Timberdark E-Book

Darren Charlton

• Herausgeber: Little Tiger Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Wranglestone
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 434

Beschreibung

"It doesn't matter what kind of monster it is. Anger, heartbreak or the Dead. They all feed on the same thing… Chaos."Peter and Cooper arrive in West Wranglestone searching for a fresh start. Could this be the place where the living and the Returned can exist together and finally be safe? A place to call home?But West Wranglestone is far from the utopia they were hoping for and the forces controlling the town have powers beyond anything the two boys ever imagined. As Cooper grows closer to others like himself, Peter ends up confessing his fears about the Returned to the sheriff's son, Teddy.Can Peter and Cooper set aside their differences and learn to trust each other again?A thrilling and thought-provoking sequel to the highly acclaimed WRANGLESTONE, for fans of Patrick Ness, Marcus Sedgwick, DREAD NATION and The Walking Dead.PRAISE FOR WRANGLESTONE:'Fresh and compelling and totally immersive.' – Sunday Irish Independent'Charlton's fantastic debut is both a page turning zombie thriller and a beautifully drawn gay love story.' – The i'A bucolic, intimate twist on the zombie/post-apocalyptic story... It's impressive how Darren has combined the pace, thrills, and gore you expect from zombie fiction with a genuinely tender romance.' – David Owen, author of GRIEF ANGELS'Thrilling zombie epic meets gorgeous gay love story. The world-building is deft, the writing poetic … this is very special! Properly scary and properly heart-warming.' – William Hussey, author of HIDEOUS BEAUTY'A complete treasure of a book – page-turning, stunning writing, an extraordinary setting and with a gorgeous love story at its heart.' – Lisa Heathfield, author of I AM NOT A NUMBER

Leseprobe

Contents

Title PageDedicationPraise for WranglestoneEpigraphMapPart IPrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightPart IIChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixPart IIIChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-OneFive Years LaterAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

For Joseph. My home.

And in loving memory of Claus. (1976 - 2002)

Praise for Wranglestone

Winner of the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize for Older Readers

Shortlisted for the Costa Book Awards

Shortlisted for the YA Book Prize

Longlisted for the Branford Boase Award

* * *

“Part zombie epic […] part gay love story […] a sophisticated new voice.”

The Times, Best Books of the Year

“Zombie thrills combine with an achingly tender gay love story”

Observer

“Sublime and affecting”

Starburst

“Fresh and compelling and totally immersive”

Sunday Irish Independent

“Thrilling zombie epic meets gorgeous gay love story. The world-building is deft, the writing poetic … this is very special!”

William Hussey, author of Hideous Beauty

“A bucolic, intimate twist on the zombie/post-apocalyptic story”

David Owen, author of Grief Angels

“Charlton’s fantastic debut […] is both a page-turning zombie thriller and a beautifully drawn gay love story”

iNews

“Wranglestone is terrifyingly good”

Attitude

“A complete treasure of a book – page-turning, stunning writing, an extraordinary setting and with a gorgeous love story at its heart”

Lisa Heathfield, author of I Am Not A Number

“Wranglestone by Darren Charlton holds an extra special place in my little gay heart”

George Lester, author of Boy Queen

‘The mountains are calling and I must go.’

John Muir

Part I

Prologue

Some communities had islands to protect them from the Dead. Others had vast glaciers and mountains. Over in Arizona, where long, black roads shimmered like liquorice sticks out across the desert, the National Park Escape Programme was without rival. Seen from space, Grand Canyon looked like the Earth had been torn wide at the skin. It was as violent a wound as a bloody gash to the bone. Only it was a river, not a blade, that had quietly cut a mile deep into the rock over millions of years, giving those survivors living in the valley below a maze of walls to hide in and a fall from the top that made bone dust of the Dead.

To the north, Yellowstone had none of those things to protect it. The land was flat and unguarded and would have been prone to ravage from its wandering herds if it weren’t for one thing. The earth held a secret.

While the air up there was so cold it glittered like finely ground diamonds, a little piece of hell bubbled away just below the surface. Acid in the ground turned trees into tinder. It burned the grass off the land, making the soil scab with wet copper pools like freshly scalped skulls. Only raised boardwalks kept Yellowstone’s inhabitants safe. They crisscrossed the park, stopping a sturdy boot from breaking through the Earth’s thin crust while a series of little wooden stepping stones and moveable walkways broke the path from one cabin to the next, keeping the Dead from every door.

Yellowstone had a volcano deep in its heart, and its broiling skin was the deadliest of all the park’s natural defences. And yet, when the great geysers burst, rousing plumes of hot water and chattering goshawks up into those roaming skies, this place was damned near perfect. Crying shame then, that this life beneath the doming blue was all but coming to an end.

Wyatt lifted the pan from the blue flame, swilling dregs of fizzing coffee round the rim, and watched the snow dance across the cabin window. He yawned. He scratched his butt. He considered taking a piss in the sink while Daisy was still asleep just so he didn’t have to use the outhouse. He thought again. He poured the pan, taking brief pleasure in the sting of heat curling up from the enamel cups and threw another log on the fire. It popped, or maybe one of the mud pools beneath the cabin did – who could be sure at this godforsaken hour? – and he stood up on tiptoe to peek above the snow shelving the sill.

Outside, steam chugging up from the geysers broke through cracks in the decking. It was so thick this morning, it smothered the air like September snow over summer dreams. There was no sight of the surrounding boardwalks and cabins. They may as well have been up in the clouds. Only the low winter sun was visible, glowing dully inside the mist like a moon. That and the little wooden bridge reaching out from the cabin to greet it.

Wyatt jolted forward, slopping coffee across the stove. Fewer things had greater rule over Yellowstone than winter, but making sure your bridge was winched back of a night time was sure as hell one of them. Whenever the Dead came, they appeared suddenly and without warning, standing scattered across the boards like ghosts travelling up from below. Not that they took much interest in him or Daisy no more. Hell, they’d become all but invisible to them since they’d got bit. But others might, and in more recent weeks, had. Once word got round about how their kind could stop the Dead from attacking, the Escape Programme was hurried to an end. Most people passing through on their way down from the refuge at Glacier National Park brought joy and news of electricity in some town that was already set to welcome everyone home from the parks. But others rode in on troubled saddles to recall any so-called Pale Wanderers left out here, with instruction for them to play their part leading the defence against the Dead. Now he and Daisy were the only ones who’d decided to stay back, it was all they could do to stop one of them rangers from making it right up to their front door.

Wyatt stared at the little wooden winch. “Daisy, darlin’,” he called back. “Did I take a leak and forget to bring the bridge back in last night or did you?”

Daisy didn’t answer. Wyatt downed his coffee and made his way through to the bedroom. The crumpled bedsheets were empty. Most likely, she’d taken a couple of eggs and a pan out to boil on one of the park’s bubbling pools. Not that it was her turn. Wyatt glanced at the figurine of the silver bronco on the windowsill and sighed. He’d won more calf-roping contests than any other cowboy this side of the Tetons back in the day. And Daisy would’ve been Rodeo Queen too, flying the flag for them both with a thousand rhinestones blazoned across her chest like a night full of stars, given half a chance. She had what it took. Folks who thought that all it required was a vacant smile and a blouse full of boobs were wrong. It took real grit. She’d taught herself how to ride in the western style too and besides, she was unusual in her class in that she was seventeen years old back then, unmarried and without child, and you needed all those things to qualify under pageant rules. But it wasn’t to be. The Dead saw to that. They saw to a lot of things.

Wyatt glanced at the old wooden fruit punnet he’d fashioned into a cot. It fidgeted. A little hand with fingers as plump as cocktail sausages poked up and Wyatt smiled. Mable was his world entire and he wanted only a world full of rushing rivers and meadow flowers for her to play in. Neither he nor Daisy would let a damn thing come along and change that, least of all a move to some town.

Something heavy landed with a thud out on the bridge. Wyatt set Daisy’s cup down on the dinner table and made his way outside, but it was only a piece of carrion dropped clean from the sky. The raven soon followed. It hopped along the decking, tucking its black velveteen wings behind its back like a man bowing just before the dance, and began to peck at its kill. It gagged, parting its beak to release one of its terrible calls. That damned purr. The devil’s purr. Wyatt swiped snow from the seat of the rocker and sat, pushing the chair forward with his toes to set it in motion, and watched the bird make light work of the mouse. The rodent was only small, barely enough flesh to fill a thimble, really. But it was enough to make him tremble. The raven’s black beak tore shreds of raw meat from the carcass and Wyatt put his foot down to stop the chair.

“Dang it,” he said. “Not now.”

He set his hand across his knee to steady it, observing the grey pallor of his skin against the stark white of his cotton long johns. He cussed himself for looking at the meat. He counted to ten and hoped the feeling would soon subside. But it made no difference. Saliva goosed the inside of his mouth. His stomach yawned wide, ready to devour the mouse and a thousand more little bodies just like it.

Wyatt bolted forward, lobbing the tin cup at the bird. The cup clipped its wings, clattering across the bridge inside the steam and the raven took off with its kill. Wyatt wiped drool from his bottom lip. His hand trembled. He cussed. Being made invisible to the Dead by their bite was the blessing. Sharing their hunger for flesh was the curse.

Beneath the decking, welts in the mud bubbled and burst beneath him. But after a moment or two, the earth settled and Wyatt’s hunger passed. He braced both hands on the arm rests ready to get up and fetch the cup, when he stopped.

The cup flew back. It broke clean out of the mist, somersaulting a couple of times, and smacked the cabin walls.

Wyatt smirked. “Daisy, your throw’s lousier than a drunk aimin’ for the piss pot.”

He held his hand over his eyes, shielding it from the burn of the pale sun and waited for Daisy to walk through with those eggs. She didn’t come. He called out. But nobody called back. It was only now that Wyatt noticed something strange. The sun was so much lower in the sky than it had been a moment ago. It was still early in the morning, but just as sure as he was sitting there, the sun began to set. Not slowly in real time, but fast, like a sunset dropping over a vast horizon in one of those old nature programmes. He took a step closer, aligning himself with the foot of the bridge, and the sun travelled forward. He blinked to shake off the morning grog, and the sun was closer still. Only it wasn’t the sun at all, but a lamp.

Wyatt staggered forward. “Who goes there?”

Steam twisting up through cracks in the boards passed across the lamplight, diffusing the glare. Whoever was holding it remained out of sight.

“Sweetheart, don’t be playin’ no games, you hear me? I ain’t in no mood.”

The mist was still too thick for him to see anyone, but it became clear that the lamp was hovering about twelve feet off the ground. And it swayed. It wasn’t being held by a hand. It dangled from a staff. Wyatt’s eyes darted to the bridge’s little wooden winch. He dashed forward, taking the handle in both hands, and tried to hoist it round. But it wouldn’t even manage one rotation. Wyatt let go, feeling the frosted wood burn through both palms and tried again. But it was no good. The weight of the stranger on the bridge was too great. Wyatt bent double, gasping for breath, when a dark mass broke free of the folding steam.

The silhouette of a lone rider bearing a crown of antlers hung inside the mist.

The stranger was as thin as a crack in the wall, with a black robe cinched tight at the waist. There was no face to speak of, only a deer’s skull for a mask. Without the skin and fur to soften it, the muzzle was nothing but ragged bone, as sharp and cruel as a beak, with empty eye sockets to watch from and two hollow nares on the ridge from which to breathe. Wyatt couldn’t make out the stranger’s eyes, but those blank sockets held his gaze, freezing him to the spot like an unbreakable curse.

Wyatt staggered back, reaching for the holster on his hip. He realized he’d left the gun indoors and cussed himself. But the only thing that mattered now was that the stranger thought him to be alone. He kept his eyes on the stranger so as not to alert him to the presence of another life out there in the park and willed Mable to keep quiet in her crib.

“Mornin’, friend,” Wyatt offered. “Now I already told you good people that I ain’t interested in followin’ you all into some town if that’s why you’re here. But there’s coffee on the stove and a seat by the fire if it’s a warming rest stop you came lookin’ for.”

The stranger showed no interest in Wyatt’s nervous invitation. He lowered the lamp, setting the staff inside a metal sheath just below the stirrups with one hand and placing the reins over the bucking rolls with the other. But he never looked down.

Gloved fingers, as long as winter shadows, slipped along the side of the saddle to a velveteen bag. They fingered the drawstring, reaching deep inside, then withdrew in liquid motion as if the object the stranger sought was always within his command. He held his arm out and the gloved hand unfurled like a black flower, revealing the contents of his palm. Inside it was a gift.

The slice of raw meat was as pink as clouds at dusk. And juicy. Wyatt’s heart bucked against his chest. It was so much fresher than the mouse, but he’d made a pact with Daisy not to give in to this urge. They both had. The hunger was the way of monsters and something Wyatt would have done everything in his powers to resist right now, had every pulse of his heart not strained so.

Wyatt took the piece of meat, nodding his thanks now that the two of them seemed to have come to an understanding, and the stranger’s hand withdrew. And as he brought the glistening flesh to his lips, he observed a pair of eyes beneath the skull’s empty sockets and the stranger leaned in.

A thin voice, as ragged as a blade of grass shredded in the wind, broke from behind the mask. It carried with it just a single word.

“Timberdark.”

Wyatt didn’t really catch what the stranger was saying. The promise of meat made the inside of his mouth tingle. Thrilled, he took a bite.

“Thank you, sir,” he said wiping drool on the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

But the stranger showed no interest in such niceties and merely repeated the word.

“Timberdark.”

Wyatt realized the stranger’s offering came at a price and looked up. “Is that some town you seek, my friend?”

The eyes behind the deer’s empty sockets blinked.

“Timberdark.”

“I know,” said Wyatt suddenly troubled that the word was not familiar to him. “I’m real sorry I can’t help you, but that’s not someplace I know of.”

The stranger held Wyatt’s gaze longer than was comfortable. And yet he seemed satisfied that his answer held true. The rider’s gloved hands slid like shadows across the reins to regain control of them and he eased back in the saddle ready to pull away. Wyatt offered a parting wave and turned to make his way back indoors. It was only then that he noticed blood as black as molasses dripping on to the bridge. The stranger lowered his hand to the side of the saddle, teasing strands of fine red hair through his spindle fingers. But the hair wasn’t being drawn up from inside some satchel, but a severed head.

Wyatt recognized the frozen features of that beautiful face hanging by its hair from the saddle, staring back at him. He recognized the woman’s freckles, dainty as the speckle of an egg across those porcelain cheeks. He recognized her lips. But it was no longer his Daisy. The eyes staring back at him now were as dead as a doll’s.

A terrible sound tore its way out of Wyatt. A wail. A cry. One that should never come out of a man. But he didn’t have time to give in to it. He dropped the meat. He turned. He ran back across the bridge, carried on by the scream for his daughter, and straight into the cabin. But he never made it to her.

The stranger’s boots struck the timber boards. Wyatt heard the steady stride across the bridge towards him. His eyes scanned the cabin. Furiously. There was a knife beside the sink. A poker by the fire. There came a gurgle from the bedroom and Wyatt froze. But it was too late. The front door creaked open behind him, then shut, bringing with it only silence and resolution. There was snow at the window. There was heat from the fire. Then there was nothing.

1

Peter kicked the cabin door down. Well, he didn’t exactly kick it down, more made it click open with his boot. But this was certainly more dramatic than if he’d done it by hand and some of the wood around the frame exploded into splinters, which was way more than he’d thought himself capable of managing only a short while ago. But then, so much had changed this past month. And now here he was with a pistol pointed at his face and two angry eyes staring from behind, all in the name of a daring rescue mission.

The girl they’d barged in on swivelled the cylinder to lock in a bullet and shrugged the pigtail from her shoulder. “Take another step and it’ll be your last.”

“I won’t,” said Peter raising both hands. “I promise. But we’re not here to hurt you.”

Cooper backed in through the door, navigating the step up into the cabin without once taking his eyes off the surrounding woods, and stood guard. And it crossed Peter’s mind now, as it often did during inappropriate moments just like this, that this boy, with those ropes of golden hair matted to his face beneath a Stetson the inside of which never saw the light of day, was his, and how much this girl, if only she wasn’t fearing for her life quite so much, would surely love to hear all about that.

Cooper doffed his Stetson. “S’OK, miss.”

“Nothin’s OK,” said the girl.

“We mean you no harm. But you got company in them woods, so if you’re gonna trust us, you better make it quick.”

Peter glanced back. “Coop.”

“Well, she’s bein’ too slow. Make her listen.”

Peter shook his head to indicate his apologies for Cooper’s tone. “I’m sorry I broke your door down but—”

The girl raised an eyebrow. “It’s hardly down.”

“Oh.”

“It’s ajar at best.”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s still on its hinges.”

“Yes. All right, then, but still.”

“If you boys lay one finger on me …”

“That’s not the reason we’re here.”

“That’s always the reason.”

“No,” said Peter. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Oh, I know you won’t. Just look at you.”

Peter went to defend his door-breaking abilities once more, but the girl’s disdain for his heroics had already turned towards his wolfskin.

“I thought it looked menacing,” said Peter.

The girl narrowed her eyes. “Looks like a onesie.”

Cooper glanced back. “Quit jabberin’. They’ll be here soon.”

“You don’t know shit,” said the girl.

“Well, I know there’s two of ’em comin’ up through the woods right now.”

“Then you’d better leave.”

Peter inched a little closer. “Please—”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“There’s a place for you nobody else knows about. A place nobody can hurt you.”

“I said leave.”

“But we’re here to rescue you.”

The girl cocked her head to one side and stared at Peter’s mouth like she was waiting for a punchline. But she must’ve realized the joke wasn’t coming because her eyes lit up with an amusement that didn’t seem entirely appropriate to the situation. She placed her hand on her hip.

“Oh, honey, no.”

“I’m serious,” said Peter.

She angled the nose of her pistol up and down Peter’s body. “You’re like, what, ten?”

Peter clenched his jaw and said nothing.

“No, wait a minute. Twelve.”

“There’s movement out in the woods,” said Cooper calling back. “We don’t got much time.”

The girl clubbed the pistol into her fist. “OK, thirteen!”

“Sixteen,” said Peter. “I’m sixteen.”

“Woah. You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“Then I need a minute to process that.”

“I was a very light baby.”

“Baby?”

“So, I can’t possibly be like those men out in the woods then, can I?”

“Dunno. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I don’t even weigh in at a hundred and forty pounds after Thanksgiving,” said Peter. “And I wouldn’t place any bets on me being able to keep the conversation going if the Super Bowl came up, or cars, or soccer, or boobs, or soccer and boobs. But I do know who won the last ever Academy Award for best actress and I do have a lot to say about the stitching on your blouse and how much I love those rhinestone flowers, even if they were put on using a glue gun. But please stop me if you still have any doubts about us or else I’ll just keep talking.”

The girl shook her head in a Jesus H Christ kind of a way and no words came out.

“Pete,” said Cooper in a low voice behind him. “Super Bowl is soccer.”

The girl raised an eyebrow. “How’d you even last this long?”

Peter shrugged. “It’s a miracle, I know.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’ve got a heart as big as your Care Bear collection back home, but you don’t know what you’re walking into. Just leave me be and go.”

“Why?”

“Ain’t you lookin’ at me?”

Peter held her gaze. “Yeah. I’m looking at you.”

“Well, you ain’t looking right.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I mean,” said Peter. “I recognize your pale skin. I can see the darkness in your eyes from the journey you’ve taken to death and back again. You’re one of the Returned, but unless there’s something else I’m missing?”

The girl looked towards the cabin window where the snow was falling softly. Outside in the wood, aspens creaked wearily, made bone-brittle by winter. Without leaves, the woods couldn’t disguise the sound of muffled voices coming their way.

“They’ll be here any moment,” said Peter. “You don’t have to be scared.”

The girl smirked like his hollow words were funny somehow.

Peter cleared his throat. “You see that boy standing back there?”

The girl’s eyes darted over his shoulder. A quizzical look passed across her face, followed by a strange calmness and Peter knew she’d finally clocked the pallor of Cooper’s skin.

“You see that handsome man,” said Peter, “with his blond hair all golden like a waterfall at sundown now he let me wash it?”

Copper huffed. “I dint let you, Pete. When I woke up that time, my face was hangin’ over the foot of the bed with a wash tub full of water staring right up at me. I had no choice in the matter.”

“You did have a choice.”

“Huh? Your pa was standin’ over the bed ready to pin me down in case I bolted.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “He exaggerates. Anyway, that’s my Cooper. He’s just like you. And I love him.”

The girl raked her front teeth over her bottom lip and said nothing.

“I love him more than anything.”

“We can’t be trusted,” said the girl. “We’re dangerous.”

“Is that you talking or the men who are on their way up to the cabin?”

“Men?” She laughed like that would be a relief somehow. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me. We know the gangs that operate around these parts.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. One guy took Cooper just so he had someone to protect him from the Dead. So, tell us.”

“The Harrisons.”

Peter shook his head. “Sorry. Who?”

“Sweet boy, you think it’s all cowboys and Indians out here.”

“I don’t. Cooper was traded in for medicines by our own community when he returned, so I don’t think any such thing.”

The girl’s amusement slipped from her face as she took his words, and him, seriously for the first time. She gazed through the window where the sun hung low like a fireball inside the forest, as if trying to discern her fate in the darkening sky beyond, and Peter knew he’d finally reached her.

“Ray and Pat Harrison are on their way over,” she said. “Our nearest neighbours. You can see their cabin on the other side of the ridge from here.”

Peter made his way over to the door next to Cooper and peered through the veil of snow to the hill on the other side. The cabin was mostly hidden, packed inside terraces of snowy pine. Then he saw the smoke wending its way up through the treetops and light from two windows glinted from inside the woods.

“Daddy’s waitin’ it out at their place while they come here for me,” said the girl.

“Why?”

“Because he did the same for them when their boy Billy returned from death, too. I didn’t know it at the time, I thought they were just paying us a visit with offers of soup and a game of cards. But the Harrisons were just waiting here while Daddy saw to him.”

“But why?”

The girl shrugged. “Because they made a pact. And because nobody wants to admit to killing their own child. I guess Daddy’s over there eatin’ soup and playin’ cards right now. Now he’s made a ghost of me.”

Peter looked away as if to give the girl’s proclamation some privacy and Cooper almost seemed to disappear beneath the brim of his Stetson.

“The whole world’s made ghosts of us, miss,” he said.

“Yes. But ain’t that only right?”

“No,” said Cooper. “No, it ain’t.”

“But I coulda hurt them.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No,” said Peter. “You wouldn’t.”

“Why not? How do you even know that?”

“Because—”

The girl shrugged. “Well?”

“Because—”

“Because” said the girl, glancing at Cooper, “if you let yourself believe I could hurt people, then so could he?”

Peter clenched his fist, feeling the burn of her words in the back of his throat. “I need you to trust us when I tell you that there’s a place not far from here where you’ll be safe and where no one will look upon you with fear. We’ve got two horses and a spare tent for our travels but we have to act fast.”

The girl glanced at her pistol and said nothing. Peter held out his hand.

“Please,” he said. “I’m Peter and this is my boyfriend, Cooper.”

“You always do the talkin’ and him the moody stuff?”

“Not always,” said Cooper, butting in before Peter could answer. “I asked him out first. Sluiced out a bunch of guts from inside my canoe and put on a clean pair of undershorts and everythin’.”

Peter smiled. “Well, they were kind of clean. But yes, he did, too.”

“Told him I loved him first, too.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m working on being better at that.”

The girl narrowed her eyes and seemed to come to a decision about them. “Don’t think I’m joining you. Cos I ain’t. I’ve got some daddy issues to work through on the other side of that there ridge. But let’s get this show on the road.”

Peter didn’t much like the idea of leaving her behind. The fifteen or so notches scored into the side of Snowball’s saddle were evidence enough of just how successful their mission to offer sanctuary to as many Returnees in the region had been. But Cooper gave a reluctant nod and besides, the girl was clearly more than capable of taking care of herself.

Peter nodded and something heavy landed on the cabin roof. Footsteps scrambled and a clump of snow dropped down the chimney, smothering what was left of the dying embers.

“The chimney!” said the girl. “There’s no time to light the fire if they plan on getting in that way.”

Cooper shut the front door and Peter scanned the ceiling. But it went quiet. He could practically hear whoever was up there thinking what their next move should be. Then someone knocked on the door.

“Sweetheart?” came a woman’s voice outside. “It’s just me. Pat. I was out tracking deer this way and wondered if you might have time for a brew.”

Peter held his hand up to make sure the girl kept quiet and the knock sounded again. Someone crossed the roof in a single stride and dropped past the window. Cooper edged further back inside the cabin, aiming the rifle towards the door. But somebody else popped a shot before he even had a chance to.

Peter ducked. A bullet whipped through the cabin breaking the window. But it didn’t come from outside. The glass shattered out into the woods and Peter looked up.

“My name’s Betty Bridges,” said the girl blowing smoke from the barrel. “And is this all you boys got?”

Peter hoisted the wooden box with a plunger he had strapped across his shoulders off his back and placed it on to the floor. He stepped over the wire he’d trailed through the woods and got down on to his hands and knees. Cooper rammed a chair beneath the door handle to secure it and dropped to the floor next to them.

“I’m sorry if I honk, miss,” he said looking out from behind the strands of his matted hair. “My boy and I have been out on the road some three weeks now.”

Peter smiled to himself. He was never going to tire of hearing himself described as Cooper’s boy. Never. Betty scrambled on to the floor next to them. Peter waited until all three of them were in position lying face down on the floor, then reached up for the plunger. He briefly glanced sideways. Cooper’s dark eyes held his gaze. They said I love you, just as they’d done that morning beneath the warmth of the fire out on the plains. They’d been good together out here. Better than good. They’d been a team. Peter said it back without the need for words and, with a shove, pushed the plunger down.

“I guess this is where we say goodbye,” said Betty. “But what in God’s name is this place you boys talk of?”

The woods boomed.

The cabin shook.

Peter looked up, spitting snow and shards of sharp pine needles from his lips, and, smiling, said, “Wranglestone!”

2

They rode on towards night. Peter held his hand up, shielding his eyes to watch the red sun, low over the plains. The snow at their feet burned pink and for a moment, the Earth almost seemed to catch fire, singeing first the clouds and strands of Cooper’s golden hair, then finally the land itself. The sun clipped the white plains and the horizon ignited, glimmering at the fringes of the land like embers across paper. Peter leaned in, feeling Cooper’s wonder expand across the width of his back with every intake of breath. But the display didn’t last long. The blazing skies dissolved into the darkness of space and soon the stars went back and back. And yet, their path remained lit.

The snow glowed blue beneath the moon, and as their journey led them off the plains into a sanctum of dark pines, snow on the ground lit the whole forest from within, transforming night into eerie day. In the summer months, when the evenings were so dark you couldn’t even see the bottom of a tin cup unless you tilted it towards the fire, it was impossible to imagine that the rest of the world wasn’t fast asleep too. But there was a whole other night world out there only winter could show you. The hairs on Peter’s forearms bristled, alerting him to the sudden presence of life. And as they slipped deeper in among the trees, the snow gave up the whereabouts of those who lived there.

Elks’ antlers cast midnight shadows across the snow. There were deer out walking the woods. Bobcats on the boughs. Snowball passed beneath a bulbous branch and a feathered face as flat as a tree stump swivelled round on hunkered claws to see them on their way. And when, some time later, Peter wrapped his arms around Cooper’s waist and they left the forest behind them, the Dead wandered out from beneath the pines, spindly and black against the glow of the plains, and stood scattered, watching as they rode on by. But they didn’t approach. They never did. When he survived their bite, the Dead had marked Cooper as one of their own, making him invisible to them. In turn, that sweet tang of log smoke and sweat upon Peter’s skin, born of long nights wrapped up in each other’s kisses, marked him as belonging to Cooper, and worked to keep him safe. Peter leaned in, kissing the back of Cooper’s neck, and the night and all its creatures slowly slipped away behind them.

They travelled north into backcountry. Barely a single night had passed following Rider’s death before Cooper insisted they got out here while Snowball could still withstand the cold. Cooper had only known Rider for the shortest time before their community had rounded on the pair of them, fearful that the same monsters they’d survived now lived inside them. By the time everyone realized they were killing the very thing that could save them, it was too late. But through the course of that single night before Rider died, the two had forged a bond. That bond then became a mission in Cooper to restore Wranglestone to the place Rider and his friends had first founded, a refuge for the Returned far away from a world that would harm them. Peter’s dad had begged them to wait winter out, but as far as Cooper was concerned, they had no business cosying up in front of no fire all the while there were other Returnees out there in need of their help. But truth was, the trail had now gone cold. Every snowed-up cabin and wind-rattled trailer they’d stumbled across these last few days had been abandoned. But it didn’t seem to matter. Cooper promised that this was their last search of the season. But Peter knew it was only a matter of time before he’d hear the wolves or the mountains calling from inside his arms and want to take off again.

Three more days on the trail passed without word or incident when the landscape suddenly changed. The snow twisted up off the ground into peaks like fondant from a bowl, forming a forest of glittering stalagmites. There were trees buried beneath these snowy tombs, but if you didn’t know any better, you could almost believe a child had stepped outside to build a snowman and wound up creating a whole forest instead. Peter carefully led Snowball through the maze of spires, but there were no sharp edges. Not one branch clawed at their skin. Every hackle-backed pine cone had been rounded into a ball. The air was so dry up here the snow had formed a shell, encasing the land inside a glittering crust. The only movement came from a strange mist curling up from below. Just ahead of them, bison, grazing the frozen ground for vegetation underneath, appeared like ghosts beneath their frosted coats. They seemed unbothered by the strange vapours twisting up beneath their feet, but something was different about them here. They didn’t cling to the air like a mist at all, but chugged in woozy spirals, making the bison’s silhouettes shimmer like reflections in water.

Snowball whinnied and three silhouetted figures appeared in their way.

“Hello?” said Peter leaning over the horn of the saddle. “Who goes there?”

The figures didn’t speak.

Peter wrapped the reins around his fist before Snowball could bolt. “They’re not answering.”

“Nope,” said Cooper. “But they ain’t comin’ no closer, neither.”

“I suppose.”

But Peter wasn’t convinced. And now he was the one behind the reins without Cooper to mask him, he was suddenly unsure how much his scent could guard him. He squeezed his thighs against Snowball’s side to move him along. Snowball huffed, standing his ground in protest, but Cooper made it clear he had to listen to both of them now that Peter was family and after a moment or two, he reluctantly did as he was told.

They got a little closer. The figures still didn’t speak or advance. One of them had a withered arm. It jutted out at wrong angles with its stick fingers all crooked and broken. Perched on top of it, with its black eye blinking, was a crow. Peter was about to call out to the figures again when Snowball moved forward without being prompted and the bird took off into the mist.

Peter sighed. The three pine trees were dead. All that was left were their raw-boned branches, blackened once the needles had completely rotted off. Only now could he feel the heat coming up from below and he removed his gloves to hold his hands out. It wasn’t mist rising from the ground at all, but steam. He withdrew the hood of his wolfskin and the earth beneath their feet rumbled like distant thunder.

“Reckon we’ve crossed the border into Yellowstone,” said Cooper pushing the Stetson from his brow. “There’s a volcano down there.”

Peter retracted his hand. “Then we’ve come out too far. We should head back.”

“We need to choose our path real careful now,” said Cooper, ignoring him. “The Earth’s crust is as thin as a scab on a knee in some places here.”

“I don’t like it, Coop. We should turn back. It feels like death here.”

“Nah. I reckon the opposite’s true. Pa used to say Yellowstone was one of the few places in the world where the planet can’t hide itself. It might look real calm up top with its steady rivers and seasons that pass in the same order one year after the next, but just below the surface, it’s all mixed up and movin’ with its heart all troubled and full a fire.”

Cooper’s arms tightened around Peter’s waist as was often the way when he sensed how dizzyingly small the planet made him feel. Out here the land had a habit of doing that. One moment you were crawling through dense woodland, the next it sprawled out into impossible distances or dropped away into impossible depths, casually reminding you of its own breathtaking enormity.

Cooper jumped down, tossing his Stetson and jacket to the ground. He stripped to the waist, tying the sleeves of his long johns around his belt buckle, and stood there bare chested with his arms out on either side, letting the heat from the rising steam curl up the length of his back. His palms tilted to let the warm vapours play across his fingers. He turned round and the darker hair beneath his armpits stirred.

“See, Pete,” he said, craning his head back so his Adam’s apple was strong, “the Earth ain’t no different from us. It lives and breathes with a big ol’ fire in its belly it can’t always control.”

Snowball huffed, making Peter smile. And they really should think about heading home. They had a five-day trek back to the lake at best if the snow didn’t get any worse and besides, newcomers they’d welcomed to the islands might start to feel unwanted if they didn’t spend more time with them. And yet Cooper was only fully alive out here. Like his whole self could breathe now it didn’t have to fit into such small places.

Peter hung the reins over the horn of the saddle, taking in the blond stubble growing across Cooper’s jaw after so long on the trail, the wet ribbons of blond hair lashing his face. In the last few weeks he’d learned there was so much more to explore. Just as they were taking in new lands, Peter had begun to chart a map of Cooper’s body in his mind as he discovered it. And somehow, those changes brought on by the Dead only served to make the man Cooper was becoming appear stronger. The flush of pallor to his skin seemed to make that surge of dark hair about the belt buckle sprawl thicker. The tint of night across the white of his eye only seemed to offer more gaze to fall into. Peter’s heart pounded. But it wasn’t watching Cooper that excited him, although it did so very deeply, so much as the fact that as his boyfriend, he let him. Cooper gave him permission to see his body act in this way. A boy. A man. An animal. Nobody else got to see him like this. And the moment of them both being out in the world together was so perfect that when another part of Peter decided to break it, he was as surprised as Cooper was.

“What are we doing out here?”

Cooper’s arms dropped by his sides. “You tired or summat?”

“No.”

“I mean we can rest up a while if you want.”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Need a kiss?”

“I’m being serious,” said Peter. “Because, apart from Betty, we haven’t come across a Returnee, or anyone else for that matter, for days now.”

Cooper scratched the trail of hair below his navel and said nothing. But it was obvious he was irritated.

“And we haven’t got a lot of supplies left, Coop.”

“We got plenty.”

“Well, it’s getting colder, then.”

“Anythin’ else?”

“Yes. There are people back on the lake counting on us and we’re not there for them.”

Cooper crouched down, grabbed a fistful of snow and proceeded to wipe his pits with it. He washed his face before swiping what was left of the slush across the flat of his stomach and waited for Peter to finish his thought. Peter’s chest heaved rapidly now his nerves were racing and just for a moment, he hated Cooper. He hated him for knowing him so well. For standing there so easily, arms at his side with his beauty right on show for all the world to see. Waiting so patiently for him to say what was really on his mind.

Peter took a deep breath. “Are you going to stay on the lake when we get back? For the whole winter. Without leaving me, I mean?”

Cooper’s face scrunched up like someone squinting in the sun. “Huh? Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

“But are you?”

“Course. But again, why would you get it into your head that I would leave you?”

“Because you don’t wanna go back.”

“That ain’t right.”

“You want to stay out here. When we’re done searching, I mean.”

“Nope,” said Cooper. “I just wanna explore a bit more.”

“But you must’ve spent plenty of time out here already. Before us, I mean.”

“No. I never did. Not this far out.”

“But I thought you had.”

“Nope.”

“Oh,” said Peter. Then, “Why not?”

“Because of you.”

Peter looked up, startled by his answer. But surprise didn’t cross Cooper’s face once.

“But we’ve only been together a short while.”

“It don’t make no difference,” said Cooper digging both fists inside the seat of his jeans pockets. “I never could stray too far from the lake, even before we was together. I mean, I wanted to. I wanted to real bad. I knew about the Yellowstone since I was a nipper and dreamed of seeing the Earth breathin’. But even though we weren’t together then or nothin’, you always pulled me back to the lake like you already had a piece of my heart. I’d only get so far away. Then it just started hurtin’.”

“I never knew that.”

“Well, now you do.”

“I just thought you were happier out here.”

“I am,” said Cooper.

“Right.”

“But only cos I’m with you.”

Cooper’s dark eyes held Peter’s as was often the way when he wanted to make sure that when he spoke plainly it didn’t go unnoticed. Peter cleared his throat and felt a sudden lightness in his heart he realized had been missing until now.

“And when I’m with you back on the lake,” Cooper went on, “and we’re snowed in with nothin’ much to do but kiss and crochet blankets all winter long, I’ll be just as happy then too. OK?”

Peter nodded.

“OK?” said Cooper.

“Yes. OK.”

“Does that take that pain away?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s settled, then.”

Cooper nodded to put a full stop to the matter and shoved his arms back through the sleeves of his long johns. “But the way you go on sometimes, Pete, is like I don’t got insecurities of my own.”

Peter’s skin flushed with shame that he’d been so wrapped up in his own worries he hadn’t been present enough to see Cooper’s. Cooper swept his Stetson off the ground and held it down in front of him with his head bowed, the way people do at funerals.

“I mean, we’re good, right?” he mumbled. “I mean, us is OK, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” said Peter. Then rushing in, “Of course. I’m sorry I got it wrong.”

“Pete.”

“What?”

“Don’t you worry I could be dangerous? After what that girl said? Or because you saw how Rider reacted to raw meat?”

Peter shook his head. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Don’t you worry that I could wind up hurtin’ you?”

“But you haven’t.”

“But I could. I could do any number of things.”

“What other things?”

“I dunno.”

“Has something else happened?”

Cooper shrugged.

“Well, has it?” Peter’s throat became sore. “Have you noticed any other changes since you were bitten?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“No, then.”

“Well, there you go.”

“I mean, I like to wander with nowhere in particular I got to be. Like the Dead.”

“But you liked that before.”

“I did.”

“So, there you have it.”

“And I think I can see better in the dark now, Pete.”

“You can?”

Cooper nodded, but barely, like he was daring to offer something new about himself but without the confidence it would be received well. He started to fiddle with the brim of his Stetson. A moment later, he looked away completely.

“Like a night owl,” said Peter. “Snowy owls have orange eyes because they hunt at dusk, but barn owls’ eyes are black because they hunt at night.”

Cooper looked up. “Yeah,” he said smiling. “That’s it. Or maybe not even for huntin’, Pete. Just seein’. Seein’ you all wrapped up in my arms at night and knowing that you’re there.”

“Yes,” said Peter. “For seeing.”

“It’s just that I never want you to have to be scared of me, Pete.”

“But I’m not.”

“Never?”

“No,” said Peter. “I never will be. Never.”

The sun burned through the steam revealing a small creek of black water between two pillows of snow. Behind it, funnels of rock, with holes in the top like chimneys, chugged out plumes of steam, spitting water like an overboiled kettle on the flame. Bison grazing nearby struggled to lift their heads up, their beards were so weighed down by the ice balls that had formed in them. But they responded to the promise of heat and light sparkling across the surface of the dashing water and slowly made their way towards it.

“I’m just scared by how much I love you,” said Peter after a while.

Cooper nodded as if that was just about the measure of things.

“Peter?” he said after a while.

“What?”

“Oh, nothin’. I just wanted to hear your name is all.”

Peter smiled. He watched the way Cooper put his Stetson back on brim-first to shield his eyes from the sun and loved him that little bit more for not letting him be the only one to worry about them. For some reason it was reassuring seeing him get anxious like this. Not that he ever wanted Cooper to worry. Never. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Do you think we’ll ever run out of things to talk about?” said Peter after a while.

Cooper pushed the brim of his Stetson up with his forefinger to reveal a raised eyebrow, and for the first time, Peter saw a bit of old Bud in him. “Don’t you ever quit thinkin’?”

Peter smiled. “Come here.”

Peter swung his right leg back over the saddle to dismount and slipped down on to the ground. Cooper strode forward holding his gaze in ways that told him they were about to kiss. He cupped the back of Peter’s head to bring him in close and their lips met.

They set up camp. Cooper fashioned an A-frame out of four ski poles dug into the snow at cross angles with a sheet of tarpaulin over the top to form a tent, then quickly bundled their blankets and then Peter inside. Some time later, after they’d kissed, Peter found that his mind was free of all those stupid little insecurities. He lay back in Cooper’s arms listening to the tarpaulin crinkle in the wind and none of them seemed to matter any more.

“Reckon we just needed to cuddle so tight you can’t squeeze a toothpick between us,” said Cooper after a while.

“I know,” said Peter. “We won’t leave it so long next time.”

“It’s real important we don’t. We can get through anythin’ as long as we stay close.”

“I love you,” said Peter.

Cooper leaned over, gently kissing Peter’s forehead. “So much. I can’t keep none of it in.”

Peter slipped his hand inside Cooper’s and listened to the earth below them grumble away in constant motion.

“It’s breathin’,” whispered Cooper. “I can hear the Earth breathin’.”

“Me too,” said Peter. “Why don’t we set up camp here for the night and head back first light?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I want the lake to work,” said Cooper. “I want the Returnees to have a home.”

“Me too.”

But even as he said it, Peter’s thoughts turned to that town. The town that Tokala talked of when he arrived, the one only some thirty miles west of the lake where a community living in harmony alongside the Returnees had already been made. And he wondered about the pretty lights and the buildings and all the kitchen comforts waiting out there to be discovered.

“I want us to be happy on the lake, Pete.”

Peter nodded absent-mindedly.

“I’m gonna paint Pa’s canoe up real nice for the summer, too. Make it ours.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What colour?” Peter asked.

“Bright red. As red as saddle sore.”

The bison moaned in quiet contentment at the grass they’d found.

Cooper went quiet.

“We will be happy on the lake,” he said after a while. “Won’t we?”

“Yes,” said Peter putting all thoughts of the town away. “Always.”