Tom Isbell - The Prey

“You’re not done. We can do this.”

The horses are gaining speed. If the sisters leave right now, they stand a chance. But only if they leave this very instant . “Come on!”

Faith shakes her head. “Go,” she says. “It’s what Dad wanted.” She meets Hope’s eyes. “It’s what I want, too.”

Hope looks at her sister. And at the approaching Brown Shirts.

“H and FT,” she says.

Faith doesn’t respond.

“H and FT,” Hope repeats.

It’s their secret code. Has been since they were kids, since that awful day when their mother was shot before their eyes.

H & FT. Hope and Faith Together.

Finally, Faith says it back. “H and FT.”

Hope guides her. In her one hand is Faith’s arm; in the other is her spear. She veers straight for the sun, forcing the Brown Shirts to squint into the sunset. Forcing them to slow down to navigate creek beds and boulders.

The tree line grows closer and Hope can make out the dense underbrush. It’s all shrubs and thick tangles of vines. Good for hiding. Living hell for a horse. No way the Brown Shirts can navigate this maze. Hope realizes they’ve caught a break. They should just make it after all.

The first gunshots blast the trees in front of them. Bark explodes. Small birch trees are sliced in half. Faith slows.

“Don’t stop!” Hope yells.

“But they’re shooting at us.”

“And we’ll stop if they hit us!”

They’re a mere twenty yards from the woods when a lead horse circles around and cuts them off. Then another. And another. There’s suddenly no way out.

Still, when a Brown Shirt draws a pistol, Hope reaches back with her spear and sends it flying. It sails through the air, entering the soldier’s chest, the pointy end sticking out his back. A dazed expression paints his face as he tumbles off his horse.

A dozen other Brown Shirts raise their M16s and target them on Hope.

“Don’t shoot!” a voice cries out.

A trailing Humvee comes to a sudden stop and a man waddles forward. He is heavy to the point of obese, with thin, almost invisible lips. Unlike the men on horseback, he doesn’t wear the soldier’s uniform of the Republic, but a black suit with a white shirt and a thin black tie. His most striking feature is the soiled hanky he grips in his hand, which he uses to dab at the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t shoot,” the pudgy man says again, and rifle barrels lower. He appraises the twins with leering eyes. His sausage fingers cup Faith’s chin. “We’ve been looking for you two,” he says in a nasally voice. “Oh yes, we’ve been looking for you for quite some time.”

THERE WAS A FUNERAL to attend. There were always funerals at Camp Liberty. Another LT had succumbed to the lingering effects of ARS. Acute radiation syndrome. It was a lanky kid named Lodgepole who’d developed a tumor in his neck the size of a softball. Frankly, he was lucky to die when he did.

I didn’t know Lodge well, but had a feeling I would’ve liked him. Which is exactly why I didn’t get to know him. What was the point of making friends if ARS was just going to pick them off?

Another reason why I immersed myself in books.

I read everything I could get my hands on. History, biographies, fiction. If it was on the dusty shelves of our little library, chances were I’d checked it out.

But that wasn’t all. Someone was giving me books as well. It wasn’t uncommon to open my bedside trunk and find some new volume. None of the other LTs got books—just me—and I couldn’t figure out who was doing it.

As for Black T-Shirt, I still hadn’t found out anything about him, other than the fact that he was incredible at everything athletic. Whether it was shooting arrows or kicking soccer balls, he was drop-dead good. Yet another reason he pissed me off.

Now that he wore the camp uniform—jeans, white T-shirt, blue cotton shirt—his old name no longer cut it. So we called him Cat, because he was athletic and mysterious and half the time we didn’t hear him sneak up beside us.

“Lemme ask you a question.” There he was again, standing beside me at the mess hall door. “You’re called LTs, right?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Why?”

“It’s short for lieutenant . A military abbreviation. ’Cause we’re the future lieutenants of the world.”

“Says who?”

“The camp leaders. Westbrook, Karsten, Dekker, all of ’em.”

Cat shot me a look of disbelief. “Seriously?”

The hair rose at the base of my neck. What was it about this guy that rubbed me the wrong way? “Seriously,” I said.

He tried—not very hard—to stifle a laugh. “So what happens when they leave here? The graduates?”

“You mean after they go through the Rite?”

“Yeah, tell me about the Rite ,” he mocked.

“There’s a big ceremony where all the seventeen-year-olds pledge allegiance to the Republic, then they’re bussed to leadership positions elsewhere in the territory. It’s a pretty big deal.”

This time Cat didn’t bother trying to hide his laughter. It was a harsh, mocking laugh, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I brushed past him and stepped outside into the pouring rain. Cat was beside me in a second.

“You don’t have to get all pissy,” he said. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t need your help.”

“Fine. Your funeral.”

Something about his tone pushed me over the edge. I turned and gave him a shove.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I demanded.

His expression was blank. Icy rain plastered his hair to his forehead.

“I’ve lived here nearly all my life,” I went on, “but you’re the one who acts like he knows everything. Well, screw you!”

“I don’t know everything …”

“Well, you definitely act that way.”

“… but I know some things. Like you’re crazy to think they call you LT because it’s short for lieutenant .”

“So if you’re so smart, what is it?”

“You really want to know?” His words cut through the rain like a knife. “It’s short for Less Than. Which is exactly what all of you are: a bunch of Less Thans.”

I felt like I’d been sucker punched. I was too stunned to respond.

Cat went on. “When you were a little kid, the Republic decided your fate. They determined where you were going to go, what you were going to be. Soldier, worker, Less Than, whatever.”

“Then how come none of us have ever heard that?” I asked.

“Probably ’cause the Brown Shirts didn’t tell you.”

I struggled to form thoughts. “How do they decide who’s a … Less Than?” Just saying the words made me uncomfortable.

“Handicaps, obesity, skin color, politics, who knows. They don’t announce the criteria, but it’s pretty clear. I mean, look around.”

I thought of the two hundred or so guys in Camp Liberty. Some of it might’ve been true, but that didn’t mean anything. Sure, I had brown skin, and Twitch and June Bug had black. Dozer had a withered arm, Red a splotch on his face, and Four Fingers, well, four fingers on each hand. But all that was just a coincidence. Right?