I look around, stretching my arms, wondering when this Anita person is going to attack me. I’ll be really pissed if she waits until my workday is over. What’s the point of getting into a cat fight if you can’t even weasel out of an hour of hard labor?

I take my time stretching. I stretch my arms above me and arch my back as far as it’ll go.

My neck hurts, my back hurts, my arms and hands hurt, my legs and feet hurt, even my eyeballs hurt. My muscles are either screaming from hours of repetitive motion or stiff from hours of being held still. At this rate, I won’t have to throw the fight, I’ll lose it honestly.

I pretend not to watch the latrine duty men walking toward us as I stretch my legs. There are about ten of them with Raffe hanging in the back of the group.

When they are a few steps away, they start stripping off their filthy clothes. Grimy shirts, pants and socks get tossed into the laundry pile. Some get tossed into the trash pile. Raffe dug the ditch instead of working on the truly toxic part of the latrines, but not everyone was that lucky. The only thing they leave on are their boxer shorts.

I try very hard not to look at Raffe as I realize he’ll be expected to take his shirt off. He might be able to explain away the bandages under his shirt, but there’s no way he can explain away the blood stains exactly where wings would have been.

I stretch my arms above my head, trying not to look scared. I hold my breath, hoping the men will move along and not notice Raffe lagging behind.

But instead of moving into the buildings for a shower, they grab the hose we’ve been using to fill our tubs. They line up to hose each other off. I could kick myself for not anticipating this. Of course they’ll hose off first. Who would want latrine workers to walk straight into the shared showers?

I steal a glance at Raffe. He’s keeping his cool, but I can tell by how slowly he’s unbuttoning his shirt that he didn’t see this coming either.

He must have figured he could slip away once they got into the building since the showers couldn’t take everyone at the same time. But there is no good excuse to drift away from this part of the routine and no way to do it without being noticed.

Raffe finishes unbuttoning his shirt and instead of taking it off, he slowly starts unbuttoning his pants. Everyone around him has already stripped, and he’s starting to look conspicuous. Just when I’m wondering if we should make a blatant run for it, the solution to our problem saunters toward us on long, shapely legs.

The woman who walked with Raffe to lunch tosses her honey hair as she smiles up at him.

Dee-Dum walk by at that moment. “Oh, hi Anita!” They both say with casual surprise. Their voices are slightly raised, as if to make sure I hear them.

Anita glares at them as if they’d just hawked and spat. I’ve seen that look a million times in the hallways given by a popular girl to a band geek when he gets too familiar in front of her clique. She turns back to Raffe, her face melting into a radiant smile. She puts her hand on his arm as he’s about to take off his pants.

And that’s all the excuse I need.

I grab the sudsy shirt out of the gray water and throw it at her.

It makes a plop noise when it lands on her face, wrapping around her hair. Her perfect hair clumps into a stringy mass, and her mascara smears as the cloth slides wetly down her blouse. She emits a high-pitched squeal that turns every head within earshot.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say in a sugary voice. “Did you not like that? I thought that’s what you wanted. I mean, why else would you be putting your paws on my man?”

The small crowd around us grows by the second. Oh, yeah, baby. Step right up. Come see the freak show. Raffe fades into the growing crowd, discreetly buttoning up his shirt. And I thought he looked grim at my last fight.

Anita’s enormous eyes look up helplessly at Raffe. She looks like a distressed kitten, bewildered and hurt. Poor thing. I have second thoughts about whether I can do this.

Then she looks at me. It’s amazing how quickly her face can change, depending on who she’s looking at. She looks spitting-mad. As she stalks toward me, mad turns into rage.

It’s impressive how vicious a pretty woman can look when she sets her mind to it. Either she’s one hell of an actress, or Dee-Dum had a double agenda when they set this up. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know about the fight. Why share the profits when you can get revenge instead? I’m sure this wasn’t the first time Anita has snubbed Dee-Dum. Not that I believe for a second that their feelings were hurt.

“You think anything you do would get a guy like him to look at you twice?” Anita flings the wet shirt back at me. “You’d be lucky to get a one-legged grandpa to be interested in you.”

Okay. Turns out I can do this.

I lean a little to make sure the shirt hits me.

Then, we go at it in all our feminine glory. Hair pulling, face slapping, shirt ripping, nail-scratching. We squeal like cheerleaders who fell into a mud pit.

As we stumble around in our drunken dance, we bump into a wash basin. It comes crashing down, spraying the whole area with water.

She trips over it while clinging onto me, and we come tumbling down. Our bodies contort around each other as we roll in the mud around the wash basins.

It’s hard to look dignified when your head is being pulled down to your shoulder by your hair. It’s embarrassing. I do my best to look as though I’m really fighting

The crowd goes wild with their cheering and clapping. I catch a glimpse of Dee-Dum as we roll. They’re practically hopping with glee.

Just how does somebody lose a fight like this? Should I break down crying? Land in the mud face-down and let her scratch me a few times while I curl into a ball? I’m at a complete loss as to how to tap out of this fight.

All thoughts of the fight are shattered by a gunshot.

It comes from somewhere past the crowd, but it’s close enough to make everyone freeze in silence.

Two more shots go off in rapid succession.

Then a scream echoes through the woods. A very human, very terrified scream.

CHAPTER 21

The wind rustles through the treetops. My blood pounds in my ears.

For a few heartbeats, everyone stares into the twilight with eyes wide as if waiting for a nightmare to come to life. Then, as though a command had been given, chaos bursts through the crowd.

Soldiers run to the trees in the direction of the scream, gripping their guns and rifles. Everyone starts talking, some crying. Some rush one way, others rush another. It’s a crush of noise and confusion bordering on panic. Like the dogs, these people aren’t as well trained as Obi would like.

Anita climbs off me, the whites of her eyes showing all around her irises. She takes off, running after the biggest crowd which is stampeding into the mess hall. I get up, torn between wanting to see what’s happening and wanting to hide in the relative safety of numbers.

Raffe is suddenly beside me, whispering. “Where are the wings?”

“What?”

“Where did you hide them?”

“In a tree.”

He sighs, obviously trying to be patient. “Can you tell me?”

I point in the direction of the scream, where the last of the soldiers disappear.

“Can you tell me how to find it, or do you need to show me?”

“I’d have to show you.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Can you think of a better time?”

I glance around. Everyone is still scrambling to grab gear and run into a building. No one gives us a second glance. No one would notice if we disappeared during the chaos.

Of course, there’s whatever it is that’s causing the panic.

My thoughts must show in my face because Raffe says, “Either tell me or show me. It has to be now.”

Twilight is sliding fast into full dark around us. My skin prickles at the thought of wandering through the forest in the dark with whatever it was that caused an armed soldier to scream like that.

But I can’t let Raffe run without me. I nod.

We slip into the darkening shadows for the closest path to the forest. We half-tiptoe, half-run through the woods.

Gunshots fire in rapid, overlapping succession. Several guns fire simultaneously in the woods. Maybe this isn’t the best idea.

As if I’m not freaked out enough, screams echo through the oncoming night.

By the time we run across the camp and reach the hiding tree area, the woods are quiet. Not a single rustle, no birds or squirrels disturb the silence. The light is fading fast, but there’s enough to see the carnage.

About a dozen soldiers had run toward the scream. Now there are only five still standing.

The rest lie scattered on the ground like broken dolls tossed by an angry child. And like broken dolls, there are body parts missing. An arm, a leg, a head. The ripped joints are ragged and gory.

Blood splatters everything—the trees, the dirt, the soldiers. The dimming light has leached the color out of it, making it look like oil dripping off the branches.

The remaining soldiers stand in a circle with their rifles pointing outward.

I’m puzzled by the angle of their rifles. They don’t point straight out or up, the way they would for an enemy on foot or in the air. Nor do they point to the ground the way they would if they weren’t about to fire.

Instead, they point midway down as if aiming at something that’s only as high as their waists. Mountain lion? There are mountain lions in these hills, although it’s rare to see one. But mountain lions don’t cause this kind of slaughter. Maybe wild dogs? But again, the slaughter doesn’t look natural. It looks like a vicious, murderous attack rather than a hunt for food or a defensive fight.

The memory pops into my head of Raffe mentioning the possibility of kids attacking that family on the street. I dismiss that thought as soon as it comes. These armed soldiers would never be this scared of a gang of kids, no matter how feral.

Everything about the survivors looks freaky spooked, as though the only thing containing their panic is their paralyzing fear. Their white-knuckled grips on their rifles; the way they hold their elbows tight near their bodies as if to keep their arms from shaking; the way they move shoulder to shoulder, like a school of fish clustering near a predator.

Nothing natural could cause this kind of fear. It goes beyond a fear of physical harm and into the realm of mental and spiritual. Like the fear of losing your sanity, of losing your soul.

My skin prickles watching the soldiers. Fear is contagious. Maybe it’s something that’s evolved from our primeval days when your survival odds were better if you picked up on your buddy’s fear without wasting time to discuss it. Or maybe I’m sensing something directly. Something horrifying that my reptile brain recognizes.

My stomach churns and tries to reject its contents. I swallow it back, ignoring the acid burn on the back of my throat.