The Hunt - Megan Shepherd Page 0,112
too much to hope for a day-care center?”
The dust had nearly settled, and the village was taking shape. The hut was one of about twenty that were constructed with primitive but attentive craftsmanship. A few had flower boxes in the windows holding big-petaled flowers with thick round leaves, though they were all currently coated in dust. There was a covered clay ring that looked like a well, and some beaten-flat areas where maybe the Armstrong residents held dances. Everything was made of wood or clay, with a bit of tin glinting on the roofs. It had a pioneer kind of quality to it, and Cora felt proud, despite her reservations. Even far from home, humans had a knack for surviving.
Rolf’s eyes went big. “It looks like how I always imagined America’s Wild West.”
“A bit, yeah,” Nok said, toeing the bucket of muddy water. She rubbed the back of her neck, looking at the village. “Should we just knock?”
Bonebreak shook a finger toward the only building that was more than one story high. “I always say, go with the tallest structure and hope it’s where someone important lives.”
They followed him across the dusty town, trampling a sort of thick-stemmed succulent grass, to the porch of what they thought must be the town hall. Cora shook the dust from her hair and brushed it off her shoulders, aiming for a halfway presentable appearance, and then knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again. Nothing.
“Where would they be?” Nok asked. For the first time, unease crept into her voice. “You don’t think the Kindred knew we were coming and rounded them all up?”
Everyone shot a hard look at Bonebreak, who held up his hands. “If there was a way of communicating with the Kindred or Mosca, little childrens, I would have called for backup when you had a gun pointed at me.”
“Then where is everyone?”
“Sleeping,” Bonebreak said. “Farming. Picnicking. How should I know what humans choose to do with their time?”
Leon gave a frustrated sigh and pushed forward, throwing the door open. “Hey! Anyone home?”
“We’re friends,” Cora added. “From Earth, by way of Kindred aggregate station 10-91.”
She waited, but there was no response.
“No one home,” Rolf observed.
It looked like some sort of makeshift municipal building. There was a big entrance hall with a desk by the front door, and a hallway to the left, probably leading to offices. If it was Armstrong’s sheriff’s department, there didn’t seem to be any jail cells, which was good. She’d be happy to never see another cage in her life. She picked up a book left facedown on the desk and smiled. Gone with the Wind. Beneath it was a fat, dusty set of leather-bound pages.
“I guess we wait,” she said, flipping open the leather cover and scanning the pages. Nok and Rolf headed off down the hallway to investigate.
“Uh, guys?” Nok’s voice came uncertainly from down the hallway.
Cora started to close the folio, but something written across the top of the first page caught her eye.
It was divided into columns. Numbers were listed in the left-hand column like a calendar, but the months only had ten days. In the other columns were series of numbers that didn’t immediately mean anything. The first entry read 25/12/12/1; the next, 30/15/12/3; and the next, 27/0/2/25. She flipped the page and froze.
On the next page, someone had written out the column headings:
Total New Slaves / Of Which for Manual Labor / Of Which for Wives / Dead.
She froze. Total New Slaves? Given the dates, that had to be new arrivals on the moon . . . the Kindred’s regular delivery of good samaritans to Armstrong.
But slaves? And dead? And wives?
Someone had scrawled in the margin:
Ask Kindred next time, need more wives. Keep running away. Say it’s for reproduction—they always fall for that.
Cora slammed the notebook closed, her heart pounding. She stumbled through the hallway with legs that felt too heavy until she found the others in a small office. They were gathered around a pile of ancient-looking chains, the kind you’d fasten around someone’s ankles if it was 1850. On the other side of the room were bins filled with clothes—baseball uniforms, Middle Eastern robes, frilly dresses—the fake kind of clothing the Kindred gave them to wear.
“What does it mean?” Nok asked in a high-pitched voice.
A tickle started in the back of Cora’s throat. No—this couldn’t be right. The Kindred were the ones who imprisoned humans. Why, when given freedom and ample resources, would humans possibly enslave their own kind?
“Bonebreak,” she called, her voice sounding a little desperate. “Bonebreak!”
There was no answer. She ran back into the main room, but he wasn’t there. She went to the door, squinting into the bright day. The dust had all but settled; she could see the whole village now, but it was still empty.
“He left us,” she said.
“What if he went back to the ship?” Nok asked, anxiously twisting the pink streak in her hair. “He might try to leave without us.”
“Anya and Mali are still there,” Cora said. “They’ll stop him.”
Nok paced nervously and then went still, staring at something far off. She had always had the best eyesight out of the group; Cora twisted to follow her line of vision. A single column of dust rose skyward in the distance.
“What is that, another storm?” she asked.
But it was too small, and too concentrated.
“It’s a truck,” Leon said. “Coming fast.”
“What do we do?” Nok asked. “Run?”
But the truck was getting closer. Cora turned around, scanning the horizon. There was nothing but the ship; they’d never make it to those far mountains in time. Hiding in one of the buildings would only trap them.
“No,” she said, and pressed a hand against Lucky’s notebook in her pocket. “We came here for a reason. We need to find out if this is a safe place.” She exchanged a look with the others that she hoped didn’t look too worried. “However we have to.”
Leon cracked his knuckles.
Rolf pushed at the imaginary glasses on his nose, blinking hard.
Nok’s hand fell from her hair.
Cora took a deep breath and watched the cloud of dust approach. Whoever these people were on Armstrong, they were human. They too had been stolen from Earth and caged by the Kindred. They knew what it felt like to be treated like animals.
That had to count for something.
That had to count for everything.
Because if not, she might have just gotten them all into deeper trouble than they’d ever imagined.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’VE BEEN FORTUNATE TO work with a brilliant team on this book. My editor, Kristin Rens, who has believed in Cora’s story from day one, and the entire Balzer + Bray team for supporting us, including Kelsey Murphy, Alessandra Balzer, Donna Bray, and HarperCollins’s fantastic team of designers, copyeditors, and marketers. I’m also grateful to my agent, Josh Adams, who inspired Mali’s awesome ninja moves, and Megan Miranda, who read countless drafts and helped make each one better.
A special thanks as well to Jesse, for long walks brainstorming about alien planets, giant dollhouses, and twisted safaris.
And, as always, to my readers. Without you, my words would be hollow.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo credit Kristi Hedberg Photography
MEGAN SHEPHERD grew up in her family’s independent bookstore in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The travel bug took her from London to Timbuktu and many places in between, though she ended up back in North Carolina with her husband, two cats, and a scruffy dog, and she wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. She is also the author of the Madman’s Daughter trilogy and The Cage. Visit her online at www.meganshepherd.com.
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BOOKS BY MEGAN SHEPHERD
The Madman’s Daughter
Her Dark Curiosity
A Cold Legacy
The Madman’s Daughter Trilogy: The Complete Collection
The Cage
The Hunt