Free Wasteland (Wasteland - Trilogy) by Susan Kim, Laurence Klavan Page A

grip; he then swiveled, shooting out his leg and driving his heel into the mutant’s knee. With a scream as much of surprise as of pain, the mutant pitched forward, off balance. Again, Caleb used momentum, this time to push the mutant farther downward while driving his knee up into his face as hard as he could. There was a satisfying crack of bone, followed by a hot gush of blood.
    Caleb turned. His vision blurry, sweat streaming down his face, it took him a moment to see that the fifth mutant, the largest, was running away.
    Dimly, he realized that he should let him escape.
    Caleb had won this round, and he should tend to the boy who was still hanging from the streetlamp, who clearly needed his help.
    But it was as if he was aflame, burning with a righteous fever that would not be satisfied until each mutant was hunted down, one by one, and made to suffer. A bloodlust was upon him. He took off in pursuit and now felt the glad fire in his legs; the mutant, a fast runner with a good head start, glanced back and the shock on his face was obvious. Caleb was nearly upon him.
    The mutant swerved suddenly. He had reached a group of commercial buildings and, now frantic, he intended to escape that way instead. He clawed at the nearest wall and began to climb; Caleb leaped to grab his bare foot and only just missed. But any relief the mutant might have felt was short lived, for Caleb also began to scale the wall, moving with relentless speed.
    The mutant pulled himself onto the roof; seconds later, Caleb did the same. By then, the mutant had sprinted to the far end and now balanced on the edge of the parapet; he was gauging the distance to the neighboring building. He glanced back with a look of pure panic and as Caleb ran forward, he pinwheeled his arms and took a standing leap.
    Caleb didn’t hesitate. He was aware that he had no clue as to how far he had to jump and that he was at least five or six floors above the ground; a misstep would be fatal. Yet he no longer cared.
    He put on speed, then at the roof’s edge, made a blind, running leap. He easily cleared the neighboring parapet and landed hard, instinctively rolling into a sideways somersault to blunt the impact. He came out of the roll without stopping, still running.
    The mutant—only halfway across the roof—looked back. He had a setting sun tattooed across his face; beneath it, his expression was one of shock. Yet as much as fear, there was admiration in his voice.
    “You have defeated four of my best,” he said. Caleb realized that this one was the leader. “Who taught you?” he called, panting.
    “I taught myself,” Caleb said. The hatred and contempt in his voice were terrifying.
    The mutant nodded, impressed despite himself. He was cornered now; there was nowhere to run, no other buildings nearby. But as Caleb stepped forward, the mutant hesitated for only a second.
    Then he jumped off the roof.
    Caleb ran to where he was standing and looked down. The mutant was lucky that the alley was strewn with crates and boxes; a pile of cardboard had broken his fall. Still, Caleb was satisfied to see him limping badly as he escaped down the alley and out of sight.
    It was a team of Harvesters who first saw him.
    A stranger walked down the main road that led into town. The townspeople viewed newcomers with suspicion, for supplies were scarce enough without interlopers looking for more. This one pushed a battered bicycle, across which was sprawled a body, legs and arms dangling. A dirty white sheet was partly draped around it and already, dark red patches—blood? clay?—were seeping through.
    Caleb was bringing the brutalized guard back to Prin.
    The Harvesters slowed their own bicycles and came to a stop.
    “Mutants?” one of them asked, and Caleb nodded.
    The Harvesters exchanged glances as one by one, they recognized the victim. A boy gave an involuntary cry, his eyes round with shock.
    “Trey?” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Is he—”
    “He’s still