Chapter 1
Wendy dreamed she was flying. The wind rustled her hair, and she moved over the forest like a bird. Sunshine warmed her back and gave life to the world beneath her. Then a dark shadow blocked the light, and she plummeted toward the ground.
The phantom impact jerked her awake. Her hand twitched, and scraped against wood. No light met her eyes.
The crate. She was still in the wooden crate Pelton had shoved her into during the fighting. She barely fit. Her arms were trapped beneath her, and all her attempts to kick herself free had only ended with sore heels and no luck moving the lid. The bottom of the container scraped her nose.
No sounds came from outside. How much time had passed? She must have blacked out.
Wendy kicked out with her heels again—the only part of her body that could get any leverage. Pain turned out to be her only reward. Pain to match the broken ribs and sword slash she'd sustained on her arm during the fighting. If Pelton hadn't shoved her into the crate, she might be dead.
If he was alive, he would have come back for her.
Wendy wanted to scream, but panic constricted her lungs, and she couldn't gulp down enough air to do so. The wooden box couldn't be getting smaller, but it felt like it. Like splinters were tearing her skin apart as the sides closed in around her.
The box kept squeezing. Wendy's heart hammered harder against her broken ribs. It felt like someone had wrapped her in a blanket and dropped her into deep water. The longer she was in the box, the farther she sank, and the more pressure pressed against her sanity. The slight tremor in her stomach blossomed into a full-blown twitch. Her muscles filled with adrenaline, and as the spasm ran through her, the lid of the crate moved.
Not much, but enough to give Wendy a spark of hope. She put her weight on her elbows and knees and pushed up with all the muscles in her back.
The lid to the box rose an inch. The spark caught fire in Wendy, and she pushed harder. She got her hands underneath her body. More air. More light. More freedom.
Her new-found strength started to wane, but Wendy refused to let the lid fall. Instead, she gritted her teeth and screamed as quietly and as passionately as she could. Her shoulders heaved with the effort, her injured arm gave way, but she kept pushing. She had to get out. She had to make it to the rendezvous point before the others left without her.
The lid to the crate tilted. Something slid off. The sound of cloth scraping across wood was followed by a sickening, wet thud.
Wendy used her good arm to pull the lid off her back. Sweat poured down her face and neck. She gripped the edges of the box with her shaking hands.
An inhumane growl came from far too close.
Above her, a single light bulb flickered weakly, as if telling her both of their times were almost up. Bodies littered the small alcove. None of them moved.
The growl grew louder. Wendy shook herself. She still had a knife in her right hand, though blood had seeped through the dressing on her left arm. It mixed with the scents from the alcove, filling the air with a metallic tang that forced Wendy to gag, but she didn't throw up. She'd done that already.
The bulb flared, and Wendy saw the source of the growl.
A Skinny.
His filthy, tattered shirt hung open revealing the myriad of scars that covered his whole chest, both fresh and old. They had been carved into the pattern of a scorpion. She'd watched other Skinnies stop during the battle to mark themselves each time they killed—as if keeping track for later. A chunk of flesh for each death.
The strobe effect leant the approach of the Skinny more horror than it should have. They were just dying people. Wendy had killed her first when she was ten years old.
The Starvation came when a person ate bad food. After a few months the person's body would stop taking in nutrients. They could eat until they burst, but they would still slowly starve to death. Raw meat was the only thing that curbed the hunger. This usually led to insanity and packs of Skinnies roaming around looking for anything they could find to eat, including other people.
But those that had attacked the Den were different.
A normal Skinny would be eating the people on the floor, but this one looked at Wendy and spoke. “Join us, and become a believer.”
Wendy's legs trembled as she rose to her feet. The knife felt heavy in her hand, but she gripped it tightly, unwilling to let it go.
“Who are you?” Wendy asked as she climbed out of the box.
“Your salvation.”
Wendy snorted. They had killed her friends. Her family. She was their angel of death.
“If you come quietly, I can show you the way,” the Skinny said.
The light flared, exposing the scene with horrifying clarity. It also gave Wendy a good look at the fastest path to the Skinny. Wendy ran toward him. Before he could react, she swept his good leg, and he fell on the ground. Wendy's own legs buckled, and she followed, landing next to the Skinny.
She stifled a cry. Two broken ribs, maybe more. Breathing almost didn’t feel worth the effort.
The stench of his body overpowered the blood and death around her, and Wendy had to hold back her gorge as the taste of rotting flesh filled her mouth.
The light waned. Wendy had to get out if she was going to make the rendezvous point. But she had to know. Blood squelched beneath her as she scrambled to her hands and knees and pinned the Skinny down with a knife to his throat.
“Who let you in?” Wendy asked.
“Your people chose their destruction,” the Skinny said.
The Skinnies had come through one of the secret escape tunnels. The same tunnels she had been trying to get the kids out of. She wondered how many of them had made it out into the woods, and if Kenzie had found them.
Thoughts of the kids caused Wendy's arm to shake, and the knife bit into flesh. The Skinny stared at her.
“Who was working on the inside? Tell me who let you in and I'll kill you quickly. Keep it from me and I swear you won't die for days.”
Their eyes met. The Skinny laughed, and the sound sent a shiver up Wendy's spine.
“You think you can do anything more to me?” the Skinny asked. “I live in hell.”
Rage welled up inside Wendy, and she punched the Skinny in the face. A crunch sounded as his cheekbone broke, and his head rebounded off of the ground. “Who let you in?” Her scream echoed down the tunnel.
The Skinny laughed again. This time Wendy rose and kicked him in the side of the head. He finally stopped laughing as his body went limp.
The echo of the laughter died, but a new sound replaced it. Metal on metal. A gun.
Wendy's heart leaped. Maybe someone else was still down here. She glanced around and found her pack half hidden under another Skinny. She had expected to see Pelton's body, but he wasn't here. Maybe this was him coming back. She pulled her pack free and shouldered it.
The adrenaline started to fade, and pain roared in Wendy's ears as she moved slowly through the sea of bodies. Blood mixed with the dirt floor while spatter patterns adorned the stone walls. About half of the light fixtures overhead had been broken.
Wendy got to a main tunnel and began making her way toward the noise. As she turned a corner, she came face to face with a stranger. A short, thick man with white hair and bushy eyebrows.
The look of shock on his face matched her own. In one trained movement, she pulled him toward her and punched him in the side of the head.
The man stumbled back with a grunt. Faster than she thought her body could move, Wendy grabbed him, got behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck. She tightened her grip like a vise. He struggled weakly, but stopped after a few seconds, and she lowered him to the ground—not an easy task with someone who weighed twice as much as she did.
Wendy blinked. Why hadn't she killed him? She didn't recognize him, which meant he was with the Skinnies.
She should have killed him.
But his surprised eyes had held kindness in them, not blood lust. Human kindness.
Wendy had never killed another person, just Skinnies. Her dad had taught her the difference at a young age.
Voices came from further down the tunnel.
“Where's Doc?”
“He went that way, looking for survivors.”
“You're expecting survivors?”
“You know Doc.”
“Follow him. He's sure to get into some kind of trouble.”
Wendy stepped away from the man—Doc she presumed—and turned. She couldn't take on a bunch of people. She had to get out.
The quickest way up top was through the medical building. Wendy started in that direction.
The light continued to flicker on and off, providing enough illumination that she didn't need a flashlight. The closer she got to the exit, the fewer bodies she encountered. The short tunnel leading to the trapdoor lay empty and dark. Wendy moved to the ladder—the rungs clean and unscathed from the fighting—and climbed up. The trapdoor was heavy, but Wendy managed to get it pushed up a crack. She had to squint against the bright light that streamed in.
She pressed her cheek to the rough wood and looked through the small space. Nothing moved.
Wendy shoved her knife through the gap and then used her body to force the door open far enough to squirm through. A grunt escaped her as she finished extracting herself through the gap. The movement almost made her pass out. She felt a rib crunch and dark spots danced around the edges of her vision.
The moment she got clear of the door, she saw why it was so heavy, and why there were no Skinnies below. A man's body had been on top of the door. The doctor, but his name wouldn't come to her mind now. Maybe it was better this way. Names would only make things harder.
The little back room housed a table, a cot and an old shelf full of medical supplies. The supplies were all over the floor, and the table had been overturned. Two more bodies—the sick kids—lay on the bed.
She rose and took two steps forward before the room began to tilt crazily. She stumbled, her good arm reaching out to touch the wall.
How much blood had she lost? What about her ribs? Even an unyielding desire to live couldn't stop the cold march of death from internal wounds. Wendy had seen it too many times. She needed help. Tears blurred the faces of the bodies, but she didn't let them fall. There was no time for crying.
She had to get to the rendezvous point. No matter what.
Not realizing she'd doubled over, Wendy pulled herself upright. She reached out to grab the knob of the door that led into the rest of the building. If there were any supplies left, she should take them.
More voices stopped her cold.
“What happened?”
“Doc found someone.”
Wendy crept to the broken window next to the back door and peered out.
Five people stood outside: four men and one woman. All wore nicer clothes than anyone Wendy knew, and they all had weapons. Mostly guns. One of them—a dark man who moved like a tiger—supported the white-haired man she had knocked out in the tunnel.
A tall man with a thin face and glasses perched on the end of his nose spoke. “Are you alright? Did a Skinny do this?”
“No, a young girl.” Doc said. He looked shaky on his feet. “I'm fine, but Mike, she's hurt.
“How bad?” Mike asked. “Could she be a plant?”
“I don't know, she knocked me out before we got the chance to talk.”
“What else is down there, Riggs?” Mike asked. He seemed to be in charge.
Riggs—all dark skin and tiger-like appearance—frowned. “They made their last stand somewhere over there.” He shook his head and pointed back toward the barracks. “I recognized some of Ed's men.”
An invisible hand reached inside Wendy and tightened around her heart.
They knew Wendy's dad. They had betrayed him.
They had brought the Skinnies.
“This is their medical building,” Mike said to Doc. “You should see if they have any supplies we can use.” Mike's thin arm rose, and a slender finger pointed right at Wendy.
Wendy didn't move. Could they see her through the window? She watched as Riggs' keen eyes glanced over. His gaze didn't linger, but his shoulders stiffened. Had he seen her?
The moment Riggs looked away, she slunk back and headed for the front door of the building. If the route was clear, she'd be able to dart between cabins and get to the hidden gate that led to the docks without anyone seeing her.
Silently she slipped through the inside door and into the main room of the medical cabin. The beds had been overturned. Flies buzzed. Wendy picked her way through as fast as she could, doing her best to not look too closely at the carnage around her.
The front door lay on the ground ten feet away from the building—discarded like trash. Wendy bolted through the doorway and down the stairs. She drew a second knife from her pack.
To her right, the blazing yellow sun dipped toward the horizon. The mountain peaks reached up to welcome it, inviting the day to rest and the night to begin. Fresh air floated past her, washing away the smell of the dead and the horror that lay around her. A bird chirped from somewhere nearby. Its abrupt silence was the only warning she got.
Wendy turned, knives out, and found the man Riggs only a few feet away. His dark eyes bore into hers, assessing her.
Wendy regarded the man, and without looking away from his gaze, darted toward the nearest building.
When she rounded a corner to the next cabin, yet another man stood waiting for her. Wendy spun around him. He turned and tried to grab her from behind. She spun again, and he got a knee to the groin and an elbow to the face for his efforts. Blood showered them both. Like the wind, Wendy found the gaps and flew away. A woman appeared and tried to trip Wendy from the side, but she easily evaded, and in the blink of an eye the woman landed on the ground with a grunt. Two more men stepped out from behind the nearest trees.
“Grab her,” someone yelled. “Don't hurt her!”
Her body screamed at her to stop, her injuries too much for it to handle, but Wendy wasn't about to give up. She would never stop fighting.
The man on the right stepped in, so she went for him first. Before she got there, someone caught her shoulder from behind. She and Pelton had run through this scenario a thousand times. She ducked, swiveled around behind the man, wrapped her arms around his neck and had both of her knives at his throat before he could do anything.
Riggs grunted.
“If anyone moves, he dies.” The harsh tone of the words surprised even Wendy. So did the steadiness in her voice.
“We're not here to hurt you,” Mike said, walking into view. His blue eyes watched her curiously through his glasses. “Do you live here?”
“I said, no one moves.” She let one of the knives cut into the side of Riggs' neck.
“My name is Mike,” the tall man said, eyes flickering to Riggs. “I came to meet with Ed. We were supposed to talk. What's your name?” Mike asked.
Wendy's mind raced. There were at least six of them, probably more. Could she get away? Did they know about all of the tunnels? Had they let the Skinnies in? She cursed Pelton for putting her in that crate. At least down in the tunnels she knew who the enemy was.
The expression of kindness on Mike's face faded. “Let my man go.”
“Move aside and let me out the front gate. I'll let him go when I reach the woods. If you follow me, I'll kill you all.”
“You're in no shape to kill anyone,” Mike said, looking her over. “We can help you.”
Wendy wanted to rage at them, but knew her waning strength wouldn't last much longer. She had to get to the woods so she could at least hide.
A tremor wracked her body.
They sensed her weakness. Wendy felt Riggs completely relax.
Normally she would have been a match for his speed, but not today.
He took hold of one of her wrists, and one of Wendy's knives bit deeply into the flesh under his cheek while he wrestled the other away from her. She
let him have it—it was in her bad hand anyway. Wendy stepped back and kicked him in the side of the thigh as hard as she could. Riggs went sprawling to the ground, right at Mike's feet.
Mike's eyes met Wendy's. His rage matched her own.
She turned to go, ready to fight her way through, but arms wrapped around her stomach and Wendy screamed. Screamed in anger, frustration and fear, but most of all, in pain.
She bucked and kicked, sure she could get out of the hold, but her strength had finally failed. Dark blotches gathered at the edges of her vision, and no amount of teeth clenching determination could keep it back.
A woman, the one she'd thrown on the ground, grabbed at Wendy's injured arm as Wendy punched at the man holding her. The pain in her body went from the yellow of sunlight to the blazing white of a lightning storm. It shot from the wound straight into her brain, where it settled in like a hot poker. She screamed again.
“Don't kill her!” Mike said.
The darkness continued to gather—a tunnel closing in. Wendy's arms and legs felt like dead weights.
“Put her down,” Doc ordered.
Wendy's vision cleared slightly as they set her on the cool ground. The cloudless blue sky looked serene. Wanting to feel that peaceful, she started to close her eyes.
“Not yet,” Doc said. An ugly, purple bruise had already blossomed on the side of his face. She thought for sure he would hit her, but instead he knelt next to her and put a hand on her head. “Hold her down,” he told the others.
More hands pushed her limbs into the dirt. Wendy tried to struggle, but got nowhere.
Doc's fingers ran up and down her arms and legs, pausing to look at the blood soaked bandage on her left arm. He left it and pressed on her torso. Wendy couldn't help the hiss that escaped when he got to her broken ribs. He pulled her shirt up and frowned.
“Well?” Mike asked.
Doc sighed and looked straight at Wendy. “I don't know. These are pretty bad.”
“We've seen it before.”
“I need to see what’s going on inside.”
The hands released her. Wendy tried to shake her head, but the action sent waves of pain through her skull and down into the rest of her body. She tried to sit up, but couldn't get her arms to move. She willed her body to obey, but it ignored her. The darkness made a final assault.
Mike's voice filtered through her fading consciousness. “Will she live?” he asked.
“I won't be able to tell you until we get back.”
“Keep her alive. We need to talk to her.”
Wendy tried to read Mike's face as he spoke, but the world blurred and the darkness covered her like a snow storm.