“He pointed to a stack of cans and bottles over by a tree and said we could take that and go. His gift. That’s what he called it. He said to take it and go. But if we tried anything we wouldn’t be allowed to take anything.”

“What . . . ?”

“Hand to god.”

“What’d you do?”

Neeko looked down at his bandaged hands. “Andy rushed him,” he said, referring to the other scout. “I guess I did, too, because Andy did.”

“And . . . ?”

“And I don’t know. It was all so fast. The old guy was out of the chair and was hitting us and then he took our hatchets and . . . and . . . ” He stopped and shook his head. “It was too fast, man. Before I knew what was going on we were in the woods, in a little creek. Both of us pretty banged up. The old guy was standing on the edge of the bank with our hatchets and I thought that was it, I thought we were dead as shit, but then he knelt down and chunked the blades into the mud and walked away.”

“He just up and left? Didn’t say shit?”

“Well . . . ” said Neeko, “he said something weird. He said something about we got one pass because we’re kids. Then he said that if we come back, we need to do it with manners. We need to ask nicely and shit. He said that we had to act like people and not animals or we’re not worth saving. Something like that. I don’t remember the actual words.”

Trash stood up. At seventeen he was the third oldest, but easily the biggest, with massive shoulders and arms packed with ropey muscles. His skin had a permanent peeling sunburn that never seemed able to become a tan even after all these months running through the woods and farmlands to escape the biters. Like all the fighters in the pack, he wore jeans with a flexible weave, a camo tank top and a vest with lots of pockets, as well as a belt from which hung a holstered Glock and a big hunting knife. When the pack had raided a Wal-Mart, their leader, Dahlia, had decided that everyone needed a uniform. That rig for the fighters, full camo for the scouts, all black for the security, and jeans and T-shirts for everyone else. Dahlia liked order, and Trash was cool with that.

He towered over Neeko, who was fourteen, scrawny. “Listen, fuckface,” he said, “you’re going to tell all this shit to Dahlia and then you’re going to take us all to this old asshole’s camp. I’m going to personally shove your hatchet up his ass and break off the handle.”

Neeko nodded quickly, forcing a smile, but Trash saw a look in his eyes. Equal parts fear and doubt. That bothered Trash, but it also made him really fucking mad.

— 4 —: THE SOLDIER AND THE DOG

— 4 —