With my next step, the wood creaks. Before I cause it to snap under my weight, I leap off the branch and land onto the rocky ground in a crouch.
“Zea-Mays?” hisses Vitelotte.
“I’m fine.” A shuddering breath escapes my lungs as I rise. “Did you see where I jumped?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where the wood creaks.” I glance at the shrub, which stands a foot away. “Don’t jump before then and be careful as you’re walking.”
It takes Vitelotte a little longer to travel down the branch. She’s confident but not as sure-footed as me. The branch’s noisy creaks cause her breathing to quicken, and she asks at regular intervals if it’s safe for her to jump. It hurts to ask her to continue down a branch that sounds like it’s about to splinter, but it’s the only way to avoid the bitterthorn.
As soon as she drops to the ground, I exhale a breath and clasp her hand. We stand together in the dark for several heartbeats before realization hits, and we continue away from yet another crime scene.
Jagged stones dig into the soles of my boots as we hurry around the site of the pile of rocks and rubble that was once the cave. We scramble over the fallen tree and run side-by-side down a stone path around the hill. Our panting breaths and footsteps crunching the gravel echo across the hillside.
We should be quiet and take care sneaking toward the cover of the forest, but we can’t afford that luxury. Descending the tree was time-consuming. Now that whoever was operating the drones knows that someone shot them down, I expect replacements to arrive in minutes.
We skid down a dusty slope, sending clouds of white around our feet, and then through a patch of forest where the only sound is our hurried footsteps and the pounding of my heart. Wisps of old man’s beard lichen hang from every tree branch-like net curtains. In places, it’s so thick that it winds around our arms and slows our escape.
By the time we reach the end of the woods, my thigh muscles burn, and my lungs cry out for oxygen. I lean against a birch tree and catch my breath. Vitelotte doubles over and braces her forearms on her thighs. Thick clouds cover the moon, casting the meadow ahead in semi-darkness.
Flat land stretches straight ahead for about half a mile with a forest of tall trees on its left that slope upward to the hills. The chalk hills continue along its right side, lighting up as the clouds drift away from the moon.
My breath slows, and the pounding in my ears fades to a steady beat. That’s when I hear it—the snores and snuffles and snouts. I cast my gaze down to the meadow where moonlight illuminates the grass and more importantly, hundreds of dark lumps. They’re elephant-sized, maybe larger, and they’re asleep.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“Bison bumelia,” Vitelotte replies in a monotone.
My head whips around to meet the other girl’s eyes, but she stares straight ahead at the field. “Bison?”
“Before my mother died, my father tried to transfer us to Bos.”
I nod. That’s the town in the Harvester Region where they raise cows. I don’t ask why he wanted to leave. The Harvester girls from that town looked better fed than us. Who wouldn’t strive for the chance of extra milk and offal?
“We all studied for the entrance exams and had to learn about the bovidae family.” She dips her head. “Mom’s water broke in the test hall. She couldn’t complete her exam, and the family was disqualified.”
My heart aches at the tragedy. From what Vitelotte said earlier, it sounds like her mother might have died in childbirth, so the family would also have had to suffer a visit from the Midwives, the guardians who investigate abnormal births.
A loud snort jolts me out of my musings, and I place a hand on her arm. “We’d better take the long route around the bison. Maybe we’ll find shelter on the other side of the meadow.”
We head toward the chalk hill, using the trees as cover from any searching drones and as a barrier from the sleeping bison. Neither of us runs as we’ve put enough distance between us and the explosion, but we’re also not taking a leisurely stroll.
After what feels like three hours, something scuttles toward us from behind, making us both stop. My heart flutters in my chest, and I imagine a stray bison, a wild boar, or some other charging animal.
Hoping it was just the wind, I turn and stare into the forest. Moonlight illuminates the tips of the trees and casts their trunks in shadow. My heart pounds so hard that it makes my rib cage tremble.
We stand for several moments, looking for signs of movement, for a mass of darkness to dart between the trunks. When nothing emerges from behind the trees, we continue on our way.
We walk about four trees deep into the meadow with the bison on our left and the forest’s depths on our right. Straight ahead is another giant shrub, but this one doesn’t have thorns, but berries.
The small fruit is nearly an inch in diameter with hard crowns at one end. I roll one in my fingers, noting its powdery covering. My mouth waters and I place a berry on my tongue.
Vitelotte’s breath catches but she doesn’t speak.
I bite down, and an explosion of sweetness and acidity spreads across my tongue. As I suspected, it’s a blueberry.
Vitelotte plucks a berry and sniffs. “Are you sure they’re safe to eat?”
“From the size of them, they’ve been cultivated.” I snatch them off the plant, gather a small handful, and place them in my mouth.
“What do you mean?” She places the berry between her lips and chews. A moment later, she stills and gathers her own handful.
There are few blueberry bushes in the Harvester region. If the birds don’t pluck the shrubs clean, other Harvesters gather get a chance at the
