The Survivors Read Online Free PDF

barely even freeze when it’s twenty below zero. But they make the best jelly and pancake syrup a man could ever want. You’ve got to know your wild berries if you want to live off the land. But why am I telling you this? You don’t write anything down .
    I don’t need to write things down .
    You told me you had some report to write for your teacher .
    I do, but I can remember every word you say .
    So tell me what I said .
    â€œâ€˜Bears won’t eat them; birds won’t touch them unless there’s nothing else to eat. So much acid in them that they barely even freeze when it’s twenty below zero. But they make the best jelly and pancake syrup a man could ever want—’”
    Hehe. That’s pretty good, kid .
    I told you—I can remember every word .
    You’re a strange kid, that’s for sure .
    You’re a pretty weird old man .
    Hehe. Want to play cards?
    You don’t want to play cards with me .
    Why not?
    I can memorize cards, too. Every hand you play .
    Hehe. We’ll see about that....
    Miles reaches up and picks a single glowing-red high-bush cranberry—and pops it into his mouth. “Phaw!” He spits out the berry in an explosion of pulp and tiny seed. The berry is impossibly sour, but probably high in vitamin C. Miles marks this spot in his mind and moves on.
    Not far from the cabin he sees tracks. He kneels to examine the round, good-sized paw prints in the dust. Dog. One of the paw prints is faint—almost invisible—and turns sideways when it lands. A bad leg. A limping dog. He follows its trail, which backtracks and meanders and then returns toward the cabin. Miles slips a shell into the chamber and stays on the tracks.

CHAPTER FIVE
SARAH
    SARAH FLOATS THROUGH THE MORNING classes, then joins the rest of the students in watching the clock as lunchtime approaches. She tries to be casual with her glances. Someone’s stomach growls loudly, and there is sudden laughter. The clock hands tick slowly on. Other stomachs begin to growl like a slow-gathering chorus of frogs. The one good thing about environmental collapse and reduced food supplies is that there are way fewer fat kids.
    At 10:57 A.M . the first lunch bell rings. The students lurch up from their desks, and she joins the giant snake of bodies speed walking to the cafeteria. Last year she hardly ever ate the school’s lunch; and when she did, she was never in any hurry. This year she walks fast and keeps others from cutting ahead of her. Lunch is serious now.
    At the counter a woman wearing a hairnet and clear plastic gloves dishes out spoonfuls of a cheesy hot dish that has clumps of mystery meat. The next woman in line piles on soggy, limp green beans. After that it’s the potato woman—whose face looks like a potato. But any food is a nice change from river fish and rice. The other students in line carefully watch the cafeteria women dish out their food.
    â€œHey, he got more potatoes than me!” someone says.
    â€œKeep moving,” the potato-scooper woman says.
    With her tray, Sarah turns toward the crowded cafeteria tables. Always the big question: where to sit. She doesn’t see Mackenzie’s group. She drifts along, looking for an open space on the benches.
    Ray O’Keefe is seated at a table with kids of many colors: a peroxide blond Latino boy; a skinny Gothy girl with long black hair with cherry-red streaks; a couple of black-haired Native American boys; two white girls in dreads and tie-dyed T-shirts; one fat girl between two scrawny, bushy-haired white boys. Ray has a sketch pad open and a pencil in his hand.
    â€œSarah—here we are!” calls Mackenzie. She is moving along with a tray, and uses it to herd Sarah away from Ray’s table. Sarah glances over her shoulder helplessly at Ray.
    He shrugs and turns back to his friends.
    â€œYou weren’t actually going to sit by him, were you?” Mackenzie says, plopping down her