Inhuman (31 page)

After over an hour, the landscape became more urban. Well, urban in the sense that there were more buildings; however, there were also herds of deer munching lazily on the grass that now blanketed what had once been road. We wove through neighborhoods of three-flats and bungalows that had withstood eighteen years of neglect pretty well. The houses, stores, schools, and churches were still standing, though covered in creepers and ivy.

As we drew closer to downtown, Cosmo got quieter until he was saying nothing at all. We followed the Chicago River north and there it was: an obstacle even more intimidating than Moline’s crushed-car wall. It had begun to rain, but even without sunlight, the fence around the Chicago Loop glinted like a heap of giant, deadly Slinkys — countless lethal coils of razor wire went on for what seemed like miles along the riverbank, cordoning off the skyscrapers. But the stretched coils weren’t the horrifying part. That distinction belonged to the sharp wooden pikes lined along the west bank of the river. Each pole impaled a severed manimal head. Cosmo covered his face with his arms, and I pulled him closer.

“So this king of yours” — Rafe twisted in his seat to look back at us — “he sure has a thing about ferals, huh?”

“The king hates anyone who shows animal,” Cosmo mumbled.

We passed the north end of the kingdom of Chicago, and kept driving until we reached the southern tip of Lincoln Park. Everson parked among the rusting remains of other vehicles, and we got out solemnly. We followed his lead as he gathered rusted bumpers and branches and artfully camouflaged the jeep. I focused hard on the task, but when it was over, there was nothing else to do but stare at the impaled heads lining the park with their milky white eyes and bulging tongues.

Rafe steered me across the weed-choked street. “It’s easier if you don’t think of them as human.” A wince flashed over his face, and he glanced at Cosmo. “No offense.”

I supposed that was progress. At least now he felt bad about hurting a manimal’s feelings.

Now that it was time for us to split up, I felt a wild surge of fear. The fur on the back of Cosmo’s neck and across his shoulders stood up, like a dog with its hackles raised. I wanted to assure him that everything would be fine, but how could I? This was where he grew up. He knew better than any of us what dangers lay ahead.

I hoisted Cosmo into my arms and hugged him tightly. When I put him down, he went to Everson and took his hand. My eyes moved from Cosmo’s winter-blue gaze to Everson, who was scanning the abandoned buildings on this side of the street. What if I never saw either one of them again? Suddenly I wanted to put my arms around Everson too, and would have, even knowing that Rafe would smirk, but Everson seemed distant. His muscles were taut under his gray shirt and his expression impassive as he surveyed our surroundings. He was back in line-guard mode, fatigues and all, which was probably for the best given our circumstances. Still … He glanced over then and caught my worry.

“It’s okay, Lane. You’ll be safe with him.” He tipped his head toward Rafe. “I’ll see you later,” he added, and I nodded. In his voice there was a certainty I clung to.

“That’s it?” Rafe said. “I would’ve gone for the kiss.”

Everson shot him an exasperated look. “Ever consider not talking?”

“Why?” Rafe scoffed. “Hey, Cosmo, try and keep the stiff out of trouble,” he said, which got a big smile from Cosmo. “Ready?” he asked me.

No. But what choice did I have? I forced myself not to look back as we walked away.

We found Webster Avenue easily enough. It was just a block west of the park. However, locating Director Spurling’s house was another matter.

“You’re positive this was the address,” Rafe asked me a second time.

I would have given anything to have been able to say no, but I was certain this was the address Director Spurling had given in her letter. I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice.

The brick house before us had been gutted by fire so recently, the acrid smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air despite the rain.

We entered the brick shell of a house, which was missing much of its second floor. The rain streamed in, creating clouds of steam and smoke. Everything around us — the blackened remains of a couch, a charred desk — was one kick away from crumbling into ash. A metal picture frame lay facedown on the floor by the fireplace. I crouched, brushed away the grime, and lifted an edge, using my shirt to protect my fingers in case the metal was still hot. Under the cracked glass, colors bubbled and swirled. The photograph was so heat damaged, I couldn’t even tell if it had been of a person.

Rafe toed through the wreckage as if there was anything left to find. I lifted my face to the cold pinpricks of rain and swallowed the tight feeling in my throat.

All this way. We’d come all this way for nothing.

Rafe drew his gun. All the color had drained from his face. “If this is a coincidence, I’ll lick this place clean.”

Coincidence? What did it matter? I’d failed my dad. I had nothing to offer Spurling in exchange for his life except broken dishes and clumps of melted plastic.

“Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.” His hair was slick and darkened with rain. His soaked shirt stuck to his lean frame. “This place was torched.”

Yeah, I could see that, despite the smoke that burned my eyes and chapped my throat with every breath.

“Lane,” Rafe said as if trying to wake me. “Torched
on purpose
.” He pressed something cold into my hand. His knife.

My fingers curled around the handle even though I didn’t want to go where his thoughts had carried him. “You said houses in the zone burn down all the time.”

“You think this house — and only this house — just happened to catch fire last night? Even my luck doesn’t suck that bad.”

A cold snap cleared my brain. Chorda had my dad’s messenger bag. And that meant he had Spurling’s letter. I’d refused to give up my heart, so he had found another way to rip it from me — by making sure that I couldn’t save my father.

“I like being the trap setter, not the settee.” With a hand on my elbow, Rafe ushered me toward what was left of the doorway. “I guarantee cat-chow’s around here somewhere, sharpening his claws.”

I should have done it Everson’s way back in Moline when he’d offered to help by having his mother use her clout. Why had I thought coming to Chicago was the better choice?

We stepped into the drizzle and Rafe pressed a finger to his lips. Something about his posture set my senses on high alert. He slowly withdrew his gun, motioning for me to stay put.

What did you hear?
I wanted to ask.
Chorda?
I clenched my jaw shut as he moved into the street. Then I too heard the noise that had made him skittish — maniacal laughter. Somewhere close by people were trading
hee-hee-hee
s as if demented giggling were a language.

Rafe hauled me back into the gutted house. “Hyboars,” he hissed.

Hyena-boars. My dad had woven them into stories and Cosmo had relayed facts. He’d told us that the handlers used hyboars to hunt down runaway manimals.

I followed Rafe through the burnt shell to the kitchen, where a section of the back wall had collapsed. We clambered through the hole and dashed across the overgrown yard. More braying laughter stopped us midsprint. A bristling creature scrabbled over a pile of debris that had once been a garage. The beast paused at the top to shift its powerful, sloping shoulders like a boxer priming for a fight.

I wheeled around to see more hyboars stampeding through the shadowy interior of the house. Panic bloomed in my stomach. Muscular and razor tusked, the cackling beasts leapt out the gap we’d just climbed through. I pressed into Rafe and felt him draw a shuddering breath. He followed them with the tip of his gun but there were too many.

Longhaired men stormed into the yard. They wore leather butcher aprons — just as Cosmo had described. Handlers. Other giveaways: the hunting rifles clutched in their meaty hands and the knob-topped batons and dog whips tucked into their apron pockets. They surrounded us, grabbed our weapons, and frisked us roughly without a word. When they turned back to the house, I went as still as a cornered animal.

A gruesome man stepped through the gap in the wall. Going by his face and scalp, I could tell he’d had a close encounter with some serious claws and teeth. A chunk of his nose was missing, along with one eye, a fact that he didn’t hide under an eye patch — the sunken cavity and badly sewn eyelid were on full display. He strode toward us. Instead of an apron, he wore a leather coat with a fur collar. “Drop,” he ordered. “Face down, hands behind your back.”

“Fun as that sounds,” Rafe replied evenly, “we’re here on a job and we need to get going.”

The man’s brow lowered over his empty eye socket, and he made a sharp gesture.

The hyboars sprang. I screeched, flinging myself backward into Rafe. The beasts stopped just short of us and hunkered low, chuckling like maniacs. If I could’ve, I would’ve crawled down Rafe’s shirt to hide.

“It’s your choice….” The one-eyed man bared his yellow teeth in some evil version of a smile. “Get down or the hyboars will take you down.”

With a sigh, Rafe planted himself face-first on the wet ground. I remained frozen in place, mesmerized by a drop of drool suspended from a hyboar tusk.

“It’s okay, Lane,” Rafe said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Come lie next to me.”

Some fetch I was. I stretched out beside him, my cheek pressed into the soggy weeds, my eyes searching his desperately. His blue-green gaze was steady as always, and it reminded me that we might be on the ground surrounded by hyena-boars and crazy people, but that didn’t mean we had given up. “Don’t mention the silky,” he whispered.

A handler straddled me and yanked my arms behind my back. I gasped as he tied my wrists together. Another handler bound Rafe’s wrists, and then we were hauled to our feet. Rafe glanced at the handler gripping his arm. “Nice apron. You guys do a lot of baking?”

“No, manimal training,” the handler snapped. “And none of us is looking to get bitten in the groin.”

As Rafe grimaced at that image, the handlers wheeled us around to face the one-eyed man.

“I am Omar,” the man said casually, “the king’s overseer.”

Omar — the man who had put Cosmo in the zoo for licking a spoon.

“You are in violation of the laws of Chicago Compound, which apply to the whole of the city and the surrounding areas. Trespassing,” Omar ticked off, “possession of unauthorized weapons, and failure to display proof of your health. Therefore, your freedom is forfeit.”

“By forfeit, do you mean —” Rafe’s words cut off with a grunt as a handler’s baton slammed into his ribs.

“The only time you’ll speak is to answer my questions,” Omar said. “Now, did you come here alone or with others?”

“It’s just the two of us,” I said. As hard as it was to look at his ravaged face, I didn’t take my eyes from him. “We’re here tracking a rogue feral. One that’s killed a lot of people.”

Omar’s gaze sharpened on me. “
You
are a hunter?”

“If that’s what a compound needs.” I was certainly as dirty and bedraggled as the hunters and hacks I’d seen in Moline. I shrugged like I didn’t care what he called me. “We lead scavenging trips too. Feed us, and we’ll do practically anything.”

“And you’re certain it’s just the two of you?” Omar asked again.

“I don’t hunt in a pack.” Rafe shot a scornful look at the gaggle of handlers surrounding Omar.

“Maybe not yet …” Omar smiled. “But we’re good at getting beasts to obey.”

I felt Rafe stiffen beside me. “Who are you calling a —” This time the handler slammed the baton into his gut.

“Stop talking,” I hissed under my breath. How were we going to escape if he was a battered mess?

Omar jerked his chin and a handler gripped my arm and propelled me forward. Rafe’s handler used the knobby end of his baton to get Rafe moving. What did they want with us?

“Keep going,” my handler ordered as he directed me around the house. He was younger than the others. With his blond hair tied back, he didn’t look nearly as cruel as the rest, even if his grip was cutting off my arm’s circulation. He ushered me onto the weedy street where four rickshaws stood waiting, each pulled by a manimal of considerable size: three bull-men and one guy who might have been part rhino, going by his leathery skin and the fact that a sharp-tipped horn had sprouted along the bridge of his nose.

A hyboar thrashed on the ground behind the last rickshaw. A chain ran from the metal-link collar around the creature’s neck to the wheel bar under the passenger bench. The handler who’d been prodding Rafe along snatched the dog whip from his apron pocket and lashed the animal. “Get up!”

As the creature slowly rose on its hind legs, my perceptions reeled and reconfigured. I wasn’t looking at an animal, but a barrel-chested
man
. A man infected with hyena. Long, coarse fur covered every inch of his body. In fact — I looked away quickly, cheeks hot. The man was so hairy I hadn’t realized that he was naked. He remained in a crouch, poised to spring at the handler who’d struck him. His claws and elongated jaws glistened with drool.