She couldn't believe how quickly the light disappeared. From the Dome proper, the forest of the dead didn't look that big, maybe a couple of acres. Yet the trees were tall with sturdy trunks, packed tightly together, the canopy up above thick with leaves.
The air around her had a greenish, muted hue, as if only several minutes of twilight remained in the day.
It was somehow beautiful and creepy, all at once.
Moving as fast as she could, Harlow crashed through the heavy foliage, thin branches slapping at her face. She ducked to avoid a low-hanging limb, almost falling. Reaching out, she caught hold of a branch and swung herself forward to regain her balance. A thick bed of leaves and fallen twigs crunched underneath her.
All the while, her eyes stayed riveted on the Roamer scuttling across the forest floor. Deeper it went, its red light glowing brighter as the surroundings darkened.
Harlow, had charged thirty or forty feet into the woods, dodging and ducking and losing ground with every second, when the beetle blade jumped onto a particularly large tree and scooted up its trunk.
But by the time Harlow reached the tree, any sign of the creature had vanished. It had disappeared deep within the foliage—almost as if it had never existed.
She'd lost the it.
"Fuck it," Harlow whispered, almost as a joke. Almost. As strange as it seemed, the word felt natural on her lips, like she was already morphing into a Suvivalist. The word those in the Dome called themselves.
A twig snapped somewhere to her right and she jerked her head in that direction. She stilled her breath, listened.
Another snap, this time louder, almost like someone had broken a stick over their knee.
"Who's there?" Harlow yelled out, a tingle of fear shooting across her shoulders.
Her voice bounced off the canopy of leaves above her, echoing through the air. She stayed frozen, rooted to the spot as all grew silent, except for the whistling song of a few birds in the distance. But no one answered her call. Nor did she hear any more sounds from that direction.
Without really thinking it through, Harlow headed toward the noise she'd heard. Not bothering to hide her progress, she pushed aside branches as she walked, letting them whip back to position when she passed. She squinted, willed her eyes to work in the growing darkness, wishing she had a flashlight. She thought about flashlights and her memory.
Once again, she remembered a tangible thing from her past, but couldn't assign it to any specific time or place, couldn't associate it with any other person or event. Frustrating.
"Anybody there?" she asked again, feeling a little calmer since the noise hadn't repeated. It was probably just an animal, maybe another beetle blade.
Just in case, he called out, "It's me, Harlow. The new girl. Well, second-newest girl."
She winced and shook her head, hoping now that no one was there. She sounded like a complete idiot.
Again, no reply.
She stepped around a large oak and pulled up short. An icy shiver ran down her back. She'd reached the graveyard.
The clearing was small, maybe thirty square feet, and covered with a thick layer of leafy weeds growing close to the ground.
Harlow could see several clumsily prepared wooden crosses poking through this growth, their horizontal pieces lashed to the upright ones with a splintery twine.
The grave markers had been painted white, but by someone in an obvious hurry—gelled globs covered them and bare streaks of wood showed through. Names had been carved into the wood.
Thomas stepped up, hesitantly, to the closest one and knelt down to get a look.
The light was so dull now that she almost felt as if she were looking through black mist. Even the birds had quieted, like they'd gone to bed for the night, and the sound of insects was barely noticeable, or at least much less than normal.
For the first time, Harlow realized how humid it was in the woods, the damp air already beading sweat on his forehead, the backs of her hands.
She leaned closer to the first cross. It looked fresh and bore the name Stephen—the n extra small and right at the edge because the carver hadn't estimated well how much room she'd need.
Stephen, Harlow thought, feeling an unexpected but detached sorrow.
What's your story? Clint annoy you to death?
She stood and walked over to another cross, this one almost completely overgrown with weeds, the ground firm at its base.
Whoever it was, he must've been one of the first to die, because his grave looked the oldest. The name was George.
Harlow looked around and saw there were a dozen or so other graves. A couple of them appeared to be just as fresh as the first one she'd examined.
A silvery glint caught her attention. It was different from the scuttling roamer that had led her to the forest, but just as odd. She moved through the markers until she got to a grave covered with a sheet of grimy plastic or glass, its edges slimed with filth.
She squinted, trying to make out what was on the other side, then gasped when it came into focus. It was a window into another grave—one that had the dusty remnants of a rotting body.
Completely creeped out, Harlow leaned closer to get a better look anyway, curious. The tomb was smaller than usual—only the top half of the deceased person lay inside. She remembered Clint's story about the guy who'd tried to rappel down the dark hole of the Box after it had descended, only to be cut in two by something slicing through the air.
Words were etched on the glass; Harlow could barely read them:
Le t this b e a warning to all:
You c an't e sc ap e through the Box Hole .
Harlow felt the odd urge to snicker—it seemed too ridiculous to be true. But she was also disgusted with herself for being so shallow and glib. Shaking her head, she had stepped aside to read more names of the dead when another twig broke, this time straight in front of her, right behind the trees on the other side of the graveyard.
Then another snap. Then another. Coming closer. And the darkness was thick.
"Who's out there?" she called, her voice shaky and hollow—it sounded as if she were speaking inside an insulated tunnel.
"Seriously, this is stupid." She hated to admit to herself just how terrified she was.
Instead of answering, the person gave up all pretense of stealth and started running, crashing through the forest line around the clearing of the graveyard, circling toward the spot where Harlow stood.
She froze, panic overtaking her. Now only a few feet away, the visitor grew louder and louder until Thomas caught a shadowed glimpse of a skinny boy limping along in a strange, lilting run.
"Who the he—"
The guy burst through the trees before Harlow could finish. She saw only a flash of pale skin and enormous eyes—the haunted image of an apparition—and cried out, tried to run, but it was too late.
The figure leaped into the air and was on top of her, slamming into her.shoulders, gripping her with strong hands.
Harlow crashed to the ground; she felt a grave marker dig into her back before it snapped in two, burning a deep scratch along her flesh.
She pushed and swatted at her attacker, a relentless jumble of skin and bones cavorting on top of her as he tried to gain purchase. It seemed like a monster, a horror from a nightmare, but Harlow knew it had to be a Survivalist, someone who'd completely lost his mind.
She heard teeth snapping open and closed, a horrific clack, clack, clack. Then she felt the jarring dagger of pain as the guys mouth found a home, bit deeply into her shoulder.
Harlow screamed, the pain like a burst of adrenaline through her blood. She planted the palms of her hands against her attacker's chest and pushed, straightening her arms until her muscles strained against the struggling figure above her.
Finally the guy fell back; a sharp crack filled the air as another grave marker met its demise.
Harlow squirmed away on her hands and feet, sucking in breaths of air, and got her first good look at the crazed attacker.
It was the sick guy.
It was Brent.