“Prehistoric people consumed ritual hallucinogens, probably because the altered state made them feel as if they were seeing and communicating with their gods.”
I nod. “Whatever the hostiles have added to the Second Settlement’s brew makes theirs far more potent. And more dangerous. Theirs is addictive, and it affects free will—they’re happy and content, and they stop thinking about their other life, eventually stop remembering they had one.”
She listens, saying nothing.
I continue. “In high doses—or maybe with an added ingredient—it induces frenzies. Heightened id, lowered superego, if you took Psych 101.”
A strained smile. “I did. Does that explain the violence, then?”
“Apparently.” I rise. “I believe it’s a natural evolution of something that began in the Second Settlement. They discover this root that makes a ritualistic tea. Someone from the settlement experiments and creates a new version and then breaks away from the group—or is kicked out—and starts their own community, which devolves into what we have today.”
I wait for her to jump on the fact that I’m absolving the council, but she still seems to be processing, so I say it for her. “A natural evolution based on natural substances, with no outside influence. I still, however, hold the council responsible for allowing the devolution. Rockton has been reporting hostiles since Tyrone was sheriff. Yet the council dismissed the claims as…” I throw up my hands. “I don’t even know what they thought people were seeing. Bears? Settlers?”
“I was told it was both,” she says, unexpectedly. “That some settlers were more violent than others, and some had ‘reverted’ more than others—not being as ‘civilized’ in their dress and their mannerisms. The more extreme accounts were thought to be wild animals mistaken for humans, probably bears.”
I wait for her to add a justification, a defense. Being a thousand miles away, the council understandably questioned the wild stories, like the tales of ancient sailors spotting manatees and somehow mistaking the ugly sea mammals for beautiful women. Isolation plays tricks on the mind, heightens fears and desires. To the council, Rockton’s hostile sightings were no different from Bigfoot sightings. Even I will grant them that, and I expect Petra to point this out. Maybe she thinks it’s obvious. Maybe now that I’ve acknowledged my mistake, she doesn’t want to rub my face in it.
When she says nothing, I continue. “The point is that with so many sightings and encounters, they should have encouraged investigation. Better yet, they should have sent a team to investigate. What they’d have found isn’t a tribe of happy former Ro
ckton residents gone native. It was a drug-enslaved cult where at least some of the members, like Maryanne, didn’t sign up voluntarily. She was from Rockton. Her whole party was—the two men the hostiles brutally murdered and the two women they took hostage. Maryanne played along, expecting the chance to escape, and instead fell under the influence of the tea. The other woman did escape—and was hunted down, tied up naked, and left to the elements and the predators and the scavengers. This is what the council allowed.”
Petra looks as if she’s going to be sick. I don’t expect that either. She takes a deep breath before straightening with, “All right.”
“All right what?” I say, a little sharply.
Silence. Then, “All right, I understand, and I agree this has been handled badly.”
I wait for more. When it doesn’t come, I’m annoyed, and I don’t like that. Am I spoiling for a fight? My mistake with the hostiles and the council has bruised my ego, so now I want Petra to say “I told you so” so I can light into her?
Today’s hunt has me on edge, and Petra’s not giving me the response I want so I’m being cranky.
Forget hostiles and the council and Petra. None of them have anything to do with returning Abby to her parents.
I find a footprint, and I focus on that. It’s near the riverbank, pointing inland.
The river is mostly frozen, but temperatures haven’t dropped enough for it to be a solid sheet of ice, and we’re near an inlet that’s running too fast to freeze. That’s why the snow is so trampled—animals finding this spot and drinking. I definitely saw a boot print, though, and when I search, I locate more. Humans have used this spot for water. Possibly also for hunting. Drops of blood and scattered white fur suggest an Arctic hare was killed as it came to drink.
It’s been two days since the last snowfall. These prints are even more recent, layered on top of animal ones. When I get about three meters from the river, the prints fan out, the animals and the humans going their separate ways. I can get a better view of the human ones here. Two sets, one about a men’s size ten, and one a little bigger than mine. A man and a woman, both dressed in boots like what Ellen wore, thick and heavy, with no tread.
The human prints lead to the remains of a camp. A year ago, I’d have walked right through it. Now I notice the rectangle where a tent stood. I see irregular patterns in the snow where items were set down. I spot blood under a tree nearby, where game was hung and slaughtered. And there’s the firepit. It’s only a circular patch of packed snow, but I dig down to find embers still warm.
“A camp,” Petra says, as if just realizing this.
I nod.
“What’s that over there?” she says.
I twist, still crouched, as she heads toward whatever she’s spotted. When I catch movement in the trees, I start to call a warning. Then I see a dark parka-like jacket on a man Dalton’s size.
She’s looking at something else, and as she bends for a better study, the figure moves from the trees, and it is not Dalton.
“Petra!” I call, my own gun out, rising.
She spins to her feet … and the figure raises a rifle.
“Stop!” I shout. “There is a gun pointed at your head, and there are two more people walking up behind you right now.” I’m hoping I’m loud enough for Dalton to hear if he’s nearby. “We are all armed. Lower your weapon—”
“Lower yours,” the man says. He’s young, and his voice is deep and seems steady, but I’ve dealt with enough situations like this to recognize that tremor, the one that says he’s in a situation he’s not equipped to handle. It’s too easy to pull that trigger when you’re afraid and angry and trying to pretend you are willing to do it. I know that better than anyone.