“Lurkers,” I breathe out. I’m suddenly nauseous. It reminds me of the time I ate a tuna sandwich that had been left out for two days, a gut-churning sensation that makes me want to hurl. “Lurkers. A shit ton of ‘em. Four, maybe even five. If there’s a rogue out there, they might be why they’re screaming. The lurkers are coming right at us.”
“How the hell do you know that?” His voice is an accusation disguised as surprise.
I don’t blame him. “I don’t know, but I’m sure of it.” I don’t even bother zipping up my pack. I just get up, shrug it on, then grab my sleeping bag. I crumple it up as best as I can, hugging it to my chest. “We’ve gotta get the fuck out of here. Now.”
I don’t like to run. When it comes to a lurker, I’ve always stood my ground, ready to fight; when it’s me or them, the answer’s forever a resoundingme. But I’m not an idiot. For all my matches and Maverick’s supplies, we haven’t yet stumbled upon any secret caches of glass bottles amongst the trees. I’m fresh out of firebombs. And while a lit match and a pinch of luck might mean I could go after one lurker on my own, there’s no way we can face so many with what we have.
Maverick hesitates. As though he doesn’t quite believe me, he shields his eyes with his hand, searching for either the rogue or the lurkers.
Screw that.
“They’re coming,” I insist.
I finally get through to him. He nods at last. Stopping only to grab his own bedroll, plus his pack, Maverick turns around and gestures for me to follow him.
But I’m not there. I’m already twenty feet ahead of him.
CHAPTER 11
Call me ridiculous and bitter if you want, but I refuse to speak to Maverick the whole next day. I don’t even know if he realized, as quiet as he is as he constantly checks his compass, picking his way through the ruined streets and half-burnt trees. Probably not.
I don’t care.
I’m so fucking furious that, after all his talk about surviving on the Outside and gunning for a huge lurker nest, he screwed up my first night out of the Grave. He’s the one who pointed out that a fire was essential to ward off the monsters. Keeping a fire going when avoiding threats is, like, Hunting 101. You only stay in the dark when you’re trying to lure the creatures close enough to kill, not when one of you is asleep and defenseless.
And heput it out. It’s not like he nodded off and it went out. He extinguished it purposely all because he thought he heard a rogue.
What happened to the gun, big shot?
Ugh.
So I keep quiet, stewing silently, and that actually works in my favor. The morning’s march is rough. Maverick is relentless. Whether he’s trying to make up for his mistake last night or hewas just going easy on me yesterday, who knows, but he’s like a machine. He doesn’t stop at all for the first few hours, not even when he checks his compass, and he only pauses long enough to make sure I’m still behind him as we tromp through whatever woods he can find.
Maverick seems impressed that I’m there every time he checks. Of course I am. Anger has a way of keeping me motivated and I refuse to let him see me falter.
But no matter how pissed-off I was when we first abandoned our makeshift campsite, I’m not used to this; my anger can only take me so far, and don’t forget that my sleep was cut short. My legs start to tire around midday, and the renewed thirst comes soon after.
It’s not helping that I’m sweating so much.
Summer’s returned with a vengeance. It might be mid-September, but it’s got to be at least eighty degrees outside. I wore Denise’s hooded sweatshirt at night when it dips down below sixty degrees, wrapping it around my waist now that it’s day.
Rory’s jacket, though? I’m stubborn enough that I wear that no matter what.
And then, by early afternoon, I stop sweating at all—and that’s a problem. It’s like someone stuck a pin in the back of my throat, that’s how much it hurts each time I swallow. The last thing I need is to get dehydrated, but I don’t ask Maverick if he has any water left in his bottle.
Mine was empty by lunch, and though we’ve exited the latest patch of trees we were in, cutting through a neighborhood with that same rotten stink that tells us it’s infested, that means we’re nowhere near a house where we can refill it. I still ignore how bad I need some water.
Shit. My pride is going to get me killed.
Maverick swears by his compass; turns out that one of the pieces of paper he keeps pulling out and looking at is an old, outdated map he took from the closed gas station back at the Grave. From his travels, he has some idea where we are and where we’re going, but once he has a street sign to navigate by, he slows down. For the last two hours, he’s begun to pause every now and then to consult them both. I don’t mind. I start to recognize the signs and, after the third time he takes the map out to glance at it and make a turn down another side street, I know when to expect a small break.
And I need it desperately.
My boots fit well, but twenty miles in two days is enough to make any feet tender. Rory’s jacket is weighing me down; so is my backpack and the sleeping bag. My gifted sweatshirt keeps untying, the sleeve dragging in the dirt. I yank it off, draping it over the edge of a cracked curb, then plop my ass down.
Looking as if he doesn’t even feel the heat or the pace, Maverick crouches down next to me. He pulls out his crackers again, plus a half-empty jar of peanut butter from his pack.
Snacktime.