Free The Eleventh Plague by Jeff Hirsch

The realization that I had left them both sitting out there in the open made me forget my hunger for a moment. I could feel the sting of the beating Grandpa would have given me if he had seen.
Stupid.
I wished I could just make my bed on the floor next to Dad and go to sleep, but I couldn’t leave my gear out there for anyone to take.
    I struggled out of the chair, kneeling at Dad’s bed on my way to the door. The dirt and splashes of blood that had lingered on his face weregone and his skin wasn’t quite the waxy mask it had been. I tried to tell myself that he didn’t look any different than he ordinarily did when he was asleep, but there was a stillness there, an absence that seemed vast. I squeezed his arm and leaned down next to his ear.
    “I’ll be right back,” I whispered before stepping outside.
    The hairs on my arm lifted in the cool air, and the spicy smell of wood smoke and roasted meat made my stomach roar, pushing the last remnants of sleep out of my head. I crept down the stairs and across the yard, easing up to the wagon, hoping not to be seen. When I got close enough, I drew my bag toward me. Unfortunately I forgot that Grandpa’s rifle was leaning against it, so as soon as I pulled the pack away, the rifle fell with a clatter. My insides jumped.
    “Hey.”
    I looked down. Jackson and two others were sitting near the wagon’s tires, a litter of plates and half-eaten dinner all around them. There was a skinny kid with big glasses and another larger kid with thick curly hair. All of them were staring at me, three pairs of eyes burning in the dark.
    “You get something to eat?” Jackson asked. I clutched my pack to my chest. “I have food.”
    “We’ve got venison,” Jackson said. “And some potatoes Derrick’s mom made.”
    “They suck,” the big kid, Derrick, said.
    The kid with the glasses was sitting on the other side of Jackson. “My mom brought her blueberry pie,” he said, which for some reason caused the big kid with curls to shoot him a leering grin.
    “Oh, I
bet
she did, Martin,” he said.
    “Shut up, Derrick! That doesn’t even make sense!”
    “Oh yeah? You want to know what makes sense?”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Martin said. “My mom?” Jackson pushed Derrick away and stood up by the wagon. “Ignore Derrick. He’s obnoxious. You should stay and have some food.”
    “I’m fine.”
    I shouldered my pack and reached for the rifle, but before I could get away, Derrick leapt in front of me and started doing a spastic shuffle, jumping up and down and throwing his arms around at his sides like he was having a fit. I took a step backward.
    “Uh … Derrick?” Jackson said, stepping up to my side. “What are you doing?”
    “Well,” Derrick said, panting, “I figured, uh, maybe the problem was that he didn’t feel entirely at home yet, so I thought I’d perform the Settler’s Landing Dance of Welcoming.”
    “You look like you’re having a seizure,” Martin said drily.
    Derrick cackled and threw himself into the air, which I guessed was his big finish, since when he landed he swept his arms out in front of him and took a deep bow. Martin clapped sarcastically and Jackson laughed. When Derrick stood up again, he somehow had a plate of venison and potatoes in his hand. Where it came from, I had no idea, but when he held it out to me, the smell of it almost made me faint.
    “Eat,” he said. “Eat, my new and tiny little friend.”
    “What do you care if I eat or not?”
    Derrick’s grin froze.
    “Just being friendly, man, that’s all. You want it or not?”
    I was about to turn and run back up the stairs into the Greens’ house, but my hands moved before the rest of me could. Before I knew it, I had snatched the plate from him and dug my fingers into the pile of meat. It was rich and gamey and seeped into every part of my body.
    I gulped it down, and when it was gone, I scooped up the potatoes and devoured those too, sucking the remains from my fingers.