ARENA ONE
SLAVERUNNERS
(BOOK #1 OF THE SURVIVAL TRILOGY)
MORGAN RICE
Smashwords Edition
ABOUT
MORGAN RICE
Morgan Rice is the #1 Bestselling author of THE VAMPIRE JOURNALS, which has sold over 100,000 copies and has been translated into six languages. Morgan lives in New York City.
ACCLAIM FOR MORGAN RICE’S BOOKS
“Grabbed my attention from the beginning and did not let go….This story is an amazing adventure that is fast paced and action packed from the very beginning. There is not a dull moment to be found.”
--Paranormal Romance Guild {regarding Turned}
“A great plot, and this especially was the kind of book you will have trouble putting down at night. The ending was a cliffhanger that was so spectacular that you will immediately want to buy the next book, just to see what happens.”
--The Dallas Examiner{regarding Loved}
"A book to rival Twilight and The Vampire Diaries, and one that will have you wanting to keep reading until the very last page! If you are into adventure, love and vampires this book is the one for you!"
--vampirebooksite.com {regarding Turned}
"An ideal story for young readers. Morgan Rice did a good job spinning an interesting twist on what could have been a typical vampire tale. Refreshing and unique, has the classic elements found in many Young Adult paranormal stories."
--The Romance Reviews {regarding Turned}
“Rice does a great job of pulling you into the story from the beginning, utilizing a great descriptive quality that transcends the mere painting of the setting….Nicely written and an extremely fast read, this is a good start to a new vampire series sure to be a hit with readers who are looking for a light, yet entertaining story.”
--Black Lagoon Reviews {regarding Turned}
“Jam packed with action, romance, adventure, and suspense. This book is a wonderful addition to this series and will have you wanting more from Morgan Rice.”
--vampirebooksite.com {regarding Loved}
“Morgan Rice proves herself again to be an extremely talented storyteller….This would appeal to a wide range of audiences, including younger fans of the vampire/fantasy genre. It ended with an unexpected cliffhanger that leaves you shocked.”
--THE ROMANCE REVIEWS{regarding Loved}
Also by Morgan Rice
TURNED (Book #1 in the Vampire Journals)
LOVED (Book #2 in the Vampire Journals)
BETRAYED (Book #3 in the Vampire Journals)
DESTINED (Book #4 in the Vampire Journals)
DESIRED (Book #5 in the Vampire Journals)
BETROTHED (Book #6 in the Vampire Journals)
VOWED (Book #7 in the Vampire Journals)
Copyright © 2012 by Morgan Rice
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“Had I but died an hour before this
chance,
I had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant,
There’s nothing serious in mortality.”
--Shakespeare, Macbeth
P A R T O N E
O N E
Today is less forgiving than most. The wind whips relentlessly, brushing clumps of snow off the heavy pine and right into my face as I hike straight up the mountain face. My feet, crammed into hiking boots a size too small, disappear in the six inches of snow. I slip and slide, struggling to find my footing. The wind comes in gusts, so cold it takes my breath away. I feel as if I’m walking into a living snow globe.
Bree tells me it’s December. She likes to count down the days to Christmas, scratching off the numbers each day on an old calendar she found. She does it with such enthusiasm, I can’t bring myself to tell her we’re nowhere near December. I won’t tell her that her calendar is three years old, or that we’ll never get a new one, because they stopped making them the day the world ended. I won’t deny her her fantasy. That’s what big sisters are for.
Bree clings to her beliefs anyway, and she’s always believed that snow means December, and even if I told her, I doubt it would change her mind. That’s a ten-year-old for you.
What Bree refuses to see is that winter comes early up here. We’re high up in the Catskills, and here, there’s a different sense of time, a different turn to the seasons. Here, three hours north of what-was-once New York City, the leaves drop by the end of August, scattering across mountain ranges that stretch as far as the eye can see.
Our calendar was current once. When we first arrived, three years ago, I remember seeing the first snow and then checking it in disbelief. I couldn’t understand how the page read October. I assumed such early snow was a freak. But I soon learned it wasn’t. These mountains are just high enough, just cold enough, for winter to cannibalize Fall.
If Bree would just flip back the calendar, she’d see it right there, the old year, in big, tacky letters: 2117. Obviously, three years old. I tell myself she’s just too caught up in her excitement to check closely. This is what I hope. But lately, a part of me is beginning to suspect that she really knows, that she’s just chosen to lose herself in fantasy. I can’t blame her.
Of course, we haven’t had a working calendar for years. Or cell phone, or computer, or TV, or radio, or internet, or technology of any kind—not to mention electricity, or running water. Yet somehow, we’ve managed to make it, just the two of us, for three years like this. The summers have been tolerable, with fewer hungry days. We can at least fish then, and the mountain creeks always seemed to carry salmon. There are also berries, and even a few wild apple and pear orchards that still, after all this time, bear fruit. Once in a while, we even manage to catch a rabbit.
But the winters are intolerable. Everything is frozen, or dead, and each year I am certain that we will not make it. And this has been the worst winter of all. I keep telling myself that things will turn around; but it’s been days now without a decent meal, and Winter has just begun. We are both weak from hunger, and now, Bree is also sick. It doesn’t bode well.
As I trudge up the mountain face, retracing the same luckless steps I took yesterday, searching for our next meal, I am beginning to feel our luck has run out. It is only the thought of Bree lying there, waiting at home, that urges me forward. I stop pitying myself and instead hold her face in my mind. I know I can’t find her medicine, but I am hoping it’s just a passing fever, and that a good meal and some warmth is all she needs. What she really needs is a fire. I never light fires in our fireplace anymore, as it’s too dangerous: I can’t risk the smoke, the smell, tipping off a slaverunner to our location. But tonight I will surprise her, and just for a little while, take the chance. Bree lives for fires, and it will lift her spirits. And if I can just find a meal to complement it—even something as small as a rabbit—it will complete her recovery. Not just physically. I’ve noticed her starting to lose hope these last few days—I can see it in her eyes—and I need her to stay strong. I refuse to sit back and watch her slip away, like Mom did.
A new gust of wind slaps me in the face, and this one is so long and vicious I need to lower my head and wait until it passes. The wind roars in my ears, and I would do anything for a real winter coat. I wear only a worn hoodie, one I found years ago by the side of the road. I think it was a boy’s, but that’s good, because the sleeves are long enough to cover my hands and almost double as gloves. At five six I’m not exactly short, so whoever owned this must have been tall. Sometimes I wonder if he’d care that I’m wearing his clothing. But then I realize he’s probably dead. Just like everybody else.
My pants aren’t much better: I still wear the same pair of jeans, I’m embarrassed to mote, that I’ve had on since we escaped the city all those years ago. If there’s one thing I regret, it’s leaving so hastily. I guess I’d assumed I’d find some clothes up here, that maybe a clothing store would still be open somewhere, or even a salvation army. That was stupid of me: of course, all the clothing stores had long ago been looted. It was as if, overnight, the world went from a place of plenty to a place of scarcity. I’d managed to find a few pieces of clothing scattered in drawers in my Dad’s house. These I gave to Bree. I was happy that at least some of his clothes, like his thermals and socks, could keep her warm.
The wind finally stops, and I raise my head and hurry straight up before it can pick up again, forcing myself up at double speed, until I reach the plateau.
I reach the top, breathing hard, my legs on fire, and slowly look around. The trees are more sparse up here and in the distance is a small mountain lake. It’s frozen, like all the others, and the sun glares off of it with enough intensity to make me squint.
I immediately look over at my fishing rod, the one I’d left the day before, wedged between two boulders. It sticks out over the lake, a long piece of string dangling from it into a small hole in the ice. If the rod is bent, it means Bree and I will have dinner tonight. If not, I’ll know it didn’t work—again. I hurry between a cluster of trees, through the snow, and get a good look.
It’s straight. Of course.
My heart sinks. I debate walking out onto the ice, using my small axe to chop a hole elsewhere. But I already know it won’t make a difference. The problem is not its position—the problem is this lake. The ground is too frozen for me to dig up worms, and I don’t even know where to look for them. I’m not a natural hunter, or trapper. If I knew I’d end up where I am now, I would have devoted my entire childhood to outward bound, to survival techniques. But now I find myself useless in most everything. I don’t know how to set traps, and my fishing lines have rarely caught a thing.
Being my father’s daughter, a Marine’s daughter, the one thing that I am good at— knowing how to fight—is useless up here. If I am helpless against the animal kingdom, at least I can handle myself against the two-legged ones. From the time I was young, like it or not, Dad insisted I be his daughter—a Marine’s daughter, and proud of it. He also wanted me to be the son he never had. He enrolled me in boxing, wrestling, mixed-martial arts…there were endless lessons on how to use a knife, how to fire a gun, how to find pressure points, how to fight dirty. Most of all, he insisted I be tough, that I never show fear, and that I never cry.
Ironically, I have never had a chance to use a single thing he taught me, and it all couldn’t be more useless up here: there is not another person in sight. What I really need is to know how to find food—not to know how to kick someone. And if I do ever run into another person, I’m not going to be flipping him, but asking for help.
I think hard and recall that there is another lake up here somewhere, a smaller one; I saw it once, one summer when I was adventurous and hiked further up the mountain. It’s a steep quarter mile, and I haven’t tried to go up there since.
I look up and sigh. The sun is already beginning to set, a morose winter sunset cast in a reddish hue, and I’m already weak, tired and frozen. It will take most of what I’ve got just to make it back down the mountain. The last thing I want is to hike further up. But a small voice inside me urges me to keep climbing. The more time I spend alone these days, the stronger Dad’s voice is becoming in my head. I resent it, and I want to block it out, but somehow, I can’t.
Stop whining and keep pushing, Moore!
Dad always liked to call me by my last name. Moore. It annoyed me, but he didn’t care.
I know that if I go back now, Bree will have nothing to eat tonight. That lake up there is the best I can come up with, our only other source of food. I also want Bree to have a fire, and all the wood down here is soaked. Up there, where the wind is stronger, I might find wood dry enough for kindling. I take one more look straight up the mountain, and decide to go for it. I lower my head, and begin the hike, taking my rod with me.
Each step is painful, a million sharp needles pulsing in my thighs, icy air piercing my lungs. The wind picks up and the snow whips, like sandpaper on my face. A bird caws way up high, as if mocking me. Just when I feel I can’t take one more step, I reach the next plateau.
This one, so high up, is different than all the others: it is so densely packed with pine trees, it’s hard to see more than ten feet. The sky is shut out under their huge canopy, and the snow is covered with their green needles. The huge tree trunks manage to shut out the wind, too. I feel like I’ve entered a small private kingdom, hidden from the rest of the world.
I stop and turn, taking in the vista: the view is amazing. I’d always thought we had a great view from Dad’s house, halfway up the mountain, but from here, up top, it is spectacular. Mountain peaks soar in every direction, and beyond them, in the distance, I can even see the Hudson River, sparkling. I also see the winding roads that cut their way through the mountain, remarkably intact. Probably because so few people ever come up here. I’ve never, in fact, seen a car, or any other vehicle. Despite the snow, the roads are remarkably clear; the steep, angular roads, basking in the sun, lend themselves perfectly to drainage, and amazingly, much of the snow has melted off.
I am struck by a pang of worry. I prefer when the roads are covered in snow and ice, when they are impassable to vehicles, because the only people that have cars and fuel these days are slaverunners—merciless bounty hunters that work to feed Arena One. They patrol everywhere, looking for any survivors, to kidnap them and bring them to the arena as slaves. There, I’m told, they make them fight to the death for entertainment.
Bree and I have been lucky. We haven’t seen any slaverunners in the years we’ve been up here—but I think that’s only because we live so high up, in such a remote area. Only once did I hear the high-pitched whine of a slaverunner’s engine, far off in the distance, on the other side of the river, I think. I know they are down there, somewhere, patrolling. And I don’t take any chances—I make sure we keep a low profile, rarely burning wood unless we need to, and keeping a close eye on Bree at all times. Most of the times I take her hunting with me—I would have today if she weren’t so sick.
I turn back to the plateau and fix my eyes on the smaller lake. Frozen solid, shining in the afternoon light, it sits there like a lost jewel, hiding between a copse of trees. I approach it, taking a few tentative steps on the ice to make sure it doesn’t crack. Once I feel it’s solid, I take a few more. I find a spot, remove the small axe from my belt and chop down hard, several times. A crack appears. I remove my knife, take a knee and strike hard, right in the center of the crack. I work the tip of the knife in there and carve a small hole, just big enough to extract a fish.
I hurry back to shore, slipping and sliding, then wedge the fishing rod between two tree branches, unravel the string, and run back out and drop it in the hole. I yank it a few times, hoping that the flash of the metal hook might attract some living creatures beneath the ice. But I can’t help feeling it’s a futile endeavor, can’t help suspecting that anything that ever lived in these mountain lakes died long ago.
It’s even colder up here, and I can’t just stand here, staring at the line. I have to keep moving. I turn and walk away from the lake, the superstitious part of me telling me I might just catch a fish if I don’t stand there staring. I walk in small circles around the trees, rubbing my hands, trying to keep warm. It does little good.
That’s when I remember the other reason I hiked up here: dry wood. I look down and search the ground for kindling, but it is a futile task. The ground is covered in snow. I look up at the trees, and see the trunks and branches are mostly covered in snow, too. But there, in the distance, I spot a few wind-swept trees free of snow. I make my way over to them and inspect the bark, running my hand along it. I am relieved to see that some of the branches are dry. I take out my axe and chop one of the bigger branches. All I need is an armful of wood, and this large branch will do perfectly.
I catch it as it comes down, not wanting to let it hit the snow, then brace it against the trunk and chop it again, clean in half. I do this again and again, until I have a small stack of kindling, enough to carry in my arms. I set it down in the nook of a branch, safe and dry from the snow below.
I look around, inspecting the other trunks, and as I look closer, something gives me pause. I approach one of the trees, looking closely, and realize its bark is different than the others. I look up, and realize it’s not a Pine. It’s a Maple. I am surprised to see a Maple so high up here, and even more surprise that I actually recognize it. In fact, a Maple is probably the only one thing in nature that I would recognize. Despite myself, a memory comes flooding back.
Once, when I was young, my Dad got it into his head to take me on a nature outing. God knows why, he decided to take me to tap Maple trees. We drove for hours to some godforsaken part of the country, me carrying a metal bucket, he carrying a spout, and then spent hours more roaming the woods with a guide, searching for the perfect Maples. I remember the look of disappointment on his face after he tapped his first tree and a clear liquid oozed out into our bucket. He had been expecting syrup.
Our guide laughed at him, told him that Maple trees didn’t produce syrup—they produced sap. The sap had to be boiled down to syrup. It was a process that took hours, he said. It took about 80 gallons of sap to make a single quart of syrup.
Dad looked down at the overflowing bucket of sap in his hand and turned bright red, as if someone had sold him a rotten bill of goods. He was the proudest man I’d ever met, and if there was anything he hated more than feeling stupid, it was someone making fun of him. When the man laughed, he threw his bucket at him, barely missing him, took my hand, and we stormed off.
After that, he never took me out into nature again.
I didn’t mind, though—and actually enjoyed the outing, even though he fumed silently in the car the whole way home. I’d managed to collect a small cup of the sap before he’d taken me away, and I remember secretly sipping it on the car ride home, when he wasn’t looking. I loved it. It tasted like sugar water.
Standing here now, before this tree, I recognize it as I would a sibling. This specimen, so high up, is thin and scrawny, and I’d be surprised if it holds any sap at all. But I’ve got nothing to lose. I take out my knife and strike the tree, again and again, in the same spot. Then I burrow the knife into the hole, pushing deeper and deeper, twisting and turning. I don’t really expect anything to happen.
I’m shocked when a drop of sap leaks out. And even more shocked when, moments later it turns into a small, trickling stream. I hold out my finger, touch it, and raise it to my tongue. I feel the sugar rush, and recognize the taste immediately. Just as I remembered. I can’t believe it.
The sap leaks out at faster now, and I’m losing much of it as it drips down the trunk. I look around desperately for something to hold it in, a bucket of some sorts—but of course there is none. And then I remember: my thermos. I pull my plastic thermos out of my waistband and turn it upside down, emptying it of water. I can get fresh water anywhere, especially with all this snow—but this sap is precious. I hold the empty thermos flush against the tree, wishing I had a proper spout. I cram the plastic against the trunk as close as I can, and manage to catch much of it. It fills more slowly than I’d like, but within minutes, I’ve managed to fill half the thermos.
The flow of sap stops. I wait for a few seconds, wondering if it will start again, but it doesn’t.
I look around, and spot another Maple, about ten feet in the distance. I rush over to it and raise my knife excitedly and strike hard this time, envisioning myself filling the thermos, envisioning the look of surprise on Bree’s face when she tastes it. It might not be nutritious, but it will sure make her happy.
But this time, when my knife strikes the trunk, there is a sharp splitting noise that I don’t expect, and this is followed by the groaning of timber. I look up to see the entire tree leaning, and I realize, too late, that this tree, frozen over in a coat of ice, was dead. The plunging of my knife was all it needed to tip it over the edge.
A moment later the entire tree, at least twenty feet, falls over, crashing down to the ground. It stirs up an enormous cloud of snow and pine needles. I crouch down, nervous I might have alerted someone to my presence. I am furious with myself. That was careless. Stupid. I should have examined the tree more carefully first.
But after a few moments my heartbeat settles, as I realize there’s no one else up here. I become rational again, realize that trees fall by themselves in the forest all the time, and its crash wouldn’t necessarily give away a human presence. And as I look to the place where the tree once stood, I do a double-take. I find myself staring in disbelief.
There, in the distance, hiding behind a grove of trees, built right into the side of the mountain itself, is a small, stone cottage. It is a tiny structure, a perfect square, about fifteen feet wide and deep, built about twelve feet high, with walls made of ancient stone blocks. A small chimney rises from the roof, and there is a small window on each of its walls. The wooden front door, shaped in an arch, is ajar.
This little cottage is so well camouflaged, blends so perfectly with its surroundings, that even while staring at it, I can barely pick it out. Its roof and walls are covered in snow, and the stone that’s exposed blends perfectly into the landscape. The cottage looks ancient, as if it were built hundreds of years ago. I can’t understand what it’s doing here, who would have built it, or why. Maybe it was built for a caretaker for a state park. Maybe it was home to a recluse. Or a survival nut.
It looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. I carefully scan the forest floor, looking for footprints, or animal prints, in or out. But there are none. I think back to when the snow started falling, several days ago, and do the math in my head. No one has been in or out of here for at least three days.
My heart races at the thought of what could be inside. Food, clothing, medicine, weapons, materials—anything would be a godsend.
I move cautiously across the clearing, checking over my shoulder as I go just to make sure no one is watching. I move quickly, leaving big, conspicuous snow prints. As I reach the front door, I turn and look one more time, then stand there and wait for several seconds, listening. There is no sound but that of the wind and a nearby stream, which runs just a few feet in front of the house. I reach out and slam the back of my axe handle hard on the door, a loud reverberating noise, to give any animals that might be hiding inside a final warning.
There is no response.
I quickly shove open the door, pushing back the snow, and step inside.
It is dark in here, lit only by the last light of day streaming in through the small windows, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I wait, standing with my back against the door, on guard in case any animals might be using this space as shelter. But after several more seconds of waiting, my eyes fully adjust to the dim light and it is clear that I’m alone.
The first thing I notice about this little house is its warmth. Perhaps it is because it is so small, with a low ceiling, and built right into the stone mountain itself; or perhaps because it is protected from the wind. Even though the windows are wide open to the elements, even though the door is still ajar, it must be at least fifteen degrees warmer in here—much warmer than Dad’s house ever is, even with a fire going. Dad’s house was built cheaply to begin with, with paper-thin walls and vinyl siding, built on a corner of a hill that always seems to be in the wind’s direct path.
But this place is different. The stone walls are so thick and well-built, I feel snug and safe in here. I can only imagine how warm this place could get if I shut the door, boarded up the windows, and had a fire in the fireplace—which looks to be in working shape. The inside consists of one large room, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet, and I squint into the darkness as I comb the floor, looking for anything, anything at all, that I can salvage. Amazingly, this place looks like it’s never been entered since the war. Every other house I’ve seen has smashed windows, debris scattered all over the place, clearly picked clean of anything that might be useful, down to the copper wires for the light bulbs. But not this one. It is pristine and clean and tidy, as if its owner just got up one day and walked away. I wonder if it was before the war even began. Judging from the cobwebs on the ceiling, and its incredible location, hidden so well behind the trees, I am guessing it was. That no one’s been here in decades.
I see the outline of an object against the far wall, and I make my way towards it, hands in front of me, groping in the darkness. When my hands touch it, I realize it is a chest of drawers. I run my fingers over its smooth, wood surface and can feel them covered in dust. I run my fingers over small knobs—drawer handles. I pull delicately, opening them one at a time. It is too dark to see, so I reach into each drawer with my hand, combing the surface. The first drawer yields nothing. Neither does the second. I open them all, quickly, my hopes falling—when suddenly, at the fifth drawer, I stop. There, in the back, I feel something. I slowly pull it out.
I hold it up to the light, through the open window, and at first I can’t tell what it is; but then I feel the telltale aluminum foil, and I realize: it’s a chocolate bar. A few bites were taken out of it, but it is still wrapped in its original wrapping, and mostly preserved. I unwrap it just a bit and hold it to my nose and smell it. I can’t believe it: real chocolate. We haven’t had chocolate since the war.
The smell brings a sharp hunger pang, and it takes all my willpower not to tear it open and devour it. I force myself to remain strong, carefully re-wrapping it and stowing it in my pocket. I will wait until I am with Bree to enjoy it. I smile, anticipating the look on her face when she takes her first bite. It will be priceless.
I quickly rummage through the remaining drawers, now hopeful I’ll find all sorts of treasure. But everything else comes up empty. I turn back to the room and walk through its width and breadth, along the walls, to all four corners, looking for anything at all. But the place is empty.
Suddenly, I step on something soft. I kneel down and pick it up, holding it to the light. I am amazed: a teddy bear. It is worn, and missing an eye, but still, Bree loves teddy bears, and misses the one she left behind. She will be ecstatic when she sees this. It looks like this is her lucky day.
I cram the bear in my belt, and as I get up, I feel my hand brush something soft on the floor. I grab it and hold it up, and am delighted to realize it’s a scarf. It’s black and covered in dust, so I couldn’t see it in the darkness, and as I hold it to my neck and chest, I can already feel its warmth. I hold it out the window and shake it hard, removing all the dust. I look at it in the light: it is long and thick—not even any holes. It is like pure gold. I immediately wrap it around my neck and tuck it under my shirt, and already feel much warmer. I sneeze.
The sun is setting, and as it seems I’ve found everything I’m going to, I begin to exit. As I head for the door, suddenly, I stub my toe into something hard, metal. I stop and kneel down, feeling for it in case it’s a weapon. It’s not. It’s a round, iron knob, attached to the wooden floor plank. Like a knocker. Or a handle.
I yank it left and right. Nothing happens. I try twisting it. Nothing. Then I take a chance and stand off to the side and pull it hard, straight up.
A trap door opens, raising a cloud of dust.
I look down and discover a crawlspace, about four feet high, with a dirt floor. My heart soars at the possibilities. If we lived here, and there was ever trouble, I could always hide Bree down here. This little cottage becomes even more valuable in my eyes.
And not only that. As I look down, I catch sight of something gleaming. I push back the heavy wooden door all the way, and quickly scramble down the ladder. It is black down here, and I hold my hands in front of me, groping my way. As I take a step forward, I feel something. Glass. Shelves are built into the wall, and lined up on them are glass jars. Mason jars.
I pull one down and hold it up to the light. Its contents are red and soft. It looks like jam. I quickly unscrew the tin lid, hold it to my nose and smell it. The pungent smell of raspberries hits me like a wave. I stick a finger in, scoop it and hold it tentatively to my tongue. I can’t believe it: raspberry jam. And it tastes as fresh as if it were made yesterday.
I quickly tighten the lid, cram the jar into my pocket, and hurry back to the shelves. I can already feel, in the blackness, that there are dozens more. I grab the closest one, rush back to the light, and hold it up. It looks like pickles.
I am in awe. This place is a gold mine.
I wish I could grab it all, but my hands are freezing, I don’t have anything to carry it with, and it’s getting dark out. So I put the jar of pickles back where I found it, scramble up the ladder, and, as I make it back to the main floor, close the trap door firmly behind me. I wish I had a lock; I feel nervous leaving all of that down there, unprotected. But then I remind myself that this place hasn’t been touched in years—and that I probably never would have even noticed it if that tree didn’t fall.
As I leave, I close the door all the way, feeling protective, already feeling as if this is our home.
Pockets full, I hurry back towards the lake—but suddenly freeze as I sense movement and hear a noise. At first I worry someone has followed me; but as I slowly turn, I see it is something else. A deer is standing there, ten feet away, staring back at me. It is the first deer I’ve seen in years. Its large, black eyes lock onto mine, then it suddenly turns and bolts.
I am speechless. I’d spent month after month searching for a deer, hoping I could get close enough to one to throw my knife at it. But I’d never been able to find one, anywhere. Maybe I wasn’t hunting high enough. Maybe up here is where they’ve lived all along.
I resolve to return, first thing in the morning, and wait all day if I have to. If it was here once, maybe it will come back. The next time I see it, I will kill it. That deer would be enough food to feed us for a week.
I am filled with new hope as I hurry to the lake. As I approach and check my rod, my heart leaps to see that it’s bent nearly in half. Shaking with excitement, I scurry across the ice, slipping and sliding. I grab the line, which is shaking wildly, and pray that it holds.
I reach over and yank it firmly. I can feel the force of a large fish yanking back, and I silently will the line not to snap, the hook not to break. I give it one final yank, and the fish comes flying out of the hole. It is a huge Salmon, the size of my arm. It lands on the ice and flip-flops every which way, sliding across. I run to it and reach down and grab it, but it slips right through my hands, and plops back on the ice. My hands are too slimy to grab a hold of it, so I lower my sleeves and reach down and grab it more firmly this time. It flops and squirms in my hands for a good thirty seconds, until finally, it settles down, dead.
I am amazed. It is my first catch in months.
I am ecstatic as I slide across the ice and set it down on the shore, packing it in the snow, afraid it will somehow come back to life and jump back into the lake. I take down the rod and line and hold it one hand, then grab the fish in the other. I can feel the mason jar of jam in one pocket, and the thermos of sap in the other, crammed in with the chocolate bar, and the teddy bear on my waist. Bree will have an abundance of riches tonight.
There is just one thing left to grab. I walk over to the stack of dry wood, balance the rod in my arm, and with my free hand grab as many logs as I can hold. I drop a few, and can’t take as many as I’d like, but I’m not complaining. I can always come back for the rest of it in the morning.
Hands, arms and pockets full, I slip and slide down the steep mountain face in the last light of day, careful not to drop any of my treasure. As I go, I can’t stop thinking about the cottage. It’s perfect, and my heart beats faster at the possibilities. This is exactly what we need. Our Dad’s house is too conspicuous, built on a main road. I’ve been worrying for months that we’re too vulnerable being there. All we’d need is one random slaverunner to pass by, and we’d be in trouble. I’ve been wanting to move us for a long time, but just had no idea where. I haven’t seen any other houses up here at all.
That little cottage, so high up, so far from any road—and built literally into the mountain—is so well camouflaged, it’s almost as if it were built just for us. No one would ever be able to find us there. And even if they did, they couldn’t come anywhere near us with a vehicle. They’d have to hike up on foot, and from that vantage point, I’d spot them a mile away.
The house also has a fresh water source, a running stream right in front of its door; I wouldn’t have to leave Bree alone every time I go hiking to bathe and wash our clothes. And I wouldn’t have to carry buckets of water one at a time all the way from the lake every time I prepare a meal. Not to mention that, with that huge canopy of trees, we would be concealed enough to light fires in the fireplace every night. We would be safer, warmer, in a place teeming with fish and game—and stocked with a basement full of food. My mind is made up. I’m going to move us there tomorrow.
It’s like a weight off my shoulders. I feel reborn. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t feel the hunger gnawing away, don’t feel the cold piercing my fingertips. Even the wind, as I climb down, seems to be at my back, helping me along, and I know that things have finally turned around. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I know that now, we can make it.
Now, we can survive.
T W O
By the time I reach Dad’s house it is twilight, the temperature dropping, the snow beginning to harden and crunch beneath my feet. I exit the woods and see our house sitting there, perched so conspicuously on the side of the road, and am relieved to see that all looks undisturbed, exactly as I left it. I immediately check the snow for any footprints—or animal prints—in or out, and find none.
There are no lights on inside the house, but that is normal. I would be concerned if there were. We have no electric, and lights would only mean that Bree has lit candles—and she wouldn’t without me. I stop and listen for several seconds, and all is still. No noises of struggle, no cries for help, no cries of sickness. I breathe a sigh of relief.
A part of me is always afraid I will return to find the door wide open, the window shattered, footprints leading into the house, Bree abducted. I’ve had this nightmare several times, and always wake up sweating, and walk into the other room to make sure Bree is there. She always is, safe and sound, and I reprimand myself. I know I should stop worrying, after all these years. But for some reason, I just can’t shake it: every time I have to leave Bree alone, it’s like a little knife in my heart.
Still on alert, sensing everything around me, I examine our house in the fading light of day. It was honestly never nice to begin with. A typical mountain ranch, it sits as a rectangular box with no character whatsoever, festooned with cheap, aqua vinyl siding, which looked old from day one, and which now just looks rotted. The windows are small and far and few between and made of a cheap plastic. It looks like it belongs in a trailer park. Maybe fifteen feet wide by about thirty feet deep, it should really be a one bedroom, but whoever built it, in their wisdom, carved it into two small bedrooms and an even smaller living room.
I remember visiting it as a child, before the war, when the world was still normal. Dad, when he was home, would bring us up here for weekends, to get away from the city. I didn’t want to be ungrateful, and I always put on a good face for him, but silently, I never liked it: it always felt dark and cramped, and had a musty smell to it. As a kid, I remember being unable to wait for the weekend to be over, to get far away from this place. I remember silently vowing that when I was older, I would never come back here.
Now, ironically, I am grateful for this place. This house saved my life—and Bree’s. When the war broke out and we had to flee from the city, we had no options. If it weren’t for this place, I don’t know where we would have gone. And if this place weren’t as remote and high up as it is, then we would have probably been captured by slaverunners long ago. It’s funny how you can hate things so much as a kid that you end up appreciating as an adult. Well, almost adult. At 17, I consider myself an adult, anyway. I’ve probably aged more than most of them, anyway, in the last few years.
If this house wasn’t built right on the road, so exposed—if it were just a bit smaller, more protected, deeper in the woods, I don’t think I’d worry so much. Of course, we’d still have to put up with the paper-thin walls, the leaking roof, and the windows that let in the wind. It would never be a comfortable, or a warm house. But at least it would be safe. Now, every time I look at it, and look out at the sweeping vista beyond it, I can’t help but think it’s a sitting target.
My feet crunch in the snow as I approach our vinyl door, and barking erupts from inside. Sasha, doing what I trained her to do: protect Bree. I am so grateful for her. She watches over Bree so carefully, barks at the slightest noise; it allows me just enough peace of mind to leave her when I hunt. Although at the same time, her barking also sometimes worries me that she’ll tip us off: after all, a barking dog usually means humans. And that’s exactly what a slaverunner would listen for.
I hurriedly step into the house and quickly silence her. I close the door behind me, juggling the logs in my hand, and step into the blackened room. Sasha quiets, wagging her tail and jumping up on me. A chocolate lab, six years old, Sasha is the most loyal dog I could ever imagine—and the best company. If it weren’t for her, I think Bree would have fallen into a depression long ago. I might have, too.
Sasha licks my face, whining, and seems even more excited than usual; I can tell from her sniffing at my waistline, at my pockets, that she already senses I’ve brought home something special. I set down the logs so that I can pet her, and as I do, I can feel her ribs. She’s way too skinny. I feel a fresh pang of guilt. Then again, Bree and I are, too. We always share with her whatever we forage, so the three of us are a team of equals. Still, I wish I could give her more.
She pokes her nose at the fish, and as she does, it flies out of my hand and onto the floor. Sasha immediately pounces on it, her claws sending it sliding across the floor. She jumps on it again, this time biting it. But she must not like the taste of raw fish, so she lets it go. Instead, she plays with it, pouncing on it again and again as it slides across the floor.
“Sasha, stop!” I say quietly, not wanting to wake Bree. I also fear that if she plays with it too much, she might tear it open and waste some of the valuable meat. Obediently, Sasha stops. I can see how excited she is, though, and I want to give her something. I reach into my pocket, twist open the tin lid to the mason jar, scoop out some of the raspberry jam with my finger, and hold it out to her.
Without missing a beat she licks my finger, and in three big licks, she has eaten the whole scoop. She licks her lips and stares back at me wide-eyed, already wanting more.
I stroke her head, give her a kiss, then rise back to my feet. Now I wonder whether it was kind to give her some, or just cruel to give her so little.
The house is dark as I stumble through, as it always is at night. Rarely will I set a fire. As much as we need the heat, I don’t want to risk attracting the attention. But tonight is different: Bree has to get well, both physically and emotionally, and I know a fire will do the trick. I also feel more open to throwing caution to the wind, given that we will move out of here tomorrow.
I cross the room to the cupboard and remove a lighter and candle. One of the best things about this place was its huge stash of candles, one of the very few good byproducts of my Dad’s being a Marine, of his being such a survival nut. When we’d visit as kids, the electricity would go out during every storm, and so he’d stockpile candles, determined to beat the elements. I remember I used to make fun of him for it, call him a hoarder when I discovered his entire closet full of candles. Now that I’m down to the last few candles, I wish he’d hoarded more.
I’ve been keeping our only lighter alive by using it sparingly, and by siphoning off a tiny bit of gas from the motorcycle once every few weeks. I thank God every day for Dad’s bike, and I am also grateful that he fueled it up one last time: it is the one thing we have that makes me think we still have an advantage, that we have something really valuable, some way of surviving if things go to hell. Dad always kept the bike in the small garage attached to the house, but when we first arrived, after the war, the first thing I did was remove it and roll it up the hill, into the woods, hiding it beneath bushes and branches and thorns so thick that no one could ever possibly find it. I figured, if our house is ever discovered, the first thing they’d do is check the garage.
I’m also grateful that Dad taught me how to drive it when I was young, despite Mom’s protests. He told me it was harder to learn than most bikes, because of the attached sidecar. I remember back when I was twelve, terrified, learning to ride the bike while Dad sat in the sidecar, barking orders at me every time I stalled. I learned on these steep, unforgiving mountain roads, and I remember feeling like we were going to die. I remember looking out over the edge, seeing the drop, and crying, insisting that he drive. But he refused. He sat there stubbornly for over an hour, until I finally stopped crying and tried again. And somehow, I learned to drive it. That was my upbringing in a nutshell.
I haven’t touched the bike since the day I hid it, and I don’t even risk going up to look at it except when I need to siphon off the gas—and even that I will only do at night. I imagine that if ever one day we’re in trouble and need to get out of here fast, I’ll put Bree and Sasha in the sidecar and drive us all off to wherever we need to go. But in reality, I have no idea where else we’d possibly go. From everything I’ve seen and heard, the rest of the world is a wasteland, filled with violent criminals, gangs, and few survivors. The violent few who’ve managed to survive have congregated in the cities, kidnapping and enslaving whoever they can find, either for their own ends, or to service the death matches in the arenas. I am guessing that Bree and I are among very few survivors who still live freely, on our own, outside the cities. And among the very few who haven’t yet starved to death.
I light the candle, and Sasha follows as I walk slowly through the darkened house. I assume Bree is asleep, and this worries me: she normally doesn’t sleep this much. I stop before her door, debating whether to wake her. As I stand there, I look up and am startled by my own reflection in the small mirror. I look much older, as I do every time I see myself. My face, thin and angular, is flush from the cold, my light brown hair falls down, framing my face, to my shoulders, and my steel-grey eyes stare back at me as if they belong to someone I don’t recognize. They are hard, intense eyes. Dad always said they were the eyes of a wolf. Mom always said they were beautiful. I wasn’t sure who to believe.
I quickly look away, not wanting to see myself. I reach out and turn the mirror backwards, so that it won’t happen again.
I slowly open Bree’s door. The second I do, Sasha charges in and rushes to Bree’s side, lying down and resting her chin on Bree’s chest as she licks her face. It never ceases to amaze me how close those two are—sometimes I feel like they are even closer than we are.
Bree slowly opens her eyes, and squints into the darkness.
“Brooke?” she asks.
“It’s me,” I say, softly. “I’m home.”
She sits up and smiles as her eyes light up with recognition. She lies on a cheap mattress on the floor, and throws off her thin blanket and begins to get out of bed, still in her pajamas. She is moving more slowly than usually, and it is obvious she is still sick.
I lean down and give her a hug.
“I have a surprise for you,” I say, barely able to contain my excitement.
She looks up wide-eyed, then closes her eyes and opens her hands, waiting. She is so believing, so trusting, it amazes me. I debate what to give her first, then settle on the chocolate. I reach into my pocket and pull out the bar, and place it slowly in her palm. She opens her eyes and looks down at her hand, squinting in the light, unsure. I hold the candle up to it.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Chocolate,” I answer.
She looks up as if I’m playing a trick on her.
“Really,” I say.
“But where did you get it?” she asks, uncomprehending. She looks down as if an asteroid has just landed in her hand. I don’t blame her: there are no stores anymore, no people around, and no place within a hundred miles of here that I could conceivably find such a thing.
I smile down at her. “Santa gave it to me, for you. It’s an early Christmas present.”
She wrinkles her brows. “No, really,” she insists.
I take a deep breath, realizing it’s time to tell her about our new home, about leaving here tomorrow. I try to figure the best way to phrase it. I hope she will be as excited as I am—but with kids, you never know. A part of me worries she might be attached to this place, and not want to leave.
“Bree, I have some big news,” I say, as I lean down and hold her shoulders. “I discovered the most amazing place today, high up. It’s a small, stone cottage, and it’s perfect for us. It’s cozy, and warm, and safe, and it has the most beautiful fireplace, which we can light every night. And best of all, it has all kinds of food right there. Like this chocolate.”
Bree looks back down at the chocolate, studying it, and her eyes open twice as wide as she realizes it’s real. She gently pulls back the wrapper, and smells it. She closes her eyes and smiles, then leans in to take a bite—but suddenly stops herself. She looks up at me in concern.
“What about you?” she asks. “Is there only one bar?”
That’s Bree, always so considerate, even if she’s starving. “You go first,” I say. “It’s okay.”
She pulls the wrapper back, and takes a big bite. Her face, hollowed-out from hunger, crumbles in ecstasy.
“Chew slowly,” I warn. “You don’t want to get a stomach ache.”
She slows down, savoring each bite. She breaks off a big piece and puts it in my palm. “Your turn,” she says.
I slowly put it into my mouth, taking a small bite, letting it sit on the tip of my tongue. I suck on it, then chew it slowly, savoring every moment. The taste and smell of chocolate fills my senses. It is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever had.
Sasha whines, pushing her nose close to the chocolate, and Bree breaks off a chunk and gives it to her. Sasha snaps it out of her fingers and swallows it in a single gulp. Bree laughs, delighted by her, as always. Then, in an impressive show of self-restraint, Bree wraps up the remaining half of the bar, rationing it. She reaches up and wisely places it way up high on the dresser, out of Sasha’s reach. She still looks weak, but I can see her spirits starting to return.
“What’s that?” she asks, pointing at my waist.
For a moment I don’t realize what she’s talking about, then I look down and see the teddy bear. In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten. I reach down and hand it to her.
“I found it in our new home,” I say. “It’s for you.”
Bree’s eyes open wide in excitement as she clutches the bear, wrapping it to her chest and rocking it back and forth.
“I love it!” Bree exclaims, her eyes shining. “When can we move? I can’t wait!”
I am relieved. Before I can respond, Sasha leans in and sticks her nose in Bree’s new teddy bear, sniffing it; Bree rubs it playfully in Sasha’s face, and Sasha snatches it and runs out the room.
“Hey!” Bree yells, erupting in hysterical laughter as she chases after her.