Kevin and I walk into the town. Every log cabin has the remains of a massive vegetable garden in the yard, with cold-weather plants, like acorn squash and gourds, still in the dirt. Ears of corn and baskets filled to overflowing with potatoes are sitting out on front porches, as if no one is worried about them being stolen. And I guess no one is. If a person has enough to eat, he doesn’t need to steal food.
One log cabin has tall wooden boxes in front of it, and I can hear the quiet vibration of bees when we pass them. “What are those?” I ask.
“Beehives,” Kevin explains. “My grandpa’s.”
I can’t help but smile. Bees! I stop walking for a minute and listen to them. “Where is your grandpa?” I ask.
“Zeke’s wife says he’s at the fortress.”
“You’ll see.” He takes my hand in his and we keep walking to the other side of the town, to a huge, rectangular building made of weathered logs. The air changes, growing heavy with animal smells, and I am reminded of the zoo. I wrinkle my nose. “What is this place?”
“It’s the fortress—where we keep the tainted ones. The beasts. It is where my sister is.”
My legs slow without my meaning to let them. “Wait. How do you keep them from attacking people?”
“If they’re well fed, they’re not as violent. We keep them in cages and feed them. Once a week or so, they’re sedated and washed, and their cages are cleaned.” Kevin pulls me toward the building. He opens a thick wooden door, and I can’t help but put my sleeve over my nose and mouth to try and dull the smell.
I am standing in a huge room with knot-covered wooden columns supporting the ceiling and metal bars blocking the windows. There are more metal bars, which rise from floor to ceiling. Behind these bars are individual rooms, divided with thick wooden walls that are covered with dents and scratches, and inside each room is a beast. I look from cage to cage, counting. There are twenty beasts.
A disheveled, white-haired man is standing in the room, pressing pieces of hard, flat bread into the cages. “Grandpa,” Kevin calls.
The old man turns and looks at us, and a grin wrinkles up his face. He strides over to Kevin and throws his arms around him. He looks at me over Kevin’s shoulder, and his grin turns to wonder.
“Is this Jacqui?” he asks, letting go of Kevin. He puts his hands on my shoulders and takes a thorough look at me.
“Yes. This is Jacqui. And this”—Kevin takes his pack off—“this is the cure.”
The old man’s hands fall from my shoulders. He and Kevin both walk over to a cage on my right. Inside is a girl with tangled auburn hair that reaches her shoulders. Her hands are wrapped around the bars of her cage, and there is no tattoo—no mark of the beast—on them … but she’s staring at us with unblinking, wild eyes, and drool is dripping down her chin.
“Jack, meet my sister, Tessa,” Kevin says, and unzips the backpack.