| |
With the influx of refugees, we had a larger sampling of those that survived, but we haven’t been able to find any significant data in what makes them survivors.
History of a Changed World, Angus T. Moss
––––––––
THE SUN WAS LOW IN the sky when Nick started up the road to Barberry Cove. The kids and the Watch had searched in and around the school, but no one could find Wisp. He wouldn’t go back until he located him. There were already rumors that Wisp had left them. It was possible, but Nick doubted it. Wisp had friends here. And he wouldn’t believe that he would walk away without at least speaking to Angus first.
His radio crackled and buzzed calling his attention. “Nick here.”
“Tilly wants to know if you’re coming into dinner.”
Nick didn’t recognize the voice. Martin was leading a group covering the opposite direction. Tall Joe’s group was following the stream behind the horse meadow. Young Joe’s group was going house to house in the neighborhood, which left someone new in the office coordinating the radios. “I’ll catch something later.”
“I’ll tell her.”
The road had a long, slow incline and Nick was starting to feel it in his legs. This was a ways to walk for a quiet lunch, but he didn’t know Wisp’s mental range. He stopped to look back down the road behind him. The setting sun cast long rays through the trees, striping the land with bars of light. The road here ran through craggy hills that rose up on both sides of it. Saplings and rock outcroppings alternated up the banks. He didn’t know if Wisp had any favorite spots. Was that a failing? Did it make him a bad friend?
A horse called somewhere off to his left. That was a rare sound since they had all galloped off. But the neigh had been shrill with a tinge of desperation. With visions of an injured animal in his head, Nick scrambled through the brush at the side of the road to scale the steep bank. His feet slid in the detritus of old leaves and pebbles, and he skinned his palms on the bare rock. He grabbed on to saplings to haul himself up the rest of the way, getting to the top of the ridge just as another call trumpeted out. Below him was a tumble of massive boulders stretching out into a field of broken, uneven stone. Some were big as a bus, some cracked open with sharp edges. Others had disintegrated into piles of rubble. The horse was a paint, which was probably Jelly, standing in the only fairly level area. He looked up at Nick then shook his mane and lowered his head to graze.
Nick thought about working his way down to the horse, but it would probably dash away at the last minute making him feel like an idiot. Maybe it was stuck in the maze of craggy slabs of stone. In that case, he might be waiting for Nick to lead him out. Jelly looked up at him again and snorted.
“What do you want?” Nick grumbled.
Jelly lowered his head behind a boulder. He braced his back legs and pulled on something. Then looked back to Nick. It was a hand.
Nick climbed down the rocks as quickly as he could. He couldn’t get a better angle to see what was attached to the hand, but he thought he recognized that tan, muscular wrist. Some of the boulders were too smooth to climb, so he worked his way over to a shallow draw that brought him in the right direction but slightly higher. As he came around a sheer wall of rock, he found a flat place with a lunch bucket, a napkin and blood-stained rock.