The pain under his ribs was excruciating. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, echoing Trey’s labored panting. The two brothers lay belly-down behind the dubious shelter of a fallen tree, so close their shoulders touched.
Amos swallowed hard, unnerved by his brother’s obvious distress. Trey was the older, recklessly confident one. Amos had never seen him look so small, so pale, so depleted.
Amos crawled forward to take another look down the steep hillside, doing his best to minimize any betraying sound. He craned his neck, peering over the bleached tree trunk. Trey didn’t look up. He was still breathing in ragged gasps, his face twisted in pain from his wounded shoulder.
Amos couldn’t see any sign of their pursuers. Was it naïve to hope they’d given up? Or maybe the brothers had outdistanced them after all. His eyes darted back and forth, his heart in his throat as he peered down the forested incline.
How could we have known this was Hoarder land? They were just a couple of kids, out for some imaginary adventures in the densely forested foothills not far from the City’s outskirts.
Well, maybe not kids, after all. Trey was fourteen, two years his elder. But what kind of threat could they possibly be to Hoarders?
Amos’s pounding heart began to slow as he recovered from their panicky climb. Trey was also breathing with greater ease—and less noise—as he got his wind back. The tree trunk offered scant cover, but they were mid-way up the side of the slope, and their pursuers were still in the valley below.
Or were they? What if they’d stopped chasing the brothers, only because they were now circling around? They were Hoarders, after all. They’d have the advantage of motorized ground transport. There was no doubt the Hoarders possessed advanced weapons, nor were they afraid to use them.
Amos shivered again. At first, neither of the brothers had taken the Hoarders’ appearance seriously. The Hoarders were far away, but their presence made Amos apprehensive. What if they caught up to the brothers?
“They’re Hoarders.” Trey scoffed when Amos mentioned his worries aloud. “They’ve never worked a day in their lives. They’re so out of shape, a snail could out-run them.”
But with those weapons, they didn’t need to run as fast as two frightened boys. The Hoarders didn’t even bother to ask any questions, or utter threats. They just took aim and fired.
In his mind’s eye, Amos still saw the condescending smirk on the lead Hoarder’s face as he hefted his weapon to shoulder height. Neither of the brothers could tell if he was just trying to scare them, or if the threat was real. They ran anyway, darting between the broad trunks of the trees.
They got their answer within seconds.
The Hoarders’ weapons made virtually no sound whatsoever. The silence was eerie. Only a harsh, guttural hissing followed them, to be eclipsed by the frightening sound of scorched foliage, as the trees they ran between became collateral damage.
Why are they shooting at us? We’re just kids having some fun!
True, they’d ignored the “No Trespassing” signs on the barbed-wire fence, and his brother had broken the sensor on the fencepost, pocketing something from inside it. That didn’t give them the right to—what? Kill us?
He said as much, between gasps, as they bolted down the steep hillside. Their pursuers were falling back, perhaps unwilling to match their frantic downhill pace, although the eerie sound of their weapons-fire continued.
The brothers’ only advantage was the barrier provided by the trees, which took the brunt of the weapons’ assault.
“They’re Hoarders, Amos.” Trey’s arms flailed as he tried to keep his balance on the steep and uneven terrain. “Don’t you get it? Hoarders can do whatever they want.”
The hiss of the Hoarder weapons caught up to them again, and Amos saw a blackened burn appear on his brother’s shoulder. Trey pitched forward, stumbling, and fell in an awkward heap on the steep embankment.
Amos couldn’t tear his eyes away from his brother’s awkward fall, and that was his own undoing. It might have been a tree root, or perhaps a protruding bit of stone in the rocky terrain. Amos felt his foot catch, and his momentum flung him into a mossy pile of rocks.
He landed with all of his weight on the rocks. He felt, and would’ve sworn he heard, his ribs crack. The impact drove the breath from his lungs. The pain was like a white-hot blossom of fire exploding through his ribcage.
Trey staggered to his feet, grimacing as he crossed to Amos’s side, pulling him upright with his uninjured arm. The pain beneath Amos’s ribs screamed, and he thought he might pass out, but Trey dragged him forward.
Amos did his best to keep up, despite the dizziness and pain, gasping for breath.
He saw the charred patch on his brother’s jacket, and the angry blackish-red of exposed flesh underneath. A part of his mind felt detached, as if he was just an unwilling observer of events happening to someone else.
The other part—the adrenaline and fear-infused part—knew they had to keep running before the Hoarders could get another shot at them.
The rest of the journey—down the steep embankment, scrambling over slippery boulders to cross a wide stream, ascending the steep incline on the far side—was a hazy blur. They took turns, in their own fashion, helping each other remain upright and moving.
Now they were here, hiding behind the meager shelter of a fallen tree. Trey collapsed face-down, the burns on his shoulder ugly and painful to look at.
Amos couldn’t see their pursuers, and he eased himself back down beside his brother. He pulled his jacket open, staring with disbelief at the bloodstains on his shirt, corresponding with the sharp stabs of pain from his ribs. He drew shallow breaths, and that seemed to help.
Trey roused himself with difficulty, insisting they move further upslope, as far from the Hoarders as possible. Amos didn’t want to argue with him—Trey was the older brother, after all—so he agreed.
His brother managed to get to his feet, swaying as he fought to keep his balance. He threw his good arm over Amos’s shoulders, and they began their slow and awkward ascent.
Amos was terrified the Hoarders would reappear, and his imagination interpreted every creak of a branch, every gust of wind, as a signal they’d been discovered. Trey climbed with stumbling steps, clutching his younger brother’s shoulder for support.
The cave was an unexpected find, raising their hopes. They had no doubt the Hoarders would continue to hunt for them.
Hoarders stood apart from the rest of society—above the rest of society, judging by their contemptuous treatment of the masses. They played by their own rules. They had all the power, all the resources. What did they care about those they considered inferior?
The brothers explored the interior of the cave, and it was Trey who found the crevice. The split in the rock was only two hands-breadth wide, and the little alcove under the sliding stone was a perfect spot for any young boy to hide something of value. X marks the spot.
Except this wasn’t like the make-believe pirate games they’d played as kids. This was real. They were being hunted. Hoarders had shot his brother with some kind of advanced weapon.
Amos watched Trey take the small device he’d removed from the fence sensor, and place it inside the hidden alcove. It wasn’t much to pin their hopes on, but if they were discovered, perhaps they could convince the Hoarders they’d wandered onto their property by accident.
It was a long shot, Trey said. If the Hoarders just started shooting in the first place, they weren’t likely to change their tactics if they found them hiding in a cave.
Amos didn’t argue. Trey was the older brother, and he knew a lot. Amos just wanted to go to sleep and hope the pain in his bloodied side would be gone when he woke up. They slept in the cave, huddled together.
When Amos awoke the next morning, it was plain Trey was getting worse. His face was flushed and hot to the touch. The burn on his shoulder looked terrible, and he wasn’t making any sense when he tried to speak. Amos’s ribs still hurt, but the bloodstains on his shirt were dry and hard, and he was hungrier than he’d ever been.
And he was scared. Frightened to the core. He’d never encountered a real Hoarder before, but all the cautionary tales he was raised on were confirmed.
Every time the wind picked up, he thought he heard the guttural whisper of Hoarder weapons. Each time, he held his breath, waiting for the burning lash to find him.
At last, he convinced himself everything depended on him. Trey was burning up with fever, and Amos couldn’t carry him. He was only twelve, and much smaller than his big-boned older brother. No, it was up to him. He had to find help. He had to save Trey.
His brother nodded when Amos told him he was going for help.
But even as a child, he was shamefully aware his own fear, hunger, and pain was as much a factor as any altruistic motivation to aid his brother. That made everything worse.
He wandered without direction for a long time, trying to retrace their route without running into the Hoarders again. He was staggering and sobbing by the time he chanced upon the outskirts of the City.
The faint light of house lanterns beckoned him in the right direction as the fading sunlight heralded the end of another day. He couldn’t stop crying, although no tears were left to join the moist tracks on his cheeks.
It took him even longer to figure out the return route the next day. The people he found—who’d treated and fed him—did the best they could, but they were dependent on the shaky recollections of a frightened twelve-year-old.
But eventually, he spotted the area where they’d discovered the cave. Despite the pain under his ribs, he clambered uphill ahead of his new-found friends. He was the first to find his brother.
Or what was left of him. Wild animals had found Trey long before they did. A swarm of flies greeted him, buzzing greedily around his brother’s remains.
Trey had somehow dragged himself a short distance down the hill, about twenty meters from the cave. Amos stood over his brother, unable to reconcile his memories of Trey—alive, laughing, eyes shining with new ideas and adventures—with the mangled corpse at his feet.
The rest of the search party caught up to him and halted awkwardly. An uncomfortable silence was eventually broken when his companions insisted Amos “take a little walk.”
He wandered up the steep incline, numb, heading for the cave where they’d hidden together. Before he’d deserted his brother with the excuse he was trying to save him. No-one followed him, or asked where he was going.
He paused by the cave’s entrance, looking downhill. His older companions were still gathered by what was left of his brother. One was crouched down, examining Trey, while the others stood a short but respectful distance away.
Amos wheeled away, facing the mouth of the cave. The last place he’d seen Trey still alive.
The cave was the same. Dark and empty. Amos didn’t want to go inside, but the adults had told him to stay away. Curiosity got the better of him, and he crept in, down to the crevice. He fished around inside—his arm was shorter than Trey’s—but he was able to reach the tiny alcove.
He managed to push the sliding stone aside, uncovering the stolen device—yes, that was the correct term, stolen. Amos pulled it out, looking at it with odd detachment, and stuffed it into his pocket.
He learned several things that day.
First, the strangers he’d met were good people. They’d fed him, treated his injuries, and risked their own safety to look for Trey. They were nothing like Hoarders.
Second, courtesy of overhearing their guarded conversation after burying his brother, he learned the Hoarders had found Trey after all. He’d been shot at close range. At least it had been quick, before the wild animals found him.
Third, he learned the Hoarders either hadn’t found the cave, or at least failed to discover the secret spot in the crevice. Just in case, as they traced their way back to the City, he surreptitiously dropped the stolen device in the middle of the rushing stream.
But everything else paled by comparison. Trey was dead. And if Amos hadn’t gone to look for help, the Hoarders would’ve found and killed them both.
The only thing that saved him was his own cowardice. He was alive because he abandoned his brother. The horror—and the guilt—was overwhelming, leading to the most deeply-rooted of his new discoveries.
He hated Hoarders. Hated them. With a loathing as strong as death.