Read Online The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) by Tarah Benner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tarah Benner
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, I thought. They would capture me, and I’d become infected and die. Or they would hold me hostage as part of their evil plan. At least they would need to feed me to keep me alive.
Up ahead, I could see the trees thinning as the trail turned around the bend. There was a hole in the tree branches where the woods seemed to open onto another man-made trail — as though someone had ridden a mountain bike through in the old days. Or was I imagining that?
No.
As I drew closer, I saw a break in the trees and a footpath where the undergrowth had been worn away. Peering through the branches, I could see an open field. I had found a farm.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Staring out at the flat stretch of farmland, my heart vibrated in my chest like a gently humming tuning fork. If it was a farm or if it had been a farm recently, there might be food nearby: a pantry, a chicken coop to steal some eggs from, anything. I pushed through the branches in madness, no longer bothering to stay quiet.
I reached the edge of the cornfield. It looked as if it had been harvested, with nothing but decimated stalks in the ground. That made sense; it was mid-October. My vision blurred, but I could make out what looked like a rooftop jutting out over a grove of trees across the field.
I quickly and clumsily weighed the risks of trying the house. Continuing on the trail wasn’t an option; I was weak and starving with no prospect of food. I couldn’t hunt, and all the towns I’d found so far were deserted.
Going out to the house was definitely dangerous. If it was still inhabited, whoever lived there could be hostile, or I could be slaughtered by carriers hiding in the bordering woods before I even reached the house. Perhaps the farm had already been raided by carriers and some were still roaming the area. Running through the cornfield left me exposed. There was no tree cover — nowhere to hide.
But the prospect of nourishment and a safe place to rest for a while was too alluring. If I didn’t try, I would be dead in a few days anyway. It was now or never. I fished Greyson’s knife out of my pack and gripped it tightly. Its blade wasn’t very sharp — Greyson kept it as more of a keepsake than a weapon — but it was better than venturing out there completely unarmed.
I looked out across the field, eyes searching for any sign of movement. Seeing nothing, I took a deep breath and sprinted out through the hole in the trees, straight for the roof in the distance. It was only about five hundred yards away, but that might as well have been five miles.
Legs screaming, heart pounding in my throat, all I could hear was the sound of my own labored breathing as I scanned the field around me for any encroaching carriers. I pushed faster.
Four hundred yards. I was feeling extremely lightheaded, and I knew I couldn’t keep this up without any fuel to sustain me.
Three hundred yards.
I could see the side of a barn through the sparse trees.
Two hundred yards.
I began to worry in earnest that I might pass out. My body was not equipped for the exertion of a sprint. I fought the blackness on the edge of my vision. No! I couldn’t . . . lose . . . control.
Keep going, I thought. Just a little farther . . .
One hundred yards. A blurry figure jumped into my peripheral vision, and my stomach dropped to my knees. I lurched to the left — away from whoever or whatever it was — intending to make a run for it back to the shelter of the woods.
In the half second it took me to change direction, I was on my back with the wind completely knocked out of me. The assailant was sitting on my chest, pinning me down with crushing strength. Gasping for air, I swatted inexpertly with my knife. He ducked — dodging it easily — and knocked the knife out of my hand.
Carriers weren’t usually so quick and agile , I thought. I had one chance.
I swung a desperate punch as hard as I could muster, catching the side of his jaw. It felt as
Up ahead, I could see the trees thinning as the trail turned around the bend. There was a hole in the tree branches where the woods seemed to open onto another man-made trail — as though someone had ridden a mountain bike through in the old days. Or was I imagining that?
No.
As I drew closer, I saw a break in the trees and a footpath where the undergrowth had been worn away. Peering through the branches, I could see an open field. I had found a farm.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Staring out at the flat stretch of farmland, my heart vibrated in my chest like a gently humming tuning fork. If it was a farm or if it had been a farm recently, there might be food nearby: a pantry, a chicken coop to steal some eggs from, anything. I pushed through the branches in madness, no longer bothering to stay quiet.
I reached the edge of the cornfield. It looked as if it had been harvested, with nothing but decimated stalks in the ground. That made sense; it was mid-October. My vision blurred, but I could make out what looked like a rooftop jutting out over a grove of trees across the field.
I quickly and clumsily weighed the risks of trying the house. Continuing on the trail wasn’t an option; I was weak and starving with no prospect of food. I couldn’t hunt, and all the towns I’d found so far were deserted.
Going out to the house was definitely dangerous. If it was still inhabited, whoever lived there could be hostile, or I could be slaughtered by carriers hiding in the bordering woods before I even reached the house. Perhaps the farm had already been raided by carriers and some were still roaming the area. Running through the cornfield left me exposed. There was no tree cover — nowhere to hide.
But the prospect of nourishment and a safe place to rest for a while was too alluring. If I didn’t try, I would be dead in a few days anyway. It was now or never. I fished Greyson’s knife out of my pack and gripped it tightly. Its blade wasn’t very sharp — Greyson kept it as more of a keepsake than a weapon — but it was better than venturing out there completely unarmed.
I looked out across the field, eyes searching for any sign of movement. Seeing nothing, I took a deep breath and sprinted out through the hole in the trees, straight for the roof in the distance. It was only about five hundred yards away, but that might as well have been five miles.
Legs screaming, heart pounding in my throat, all I could hear was the sound of my own labored breathing as I scanned the field around me for any encroaching carriers. I pushed faster.
Four hundred yards. I was feeling extremely lightheaded, and I knew I couldn’t keep this up without any fuel to sustain me.
Three hundred yards.
I could see the side of a barn through the sparse trees.
Two hundred yards.
I began to worry in earnest that I might pass out. My body was not equipped for the exertion of a sprint. I fought the blackness on the edge of my vision. No! I couldn’t . . . lose . . . control.
Keep going, I thought. Just a little farther . . .
One hundred yards. A blurry figure jumped into my peripheral vision, and my stomach dropped to my knees. I lurched to the left — away from whoever or whatever it was — intending to make a run for it back to the shelter of the woods.
In the half second it took me to change direction, I was on my back with the wind completely knocked out of me. The assailant was sitting on my chest, pinning me down with crushing strength. Gasping for air, I swatted inexpertly with my knife. He ducked — dodging it easily — and knocked the knife out of my hand.
Carriers weren’t usually so quick and agile , I thought. I had one chance.
I swung a desperate punch as hard as I could muster, catching the side of his jaw. It felt as
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