The pile of ashes is still there when Maverick wakes up on his own at dawn. He takes one look at it, then nods with a thin-lipped frown before he starts to break up camp.
Huh.
It seems I’ve proven myself after all.
CHAPTER 13
It’s only been five days and I’ve given up trying to figure out where we are.
It’s not Manhattan, that’s for sure.
It’s a lot of outdoors. I was lucky enough to convince him to let us scavenge through a couple of houses yesterday so I could refill my water again, then wash up at the sink, but if I had grand visions of a cold shower, he shot that down real quick. He didn’t want to linger, and I only hoped that he knew how to read that compass and the map he keeps poring over.
Maverick seems to think our safest course is staying close to the trees during daylight. There’s enough light to guarantee that the lurkers won’t come after us. Then, at night, the threat of the lurkers aren’t anywhere near as bad as they would be if we marched through infested neighborhoods.
I’ll tell you what. I never knew there were so many parks and woods, rivers, brooks, and streams within (technical) walking distance of old Madison. All I can remember of the before times are the roads and the power lines; I took all of the nature of the Garden State for granted until now, when shade represents safety and an open stretch of flat grass makes it easier to spot any lurkers on the hunt after dark.
After what happened our first night, Maverick and I come to an arrangement that works for us: we continue to split the night watch, a strict four-hour shift so that there’s always someone watching out for lurkers. I don’t think he ever expected one to come so close with the fire burning bright, youngling or not, and I have this phobia that he’ll let the fire die and we’ll both end up lurker food. We still light it religiously, hoping to deter the adult creatures, but the nightly watches are more important than either of us initially imagined with younglings on the hunt.
The only problem is that, for me, getting only four hours of sleep a night isn’t nearly enough after a good sixteen hours’ of walking each day. After Hallie’s accident and before I left the Grave, I used to get at least ten hours a night. I know this is making me move a lot slower than Maverick would like—especially five days in—but there’s nothing I can do about it. His muttered comments and barely masked sighs aren’t helping, either.
Thank you, Mr. Police Officer.
So far, I know three things about him: his name, that he was a former cop, and that he hates lurkers with a passion he doesn’t show toward anything else. He’s quiet and stoic, as mysterious as he was when we first met, and no matter how often I try to strike up a conversation so that we’re at least on a more even footing, it doesn’t work..
He knows way more about me than I would like. He’s super observant, too—a fact I figured out when he came up with the rope idea—and he’s also smart enough to keep his mouth shut when he notices that I don’t use it. He might not tell me anything about himself, but he’s asked me a few pointed questions about Rory and Hallie and Jack that leave me uncomfortable enough that I close my own trap.
I do, however, ask him if we’re getting any closer. He says we are, but as my blisters start to get blisters, I have my doubts.
The night before, we camped on the edge of a park, near a sign that is half-burned, half-gnawed, and dotted with the rust-colored spray of spilt blood. It saysanco Park, leaving me to wonder what the rest of the name used to be. One thing for sure: we’ve left the Grave far behind us, and my habit of staying close to home in the before times is biting me in the ass. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that we’re both traveling blind, with only an outdated map and a compass to guide us.
Wherever we are, Maverick wasn’t happy with the park. Something about him had him anxious, and when we were settling down across from the fire he built, he didn’t put his lighters in his lap.
Nope. He took out his gun, perching it on his thigh.
It’s a revolver. Mav might not tell me about his life before the Turning, but when I asked him about the gun, he was at least willing to answer some questions about his weapon.
And that’s how I know that there are only two rounds left in the revolver.
Was there six to begin with like most guns? Yup. One shot told him that a lurker was vulnerable in the first twenty-four hours after they Turn. Another told him that theyweren’t after that marker passed.
Do I know what happened to the other two rounds?
Rogues.
He’s had to fire on two rogues.
I didn’t get any further details on that. Just enough to know that Maverick spent the first four months since the Turning in a settlement a few miles away from his hometown before he went on the hunt, a rogue himself. It’s only the last eight weeks that he’s been focused on taking out the New York City nest, and after six other settlements turned him down, he found himself in the Grave.
I know there are rogues out there. He heard screaming our first night together, and, well, we’re both rogues now, too. I want to say we’re not dangerous, but then I think about how easily I made a flamethrower to take out that youngling. I ask myself: if someone came after us, am I a threat?
Yeah. I am. I’d kill to protect myself, and one look at Maverick when he doesn’t think I can see his expression tells me that he’s more than willing to do the same.
He fired on two rogues, and I’m damn sure he killed them.
This is the world now. It’s us versus them, and sometimes thethemaren’t just lurkers.
The high-pitched cry of some bird pierces the early afternoon air.