The Names Our Children Will Know

Plague - Draft One

The walk back to the border felt much longer compared to the panicked and headlong rush into the desert. The only sound Tessa could hear was her own breathing loud in her ears and their soft footsteps in the sand. The noon-high sun was unbearably hot on their backs. Tessa could feel her skin burning from the oppressive weight of it.

Tessa didn't let them stop to rest, since they had to get back to the river as quickly as possible. They plodded on, stumbling every now and then in the sliding, shifting sand dunes.

Hours later, too exhausted to even speak, they finally made it back to the river. Tessa could see the thin, shimmering line as it twisted toward the horizon. The sun was nearing the horizon as well, casting long, deep shadows across the sluggish water.

They stopped to rest when they finally arrived at the river. Tessa thought she couldn't reasonably have done anything else–Jordan looked like she was about to collapse and Wesson still seemed to be having trouble breathing, but once they had recovered, they set off back to the camp. The trek was easier now. The land was cooler next to the water, and the banks were made of dirt instead of sand. It wasn't long before they could see the tents and furrows of earth from the basilisk's hunt.

When the arrived, they found disaster all around.

Tents were strewn everywhere, along with the belongings of the slavers–and even, Tessa thought, the remains of the slavers themselves. She couldn't tell what race the bodies were, but she could tell that at least one was human. She gazed across the clustered ruins of tents and gouged-out furrows from where the sand snake had ferreted out the remaining slaves and slavers alike. It looked as though the sand snake had run people down before eating them.

The monster had vanished as though it were a nightmare, however. In the middle of the circle of the destruction was a tall figure, covered in dust and kneeling on the ground. He was panting, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and staring. Ghost stood, her sides heaving as well, her head and tail drooping in exhaustion.

"Who's there?" He called, his voice hoarse and cracked. "What do you want?"

It was Mark.

Tessa bolted forward, sprinting past yet another torn and broken figure lying next to him and tackled him in a hug. "You're alive! How did you survive?"

Mark shrugged her off tiredly. "I don't know. This crazy man came out of nowhere. He looked mad, waving this huge sword around. He stabbed one of its eyes out and it backed off enough before it ran away." It was odd, Mark thought. Even though he didn't know the man, he still felt responsible for his death.

But he pushed the emotion aside–the others would want to go back now, surely, and he would take them. He got to his feet unsteadily, still feeling unsettled and shocked. "Come on," he said softly. His voice was almost inaudible. Even Jordan had to strain to hear him. "You should all go home. It's not safe for you here."

But Jordan had been staring at the ruins of the camp with wide eyes. She shook her head. "Didn't Charles warn us about the plague being here? We have to stop it," she insisted determinedly. "We have to fix it before it gets to Faircliff! We can't let this happen at home."

Mark looked to Tessa. She was standing, irresolute and indecisive. "We should fix the plague," she agreed quietly. "But we have to be careful about it. We can't walk into a trap like this again."

"We don't even know what the symptoms of the plague are–"

"I do," Wesson said suddenly. "My daughter died trying to bring this information back for us, remember? The victims are just as bloodthirsty as Charles said. They're angry and scared, but the only difference between them and normal people is that they don't stop. They're monsters. They hunt people down until their prey is exhausted and nearly dead, and then they attack. You can tell a victim by their grey skin and long scratches on their bodies. They don't eat or speak, but they die very quickly if they are struck."