Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Jock Roderick, the Brave Bandit of Hanratty Cross.

The cavern erupted into laughter and applause at this last verse, and the cages shook beneath the weight of the guffawing bandits. Curtis cracked a smile despite himself. The coyote, Dmitri, shouted acidly from his cage, “Beautiful song, guys, real beautiful.”

CHAPTER 15

The Delivery

The pounding of the hammer ceased, the last nail driven into the wood of the crate, and Prue was alone in the darkness, listening intently to the sounds outside. She’d said her good-byes to Enver with a promise to reunite on the other side of the border; she’d thanked Richard again and had sat calmly while he prepared to encase her in the packing crate. Suddenly, there was a loud thunk, the sound of wood hitting metal, and she felt herself tipped sidelong, the world moving underneath her—she guessed the box had been lifted onto a dolly and she was being moved toward the—bang! The back of the van. The crown of her head had hit the top of the box, and she stifled a cry. She heard Richard whisper a “Sorry!” though the wood before saying, “See you on the other side!” A metallic slam. Footsteps. The wheeze of the van engine igniting, and a grinding rattle as the van was thrown into gear and began moving.

Prue shifted her weight in the box, trying to ignore the pressure she was already feeling in the joints of her bent knees. She shared the space with a small clutch of wooden shavings and paper scraps, remnant packing material from the crate’s previous contents. The box smelled faintly of wax.

The van hit a pothole and the box gave a great shake and she fell sideways against the wall of the crate. This time she yelled out loud, “OUCH!” her knee slamming into the floor. She braced herself against the walls of the box and shifted back upright, prepared for any further convulsions.

She felt the shocks of the van lighten as the surface changed from rough gravel to smooth paving stones. The engine shuddered into a higher gear, and the mail van picked up speed. Prue could hear the whistle of wind blowing alongside the vehicle. A quarter of an hour passed this way and Prue eased into the journey, her breath settling into a calm rhythm. The white noise of the van’s engine was only ever eclipsed by the occasional whine of a distant siren—it was clear that the SWORD’s house-by-house avian roundup was continuing apace.

Time passed. The realization that she had not slept more than a few hours in two days dawned on her; she was suddenly aware that she was fighting to keep her eyelids open. Surrendering to the impulse, she fell into an immediate slumber—the anxiousness of her present predicament seemed to melt away like candle wax.

Until the van jerked to a halt.

Her eyelids flew open. Her heartbeat accelerated, a racing horse released from the starting gate. The sound of footsteps, murmured voices. The noises came closer to the back of the van and suddenly, with a clang, the doors of the van could be heard being thrown open, the voices now muffled only by the thin veneer of wood that separated her from the interior of the van.

“. . . this time of night,” sounded one of the voices. “Regulations, you understand. We’re instructed to be vigilant tonight, what with the crackdown. Border patrol, especially.”

“Of course, Officer.” This was Richard’s voice. It was calm, assured. Its confidence instilled a newfound bravery in Prue. She hitched her breath and waited.

“Now, let’s see,” said the other voice, which Prue assumed to be that of a border guard. The van gave a shrug as she felt the officer’s weight climbing into the cargo hold. “Envelopes, packages,” intoned the officer, his footsteps sounding against the metal floor. “Mmm-hmm, all seems to be in order.”

Suddenly, there was a loud, hollow crack against the side of the box. The officer had kicked the crate! Prue threw her hand to her mouth.

“What’s in this one, Postmaster?” asked the officer.

The assurance had dropped from Richard’s voice. “Toilet paper,” he said, stumbling over the first consonants. “Towels and, um, ladies’ undergarments.”

What? screamed Prue’s mind.

“What?” said the officer.

“Undergarments, y-yes,” stuttered Richard. “And toilet paper. Some socks, yes, some socks are in there. And, wouldn’t you believe it, old . . . old dryer lint.”

Prue put her face in her hands.

“Old dryer lint?” asked the officer incredulously. “What kind of package is that?”

“A very, um, strange one,” said Richard. “I guess.”

The game was up. Prue knew it. She was already trying to imagine how well she would handle prison life. Would they let her have a TV? Would the food be any good?

“Open it,” commanded the officer.

“What was that?” asked Richard.

“You heard me, Postmaster. Open it. Open the box. I want to see this . . . this dryer lint.”

Richard grumbled something under his breath and walked along the side of the van, presumably to fetch a crowbar. While he did this, the officer drummed his fingers impatiently on the top of the crate. Through the wood, it sounded like peals of thunder. Finally, Richard returned, and the van shifted again as Prue felt him climb into the hold.

“Now, which one was it?” asked Richard. Prue he

ard the hollow thok of something being tapped against wood, but this sounded from the far end of the van. “Was it this one?”