me to trade those weapons for passage on a trawler down to Chester. We’re supposed to meet Fisher there on Tuesday of next week.”
“That’s . . .” He trailed off. He had no idea what to say. To him, the whole thing sounded insane, but, at the same time, if it was real . . . the possibilities were endless.
He shook his head. Crazy.
“But the Red Man has Niki now. Don’t you think that changes your plans?”
She shrugged. “I trust in Niki Booth, Ben. I trust in her like nobody I’ve ever met. If you knew her like I do, you would too. The Red Man won’t get anything out of her.”
A few light raindrops splattered on his hands and face. The next instant the rain swept over them, and they moved inside the building. Sylvia looked down at Avery, who had curled up in the fetal position and was cradling Richardson’s jacket like it was a child’s teddy bear. She was sleeping soundly.
Sylvia turned to face him. And when she spoke again, she was whispering. “I know you don’t believe in this, but we’re going to do it. We’re going to bring back a cure. This is too important to fail.”
C HAPTER 7
The next morning Richardson woke before dawn and dressed by candlelight. The floor creaked as he walked toward the patio door. Sylvia rolled over, murmuring thickly, but didn’t wake. Avery was curled in a ball next to her, sleeping soundly. Richardson waited for a moment, letting Sylvia settle, then went outside.
The storm had passed during the night, leaving a clean, earthy smell on the air. There was a light breeze and the early morning chill felt good against his skin. During the night the rain trap they’d set out had collected almost a gallon of fresh water. It wouldn’t be enough to bathe with, which a quick sniff had told him he sorely needed, but at least they wouldn’t be leaving here with dry throats. It wasn’t all bad, he guessed.
But a rude squawk made him freeze. He’d been kneeling next to the rain trap, but when he heard the bird sounds, he closed his eyes and steeled himself against the horror he knew was waiting for him.
He opened his eyes.
The crows were back, staring at him. There were hundreds of them. They sat on the patio railing, on the light poles and wires, on the edges of roofs, on derelict cars and in trees and on signs, hundreds, thousands of eyes turned on him in silent judgment.
He stared back at them, trembling. He remembered what it was like when he came back to the Paradise compound six years earlier to find everyone he cared about getting fed upon by crows. Remembered the sight of all those people, twelve hundred in all, getting picked clean to the bone by birds that squawked and fought over the scraps.
You won’t get me, you carrion birds, he thought. You missed me when you came for my friends in Montana, and you won’t get me now. You ate the people I loved most in this world, but you didn’t eat my heart. That you won’t ever have.
Though even now the memory of all those carrion birds, black as soot, glassy-eyed and squawking furiously at each other, made him cower in fear. Richardson and a few others had gone down to California to get seeds for the coming spring. They were gone four months. When he left, Ed Moore and the blind girl Kyra Talbot and Billy Kline and Jeff Stavers and all the others were alive and well, arguing about whether or not to open the compound to the hundreds of refugees coming north because they had heard of the wonderful things Ed Moore was doing in Paradise Valley. Billy had warned refugees would bring diseases, but Ed had overruled him. Fate had proven Billy right. Richardson never figured out what had done the killing. Bubonic plague? Cholera? Yellow fever? Anything was possible. But when he was standing there in the middle of the compound, snow swirling around his feet, he remembered thinking that causes didn’t matter, not when everyone you loved was dead. How he had loved those people. He and Robin Tharp and a few others from the
“That’s . . .” He trailed off. He had no idea what to say. To him, the whole thing sounded insane, but, at the same time, if it was real . . . the possibilities were endless.
He shook his head. Crazy.
“But the Red Man has Niki now. Don’t you think that changes your plans?”
She shrugged. “I trust in Niki Booth, Ben. I trust in her like nobody I’ve ever met. If you knew her like I do, you would too. The Red Man won’t get anything out of her.”
A few light raindrops splattered on his hands and face. The next instant the rain swept over them, and they moved inside the building. Sylvia looked down at Avery, who had curled up in the fetal position and was cradling Richardson’s jacket like it was a child’s teddy bear. She was sleeping soundly.
Sylvia turned to face him. And when she spoke again, she was whispering. “I know you don’t believe in this, but we’re going to do it. We’re going to bring back a cure. This is too important to fail.”
C HAPTER 7
The next morning Richardson woke before dawn and dressed by candlelight. The floor creaked as he walked toward the patio door. Sylvia rolled over, murmuring thickly, but didn’t wake. Avery was curled in a ball next to her, sleeping soundly. Richardson waited for a moment, letting Sylvia settle, then went outside.
The storm had passed during the night, leaving a clean, earthy smell on the air. There was a light breeze and the early morning chill felt good against his skin. During the night the rain trap they’d set out had collected almost a gallon of fresh water. It wouldn’t be enough to bathe with, which a quick sniff had told him he sorely needed, but at least they wouldn’t be leaving here with dry throats. It wasn’t all bad, he guessed.
But a rude squawk made him freeze. He’d been kneeling next to the rain trap, but when he heard the bird sounds, he closed his eyes and steeled himself against the horror he knew was waiting for him.
He opened his eyes.
The crows were back, staring at him. There were hundreds of them. They sat on the patio railing, on the light poles and wires, on the edges of roofs, on derelict cars and in trees and on signs, hundreds, thousands of eyes turned on him in silent judgment.
He stared back at them, trembling. He remembered what it was like when he came back to the Paradise compound six years earlier to find everyone he cared about getting fed upon by crows. Remembered the sight of all those people, twelve hundred in all, getting picked clean to the bone by birds that squawked and fought over the scraps.
You won’t get me, you carrion birds, he thought. You missed me when you came for my friends in Montana, and you won’t get me now. You ate the people I loved most in this world, but you didn’t eat my heart. That you won’t ever have.
Though even now the memory of all those carrion birds, black as soot, glassy-eyed and squawking furiously at each other, made him cower in fear. Richardson and a few others had gone down to California to get seeds for the coming spring. They were gone four months. When he left, Ed Moore and the blind girl Kyra Talbot and Billy Kline and Jeff Stavers and all the others were alive and well, arguing about whether or not to open the compound to the hundreds of refugees coming north because they had heard of the wonderful things Ed Moore was doing in Paradise Valley. Billy had warned refugees would bring diseases, but Ed had overruled him. Fate had proven Billy right. Richardson never figured out what had done the killing. Bubonic plague? Cholera? Yellow fever? Anything was possible. But when he was standing there in the middle of the compound, snow swirling around his feet, he remembered thinking that causes didn’t matter, not when everyone you loved was dead. How he had loved those people. He and Robin Tharp and a few others from the
Similar Books
