Wanderers

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A RAVAGED STREET RAN THROUGH WHAT WAS ONCE A BUSTLING SUBURB. There were no signs of life; even the treetops were motionless, etched in black ink against a dirty-yellow winter sky.

A flicker of movement broke the stillness.

It came from a hedge by the side of the road, overgrown and dying, its tangled branches spilling onto the sidewalk. The foliage trembled again, and a moment later a girl in battered sunglasses and a torn red hoodie emerged from its depths. She wore a leather quiver across her thin chest and a fiberglass bow dangled from her hand.

It was a January morning and so the air was relatively cool. Even so, Esther’s throat was parched and she could feel sweat trickling down her back. She had been tracking her prey for nearly two hours, and it was painstaking work. This kind of patience, careful and focused, had never been her strength. She preferred action, and as unskilled as she was at killing, she was tempted to rush forward now and attempt an attack. Yet there was too much at stake to fail, so she forced herself to remain still.

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