The Dead-Tossed Waves (17 page)

The Mudo from last night are gone, the beach quiet, and I
slowly make my way toward the dunes, my feet sinking into the warm sand as I pull Elias’s knife from my belt. Still no Mudo.

I reach the seawall and climb the boards, which are worn smooth from the highest tides crashing against them. Once I’m on the other side the streets of the ruins stretch ahead of me like a labyrinth and suddenly the confidence and drive I felt earlier disappear entirely.

The night air glides over my arms, brushing against the water droplets and causing my skin to prickle. Doubts crowd around me and I can’t force my feet forward. I stand unmoving and stare down the cracked road, a fine coating of sand brushed over it.

“You can do this,” I say aloud, my voice sounding hollow and out of place among the decayed buildings. I think about Catcher. I think about what Cira would do if she were here and I reach under my shirt and grasp the plastic superhero figurine she gave me. She’d never be afraid—she’d charge ahead in search of her brother.

And so that’s what I do.

I take a few wrong turns searching for Catcher’s building, the streets and rubble beginning to blur together. In my head the route through the ruins is so clear that I felt certain I’d remember how to get back to him.

And yet at every intersection and every turn I find myself second-guessing and I’m fairly sure I’ve gone in more than one circle. My damp clothes feel heavy on my body, the drying salt causing me to itch and my skin to feel tight.

I’m standing in the hollow between two crumbled buildings, trying to figure out which way to go next and wanting to
kick the nearest wall in anger, when I hear a soft sound on the breeze, a hint of something mingling with the crickets and my own heartbeat.

I hold my breath, straining to hear, wondering if maybe it’s Catcher, as the sound resolves into a song, the voice bright and clear and definitely a woman’s.

Tilting my head, I try to figure out the words of the song and even start walking toward it before I stop myself. By then I make out an underlying beat to the music and at first I think it’s a drum, that maybe it’s the Recruiters making their way down the long road to Vista. Then I realize that it’s not a drum, it’s feet walking, and it’s not coming from the main road but from much much closer.

My body tenses in worry, wondering who else could be out in the ruins. A part of me wants to run to them, seeking safety in numbers, but a larger part urges caution.

The thrum of people walking grows louder and I realize that they’re very nearby. Quickly I cast my gaze around, looking for a place to hide. There’s a small cave created by a halffallen wall and I scramble toward it.

I pause at the entrance. The moon is high tonight, its light almost as bright as that cast by the lighthouse, but the little nook is dark and I have no idea what else could be hiding inside.

Then I sense movement and I whip my head around to see someone turning the corner up the street. I slip into the darkness, clutching my knife tight, and squeeze back as far as I can, trying not to scream as I feel something small scuttle over my ankle.

The singing grows louder, bouncing between the walls of the old street, the pounding of footsteps closer and closer and
closer. Sweat and salt water drip down my neck. And then I see the feet passing by, the hems of white tunics falling to their knees over dark pants.

Just like what Elias wears. Absently I wipe at my lips with my hand as I try to figure out what’s going on—who these people are and what they’re doing out here. Wondering if Elias is with them. I hold my breath, hoping they won’t notice the dark puddle of water where I was standing earlier or the trail of damp ground leading to my hiding place.

They shuffle past, the song still twining among them, and growing muffled with distance. The concrete digs into my knees; my legs are sore from being so scrunched up in this little hole. Carefully I ease my head out into the moonlight and gaze down the street. They’re gone, the ruins now empty of everything but echoes.

I look the other way, the calm neglect of the ruins settling back over everything. I wonder if Catcher heard them, if he’s standing at his window watching the strange group weave through the streets.

Slowly I crawl out of my hiding place, keeping to the shadows. I sneak around the next corner, the sound of the singing always ahead of me. I look around, trying to find something familiar to lead me to Catcher’s, but I know I’m lost.

It would be easy to find the ocean again—just retrace my route through the streets with the rise of the coaster to my right. But I’m not ready to face the waves again. I took a risk coming here to see Catcher and I’m not willing to give up so fast.

I stop in the hollow of a broken doorway. In front of me is a huge empty expanse of concrete dotted with bushes and
small trees growing from cracks. At the far end of the expanse is a large wall carved with thick stacked-stone arches. In the glare of the moonlight I can make out a large rusty sign hanging at an angle. Letters have worn out, leaving the words
CHARLESBURG AMPHITHEATER
barely readable.

Disappearing under the center arch is the trailing line of the singers, all in white tunics with shaved heads, just like Elias. I squint, straining to pick out details, but it’s difficult to tell any of them apart at this distance with so little light. I’m surprised to see this many people out here in the ruins, surprised they could be so close to Vista and I wouldn’t know anything about them.

But I realize that if I can find Elias among them, he can lead me to Catcher.

I wait several moments after they disappear into the amphitheater, until the night settles back into normalcy: cicadas buzzing and tree frogs humming. I clench and relax my grip on the knife, nervous. A few drops of water slide from my wet hair down my back and along my legs.

All I have to do is make it across the concrete expanse and into one of the arches, I tell myself. Just take the next step and then another. I force one foot forward, trying to crouch against the branches of trees and hulking mass of bushes.

I feel keenly every heartbeat, every thundering throb of warning, but I keep going. Slowly, as I get closer, I can hear the singing again. Hear the chant of deep voices.

I touch my fingers to the stones of the arch—not the one they walked through but another one off to the side. I slide underneath it, pressing into its shadows.

Beyond the arch is something I’ve never seen before: a long sloping depression, as if someone scooped out the
ground a long time ago. Cut into the slope are terraces scattered with broken benches tangled in weeds. In the center of the bowl is a stage capped by a dome with no walls.

I shrink against the side of the arch, feeling the warmth of the stones through my shirt. The tunic-wearers still sing but then another noise reverberates around the grassy edges of the bowl: moans.

I
jump to my feet, knife clutched tightly in my hand, and am ready to run when I realize that no one else is reacting. The people continue to chant and sing as they make their way down a crumbling set of steps.

Fear twists my stomach. Why aren’t they running? Why aren’t they grabbing weapons?

The line of people splits as it hits the bottom of the hill, climbing onto the stage, and that’s when I see the Mudo swarming in the shadow of the dome.

I jerk my head back, slamming it into the wall of the arch with a thick thud. I grunt at the pain and then slap a hand over my mouth. My breathing is ragged but I’m terrified to move. Afraid someone will see me, that someone might already have noticed me. I shrink as deep into the shadows as I can, keeping myself frozen.

My eyes bounce around the scene. None of the people seem to care about the Mudo as they walk toward them. And then I realize that the Mudo aren’t moving—they’re reaching
into the night, their fingers swiping at the air, but they’re all stuck in place.

There’s something terribly different about them. About the way they look and the pitch of their moans.

My stomach drops when I realize what it is. The Mudo aren’t moving because they all have collars around their throats, chains and leashes keeping them stationary. And the people in the white tunics aren’t worried about them because the Mudo are missing their teeth and the bottom of their jaws: They can’t bite.

Which means they can’t infect. Their faces are twisted, looking less human and more animal, but despite my disgust I find myself leaning forward to see them closer. The living walk among them as if they aren’t even there, as if they’re harmless—not the definition of death.

Suddenly the singing stops and silence pervades everything, tempered only by the hollow moans. I’m afraid that any movement will give me away and so I stand stuck in the curve of the arch, staring. I scan their faces, trying to find Elias, wondering if the man who saved me could be here—be a part of this.

Last night in my dream his face was so vivid, so unique. But now with so many men and women and boys and girls wearing white tunics with their heads shaved, they start to blend together. They all blur in the light of the moon.

The Mudo squirm against their restraints, pushing to get closer to the living flesh. There must be more than a dozen of them, their moans raspy and reedy. And yet the people leading them look unconcerned at the way death lunges for them.

Suddenly it’s clear who these people are. We learned in school about cults, about the crazy religious group called Soulers who worship the Mudo. Who lead them around like
pets. I imagined them as crazed loons with long stringy hair, running around half naked. Not like this: not ordered and sedate and almost normal.

Not like Elias. He killed the Mudo last night—I watched him drive his knife into the skulls of every one of them. He wouldn’t have done that if he worshiped them, would he?

But why else would he be dressed like them? Why would he be in the ruins at the same time they are? What if he believes in what they do? Questions bombard me until one thought hammers into my mind: Elias knows where Catcher is. What if he’s just waiting for Catcher to become Mudo? What if he’s then going to turn Catcher into one of the jawless?

Panic sears my throat. I have to get away from them. I have to find Catcher and warn him.

But just then I hear someone speaking, her voice bright and sharp as she walks up the pathway leading directly toward my hiding spot. I close my eyes, hold my breath. My body screams to run but I’m terrified they’ll see me. I peek through my eyelids. She stops about twenty feet in front of me and turns back to the stage, every eye on her.

It would just take one person to glance up above her, to squint into the shadows of the arch and see me. I barely breathe—even try to will my heart to stop pumping, afraid that the pulse on my neck will give me away.

The woman speaks of God and the promise of resurrection, her words cutting through the air. A young boy who looks to be twelve or thirteen steps out of the crowd, his body lean and lanky. His tunic is whiter than the others, a little tight along his shoulders. His fingers flutter over red ribbons wrapped around each wrist, clenching and unclenching and twisting as though he can’t control them.

Two men separate themselves from the group of Soulers and walk to the back of the stage. When they reappear they each hold a pole attached to a collar around a Mudo woman’s throat. Her mouth opens and closes; her intact jaw snaps at the air, her teeth bright in the moonlight. I swallow. This one isn’t harmless like the others. This one can bite and infect. Tears blur my vision and I press my cheek to the stone wall.

They hold the Mudo woman tight, chains digging into her neck and sinking into her dead skin as she struggles against her restraints.

The other Soulers in the circle kneel and bow their heads, their faces now hidden from me. All except the boy with the red ribbons around his wrists, who stands and faces the Mudo biting at the air.

It’s my chance to run, to tear away into the night, but I can’t force my legs to move. Only to slowly allow myself to slip down the wall until I’m pressed against the ground, the horror of what’s happening trapping me here.