Wilder Girls - Rory Power Page 0,96

but the rest of the building is tented, its edges catching in the breeze.

“Stop,” I say, and Reese flips a switch so the motor idles.

“What is that?” she asks. “That place should be empty.”

The tent doesn’t seem to cover the whole building, but I can’t tell from here. I’ve seen things like that for fumigation, for keeping buildings isolated. But why would it be here?

And it clicks into place. A boat left the dock that night at the Harker house, but it didn’t make for Camp Nash. It came here.

“We always thought they were on the mainland,” I say. “The Navy, the CDC. But they weren’t. They’ve been on Raxter this whole time.” I turn to Reese. “That’s who I heard Welch talking to on the walkie. They’re the outpost. Think about it. There’s no way they’d bring infected material to the mainland.”

“So they send a unit here instead.” Reese frowns. “It makes sense. But they’re risking their own contamination.”

“A trade-off.” Their own safety, for access to materials. Access to us. “And when they’re ready to test a cure, they ask for a live subject. And they get one.” I lean forward, send the boat rocking to one side. “That’s where Byatt is. I know it.”

* * *

—

Reese takes the boat around the point of the island and aims for the pier. The moorings are all long gone, and we don’t have any rope, so she heads for the shallows, noses it into the marsh.

She lets me get out first, says she’ll keep the boat balanced while I do. The water’s muddy here, and I can’t see the bottom, but it can’t be that far down. I get astride the gunwale, the boat tipping as I let more of my weight slide over the edge. And then there’s the water closing cold over my legs as I push off the boat and land in the reeds.

It only comes halfway up my calves, but it’s a wrenching cold, worse than any day we’ve had so far. I shiver violently, remind myself not to make a break for the shore and to hold the boat so Reese can get out.

She slings the backpack over her good shoulder and slips over the side easy, like she’s done it a thousand times, and of course she has. She sloshes around to the stern and pushes while I guide the boat from the bow. Together we get it beached, a foot or two above the waterline.

The ground between here and the visitors’ center is mostly marsh, with almost no cover before we hit the trees keeping the center out of sight. We stay off the boardwalk, stay low to the ground, creep through the gnats and the stink only just dusted with white. Safer that way, but I feel hot, my skin crawling, and sweat is fresh on my upper lip. Maybe the jets aren’t coming, and maybe they haven’t been evacuated, and maybe they’re still here.

Things keep shifting in the corner of my eye. I keep hearing the click of a safety releasing. A reed snaps behind me, and I flinch, drop to my knees. They’re coming. It’s over, it’s over.

“Hey.”

I just hope they do it quick, put the bullet between my eyes. I won’t fight it—I’ve earned it, I deserve it—but please, don’t make me wait.

“Hetty. Jesus, you’re burning up.”

I feel it, then, a hand on my forehead, and I blink hard. Reese, it’s Reese, and she maneuvers me to sit, my chin to my chest, the ground damp and seeping underneath me.

“We should take a break,” she says as she roots through the backpack for the first aid kit. “You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

Reese throws the first aid kit down, a bottle of aspirin slipping out and into the mud. “It’s not enough,” she says, anger tearing at her voice. “What will any of this do?”

When she helps me up, we leave the first aid kit behind.

At last we’re across the marsh and in the trees, picking our way through them until we come out the other side and see the visitors’ center looming, plastic tent whipping in the wind.

The walkway is just ahead, the flagstone path sneaking out from beneath the tent. I know I should have some sort of plan, some special way to sneak in, but my hand hurts, and I’m so tired, and all I can think to do is lift the tent and duck under it. Reese swears behind me, and then she’s following. The