Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

“Got it,” said Esben.

She handed him her shoulder bag. “Take this. I’ll be back with more supplies. That should hold you for a few days. Just keep your head down, right?”

“Will do,” said the bear. He then looked over at the badger. “What about that one? Think he’ll keep quiet about me? How do we keep him from talking?”

The badger seemed to visually startle; the color had drained from his black-and-white-furred face.

“Leave it to me,” said Prue. Walking back over to the badger, she stood in front of him with her feet planted wide and her hands on her hips. She looked down at the brooch the badger was wearing: a single bicycle gear.

“Nice gear,” said Prue.

“I’m a patriot,” said the badger, still very clearly uncomfortable.

“That’s what I like to hear,” said Prue. “You’ll keep your mouth shut about this bear, right?”

The badger swallowed loudly. “I suppose I could. But I don’t want to get wrapped up in anything illegal—I’m an honest badger, making an honest living here.”

“How about if I said you were under instruction of the Bicycle Maiden?” asked Prue.

The badger blanched. “You?”

Prue nodded.

The handles of the rickshaw fell from the badger’s grasp, and he dropped to his knees. “I can’t believe it!” he said, his voice breaking with excitement. “I knew it was you! The moment you showed up. I knew it!” Tears had appeared in his eyes. “What are you doing back in the Wood?”

“I’m here to fix things,” said Prue. She said the words with certainty, with purpose. The feeling of power flooded over her; she reveled in it. She felt like she was, at long last, standing on solid ground. She knew now what to do.

They knew the drill; they’d been practicing it for weeks. The fire in the tin drum was immediately smothered; their store of foodstuffs covered by the waxed canvas tarp. Without a word, Michael appeared by the trapdoor in the worn wooden floor and began ushering the children—the youngest first—down the ladder into the building’s dark subbasement. Rachel pulled up the rear, ushering the stragglers quickly toward the hole in the floor, all the while casting a careful eye over her shoulder at the rumblings on the outside.

Cynthia came dashing down the staircase and arrived breathless at Michael’s side. “A whole mess of ’em!” she said, petrified. “They were all coming out of nowhere, like they’d just appeared. Tons of ’em. Never seen so many in one place!”

She was referring, of course, to the stevedores, the beanie-clad shock troopers of the Industrial Wastes. Bending to the whim and will of Brad Wigman, Chief Titan of the Quintet, they were tasked to investigate, root out, and put down any insurrection or uprising inside the boundaries of their empire. The Unadoptables had managed to elude the stevedores so far, staying quiet in their hidden home in this Forgotten Place—until now.

“Get in!” hissed Michael, and the girl promptly disappeared down the hole. Michael nodded to Rachel, who began to take her first steps down the ladder when a noise startled them both.

The iron lattice of one of the ground-level windows had been forcibly kicked apart, and through the obliging hole climbed a very haggard and desperate-looking man. He was not a stevedore: Notably absent were the de rigueur maroon beanie and coveralls. Instead, he was dressed entirely in black: black slacks, black shoes, black turtleneck. On his head was perched a prim black beret. His eyes widened when he saw the two kids, standing frozen above the open trapdoor.

“Help me!” he said in a rasped whisper.

Rachel looked up at Michael; Michael’s face went blank.

The man ran up to them, his face lined with anguish. “You’ve got to hide me! They’re coming!”

The sound of a multitude of heavy-booted footsteps could be heard just outside the warehouse walls; bulky silhouettes could be seen darting about through the dirty windows. There was no time to ask questions.

“Get in,” said Michael. Rachel hurried down the steps and the man followed, clambering down the ladder rungs above her.

Michael had just hopped into the hole, the trapdoor slamming down behind him, when the doors of the warehouse were broken in and the sound of the footsteps—perhaps dozens—came thundering into the room.

The three of them froze in the narrow stairwell, terrified to make a move lest they give away their hiding place. A pair of boots landed heavily on the trapdoor; they shuffled as their owner pivoted, searching the room. Rachel, at the bottom rung of the stepladder, turned to the huddled mass of kids behind her and raised her finger to her lips in a frantic mime: shhhhh.

“Where’d he go?” shouted a voice from through the floor. More boot steps sounded; the stevedores were wandering the length and breadth of the warehouse, searching for their prey.

“Dunno. Swear to God he came in ’ere. Saw ’im with my own eyes.”

“Well, find ’im then.”

“What is this place, anyway?”