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Crows.
I'd never seen so many before. Perched in every tree, on every rooftop, upon every heap of rubble, a black-winged multitude measured my every move with alien-throated cries of disapproval. Some left their perches to strut alongside me. Others, landing in my path, bobbed their heads and rustled indignant feathers like fat officious sentinels.
I tried nudging one gently out of the way with the TerraCycle. It pecked at the offending wheel before flying off. As it did, another, who'd spied something shiny, swooped down for a better look. Landing on the bike's crossbar, wings wide, it struggled for purchase on the slippery metal.
I stopped walking. It—all of them—were huge—much bigger than the ones back home. I held my breath as the bird tried to regain its center of balance and failed. It flapped off, accompanied by a barrage of bitter commentary from its comrades. Agitating this many could be disastrous. I didn't want to think about what they could do to me with their long, strong beaks—they were called a murder for a reason—and didn't like the look in those beady eyes of theirs, so black and bottomless and unblinking.
While the crows discussed my fate amongst themselves, I waited, not twenty yards from an entrance to the main street, sweat trickling down my nose. Trekking through the woods all day had done nothing for my clothes, which clung to me like a sticky second skin. Around me, daylight faded by degrees and an uncomfortable chill seeped into the air.
A distant rumble finally silenced the crows. As if obeying a command, they rose over the trees, a single shadow moving against the lowing, glaucous sky. The one in the distance had probably found some garbage or an animal carcass. Glad to see them go, I took a swig from the canteen to soothe my parched throat and silence the rumbling in my belly. If I didn't find food soon, it'd be too dark to hunt. I shoved the bike through the last tangle of weeds and rotting timbers.
I stood alone on an empty street. Silence blanketed the town, a stillness made even eerier by the absence of breeze and even more sudden lack of birdcall. On both sides, darkness crouched in doorways and behind broken windows. I set my goggles to night vision and pushed on. No matter how deserted the place looked, I knew was not alone. The further into town I went, the stronger the sensation became, tickling between my shoulder blades like an unreachable itch.
Behind me—too close—something scratched against the pavement. Laser pistol ready, I whirled about, catching a flash of eyeshine, but before I could fire, a small dark shape darted between my legs. When I looked down, I discovered my stalker hadn't shot past me at all, but was busily winding itself around my boots.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that, I could've shot you," I whispered. "Sorry, but I don't have anything for you to eat."
Eyes gleaming in night vision green, the cat mewled up at me. Much larger than the one I'd seen earlier, both this one's ears were intact, and no mud or burrs matted its sleek ebony coat. It started away, then stopped to look back and meow again, as if saying, Don't just stand there. Come on!
I sheathed the pistol. So far, I'd been set on an impossible task, attacked by Kufugaki, accosted by crows, and now, was imagining a conversation with a cat! Could this day get any weirder?
I followed the cat past leaning fences, piles of refuse, and houses so dilapidated, they were little more than shells, until it turned down a narrow lane. A low house with a pitched roof and covered stoop sat in the long witchgrass at its end. Though it looked out of place among the more modern ruins, it seemed to have weathered the earthquake. What I could see of its roof was still intact, as were most of its windows, not one of which offered a glimmer of light.
I sighed. Abandoned, like all the rest. So much for finding any food. If nothing else, it might be a decent place to spend the night.
As if it had read my mind, the cat leaped upon the stoop and began pawing at the bottom of the door. Unlocked and slightly ajar, it eased open enough for the cat squeeze inside. After preparing the bike for a quick getaway, naginata in hand, I crept to the door and peered inside.
Paw prints and muddy footprints stippled a trio of risers leading to a narrow hallway outside a screened room. Though no light beckoned, I could hear a soft gurgling and the clink of something metal, but no sounds of human occupation. Then, something heavy thudded, raising shocked commentary from my disgruntled feline guide. Crouched outside the screen, naginata at the ready, I waited, while time slowed to a crawl—one devoid of footsteps or human voices of any kind. Wary of so much silence, I said, "I'm not here to hurt you; I'm just looking for food. I'm willing to barter."
When no one answered, cautiously, I slid open the screen.
A cloud of steam swarmed over me. Goggles clouded, I could make nothing out, except for a large, decidedly not-catlike shape in front of me, though I could feel a human presence in the room. Expecting a sneak attack—trouble always had a way of finding me, whether I wanted it or not—I swung wide. The blade swooshed through empty air and my back thrust with the naginata's spike punched a hole in one of the fusumas. Still, no counterattack came. The object before me remained where it had been before. To make sure it stayed that way, my second swipe cleaved it lengthwise. Part of it rustled, while I could hear other parts of it swish-crackle to the floor.
Human bodies didn't make those sounds.
I wiped the steam from my goggles. The remains of a box of rations bearing New Edo's sigil sat on a low table. Littering the tabletop and scattered about the floor, foil packets of freeze-dried food lay where they'd fallen.
As did the men who'd been eating them.
There were three in all. Two teenage boys, limbs splayed like discarded rag dolls, sprawled across the tattered seating cushions. Partially-chewed portions of their last meal floated in puddles near their swollen cheeks. The third, who'd probably been their father, stared at the ceiling with wide, uncomprehending eyes and blistered lips. Behind him, in a tiny kitchenette, a pot lid rattled, as water boiled on a camp stove for a tea none of them would ever drink.
The rations the soldier had been carrying looked just like theirs!
Glass shattered outside the kitchenette. The cat scurried away.
"You sure this is the place?" a gruff male voice asked.
"Well, Reo said it was a shithole," a female replied.
Quickly, I scanned the room for a hiding place. The room was bare, except for a small ladder to a sleeping loft, but it was too near the kitchenette. I had no choice but to retrace my steps. Seconds after I slipped into the shadows in the hall, a beam of light swept over the room.
"Wow, he wasn't wrong. Can't we just torch the place and be done with it?"
"No, Kaito. We have to put them in the pit with the others. Doctor Mazawa's orders were very clear."
Orders? I peered through the hole in the fusuma. Two soldiers in camo fatigues stood over the bodies. Like Kei, both were tall and dark-haired.
"Why? They're not going anywhere. Ugly way to go, too." The one called Kaito nudged one of the men with his boot. "You sure we got all the Otakoga or whatever they called themselves? These damned clans are like fleas: kill one and three more pop up."
"Resistors and traitors are the only names these bastards deserve!" She spat on the body. "No, they're the last ones here."
"Pity Reo didn't stick around to help us with the heavy lifting." He grabbed one of the men under the arms and began dragging him away.
"Oh, stop grumbling! We'll meet the rest of the Sweeper Team tomorrow at the Hakuna rendezvous. Those mountain clans won't know what hit 'em. Now hurry up, I'm hungry!"
I found I'd lost my appetite. Not only because Mazawa had ordered the extermination of entire clans but also because somehow, I'd managed to drive wildly off course. The Otakoga and Hakuna clans lived in the north. Though I'd gained some valuable information—if I ever found someone to share it with—I'd still wasted an entire day!
I waited until the female soldier left the room, then crept down the stairs. Once outside, I snuck along the side of the house, following a soft whirring sound. A freight-shifter, long enough to move a small troop's supplies, idled above the weeds in the backyard. From the size of the cargo piled behind its steering cockpit, the two had been very busy handing out poisoned rations. I counted a dozen bodies before the soldiers climbed aboard. A dozen here, but maybe more, and from what I could tell, all of them male. Where were the Otakoga women and children?
The whir turned to a steady drone. I hit the ground, a split second before the gruesome cargo conveyance turned. Light splashed across the side of the house, but luckily, no one spotted the TerraCycle. It remained where I'd left it, behind some desiccated shrubs. The soldiers headed away from the village center, riding low over the open ground.
As I watched the freight-shifter's back lights become pinprick stars, an idea began to form in my mind. They'd been pretending to be part of a relief mission, which meant that their encampment would be in plain sight.
I left the TerraCycle in the bushes. Its battery was almost dead and what I needed to do next required stealth.
Like fleas, were we? Well, even the smallest flea could still bite.
They wouldn't know what hit them.