Despite the creepiness of the way his gaze seeps into my pores, there’s something else about him that sends a shudder through my own bones.
“Digory. Look what he’s wearing.”
Even though this stranger’s clothes are ripped and flapping in shredded tatters, there’s no mistaking the familiar jumpsuit design and the ID tag that hangs from his scrawny neck.
“A Recruit uniform,” Digory whispers.
I snatch the ID tag loose. The man yelps as if I’ve struck him and curls into a fetal position.
I dangle the silver chain in front of Digory’s face. “He’s one of us.”
Nineteen
The Recruit just lies there, still as a corpse. The only sign of life is the tide of soft whimpers that rises from him.
My brain spirals. “He has to be one of the Fallen Five.” I squat close to him. “It all fits. His age … clothes … where we’ve found him.” My eyes pierce Digory’s.
“He’s definitely about the right age.” Digory plucks the ID tag from my hand. He twists it in his fingers, examining the front and back. “Name’s covered in gunk. Can’t make it out.”
“What’s your name?” I ask the stranger.
He just shakes his head as if he doesn’t know the answer.
Realization dawns on me. “It must have been him that I saw … behind the tree-” I glance at Digory, not bothering to conceal my I told you so expression.
Digory counters with a sorry I doubted you look and stoops beside the stranger. “It’s gonna be okay. How have you survived out here all on your own? What do you do for food?” He cushions each word as if it’s made of delicate porcelain.
The Recruit’s breathing shifts to a slower tempo. His whimpers become a sigh, then a purr. He looks away. “I get by.”
I edge in closer to him. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna get you out of here. Take you home.”
The unknown Recruit springs up. His eyes boomerang between Digory and me.
“It’s too late,” he rasps. He’s trembling all over. He leans into my ear. “The Fleshers will get you too,” he whispers.
Fleshers. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but something about the word and the way it quavers in his throat causes my skin to break out into thousands of tiny bumps, swelling to burst free like hungry larvae feeding off fear.
The man’s eyes flood. “They … they ambushed us … there were too many of ’em … they just kept coming … and coming … but I got away … ” He buries his face in his hands. “Never saw the others again.” He looks up. “I looked for so long, but I never found ’em.” His eyes cloud over in a swirling haze of memory. “There was a little girl … I forget her name now. So pretty … such nice hair … ” Tears stream down his cheeks. “Why can’t I remember her name?” His head snaps to the left and he looks up, as if he’s heard something we can’t. He clamps his hands over his ears.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“That sound … that terrible sound. It’s them! The Fleshers. They’re all around us! Make it stop! Make it stop!”
Digory stoops and pries the Recruit’s hands from his ears. “What are … the Fleshers?”
The man smiles for the first time, revealing a full set of grimy teeth, all intact except for the jagged center tooth. “The Establishment wasn’t the only thing that survived the Ash Wars. There are others … things that prefer the dark … ” His snorts become cackles until his entire body is convulsing with laughter, despite the stark terror in his eyes.
I rub my arms, trying in vain to warm my body. “We’re looking for a missing recon patrol from that wrecked troop carrier,” I tell him. “Do you know where they are?”
Drool seeps from the corner of his lips. “They’re right here,” he whispers. “All around us … listening to everything we say … ”
Digory and I crane our necks in every direction.
“There’s no one else here,” Digory says.
“There sure as hell is!” the man snaps. He digs into the mound he was hiding behind and pulls something out, thrusting it in front of our faces.
A severed arm.
I stare in revulsion at the pale flesh, which seems to be relatively intact. Fresh. At least in appearance if not in odor. The fingers are curled inward, clutching something gold-a pin, from the looks of it. Clamping a hand over my nose and mouth, I lean in and yank the object free.
It’s an Imposer badge. I can’t read the first name because it’s coated in something dark and sticky. But the last name hits me like a sonic pulse.
“Cordoba. The commander of the missing recon patrol.” I force the words through clenched teeth and look up as I hand the badge to Digory.
“Looks like we have our proof.” His eyes are somber as he tucks the badge into his pocket. “Whoever or whatever did this has Slade and the others running scared.”
“It isn’t a Sim,” I whisper. “It isn’t a Sim…”
Just above the grisly wrist the Recruit is still holding out to me, there’s a semicircle of indentations separated by small spaces. The pattern is almost perfect, except for a jagged slash at its center.
Bite marks.
I look back up. The fallen Recruit’s staring at me, licking his lips, mouth once again upturned in a foam-coated grin … proudly displaying his chipped front tooth.
The crackle of my walkie nearly gives me a heart attack.
“There’s something coming!” I hear Gideon shriek through the speaker. “We gotta go. Now!”
“The Fleshers,” I whisper.
A tremor rocks the basin.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” Digory grabs my hand and pulls me away from the mound.
In the distance, dark shadows flit among the hives of bone like marauding insects, nibbling their way toward our position as we scramble toward the carrier.
Another powerful rumble rocks the ground, the deep bass of a siren that vibrates through the canyon like the cry of some prehistoric beast, followed by a series of clanks and grinds from some poorly oiled machine, mixed with sickening wet squishes and a clatter … like snapping teeth.
We run nearly smack into Gideon and Ophelia.
“Where’s Cypress?” I gasp out.
“Probably already at the ship, getting ready to take off without us.” Gideon jabs a finger past us. “What the hell are those things?”
Ophelia’s eyes bulge. “The Five.”
I shake my head. “Sounds more like five thousand.”
Digory pushes us forward. “We’re not sticking around long enough to find out!”
That siren blasts louder than ever and a big blur of creepy bursts through the hives just ahead, cutting us off from the carrier.
“Take cover!” Digory shouts.
I dive to the ground and roll behind the nearest mound, pressing close to it so whoever or whatever it is can’t spot me. Jagged bones pierce the skin on my back. My heart punches the walls of my chest. A drought hits my mouth. I try to slow my breathing so I won’t pass out.
The mechanical noise putters throughout the canyon. Rusty gears clink together, screeching in protest. At first it seems further away; then it gets closer and closer. I hug my almost bare torso against the chill. The thing must be making a sweep. What is it about that sound that gnaws at my memory?
Then it hits me. Back at the Parish. Walking home from school past the Borough’s processing plants-
It’s the sound the meat grinders make during a particularly sparse season.
The sound creeps nearer. It’s just on the other side of the mound I’m curled behind. My eyes squeeze shut.
Whirrrrrrrrrrr …
Clackclackclackclackclack …
My body’s clenched so tight it feels like my own bones are about to pop from their sockets.