He studied a piece of equipment in his hand. “116 μSv/hr—caution range. We’re fine, but not if we linger.”
A twig cracked. Quail burst skyward. The forest fell still, leaving only the itch of invisible spider legs across Lark’s skin.
“Let’s hurry out of here then,” Luke ordered. “It’ll clear up once we get out of this red forest.”
They picked up their pace, and, after a while, Lark saw green leaves ahead. The tension that had been building eased as she supposed the worst was behind them. The malformed trees, mutated creatures, and ominous fungi would be gone—everything back to normal.
Yet even when they stopped for a quick break, once their badge lights went out, Lark didn’t feel entirely safe. Every snap and crackle, each time a rabbit bolted across the road, she sensed they weren’t alone.
She took a swig from her canteen and munched on a pemmican bar. “Am I the only one who’s creeped out?” She didn’t want to admit it. Lark prided herself on fearlessness in her swamps—alligators, snakes, boar. But here, every sight and sound was alien. She still feared for Tommy’s life. Had Gramma nursed him back to health? Was he already gone? Too much uncertainty drove her to distraction.
“I don’t find our surroundings comfortable,” Harlan admitted. “But I’ve got my gun. Whatever’s around the bend is what should be afraid of me.”
Lark laughed at herself. Not long ago, she’d said the same thing. She sobered when Luke stated in a grave tone, “I feel it too.”
“Something’s out there,” Lark ventured as a chill rolled through her.
“You’re imagining it,” Skye countered. Lark met her gaze, which told a different story.
She’s trying to convince herself, not me, she realized.
Luke pulled out his tablet and turned it on. A map appeared with a red marker flag and a blue dot. “According to this, our target is six hours away, and we’ve only four hours of daylight. We’ll have to make camp before dark, build a fire. That’ll dry out our clothes and keep critters at bay.”
One more gulp and Lark stood, hoisting her gear and the pigeon crate. Heavy tree limbs closed in from both sides of the road, slowly dripping residual raindrops as thick clouds obscured the sun. The ominous shadows brought her no comfort, and her thoughts retreated to Tommy and Milena. A gust rustled wet leaves. A glance over her shoulder. Harlan steadily bringing up the rear. The faint whiff of rot touched her awareness. Something was out there, stalking them, biding its time until darkness fell. At least Lark wasn’t alone.
While Lark had some experience with it, Diego was a wiz at starting a fire with wet wood. Luke selected a campsite three meters from the broken stretch of road—some parts completely overgrown with kudzu—where a thick, fallen red cedar lay propped in the embrace of an ancient live oak’s branches. The trunk and its clinging boughs afforded some shelter. Skye and Wes strung up the radiation tarp to form a lean-to in case it started raining again. Meanwhile, Lark went with Diego to cut small dead trees from which to harvest dry kindling to burn.
Twilight draped the woods like a shroud, sealing in the humidity. It was hard for Lark to think about the time before she was born, when the long winter had set in.
“This is a good one,” Diego said. He whacked at it with his hatchet. “See? It’s not rotten, nor is it green inside. The recently departed are the best. We’ll drag this back, chop it up, and split logs to expose the dry interior. I have a little something to throw in that will ensure it burns hot and long.”
Hot sounded like a dirty word to Lark, but she looked forward to hanging her socks by the fire to dry.
A noise. Behind them. No, to the side. All around. Then she noticed—the insects had gone silent. The forest held its breath.
“Diego, let’s get out of here,” Lark urged.
“Hold your horses,” he exhaled. “One more whack.”
The thicket exploded. A warg lunged—red eyes burning, ulcerated lips peeled back to fangs. It leaped at Diego, who had just buried his hatchet blade into the dead sapling. Too fast. Nothing natural moved like that. Lark barely got her crossbow up in time.
The bolt flew, striking the enormous mutant wolf. The shaft quivered in its ribs, but the beast kept coming. It howled, crashed short, still not dead. Diegojumped back in shock, gripping his hand axe. With a tremendous swing, he split the beast’s skull, its yowl cut off mid-snarl.
“OK, rookie—you win.” Twisting the small tree from its stump, he dashed with Lark toward the road. They’d barely passed three strides when another warg slunk into their path, hackles bristling.
Diego propelled the twenty-foot-high, four-inch-diameter tree at it. The hairy black monster, glowing eyes, reeking of rot, sprang over the sapling, blood-slick fangs gnashing through its snarl. Lark’s aim was true, her shaft piercing the flying warg’s chest. She and Diego hopped to the sides as its body slammed down, shaking the dirt between them.
“Warg!” Lark yelled. “We’re under attack!”
Diego clenched his teeth. “My pack’s at the campsite—everything’s in there!” A scream and crash ahead. A gunshot rang out. They weren’t the only ones being ambushed.
Leaving the dead tree behind, Lark and Diego raced to join the others. Lark heard, felt, smelled a beast thundering up behind her. She caught a branch, swung, landed behind it, and fired before it reached Diego. Its corpse struck him, driving him face-first into the mud beneath its bulk.
Diego let out an “oof” and swore. “Get this rustin’ buzzard bait off me, goddammit!”
Lark grabbed a back leg and yanked, glad she still wore her gloves. She couldn’t imagine touching the open sores or coarse hair covering its body. Diego pushed up, rolling it the rest of the way off. “Thanks,” he grunted, swiping blood from his nose.
They ran across the road to find their teammates engaged with the rest of the pack. Light flared from Wes’s gun, searing fur. Harlan perched atop the cedar, rifle barking. Luke and Skye fired in measured pops. Some ravenous creatures fell dead; others spun to regroup.
