“Damn it, Bram.” Raven’s voice rises a little, hysterical, and Blue, who has fallen asleep finally, curled up among the blankets, stirs fitfully. Raven straightens up. She has managed to get a fire started. She takes a step back and stares at the first twisting flames, blue and green and red.
“They’ll have to take care of themselves,” she says more quietly, and even though she has regained her self-control I can hear the pain running under her words, a ribbon of fear and grief. “We’ll have to go on without them.”
“That’s fucked,” Bram says, but halfheartedly. He knows she’s right.
Raven stands there for a long time, as some of the others move quietly along the banks of the river, setting up camp: piling the backpacks together to form a shelter from the wind, unpacking and repacking the food, figuring out new rations. I go to Raven and stand next to her for a while. I want to put my arms around her, but I can’t. You don’t do that kind of thing with Raven. And in a weird way, I understand that she needs her hardness now more than ever.
Still, I want to comfort her somehow. So I say, low so that nobody else can hear me, “Tack will be okay. If anybody can survive out here, no matter what, it’s Tack.”
“Oh, I know,” she says. “I’m not worried. He’ll make it just fine.”
But when she looks at me I can see a deadness in her eyes, like she has closed a door somewhere deep inside of her—and I know that even she does not believe it.
The morning dawns gray and cold. It has begun to snow again. I’ve never been so cold in my life. It takes forever to stamp the feeling back into my feet. We have all slept out in the open. Raven worried that the tents would be too conspicuous, making us easy targets should the helicopters or planes return. But the skies are empty and the woods are still. Bits of ash intermingle with the snow, carrying the faint smell of smoke.
We head for the first encampment, the one Roach and Buck prepared for our arrival: a distance of eighty miles. At first we all walk quietly, occasionally scanning the skies, but after a few hours we start to loosen up. The snow continues to fall, softening the landscape, purifying the air, until the lingering smells of smoke have all been whited out.
Then we talk a little more freely. How did they find us? Why the attack? Why now?
For years, the Invalids have been able to count on one critical fact: They are not supposed to exist. The government has for decades denied that anyone inhabits the Wilds, and thus the Invalids have remained relatively safe. Any large-scale physical attack from the government would be tantamount to an admission of error.
But it seems that has changed.
Much later, we will find out why: The resistance has stepped up its game. They grew tired of waiting, of minor pranks and protests.
And so, the Incidents: explosives planted in prisons, and city halls, and government offices across the country.
Sarah, who has been running ahead, loops back around to me. “What do you think happened to Tack and Hunter?” she says. “Do you think they’ll be okay? Do you think they’ll find us?”
“Shhh.” I hush her sharply. Raven is walking ahead of us, and I glance up to see whether she has heard. “Don’t worry about that. Tack and Hunter can take care of themselves.”
“But what about Squirrel and Grandma? Do you think they got out okay?”
I think about that giant convulsive shudder—stone and dirt blasting inward—all the shouting and the smoke. There was so much noise, so much flame. I try to reach for a memory of Squirrel and Grandma, some vision of them running into the woods, but all I have are silhouettes, screaming and shouted orders, people turning to smoke.
“You ask too many questions,” I tell her. “You should be saving your strength.”
She has been trotting like a dog. Now she slows down to a walk. “Are we going to die?” she asks solemnly.
“Don’t be stupid. You’ve relocated before.”
“But the people on the inside of the fence…” She bites her lip. “They want to kill us, don’t they?”
I feel something tighten inside of me, a spasm of deep hatred. I reach out and put a hand on her head. “They haven’t killed us yet,” I say, and I imagine that one day I will fly a plane over Portland, over Rochester, over every fenced-in city in the whole country, and I will bomb and bomb and bomb, and watch all their buildings smoldering to dust, and all those people melting and bleeding into flame, and I will see how they like it.
If you take, we will take back. Steal from us, and we will rob you blind. When you squeeze, we will hit.
This is the way the world is made now.