Isle of Swords by Wayne Thomas Batson Page B

sudden sense of loss. This was her fault. If he ripped open his wounds on a jagged branch, if he made a wrong turn and fell off a cliff, she’d never forgive herself. “Cat!” she yelled, even as she charged ahead. The path snaked left and right and up a gradual hill. Anne crested the hill. The down slope gave her too much speed. She ran on, unable to stop herself, stumbled awkwardly through a curtain of whiplike branches, and nearly ran smack into Cat. He stood beneath a natural archway of trees and stared out at a small town Anne had not known existed.
    One- and two-story buildings—some white, some pastels of green, blue, and pink—lined both sides of a once-well-trodden road. The sun beat down upon loose shingles and patched-up roofs. Windows were broken out, and some of the buildings were blackened as if by fire. There was no sign of anyone on the road, no sign of life inside any of the buildings, no sounds but the teeming rain forest that surrounded this place. The town was abandoned.
    â€œWhat is this place?” Anne asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Cat answered. “I mean, I know I’ve been here before. But . . .”
    â€œYou ran that path like you’d run it a hundred times.”
    â€œIt’s hard to explain.” Cat rubbed his temples. “How can I know this place, every house, every detail—but still not know it? It’s like peeking at something through a crack in a door—you know that you know what you’re looking at, but you don’t see enough of it for it to come clear in your mind.”
    â€œWell, there’s a way to fix that,” Anne said. “There’s no one here. Let’s go take a look around.”
    Cat nodded, and they slowly marched along the empty road.
    They walked up the creaking stairs of the first building on the left-hand side of the road and pushed open the door. Flakes of chipped paint fell at their feet, and a vile smell—half the stale, clothy odor of mold and half the sickly sweet scent of decay—greeted them as they entered. Flies buzzed, and rats scattered from the half-eaten carcass of some unidentifiable dead thing in the center of the floor.
    As Cat stepped inside, his foot brushed an empty dark brown bottle. It spun slowly on the floor among broken shards from countless others. Three barrels rested against the wall in the back of the room. Cat kicked one of the barrels with the heel of his boot. It clattered onto its side. “They’re empty.” Cat shook his head. “I don’t remember anything here. Let’s go to the next one.”
    None of the next several houses turned up anything at all. But when they came to an odd one-story building in the middle of the town, Cat felt the skin on his arms prickle. Something heavy weighed in his stomach. He stopped and stared up the cracked stone walk, up the wide steps, between the sturdy columns, to its dark door.
    â€œWhat is it, Cat?”
    â€œI don’t want to go in here,” he replied. He backed slowly away.
    â€œBut if you feel something out here, maybe going inside . . .”
    The chill on his arms quickly spread. Cat found himself short of breath, but still he could not take his eyes off this strange building.
    The only two windows—both broken out—stared back like empty sockets. “I have a terrible feeling about this place,” he said. “But if there’s something inside . . . something I might remember, I’ve got to look, don’t I?”
    Anne nodded. Cat’s reaction to this house made her feel uncomfortable. She scanned the empty buildings on both sides of the road.
    The place was so quiet—so empty. Anne swallowed and nodded again. The place was a ghost town.
    The stairs creaked as Cat and Anne ascended. The floorboards of the porch trembled, and each footfall gave an empty thud as if there might be some empty space beneath them. Cat stood at the dark door for several