crevice or crack, lay my tooth, dull and yellow, about to be discovered. Like my own excruciating existence: discarded and hidden, eventually to be discovered.
And yet. Although I lived in a tiny crack between two worlds, in my father’s arms was a universe of solace that was as high and wide and deep as love itself. And that day in his arms, I made a vow that would fuse so seamlessly into the core of my being that I’d forget ever consciously making it; until a decade later, when, floating on a boat down a river and seeing my name carved into a stone tablet, I would suddenly remember and commit myself anew to this vow: my father was my world and if he ever disappeared, I would search for him to the ends of this fractured earth.
4
N IGHT FALLS. AND with it, the day’s celebratory mood. The land blackens into a gloaming and the river, once smooth as plates of armor, is fraught with an urgent undertow. White splashes kick up against the river’s edge, ephemeral ghosts. Nobody utters the word hunter but the fear it generates is ever present in the tense lines grooved into our foreheads, in eyes that nervously scan the land, in tense backs that will not lie down to sleep this night. Although we have not eaten in days, our bodies have adapted to the lack of nourishment by tapping into inner reserves. But very soon—two days, at most—these reserves will be depleted, and we will start breaking down.
Sissy is sharpening her daggers, eyes fixed on the riverbank. Epap paces back and forth, the Scientist’s journal in hand, occasionally flipping through the pages. When it happens, it is sudden.
“Sissy…” David whispers, eyes saucer-wide.
There are three of them. Sprinting in tight formation, a mile behind us, racing along the bank. They are on all fours, their bodies cheetah-like, legs and arms extending out to the ground, grabbing it, thrusting it under them in a blur with every leap and kick. The lead runner drops off, rejoining the line at the back of the formation. A new lead runner takes its place in the front. I see what they’re doing: drafting off one another in a paceline, all the better to cut down on drag and exploit the lead runner’s slipstream. Running in a paceline will mean improving their net group speed by at least 10 percent—a significant advantage in a journey encompassing hundreds of miles.
In seconds, they are sprinting alongside us. They are a tapestry of horror. Their skin, partially melted in the daylight like warm plastic in an oven, has, with the arrival of night, petrified into solid, pulled-back folds. Splattered randomly about their bodies are splotches of hair, tufting out in ugly streaks. No, not hair; these are remnants of their SunCloaks now melded into the soft pliability of half-melted skin. They’ve become ragged stray animals, foaming at the mouth, diseased skin dripping off bones, skinned paws pounding the ground. Their eyeballs swivel around to gaze—with longing and devotion—at us.
The third hunter looks vaguely familiar. Somewhere behind all the melted folds of flesh is a face I almost recognize. A large bag is strapped on its back—on all their backs, in fact—bulging with what looks like heavy equipment and bundles of rope. There must be at least a ton of gear on them. Their staggering strength is horrendous and awesome.
And then they sprint past us.
“Sissy?” Jacob utters.
Not even a single look thrown back at us. Their loping pale bodies disappear over the crest of a short hill. They reappear on the rise of the next hill, but much farther away, smaller, their collective speed, if anything, even faster now.
“Sissy? What’re they doing?” David’s face is ridden with fear. He stares off into the distance where they have disappeared. “Why did they race off?”
Sissy turns to me, confused and anxious. “Do you know?”
I shake my head. Nothing about this makes sense.
“I don’t like this,” Sissy whispers, and for the first time in days, a
And yet. Although I lived in a tiny crack between two worlds, in my father’s arms was a universe of solace that was as high and wide and deep as love itself. And that day in his arms, I made a vow that would fuse so seamlessly into the core of my being that I’d forget ever consciously making it; until a decade later, when, floating on a boat down a river and seeing my name carved into a stone tablet, I would suddenly remember and commit myself anew to this vow: my father was my world and if he ever disappeared, I would search for him to the ends of this fractured earth.
4
N IGHT FALLS. AND with it, the day’s celebratory mood. The land blackens into a gloaming and the river, once smooth as plates of armor, is fraught with an urgent undertow. White splashes kick up against the river’s edge, ephemeral ghosts. Nobody utters the word hunter but the fear it generates is ever present in the tense lines grooved into our foreheads, in eyes that nervously scan the land, in tense backs that will not lie down to sleep this night. Although we have not eaten in days, our bodies have adapted to the lack of nourishment by tapping into inner reserves. But very soon—two days, at most—these reserves will be depleted, and we will start breaking down.
Sissy is sharpening her daggers, eyes fixed on the riverbank. Epap paces back and forth, the Scientist’s journal in hand, occasionally flipping through the pages. When it happens, it is sudden.
“Sissy…” David whispers, eyes saucer-wide.
There are three of them. Sprinting in tight formation, a mile behind us, racing along the bank. They are on all fours, their bodies cheetah-like, legs and arms extending out to the ground, grabbing it, thrusting it under them in a blur with every leap and kick. The lead runner drops off, rejoining the line at the back of the formation. A new lead runner takes its place in the front. I see what they’re doing: drafting off one another in a paceline, all the better to cut down on drag and exploit the lead runner’s slipstream. Running in a paceline will mean improving their net group speed by at least 10 percent—a significant advantage in a journey encompassing hundreds of miles.
In seconds, they are sprinting alongside us. They are a tapestry of horror. Their skin, partially melted in the daylight like warm plastic in an oven, has, with the arrival of night, petrified into solid, pulled-back folds. Splattered randomly about their bodies are splotches of hair, tufting out in ugly streaks. No, not hair; these are remnants of their SunCloaks now melded into the soft pliability of half-melted skin. They’ve become ragged stray animals, foaming at the mouth, diseased skin dripping off bones, skinned paws pounding the ground. Their eyeballs swivel around to gaze—with longing and devotion—at us.
The third hunter looks vaguely familiar. Somewhere behind all the melted folds of flesh is a face I almost recognize. A large bag is strapped on its back—on all their backs, in fact—bulging with what looks like heavy equipment and bundles of rope. There must be at least a ton of gear on them. Their staggering strength is horrendous and awesome.
And then they sprint past us.
“Sissy?” Jacob utters.
Not even a single look thrown back at us. Their loping pale bodies disappear over the crest of a short hill. They reappear on the rise of the next hill, but much farther away, smaller, their collective speed, if anything, even faster now.
“Sissy? What’re they doing?” David’s face is ridden with fear. He stares off into the distance where they have disappeared. “Why did they race off?”
Sissy turns to me, confused and anxious. “Do you know?”
I shake my head. Nothing about this makes sense.
“I don’t like this,” Sissy whispers, and for the first time in days, a
Similar Books
In Hot Water
J. J. Cook
Aligned: Volume 2
Ella Miles
Beneath the Book Tower: An Alex McKnight Short Story
Steve Hamilton
The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence
Tracy Whiting
City of Ice
John Farrow
The Mage and the Magpie
Austin J. Bailey
Seize the Booty! (Erotica Arcanus)
E.E. Wellington
Aftertime
Sophie Littlefield
Slow Summer Burn: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance
Elisabeth Barrett