giant wall? I paused to look back at the monolith that overwhelmed the entire landscape. Then, with a bounce, I jogged onto Route 92.

The two-lane highway wasn’t nearly as overgrown as the smaller street, and it was easy enough to follow the islands of asphalt within the waist-high scrub. I quickened my pace, wondering how many of my father’s stories were true. The piranha-bats? He had to have made those up, right? I glanced at the sky, grateful that the night was retreating, and pushed on. My breathing was steady. I could keep up this pace all the way to Moline, no problem. But could I find the old quarantine compound? And what if my dad wasn’t there?

I mentally mashed the question to pulp. I could only handle one worry at a time. Right now, all I had to do was follow the broken asphalt and ignore the eerie fluttering of leaves. I’d never been so alone in my life. I couldn’t even see Arsenal Island anymore because the highway had veered inland. At least I could still hear the rush of the river over my pounding feet. And a thumping off to my right … I stumbled to a stop.

What went thump in the woods? Lots of things. Branches and … those thumps hadn’t sounded like falling branches. A roar cut through my thoughts, and my legs almost gave way. That didn’t sound like any forest animal I knew — or wanted to know. It sounded like a jungle cat. Spinning toward the woods along the riverbank, I looked for a place to hide.

“Easy there, whiskers!” a male voice commanded. A voice that held no trace of panic.

My curiosity got the better of me. I slipped through the dew-soaked bushes toward the voice as quietly as I could, getting my arms as damp as my pants and shoes. On the other side of a half-fallen tree, something rustled. I put my fingertips on the moss-covered trunk to steady myself and rolled onto my toes. A young man in a white thermal shirt was crouching in the ferns. His light brown hair fell around his face, hiding his expression, but whatever he was doing, he was wholly absorbed in it. Stretching to stand
en pointe
, I tried to see what lay at his feet. A dirty green knapsack! My eyes swept back to the guy with skin as tan as his pants and sun-streaked hair and I gasped. It was the jerk who’d locked me in the supply closet. Rafe.

I froze, certain that if I so much as released a breath he’d turn and see me, but I didn’t back away either. What was he up to? His knapsack was fastened to a pack frame now, with a shotgun bungee-corded to the back. He bypassed the gun and rose with a crowbar in hand, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what came next.

Rafe rounded a large bush, and the roar of an enraged beast split the air. I heaved myself over the fallen tree to peer around the bush, only to be brought up short by the sight before me. What I’d thought was a forest was really just an overgrown median strip. Beyond it, another endless stretch of broken asphalt. Rafe stood at the edge of the road, and beside him, hanging upside down from the crossbar of a highway sign, was a …

Tiger!

He’d trapped a tiger! The animal thrashed under the highway sign, its head several feet above the asphalt, ankles ensnared, its vivid orange-and-black stripes writhing. The tiger slashed at Rafe, who was circling it with calm precision. For all the emotion he displayed he could have been calculating a tricky jump across a stream.

Blood soaked the tiger’s fur where the snare was cutting into its flesh. If left dangling much longer, the animal would lose the use of its hind legs … legs that were encased in black nylon pants. That wasn’t possible. I crept closer — close enough to see that the tiger was indeed wearing pants. When Rafe lifted the crowbar and took a practice swing at the creature’s head, my stomach turned inside out.

“I’m not wasting a bullet on you,” he snarled.

“Don’t!” I rushed from my hiding place. Either Rafe didn’t hear me or didn’t care. He slammed the crowbar into the tiger-man’s skull, wreaking a scream that was followed by a roar of torment.

Sprinting, I closed the distance, not stopping until I was at Rafe’s back. My first glimpse of a feral up close took away my breath. Okay, so he had fur and a tail — he was still human. A terrified, injured, thrashing human. When Rafe lifted the bar again, I darted forward. “Stop!” But I was too late. The crowbar cracked into the tiger-man’s head again and his arms dropped and hung limply. I grabbed Rafe’s wrist and tried to drag him back. “You’re killing him!”

He shook off my grip. “Get out of here.”

“But that’s a person!”

“That’s a grupped-up man-eater.”

I looked past him at the limp tiger-man. Fine orange fur striped with black covered his chest and arms. His face, though upside down, seemed tigery too. My nerves jerked taut. He wasn’t unconscious like I’d thought — he was watching me through slitted eyes. “How do you know he’s a man-eater?” I asked.

“He’s infected with
tiger
,” Rafe said as if that were proof enough. Lifting the crowbar, he prepared to swing again. “Adios, cat chow.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” I darted between him and the upside-down man. “What if he hasn’t done anything?”

“There will be one less feral in the world, which is fine with me.”

“
You’re
the feral!” I shoved him so hard that he stumbled back, tripped over a chunk of asphalt, and hit the ground. “You can’t murder someone because he’s sick. Sick people have rights. They have families who love them and aren’t ready to lose them just because you’re scared of a virus.”

Rafe didn’t answer. In fact, he didn’t move at all.

I bolted forward, dropping to my knees, and touched his face. He was out cold! But he’d landed on a patch of prairie grass.

I slipped my hand under his neck to feel the ground, and went numb. A jagged rock jutted out of the dirt right under Rafe’s head. “Oh no, no, no, no …” What had I done? I rolled him onto his side and touched his hair. “I’m sorry.” At least there was no blood.

What was happening to me? He was the second boy I’d knocked out today.

Something squeaked and I twisted to see the tiger-man swinging back and forth in the air, turning his body into a pendulum, even though the movement had to be making the wire cut deeper into his ankles. He was reaching for the steel post on the right, claws extended from his fingertips.

He was going to escape from the snare!

Just because I didn’t want Rafe murdering him in cold blood didn’t mean I wanted to be here when the tiger-man got loose. Would he come after Rafe for trying to kill him? I shook Rafe’s shoulder. “Wake up,” I whispered in his ear. “We’ve got to get out of here.” I slapped his gorgeous face, too softly at first, and then harder.
That’s for cutting my arm
, I thought. He moaned but didn’t wake. I lifted his limp arm and dragged him across the gravel and weeds to the bush at the edge of the median strip.

I stepped back to catch my breath and saw the tiger-man swing toward the steel post again and snag it this time. He then pulled himself up the pole, hand over hand, until he could reach the crossbar. Hooking his knees over the bar like a trapeze artist, he swung himself up to sit on it. Without his body weight pulling the snare tight, he was able to loosen the wire and slip it over his feet.