Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) by Laura Disilverio Page A

back to back, each scanning for threats. A tatter of mulberry-colored velvet drapes a window opening and a shard of broken china rests in one corner. Other than that, there’s nothing. This house is as empty as the one we slept in.
    “Halla?”
    “In here.” Her voice quavers.
    We follow her voice through a dining room to a laundry room. The washer-dryer is on its side, dented and clearly non-functional, door open, and Halla is scrunched on the floor behind it, clutching an armload of clothes.
    “I saw someone,” she whispers. “A man. I was in the kitchen”—she points—“and he looked in the window. He looked straight at me! He was horrible—bearded, hairy. I could smell him. I screamed and ran in here where there’s no windows.” She buries her face in the clothes.
    “We need to get out of here,” Wyck says crisply. “There might be more than one.”
    He and I each grab one of Halla’s arms and haul her up. She stuffs the clothes she’s holding into her bag. I put my hand on the knife tucked into my belt as we hurry from the house and jog back to where we spent the night. I see no one, but can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched. From the other houses? I study them surreptitiously as we pass. From the trees? I use my peripheral vision to try and spot something new, something out of place. I try to dismiss the feeling as paranoia. In all likelihood, it was an animal of some kind that Halla saw—a raccoon or bear, maybe. She said it was hairy and stinky. I’m not sure why the idea of an animal is less terrifying than a human, but it is.
    Reaching the house, we enter cautiously. My gaze flies to the scooters. One of them is gone.
     

Chapter Eleven
    The missing scooter spooks us. Halla wasn’t mistaken—there’s someone here . . . or there was. I hope that only one missing scooter means he’s alone. We’re out of the house in seconds, plunging into the woods with the two remaining scooters. Halla and I share one; it’s uncomfortable, slow, and means we’re draining the charge faster than before. Wyck’s got Halla’s diaper bag with him on his scooter to lighten ours a bit. The scooters ride lower and maneuver sluggishly with the increased weight. Despite that, they’re faster than walking, and we’re desperate to put distance between us and the not-so-deserted town.
    Forty-five minutes out, surrounded by dead trees, my shoulders relax and I feel safer. I mentally review my plan. The roads are unsafe now that there are undoubtedly searchers on our trail. There’s a swamp between us and Atlanta, the Okefenokee, and I think our best chance of making it to Atlanta lies in that swamp. For one thing, there’ll be water.
    We come to a break in the trees where we’re able to ride abreast with Wyck and I explain my reasoning.
    “Go through a swamp? Get real,” Wyck says. “The roads are our best bet. We can make better time.”
    “We’ll be caught on the roads, or anywhere there’s dust. We need the cover of the swamp. The scooters won’t send up dust plumes on wetter ground.”
    “What about snakes and alligators?” Halla asks.
    “Immaterial because we’re not stupid enough to go into the swamp,” Wyck says.
    I frown. “Seriously, Halla, there’s going to be dangers of one kind or another—animal or human—no matter what route we take.”
    “Who died and left you in charge, Jax?” Wyck asks, real anger in his voice now. “You may have the highest test scores ever seen at the Kube and be a whoop-de-doo five percenter, but last I looked that didn’t make you God. Halla and I had a fine plan before you horned in: get to Atlanta as quickly as possible. Going fast gets us there quicker so we won’t need to find as much food on the way. And the fewer days we spend on the road, the less chance there is we’ll run into trouble. Speed is the key ingredient here.”
    I’m stung by his attack, and cover my hurt with an acerbic response. “You’re going to speed right into