Susan Kim - Wanderers

ARAVAGED STREET RAN THROUGH WHAT WAS ONCE A BUSTLING SUBURB. There were no signs of life; even the treetops were motionless, etched in black ink against a dirty-yellow winter sky.

A flicker of movement broke the stillness.

It came from a hedge by the side of the road, overgrown and dying, its tangled branches spilling onto the sidewalk. The foliage trembled again, and a moment later a girl in battered sunglasses and a torn red hoodie emerged from its depths. She wore a leather quiver across her thin chest and a fiberglass bow dangled from her hand.

It was a January morning and so the air was relatively cool. Even so, Esther’s throat was parched and she could feel sweat trickling down her back. She had been tracking her prey for nearly two hours, and it was painstaking work. This kind of patience, careful and focused, had never been her strength. She preferred action, and as unskilled as she was at killing, she was tempted to rush forward now and attempt an attack. Yet there was too much at stake to fail, so she forced herself to remain still.

Her target was across the street. It was a large animal, shaggy with gray, bristled hair, a feral pig that was making its way past the abandoned houses that lined the street, grunting as it rummaged for food.

This was a rash choice, the girl knew. Even to an experienced hunter, a pig was formidable prey, surprisingly fast for its size and dangerous when cornered. But such a beast could feed her family and friends well for weeks. And what Esther lacked in hunting skill, she could make up in stealth.

Or at least she hoped.

Moving noiselessly in her shredded sneakers and staying upwind so the animal wouldn’t catch her scent, Esther managed to keep distant pace as the pig continued to root its way through the trash that spilled from open doorways and abandoned cars. She only moved when the animal was distracted, when it paused to nose through the sections of broken pavement that exposed tree roots and red clay. At such moments, she tried to imitate one of the many cats owned by her friend Joseph: moving in tiny yet swift increments, freezing after each time.

Even so, it seemed impossible to get close enough to draw an accurate bead on her target, much less get off a good shot. Esther had only three precious arrows with her, spindly feathered shafts that were so weightless, she had to keep checking her quiver to make certain they were still there. She would likely need all three to finish the job, and that was only if she was lucky enough to immobilize the animal with her first shot. And arrows were growing rarer by the day.

As if it could hear her thoughts, the pig now raised its head and Esther again froze. She could see its tufted ears twitching as it gazed around. Its obsidian eyes seemed to slide over her, unseeing. Then, with a grunt, the creature turned and ambled past the overgrown yard and into the woods that lay behind the house.

Across the street, Esther swore under her breath.

But there was perhaps still hope. The pig was trotting, not galloping. That meant it wasn’t frightened; clearly, it hadn’t seen her. Gritting her teeth, Esther took off across the street in pursuit.

The small forest was carpeted with dead leaves and household trash, piles of moldering clothes, and filthy and broken bits of furniture and plastic. It was as if the garbage had leaked out of the house it surrounded, like putrescence oozing from a dead thing. In addition, the woods were choked with vines and fallen branches, making it difficult to navigate.

Still, it wasn’t hard to guess where the pig was headed. Esther could hear the steady sounds of its progress in the distance: twigs snapping, leaves swishing. Feeling reckless, she put on speed and it was a pleasure to move swiftly, to hurdle dead trees and push past branches that whipped her face. Then she stopped short.

To her surprise, she found she was much closer to the animal than she had thought; it was no more than a few body lengths in front of her, partly hidden by a mound of leaves. It had its head down and appeared to be rooting, too immersed in whatever it had found to notice her, to even look up.

Inwardly rejoicing, Esther forced herself to slow down as she approached the leaf pile from behind a tree. To lose this advantage due to overeagerness would be terrible indeed. Barely daring to breathe, she drew even closer, and the pig had still not moved away.

She was almost upon it.

Esther took an arrow from her quiver and fit it to the bow. Then, in one swift movement, she raised the weapon to her shoulder as she pulled the bowstring back past her cheek and stepped around the tree, aiming downward.

The pig was facing her but did not see her. Instead, its head was turned away, butting something with its snout as it made a soft sound that was half grunt, half chuckle. Beneath it, nuzzling its underbelly, was a smaller version of itself, faint stripes visible on its still-soft fur.

The pig was a female, a mother nursing her child. And even as Esther took aim at her heart, so close she could swear she could see it beating beneath the shaggy pelt, she was shocked to find herself trembling, her aim wavering.

She hesitated, confused. Then she steeled herself, trying to shake off the feeling. But it was no good.

Esther had no false sentimentality about the wild animals that roamed the streets of Prin. And she needed no reminder of the urgency of her situation. Until recently, it had been disease that everyone feared. The illness, carried in water, was both invisible and inevitable; it meant no one lived past the age of nineteen.

But in the past few weeks, it was hunger that threatened to kill them all. And it would strike, regardless of age.

Even now, Esther knew her loved ones awaited her at home, starving a slow yet certain death—as was she, as was everyone else in the town of Prin. Yet for reasons she could not explain, Esther felt her grip on her weapon weaken. Then she lowered the bow.

Trembling, Esther stepped behind the tree, out of sight. She was about to stumble away when she sensed someone watching her.

Several yards away, a figure stepped into a shaft of sunlight. Androgynous and small of stature, the person had sun-darkened skin and a bald head that were covered with an ornate pattern of scars and primitive tattoos that acted as a kind of camouflage. The bulging lavender eyes placed far apart crinkled as the creature smiled, revealing a mouthful of tiny teeth.

It was Skar.

Esther was about to exclaim, surprised as she was to see her oldest friend, whom she had not seen in many weeks. But the other one silenced her with a finger to the lips, first gesturing toward the nursing sow, then indicating that they should leave the woods. Esther understood and fell into step behind her.

As they walked, Esther’s joy at seeing Skar was tempered by the shame she felt knowing that her friend had most likely witnessed her inexplicable cowardice. The variants, after all, were skilled trackers and hunters, and while Skar was never cruel, she would surely tease her friend about her odd behavior. Esther tried to explain her jumbled feelings once they had made their way to the street, but the other girl cut her off.