It hurts to think about him, just like it hurts to think about Jack, sitting there all alone in our kitchen with a cup of coffee he pretends to drink.
I’m just beginning to wonder if they’re thinking about me, too, when my heavy heart turns into a sinking stomach and I immediately jump up. It’s not as strong as it was yesterday, but I’m getting better at recognizing this feeling.
There’s a lurker coming.
My pack is at my feet, already open. Following Maverick’s example from earlier tonight, two lighters are waiting in my lap just in case something like this happened. For a moment, I ask myself if it’s worth it to take this lurker out myself or if I should wake up Mav.
I pay attention to my gut. It doesn’t seem like there's more than one. If I do this right, all it’ll take is one match and a steady hand.
I can do this.
Standing behind the fire, I wait to see if the lurker really will approach our camp. As the feeling intensifies, I keep glancing down at our makeshift pit, checking that it hasn’t gone out yet. There’s no reason why a lurker would risk coming closer to a fire that’s already raging—it’s too much of a death sentence. At least with a match and the dark, there’s the element of surprise on both our sides and it can be a struggle.
Right now, I have every advantage.
And then the lurker steps into the clearing about thirty feet from where I’m standing, and I suddenly understand.
It’s ayoungling.
I inhale sharply. I’ve never seen a youngling before, but I’ve heard the stories from some of the other hunters. They all agree that a youngling, despite its size, should never be underestimated.
Children who had been given the Injection and survived the Turning, children who were attacked by a lurker but not eaten… those are the younglings. Lurkers who are smaller and weaker than their adult counterparts, younglings are the desperate ones. They barely last more than a night because their bodies need even more food to sustain their metabolism.
Simply put, they’restarving.
And that’s why a youngling is desperate enough to walk toward a lapping fire if there’s a chance of a meal. Maverick and I would be enough meat to sustain it for another week at least.
This youngling isn’t strong enough to make my stomach any weaker than it is. There’s a strange scent coming from it, almost like burnt caramel, but I breathe through my mouth and it’s manageable. It’s moving slower than any lurker I’ve met before, and I understand why when I see that it’s tripping over the long hem of its over-sized robe.
No one knows where they get their cloaks from. Every one of those fuckers, big and small, seem to generate one after they Turn. Unlike the antidotes, they keep on coming—just like the monsters.
I give myself to the count of three before I’ll surge forward and fling a lit match right at it. Though it’s small, it’s still a lurker, and that means it’s far stronger than me. I need to be able to catch it off-guard—and that’s when it lifts its head and Ifreeze. It’s like a reverse-stare, and suddenly I understand why the other hunters insist that the younglings are so dangerous.
I can’t tell if it used to be a girl or a boy, but there’s definitely still something of a young child about its haunting face. It has the same black eyes, though they look more like ink than black marbles; its eyes are wet, silent tears streaming down its face, mingling with the drool escaping from its open maw, the same way Rory looked before I realized that he wasn’t my brother anymore. Pale, alabaster skin is stretched so tight over its skull that it’s almost like there’s no skin there at all, just bone.
All it wants to do is eat.
All it wants to do is eatme.
Like last night, I’m fighting every urge I have to run—except running is not an option right now. I know I have to kill it, but the last thing I want to do is move toward it. In order to use a match, I have to come face to face with a lurker and trust that the stare will give me enough time to strike it.
Fuck me. How can I do that if I’m the one paralyzed?
There are only ten feet separating the two of us with the youngling still plodding forward. Maverick is lying behind me, unaware that there’s any threat at all. I’m frozen in place, unsure what I’m supposed to do. It’s like I’ve never killed a lurker before.
And then it hits me.
It’s a good thing my pack is still open. I plunge my hand inside and, thank goodness, my hand closes on my can of hairspray with the first try. With one hand, I flip the cap off and place my finger on the nozzle. With the other, I snatch one of the lighters out of the dirt where it had fallen.
With shaking fingers, I quickly start to flick it.
My whole body is trembling which makes it nearly impossible. I almost drop the lighter once; my sweaty fingertip slips off the nozzle of the hairspray. When the lighter ignites at last, I let out a single satisfied cry before placing the flame in front of the hairspray and pressing down as hard as I can.
The stream of fire hits the youngling when there are only a few feet left; its hands were already outstretched, eager to wrap themselves around my throat, grabbing me and bringing me up to its terrifying teeth.
One short shot of the flammable aerosol spray combined with the lighter is all it takes. The robe and the unfortunate creature inside of it go up in the blast. Moments later, nothing but ashes are left.
All the same, I imagine the youngling’s voiceless screams inside my head long after the queasy feeling in my stomach has passed.