Page 7 of Juniper Unraveling

They run.

They hunt.

And if you’re not fast enough, they have the brain capacity to toy with you in the process.

Once my head finally relaxes, convincing the rest of me that I’m safe, I scan beyond the crowd of Ragers. Two guard towers stand a good couple hundred yards off at either side of the corralled Ragers—too far to notice me hiding in the trees. I can just make out the black suits and guns over the top railing.

A building stands off in the distance—massive, with those smoke stacks I saw earlier, emitting clouds into the air. More buildings stand at either side of them, like a cluster of factories situated just outside the wall.

A half hour passes, as I sit studying the buildings while perched on my tree, ignoring the moans and clicks below me. Some of the Ragers have lost interest, stumbling and twitching off. The few that haven’t continue to watch me with the kind of unnerving stare that casts a ripple down the spine. The one from before jerks its crotch forward, grabbing itself over ragged, dirty pants, and it’s clear what purpose it sees in me.

I curl my lip, and a new wave of nausea settles over me.

Then anger.

I reach out and pluck two of the bulbous, bristle-head fruits hanging from the branch above me. From my hip, I tug the sling and drop the fruit into the leather pouch, slipping my finger into the loop at the end of the cord. I’ve gotten pretty good with my targets, and find the figure eight to be the most accurate hit versus swinging it over my head or at my side, but propped in a tree, I don’t have much of a choice. I release the end of the cord and the fruit hurtles through the air, hitting the Rager square on his forehead.

The impact, though not enough to cause too much damage, knocks him back a step, and he lurches forward, hissing. Fruit oozing down his cheek taunts a quiet giggle in my chest, while I load another into the pouch, and launch it again, hitting its nose.

“How’s that, shithead?”

Again, the Rager lurches, but this time he grips the barbed wire, and his body convulses the moment his ragged fingers curl around the steel.

I snap two more fruits from the branch, hurling them at other Ragers, nailing their heads every time. Another launched fruit bounces off the ear of a female, landing outside of the wire barrier.

When a hand reaches out to snatch it up, my heart catches in my throat.

‘The heck? Did one of them get through the fence?

I slide farther along the branch until the ground on other side of the wall is in view.

Crouched against the wall is a boy. Not a boy. A young man, wearing a pale blue jumpsuit, his head completely shaved. In the narrow gap between the corralled Ragers and the wall, his body is just out of reach of the monsters that would eat him alive. He holds the fruit in his palms, devouring it, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. It’s then I notice the dirt on his skin and sharp bones peeking out from his oversized suit.

He twists, and his eyes land on mine.

My muscles seize, and before I can catch myself, I slip from the branch, feeling the air rush past me. The bed of the forest slams into my spine at the same time wind blasts from my lungs, stifling my next inhalation. Stars drift before my eyes, dancing with the blinding orange sun-flares that explode behind my clamped eyelids. Despite the tug in my ribs, I can’t suck in the air, and for a moment, I stare up at the canopy of trees, mouth gaping for one single breath. I moan and turn on my side, my locked lungs permitting tiny gasps of air at a time. Small, panting breaths bat away the floating circles in front of my eyes, until I’m able to draw in a lung full.

That’s when I notice the breach.

My eyes zero in on a hole at the bottom of the wall that looks as if a few of the bricks have been chipped away. Small enough that only a hand could fit through.

An eyeball stares back at me.

I kick back, my heart bouncing like a ping-pong against my ribs. Grabbing my chest, I wheeze and bend forward, studying the boy through the small hole. His eyes are as blue as the sky above us, framed by long, black lashes—the thickest lashes I’ve ever seen on a boy. After a minute of staring, I crawl toward him, tipping my head to keep him in view, and sit beside the wall.

He backs away, toward the Ragers, as if I’m the more frightening creature.

“It’s okay. Are you … one of them?” I ask, peering through the hole, where I have a much better view of his face. “The Ragers. Are you infected like them?”

Keeping his gaze from mine, he shakes his head.

He’s definitely male, with his Adam’s apple and defined jawline, a slight bit of scruff at his cheeks. If not for the emaciated prominence of his bones, he’d be striking, with his olive tone skin and pale blue eyes.

Over eighteen, for sure, though it’s hard to guess his age, as frail as he appears.

“What’s your name?” I scan his skin, an instinct I’ve developed from living with a physician, and notice an abundance of scars. Some of them sewn together with little care and haste, all jagged and sloppy. Papa would pitch a fit if he saw them.

He shakes his head again, turning away from me, and tucks his knees up into his chest. Black markings draw my attention to the side of his head where a series of numbers has been tattooed.