While the heavy shower is loud enough to drown out any noise, we travel without speaking. In the distance, a thick, smoky haze hangs heavy over the city, mingling with dark, stormy clouds.
“Why were you so far from the Lost City?” I ask as we trudge through the mud, breaking the lengthy silence. “It seems like it’d be easier to pillage close to Everland.”
“There’s nothing useful left inside the city limits. What supplies haven’t already been scavenged, Hook’s men have taken for themselves. Other than what the Marauders have confiscated, there’s nothing left.”
“How do you and the other Lost Kids survive? There can’t be nearly enough food in your rucksack to supply an entire city of kids.”
“Nonperishables and supplies come from the scavenges,” Pete says. “Scavengers are teamed in pairs and given designated neighborhoods to scour. That’s why we were so far from Everland.”
“But there’s hardly anything left in the outskirts,” I say. “I could barely support myself and my sister and brother, much less hundreds of other children.”
“We also live off of whatever is easily accessible: underground mushrooms, stray animals, rats, insects,” Pete says, snatching a grasshopper from the tall grass. He pops the bug into his mouth. It crunches like the sound of potato crisps, sending a shiver through my body.
“You don’t at least cook them?” I ask as he picks up another. My stomach rolls when he bites it in two.
“And there’s also the underground garden that Spade, our horticulturist, and the Harvesters tend to,” Pete says, ignoring my question.
“Underground garden? How is that possible?”
“Cogs and his team of Tinkers tapped into the Thames and created the hydropowered something-or-other with a monstrous steam turbine. I don’t understand all the fancy science behind it, but it fuels the ecolanterns used to simulate sunlight, irrigates the crops, and funnels into the water-purifying system. It’s quite a sophisticated design for a chap who’s only sixteen.”
“A sixteen-year-old engineer? A teenage doctor? Did the war and virus spare only the geniuses?” I ask.
“Well, you know what they say: Only the strong and the paranoid survive.” Pete eyes me, a peculiar expression crossing his face. “Which makes me wonder, how have you lasted so long?”
“I’m strong and certainly not paranoid,” I reply with defiance.
Pete’s brows raise, as if I’ve spoken nonsense. “We also rely on the fish in the Thames when we can manage to find them. The riverbanks are heavily guarded, though. Most days we can’t fish without risk of being caught, but you are right, it is getting harder to find provisions.”
“What will you do when the supplies run out?” I ask. “The provisions from the scavenges, I mean. Surely a garden isn’t enough to sustain you all.”
Pete grimaces and shakes his head but doesn’t answer. Instead, he trudges on.
We travel for a little while longer, quietly sneaking by a group of soldiers on patrol and ducking past parked Steam Crawlers. The overgrown shrubs and tall grass shield us from their view. We stop only once: to eat fresh berries we find growing on a small bush. The bright tartness bursts on my tongue, and my stomach rumbles for more even after we’ve devoured them all. Eventually, we reach the end of the railway, its tracks buckled and rusty. Broken beams and shattered glass from what appears to have been a station platform litter the ground. A search zeppelin flies overhead; its boilers hiss and propellers whir, rustling the weeds that have taken over the abandoned lots. We wait for it to pass. I hold my breath, afraid the simple act of breathing might bring an army of Marauders. As the zeppelin’s engine fades, I let out a sigh.
“We’re here,” Pete whispers. Cautiously, he steps out from our hiding place.
Alarmed, I grab his arm, tugging him back into the brush. “What are you doing?”
“Just watch,” he whispers, stepping into the open. Pete makes his way to the train tracks. His rooster call shatters the early afternoon silence. I shrink down into the prickly brush, expecting dozens of Marauders to descend upon us.
“It’s about time you guys got here.” Her voice chastises us from somewhere high in a grove of tall oaks. She floats down from a tree like a butterfly as her wings flutter, steam from her rocket pack haloing her. When her boots touch the ground, she pulls a lever on the straps over her shoulders and the wings close with a snap. “I was beginning to wonder if the Immune was holding you back. I’m surprised she wasn’t caught.”
Despite my relief at seeing Bella, I still scowl. She smirks, obviously glad her jab at me has hit its mark.
“Where’s Mikey?” I ask, ineffectively trying to cover the worry in my voice.
Bella sighs. “Stupid Bartholomew Smeeth found us. He really needs to find a new hobby. Why can’t that bloke just leave me alone? Creepy guy needs some therapy or something. Who chases little kids? That’s the kind of person my parents warned me about in primary school.”