I hear Parker sigh under the dusty, black bandana, but she waits as I step over the one body and bend over the next. Pushing back the sleeve, I find what I’m looking for: Another band. This one less dirty and definitely purple.
It hits me where I saw the other one. During the assault on the highway on our way down here, one of the Eaters had the same bracelet on its wrist. It can’t be a coincidence. I drop the dead woman’s arm and run to the next body, then the next. Each one is similarly tagged.
This wasn’t a random group of infected people that stumbled upon us. These people all came from the same place. They were from a community—a community that kept track of their members. I pull the handle of a sharp knife I keep tucked in my boot and cut the thick band.
“Have you seen anything like this before?” I ask Parker, who is still watching me, but with less annoyance.
“No.”
“I’ll
be back.”
“Wait, what? Where are you going?” I don’t reply. “Alex! You’re not leaving all this work to us!”
“I’ll be back!” I shout. “Just leave a pile for me.”
I jog toward the front gate, passing the other recruits and ignoring the Fighters keeping watch. I get to the gate and bang on the side. Uncovering my face, I say, “Let me in. I need to talk to someone.”
The guard gazes down at me. I don’t know him personally, but he waves his hand to someone below and the gate slowly opens.
Once inside, I dash past the cleaning station, despite the fact I’m filthy. I head straight to the recovery building we holed up in last night. At the door I bang again, impatient to get inside. “Let me in. It’s Ramsey!” I shout. Moments later, Amanda appears with an irritated grimace on her face.
“What are you doing? People are trying to sleep in here.”
“Yeah, sounds nice.” I push past her and she jumps out of the way, not wanting Eater guts on her clothes. “Where’s Wyatt?”
“You can’t come in here like this. You’re filthy. You’re probably carrying God-knows-what kind of germs.”
“Where’s Wyatt?” I ask again, this time louder than I meant.
A loud groan comes from down the hall and his dark, shadowy figure appears. He leans against the wall, shirtless, with cotton pants slung low on his hips. I avert my eyes to his face instead and spot the tight, painful grimace. That can’t be good. “Alex, what the hell are you doing?”
He’s the third person that’s asked me that in five minutes.
I start to tell him about the arm bands and what I’ve seen outside, but I spot the blooming purple-and-black bruise spreading across his chest and I can’t help but walk over to him. “Crap. Are you okay?”
“I was, until you started banging on the door and raising hell.”
“Sorry.” The bruise looks beyond painful. Without thinking, I reach up to touch his inflamed skin, but Wyatt catches my wrist and gives me a hard look. “Right. So, can we talk? In private.”
He gestures to his room while rubbing his hand over his face. Inside, he passes me and pushes away any help as he crashes back on the cot, grimacing with every movement. Realizing his annoyance is going to hit peak levels at any moment, I jump into my story. “Listen, when we stopped the other day and fought those Eaters on the way here, I noticed something on one of the infected. At the time it didn’t seem like a big deal—almost one of those ironic-end-of-the-world-things that jars you out of the moment, but now I’m not so sure.”
Wyatt’s eyes flutter and he says, “Can I get a little context, please? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, right. You know those plastic armbands they strap to your wrist when you go to a concert or festival or something?”
“Yeah, or a bar.”
Well, I wouldn’t know about that. My bar days got cut short.
“Yes, like that. I saw one on an Eater the other day when we were ambushed on the road.” I hold up the band I’d cut from the Eater outside and pass it over.
“Okay.”
“I found that one outside, just now, as we were cleaning up the bodies from last night. I checked a couple more and they had them on, too.”
Wyatt studies the band, looking a little more interested. “What are you thinking?”