Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

The squirrel said nothing.

“Great, that’s actually a bit of a relief,” she said, propping her chin in her hands. “Though you might just be the quiet type.”

She scanned her surroundings and then looked back at the squirrel, which had cocked its head to the side, studying her. “So what do I do now?” asked Prue. “My brother was kidnapped by birds. My friend was captured by coyotes.” She snapped her fingers. “And I nearly forgot: My bike is broken. Sounds like a country song. If country songs were really, really weird.”

The squirrel suddenly straightened and froze, its ears twitching. Beneath the hush of the breeze in the tree branches came an unexpected sound: the putter of a car engine. As it grew louder, the squirrel dove from its perch and disappeared. Prue jumped up and started running toward the sound, fighting her way through the fallen tree branches and brush. “Stop!” she shouted as the sound seemed to grow louder. The woods were particularly dense here and the hillside steep, and Prue’s run became more of a desperate stagger as she tried to reach the sound. A hedgerow of blackberry brambles bloomed in front of her and she dove into them, feeling the thorns tear at her coat and hair. Her eyes closed, she fought through the bushes, flailing at the stinging branches until suddenly she was released from their clutches and she fell forward onto the first level, empty ground she’d seen since entering the woods. She looked up to find she had fallen onto what appeared to be a road. And quickly approaching along this road was what appeared to be a van. Prue leapt up and waved her arms frantically, and the driver slammed on the brakes, the vehicle’s tires skidding in the dirt of the road.

It was a bright red cargo van, and it looked like it had seen better days. It was of an indeterminate age, though the amount of rust and scraped paint on the sides suggested it had seen its fair share of punishment. The side of the van was emblazoned with a strange crest that Prue did not recognize.

As she stared in disbelief at this mysterious vehicle, she heard the distinctive click of a shotgun being cocked. She looked to see the driver’s-side window being hastily rolled down, and a grizzled, balding head emerged, eyes squinting down the sight of a massive double-barreled rifle that looked to be of Civil War vintage.

“Make one move, missy, and I’ll fill you full of holes,” said the driver.

Prue threw her hands into the air.

The driver cautiously lowered the rifle and gaped at Prue.

“Are you . . . ,” spluttered the driver, “are you an Outsider?”

Prue wasn’t quite sure how to respond; the question was bizarre. She stared blankly for a moment before hazarding a response: “I live in St. Johns, in Portland.”

The shotgun was now lowered at a much less threatening angle, and Prue’s pounding blood relaxed in her chest. “Is that what you call it?” asked the

man in the van.

“I guess so,” responded Prue.

The man continued to gape at Prue. “Incredible,” he said. “Just incredible. In all my years, I never in my life thought I’d ever run into one of you. From the Outside.”

Now that the shotgun was no longer at his eye, Prue had a better view of the driver. He was an elderly man—his skin was pale and weathered and two great plumes of wiry hair were his eyebrows—but there was something Prue couldn’t put her finger on that seemed to exude from him, something that made him seem like no one she’d ever met before. It was a kind of aura or shine, like the way a familiar landscape is transformed in the light of a full moon.

Prue summoned her courage and spoke. “Sir, can I put my hands down?” When he nodded consent, she dropped her hands to her sides and continued, “I’m in a little bit of a jam. My little brother, Mac, was kidnapped yesterday by a flock of birds—crows, actually—and brought somewhere in these woods. On top of this, my classmate Curtis stupidly followed me into the woods, and we were attacked by what I think were coyote soldiers. I managed to escape, but he was captured. I’m really tired and a little confused by all that’s happened today, and if you wouldn’t mind helping me, I’d really, really appreciate it.”

The speech seemed to render the man at a loss for words. He pulled the shotgun back into the cab of the van and looked behind him, down the road. Then he looked back at Prue and said, “Okay, get in the van.”

Prue walked around to the side of the van, and the driver opened it from the inside. She climbed into the cab and extended her hand to the man, saying, “My name’s Prue.”

“Richard,” said the man, shaking her hand. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He turned the key in the ignition, and the van grumpily sputtered to life. Behind the cab was a metal gate leading into the cargo area. Through the gate Prue could see piles of manila-colored boxes and crates teeming with neatly tied stacks of envelopes.

“Wait,” said Prue. “You’re a . . . mailman?”

“Postmaster general, miss, at your service,” said Richard. He wore a tattered uniform: a royal-blue blazer with dirty yellow piping. A patch on his chest sported the same emblem as Prue had seen on the side of the truck. His chin bristled with a week’s worth of white, unshaved stubble, and his face was etched with wrinkles.

“Okay,” said Prue, assessing the situation. “Well, it’ll have to do. Now: My friend Curtis was taken just back there. They can’t have gotten far. Between you and me and that shotgun of yours, I figure we can probably devise some sort of plan . . . where are you going?”

Richard had gunned the van, and it lurched forward, moving bumpily along the uneven road. He had to shout his response over the roar of the engine: “No way we’re going back there,” he hollered. “It’s way too dangerous.”

Prue’s eyes widened. “But—sir! I have to help him! He’s on his own out there!”

“I’ve never seen these coyote soldiers you’re talking about, but I’ve heard about ’em, and believe me, your friend is beyond help at this point. No sense in us getting killed as well over it. No, best we get back to South Wood and report this to the Governor-Regent.”

“The what?” stammered Prue, and then, before waiting for Richard to respond, “Listen: Those coyotes might look scary, but they’ve only got swords and old-looking rifles. You’ve got a really big gun. With you waving that shotgun around, I’m sure we could get in and out of there without a scratch.”

“I’ve got a job to do,” said Richard, gesturing to the piles of mail in the cargo hold. “And I’m not about to jeopardize it over some boyo who gets himself nabbed by coyotes. This is Wildwood, kid, and I can’t afford to stop for anything. You’re lucky you jumped in my way. Otherwise, I’d have left you on the side of the road.”

“Fine,” said Prue, and she started fumbling at her side for the door handle. “I’d like to be let out, please. I’m going to save him myself.”

Before she could swing the door open, Richard shot his hand across her lap and held the door closed, the van swerving nearly into the roadside ditch. A single wheel hopped over a stray tree branch, and Richard yelled, “Don’t go out there if you value your life—I ain’t joking around!” Prue retracted her hand and crossed her arms over her chest grumpily.