New Ground
(Willow)
The cedar thicket pressed in tight around us, and branches scraped raw lines across my bare arms. Thin welts rose right away, stinging sharper every time sweat rolled over them. I dropped low onto the cracked limestone where sharp edges ground into my knees straight through the patched cargo pants already stiff with old sweat, sap, and dirt.
No breeze broke the heavy heat. It settled across my shoulders and upper back and pressed down without mercy while pollen hung thick in the air and coated my throat so every swallow scraped raw.
The bowstring bit hard into the calluses on my fingers with steady tension humming through the rough pads. Arrow nocked and fletching brushed my cheek where the feathers lay barely soft against my jaw.
Zorah crouched tight beside me with her breaths coming shallow through cracked lips she kept clamped shut. One hand clamped the bell flat to her chest, knuckles white, killing any sound before it could start.
Thirty yards out, a shuffler lumbered past. Zorah caught my eye once and I gave a small shake of my head so she went completely still. Its feet dragged through the dry underbrush with uneven thuds that stirred thin wisps of dust around its ankles.
Gray strips of its skin sloughed away and snagged on low branches, hanging in loose tatters. Raw muscle underneath glistened in the dim light filtering through the canopy, slick and still pulsing faintly.
Its jaw hung slack and swung side to side with each step, so the teeth knocked together with every sway. Black fluid leaked from the deep gut wound, thick and slow as old oil, splattering in heavy drops that soaked dark into the dirt.
Flies buzzed low and constant around the shuffler and us, wings brushing my sweat-slick neck and arms, their crawling itch constant.
I held dead still with my eyes locked on its path and tracked every shift. My legs burned from the rock grinding into my kneecaps, but I didn't twitch.
The gut wound dragged at it with no bright blood, only black rot seeping. I read the leaks fast and this one had maybe two days left. Until then it would not catch our scent if we stayed down and the wind held.
When its dragging steps finally faded deeper into the brush and the thuds died away completely I straightened out of the crouch.
The pressure in my knees broke apart slowly as I straightened, the ache spreading up my thighs with each inch. My cargo pants pulled tight at the scrapes underneath, the fabric rubbing raw spots that stung fresh. One fly stayed with us, circling low. I didn’t bother swatting it.
Zorah exhaled slowly beside me, shoulders dropping as her breathing steadied. She uncurled her fingers from the bell, the silver chain flashing, then rose. One quick swipe cleared pollen from her ponytail, streaking yellow across her palm before she smeared it on her jeans.
Neither of us spoke as I counted to ten. Old habit. The brush held quiet, so I tilted my head south, and she followed.
I shoved through the thicket, thorns snagging my sleeve. Zorah stuck close behind, her breathing sharp and uneven, catching every time a branch cracked under her boot. We reached the first snare I had set the night before. The wire loop hung from a low limb, half-hidden in the brush. It had caught a rabbit, or what was left of one. Fur matted with dirt; belly torn open in jagged strips. Half the meat was gone, ribs pale under the filtered light. Maggots squirmed in the rest, pale bodies working their way deeper into the muscle.
The smell hit thick and sour at the back of my throat. Zorah stopped dead, hand clamped over her mouth, nose wrinkled as she turned her face away. She gagged hard once. Spit trailed from her lip before she swiped it off with the back of her wrist.
“We eat what’s left.” I kept my voice low and already drew the knife, slicing away the worst parts.
“That’s… okay. Sure.” She stayed planted where she was. “You’re really just going to do that like it’s nothing.”
“Like what.”
“Like that. Like it’s not covered in—” She cut herself off, swallowed hard. “Never mind. Keep going.”
The blade parted the muscle in short, steady strokes, sending faint vibrations up my arm. Warm juices coated my fingers. I dragged one hand down my thigh halfway through. “Can’t waste it. Something got here first. Coyote, from the tracks. This part is still good enough.”
She shifted her weight, then leaned in anyway, her shoulder rolling forward. “Coyote?” She squinted at the prints pressed into the soft dirt. “Those look small, narrow at the front. Maybe a fox?” She paused, her voice tightening. “And seriously, with all those… worms?”
“Maggots.”
“I know what they are, Willow.”
“Then don’t call them worms.”
She made a low noise in her throat, half snort, half choke. “Oh, I’m sorry. With all those maggots. Is that better? Does that fix the situation?”
I kept the knife moving. “Fox or coyote, doesn’t matter. Whatever it was is long gone now.”
“I know it’s gone. I’m just… I’m talking, okay?”
I finished the cut, the last strip of meat tearing free with a wet give as I wrapped the thin piece in cloth and jammed it into my quiver. The arrows clacked together when I stood, leather slapping my back, and I straightened my legs before kicking the rest of the carcass into the brush. Maggots scattered across the dirt, rolling once before they curled tight in the dust.
Zorah made a tight sound in her throat and jerked her face away. “Did you have to—you could have just left it.”
“Draws flies. Draws other things.”
“Right.” She straightened and wiped her palms down the front of her jeans though she had not touched a thing. “Fine. Okay. Fine.” She shifted her weight from heel to heel and rubbed her palms along her thighs. “If I get sick from that, you’re the one nursing me back.” Her mouth twitched, but her jaw stayed set. “Remember those red berries outside Fredericksburg? Three days I could not walk ten feet without—”
“Won’t happen. I checked it close.”
“You checked the berries close too.”
“The berries were different. You ate too many and you know it.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then looked down at her boots. “That’s fair,” she said, voice dropping. “That’s fair. I was stupid about the berries.”
I gave one nod, dragged the blade clean along my pant leg, and slid it back into the sheath with a soft click.
We moved on to forage as the thicket thinned. Low agarita bushes held sparse, shriveled berries, and I picked them one at a time. The skins felt tough and leathery under my thumbs. Each one popped free with a wet snap and left dark red stains on my gloves. Spines still stabbed through anyway, and I shook a stuck leaf loose while my palm already throbbed.
Zorah stepped in beside me. Her fingers worked quick as she gathered a few into her palm. “Drier than last week,” she muttered, rolling one between her fingers. “Bet they taste like shit.”
“Probably.” I added my handful to hers. “Better than nothing.”
Nearby, a prickly pear cactus stood out, pads flat and broad with fine spines catching the dappled light. I peeled one back with careful tugs, the outer skin coming away in sticky strips that clung to my gloves and exposed the pale inner flesh.
“What’s that going to taste like?” Zorah asked, watching.
“Wet. Little sweet if you’re lucky.”
“And if I’m not lucky?”
“Wet.”
She let out a short snort, her shoulders loosening for once. She reached for a pad herself and winced when a spine punched through her glove. “Ow—damn things.” She shook her hand, the pad dropping before she snatched it up again and peeled slower, more careful. “Okay. Okay, I see what you do with your hands. You kind of roll it back instead of pulling.”
“There you go.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not.”
“You had that tone.”
“I don’t have a tone.”
She stared at me flat. I stared back. She turned to the cactus pad again, a small crease pulling at the corner of her mouth. I handed her the cleaned piece I had finished. She took it without looking up, turned it over once, and then bit into the edge.
She chewed, her nose wrinkling as she chewed again. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten,” she admitted.
“High praise.”
“Don’t push it.”
Further along the thicket edge, boot prints scuffed the dirt, not fresh but recent enough that the edges still held their shape. They cut straight toward a jagged gray cluster of rocks where a crumpled can lay half-buried, metal dented and dull; the label faded to faint letters of some old soda brand. My stomach clenched tight at the sight.
Zorah paused, eyes flicking to the trail. She craned her neck, lips parting like she could already taste whatever waited down there. “Wait, Willow. Those prints… maybe they’re people nearby. They could be friendly. What if they have water or something better than these berries?”
I grabbed her elbow, fingers locking tight. The yank snapped her back a step, her ponytail whipping across her cheek and sticking to the sweat there.
“Not worth it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Prints could lead to a trap.” I kept my voice low and flat. “Remember the setup near that old barn?”
She tugged against my hold, testing me. “Yeah, but that was different.” Her voice dropped. “Those people were obvious. What if these ones are hurt? What if they need help?” She glanced back toward the rocks. “We could trade. The meat, those pads.”
“Or they’re waiting to take what we’ve got.” I tightened my grip just enough that her muscle yielded under my fingers and she stopped pulling. “Can’t risk it, Zorah. Not with what little we have.”
She held my eyes a moment longer, thumb rubbing over the tiny bell hidden under her shirt, then the fight drained from her. Her shoulders eased and her arm went slack. “Fine.” She turned her face from the prints. “You’re probably right.”
I released her.
“It’s just—” She stopped and started again, softer. “That can. Someone drank from it once. Sat somewhere cool, maybe, and just… drank it.” She shifted her weight and rubbed her thumb across the bell again. “I don’t know. Stupid.”
I studied the can a moment longer, the ghost of the label. “Not stupid.”
“But we’re still not going.”
“No.”
She let out a slow breath through her nose. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
“Better lonely than dead.”
She gave no reply. She just turned, and I turned with her.
We pushed deeper into the thicket. The air grew heavy, pollen coating everything and scraping my eyes raw with every blink. Zorah stayed close, her steps quicker now, the pads and berries rustling softly in her pocket.
The wail came without warning, raw and gurgling, tearing out from somewhere ahead and to the left straight from a throat. It climbed high, cracked wet at the peak, then silence crashed back in hard enough to ring in my ears. The insects picked up their buzzing again, mechanical.
I froze mid-step, boot hovering over the dirt, heart slamming against my ribs.
Zorah’s hand clamped onto my arm above the elbow, nails pressing through the fabric into skin. “W—” The sound died in a sharp inhale.
I raised my free hand, palm toward her, and counted silently. One. Two. Three. No answering call came. No brush rustled in our direction. The ground stayed still. I let the quiet stretch before I trusted it.
“Shrieker,” I breathed. “Not close.”
Her grip stayed locked. “How not close?”
“Far enough. We go deeper. Away from the edge.”
“And if it moves?”
“Then we move faster.” I met her eyes. “We don’t stop, Zorah. We keep going.”
She exhaled slowly and finally loosened her fingers. I still felt the dents they left.
We moved again. My boots found the quietest patches of ground on pure instinct now, heel to toe, weight rolling slow. The thicket thinned ahead into scattered rock and the rusted frame of an old windmill, its blades hanging bent and frozen mid-turn. Vines choked the metal legs and dragged them crooked into the dirt.
I guided her with a light touch at her shoulder. Tension ran tight through her muscles under my palm, ready to snap. The metal gave a low groan as we passed, settling under its own weight. Zorah’s breath hitched before she placed the sound.
“Wind?” she whispered.
“Just the metal.” I kept my eyes on the shadowed gaps between the legs where vines hung heavy. Nothing shifted. Rusted bolts lay half-buried and untouched.
“Looks like it could fall any second.” She shifted her weight, checked behind us, then the windmill, then behind us again. “You think it’s following us?”
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“They don’t track quiet.” I shifted the quiver strap where it dug into my collarbone. “They react to noise or movement. We stay slow and low; it won’t find us.”
“Okay.” A beat. “Okay, but what if—”
“Zorah.”
She closed her mouth.
“Keep moving.”
She matched my pace. Her boots still kicked occasional pebbles that clinked ahead against larger rocks. I wanted to tell her to lift her feet but held it. She was moving. She stayed quiet enough. That had to count. The wail stayed gone. But the prickling awareness across my skin refused to settle. Something big had screamed nearby. It could scream again. I kept my breaths steady, eyes scanning, and hid it from her.
“I hate that sound,” she muttered finally, her voice barely carrying.
“Yeah.”
“It’s not like anything else.” She tugged her jacket closer though the air was not cold. “It doesn’t sound like an animal. Not really.”
“No.”
“It sounds like—” She cut herself off and swallowed. “Never mind. Forget it.”
“Say it.”
She slid a sidelong look at me. “It sounds like something that used to be a person.”
I had nothing useful to offer back. We kept walking. The windmill groaned once more behind us. The insects filled the space around our steps.
Dusk settled slowly, the light fading to dim gray that blurred the thicket edges while shadows stretched long across the cracked ground. We found a spot near the ragged fringe where the cedars thinned, and I crouched to set the next snare, the wire cool and thin between my fingers as I twisted it into a loop and anchored it low to a root half-buried in the dirt. Soil crumbled dry under my nails while I packed it down.
Zorah crouched nearby and handed me a stick to prop the snare, her fingers grazing mine before she stepped back. “You think anything’s moving out here tonight?”
“Something always is,” I muttered.
A dry twig snapped under her boot, the crack sounding too loud in the cooling air, and she winced before going perfectly still.
Three shufflers staggered out of the scrub, their forms bleeding from the gloom. The first had half its face gone, raw bone exposed where the cheek should have been, its yellowed and chipped teeth clacking with every jerky step. The second trailed intestines from a split belly, the loops dragging heavy across the dirt and leaving dark smears that caught on roots. The third moved steadier, arms outstretched and fingers curled into claws crusted brown with old blood.
I drew in one motion, the string pulling tight against callused fingertips while the wood creaked. The first arrow flew with a soft thrum and sank deep into the half-faced one’s eye socket. The impact snapped its head back and it dropped limp, limbs folding awkward across the roots.
The second arrow followed fast and punched through the trailing one’s throat. Something vital tore inside. It staggered, intestines snagging on a branch with a wet pull, then collapsed face-first into the dirt with a muffled thud.
The third closed fast on Zorah. Its rotted hands grabbed at her sleeve, fabric bunching under the grip as it yanked her closer.
“Willow—”
She kicked hard. Her boot connected with its knee until the joint crunched sideways and gave. It stumbled but stayed upright, its head swinging toward her while its arms kept reaching.
“I’ve got it—” I dropped the bow and drew my knife, the handle already slick in my palm from sudden sweat. I lunged forward and drove the blade up under its chin. The edge slipped on slick bone with a grating scrape that vibrated up into my shoulder. The misstep opened my own forearm deep. The cut bloomed hot. Blood welled fast and spilled down, mixing with the dirt already caking my skin.
“Willow, your arm—”
“I see it.”
Zorah shoved the thing hard, both hands pressed firm against its chest. The decayed flesh gave soft and wrong under her palms. “Get off—” Her voice came tight, breath punching out with the effort.
I adjusted my grip and thrust again. The knife sank true this time and twisted up into the brain with a final push. The handle turned sticky with black fluid that oozed thick around the blade. It went slack. All that awful reaching weight collapsed at once. I braced against the pull as it slumped to the ground.
Silence came back, just our breathing and the insects again.
Zorah stood with her hands still raised, chest heaving. She looked at her palms and wiped them once, hard, on her jeans, then rubbed her thumb across the tiny bell hidden under her shirt. “That thing—it had me. It actually had me. I felt it—”
“You’re okay.”
“I know I’m okay. I’m saying it had me.” She pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth a moment, then steadied. “My arm’s going to bruise bad from that grab.” She lowered her hand and looked at mine, eyes narrowing. “That cut looks bad, Willow. That’s not a small one.”
“I know what it is.”
“Let me see.”“After we move them.”
“After you let me—”
“After we move them, Zorah.”
She looked ready to argue, then bent down instead and grabbed the nearest one’s ankles.
We dragged the bodies deeper into the cedars. My boots dug into the soft earth for leverage while the corpses’ limbs caught on branches with dry snaps. Their weight pulled at my shoulders and every tug made the gash open fresh and burn up to the elbow. Blood dripped a slow trail behind us in the dirt. I kept my eyes forward and did not look at it. Once we had them far enough into the thicker scrub, I let go and straightened, breathing hard through my nose.
Zorah stood across from me with her hands on her knees. She looked at my arm. “Okay. Now.”
I tore a strip from my shirt hem, the fabric ripping rough. Zorah stepped in without asking and took it from me. She wrapped it herself, her fingers moving quick and tight. They still trembled faintly, but she pressed the cloth firm against the cut edges. I felt the throbbing pulse back against the pressure.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You’re tensing.”
“It hurts.”
“I know it hurts. I’m trying to—” She tied it off with a hard little knot. “There.” She did not let go of my wrist right away. Her thumb rested just below the wrap for a moment. “How deep is it actually?”
“Deep enough. Not deep enough to matter tonight.”
She looked up at me. “That’s not the same as fine.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
She released my arm and stepped back. She flexed her fingers once then drew her knife without being asked. The blade caught the last flat light of the dying day. Her eyes moved across the treeline in slow passes, professional now. The tremor had left her hands.
“I’ll watch,” she said. “Finish the snare.”
I flexed my fingers and felt the pull in the wound, felt the wrap hold. I went back to the wire.
“Willow.”
“Yeah.”
The insects buzzed in the dark between the cedars. “Next time shout when you’re going to do something like that. When you dropped the bow, I didn’t know where you were for a second.”
“Next time, I’ll announce myself to the shufflers.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Okay,” I muttered.
She said nothing else. She stood with her back mostly toward me, the knife low, her eyes out on the dark. I worked the wire into the dirt until the snare sat right.
Full dark had dropped by the time we pushed into the new spot. Branches overhead wove so dense they killed the last of dusk and left nothing but black gaps between the needles. Cedars crowded so tight we had to drop to hands and knees for the final twenty yards. Cool uneven dirt, ground into my palms while roots jabbed straight into the skin and loose dirt crumbled and gave under my boots with every shift of weight.
Zorah crawled right behind me. Her warm breaths his my calf in quick puffs, and her fingers grazed my boot heel every few feet. A branch snagged her once, and she sucked a sharp breath through her teeth, but she kept moving without a word.
We broke into a small clear space where we could finally sit upright. Cedars walled us in tight on every side. I dug out a shallow pit for the fire, the damp soil clumping cold under my nails, then stacked flat stones around the edge. Their smooth chill bit into my palms as I worked.
Zorah dropped across from me and drew her knees up tight to her chest. She rubbed at her arms where the crawl had left raw red scrapes clear even in the weak light.
"That was terrible." She twisted her elbow toward the faint glow filtering down from above and squinted hard at it. "These spots keep getting worse. Look, this one is actually bleeding."
She thrust her arm toward me. Pink scraped skin beaded with small dark drops of blood. I glanced once, long enough to note it was shallow but fresh, then struck the flint. Sparks nipped hot against my knuckles.
"Rub some dirt on it."
Her eyes narrowed at me. "Sorry?"
"It stops the sting."
"Willow." Her voice sharpened as she rubbed the scrape again. "I just crawled twenty yards on my elbows, and now you want me to pack more dirt into it?"
"Clean dirt. Not the path dirt."
"There's a difference?"
The tinder caught, and small flames licked up. I skewered the rabbit meat while the flesh felt firm yet gave under the stick, and cool juices slicked my fingers. "Just do it."
She grumbled low in her throat but pinched up some earth anyway. She pressed it to the scrape in careful pats, bits crumbling away while some clung to the tacky blood. "This feels insane. The kind of thing you tell someone and laugh about later when you're safe."
"Has the sting let up?"
A beat passed while she tested the spot with her thumb. "...A little."
"There you go." I kept my eyes on the growing flames and the perimeter beyond them, already calculating how long the fire could burn before we needed to smother it.
She wiped her clean hand down the front of her jeans and leaned forward to watch me turn the skewer over the low flames. The rabbit meat had begun to sizzle, fat popping as the outside slowly browned and a thin crust of char formed crisp. Hot juices dripped onto the stones below with soft hisses, each drop spreading dark before the steam rose and vanished.
"How long?"
"Few minutes."
"And we're eating all of it?"
I continued rotating the skewer steadily, feeling the heat climb up the stick and into my palm. "Half tonight."
She looked across the fire at me, the flickering light painting her face in shifting orange and deep shadow. "Half? Willow, I'm starving. We've been moving all day, we got jumped by three of those things, your arm got opened up, and you want to save half of a rabbit that was already half eaten when we found it."
"That's exactly why we save half."
Her mouth twisted like she wanted to argue further. "That logic makes me want to scream a little."
"Berries will stretch with it."
"The twelve berries and a cactus pad." She pressed her lips tight together. "I counted them."
"Then you know exactly where we stand."
She pulled her knees closer to her chest and stared at the meat browning over the coals. After a moment, the stiffness slowly left her shoulders. "Fine." She dug her boot heel into a root jutting from the dirt. "Fine, you're right."
"I know."
"Do you actually get hungry or do you just decide not to?" She tilted her head, studying me.
I glanced up from the fire. "What?"
"You never say you're hungry. You just eat when there's food and go without when there isn't. Like you turned something off inside." She worked her jaw a moment. "I can't do that."
I pulled the skewer closer and pressed my thumb against the charred surface. THe inside was still pink but warming through. "I get hungry."
"You don't act like it."
"Acting like it doesn't help anything."
She considered my words, her fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve. "That's deeply annoying," she said at last, "but I think I understand it."
I split the portion cleanly with my knife, the blade sliding through the meat with little resistance, and handed her half. Steam rose faintly from both pieces as the night air started cooling them fast.
We ate in small careful bites. The rabbit was tough and stringy, each piece taking real work to break down between the molars. Charred edges crunched sharp while the warmer inner parts stayed tender and slid down. Zorah worked through hers with focused chews, her fingers growing shiny with fat. She wiped them on her jeans in quick rubs that left dark streaks across the denim.
"This isn't bad, actually." Surprise colored her voice, as if the food had caught her off guard. The sharp edge had left her tone. "Stringy, but way better than those pads. Those were nothing but slime." She turned the last piece over slowly in her greasy fingers. "You think there will be rabbits tomorrow?"
"Maybe."
"Deer?"
"Tracks were scarce today."
"Haven't seen one in a full month." She kept chewing. "I keep thinking about venison. That's probably a bad sign, right? When you start getting specific cravings like that."
"Means you're still healthy enough to want things."
She looked at me over the low fire. Her shoulders eased, and she held my gaze a beat longer than usual. "Huh. Okay, I'll take that." She popped the final bite into her mouth and licked her thumb clean.
"Your arm holding up?"
I flexed my fingers slowly. The wrap had stiffened from dried blood, and the cut underneath throbbed in a dull steady rhythm that had become background noise. "It's holding."
"Let me look at it in the morning. Properly this time."
"It's fine, Zorah."
"I know. I still want to look at it anyway." She met my eyes. "You'd make me do the same if it was me. That's all I'm asking."
"In the morning then."
"Thank you." She pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders and shifted closer until her shoulder pressed against my ribs. Her weight settled there warm and familiar against the growing night chill.
Her hair fell soft across my side, the strands slipping through the fabric of my shirt and brushing my skin with every slow rise of her breathing. She had settled warm and heavy against my ribs. I drew my knife and worked the whetstone along the edge by feel alone. Each stroke rasped steady while the metal warmed gradually under the friction, and tiny grains of stone dust worked into the creases of my fingers.
My eyes stayed fixed on the black beyond the cedars, scanning the dark gaps between branches where shapes blurred together and merged into nothing. The night pressed close and silent around us. Somewhere far off, an owl called once, sharp and clear, then the sound dropped away and left the quiet even heavier.
Then I caught it. Miles away between the tree lines, a faint orange glow pulsed into view. It rose and fell slowly, the way live coals breathe when wind moves across them. Too distant to tell whether it was a deliberate campfire or something larger burning itself down to nothing.
The whetstone paused mid-stroke in my hand. Someone had lit that fire and either did not care who saw it or did not know any better. Both possibilities sat heavy with risks I did not want to weigh right now.
I stared at the distant glow until my eyes burned from not blinking. My shoulders had locked tight, and the knife handle pressed hard into my palm, the wood biting deep into the calluses.
I told myself it was not our problem. The words moved in my head even as my grip tightened further around the handle and the edges of the wood dug sharper into my skin. I stayed exactly where I was, let the night stay quiet around us, and kept running the stone along the blade without waking her.
