Free The Prey by Tom Isbell

vehicle compound,” Red said. “What’s to prevent us from taking some Humvees?”
    Dozer sensed the tide turning against him. “And when we run out of fuel?”
    â€œThen we hump it.”
    â€œAre you crazy?” Dozer asked, horrified. “We can’t walk across a desert. Look at us. Look at Book .” He pointed his sausage fingers in my direction. With my limp, I wasn’t the fastest.
    I had to admit: the realities of the plan were sobering. Miles of sage-covered desert. A dreary landscape as barren as the surface of the moon. And yet, what was the alternative? Stay in Camp Liberty and wait for the day to be imprisoned in a bunker? Or, worse, slaughtered by Hunters?
    â€œWe’ll have to be smart,” June Bug said. “Not just take enough supplies, but the right supplies.”
    â€œWe’ll stuff our packs with anything we can get our hands on,” I said. “Crackers, jerky—anything that’ll keep.”
    â€œAnd fill up canteens whenever we spot a water source.”
    Soon, everyone was throwing out ideas and a plan took shape. It was scary. Beyond scary. But staying at the camp—the hatchery —was no longer an option. Even Colonel Westbrook’s promise to make me an officer was not tempting enough to make me stay. I didn’t know who to trust anymore.
    An uneasy silence settled among us. There was onlyone thing missing, and we all knew it.
    â€œWe need someone who knows the geography,” June Bug said. “Someone who can be a guide.”
    No one had to mention Cat’s name for us to realize we were all thinking of the same person.
    â€œToo late,” Dozer said. “That coward’s done gone and run. And I say fine. Let the sonofabitch die for all I care.”
    We headed back to camp, each going a different way so as not to arouse suspicion. As I made my way back, one question rattled around in my head over and over: How on earth could a measly bunch of Less Thans escape from Camp Liberty, elude an army of Brown Shirts, and make it halfway across the wilderness to a new territory? It seemed nothing less than impossible.

16.
    H OPE DOESN’T KNOW HOW long she’s been lying there. It could be hours, it could be days. She has vague memories of stirring, shivering from cold. Now she’s burning up. Her dress is soaked in sweat; her entire body throbs with pain.
    She looks over at Faith. Perspiration beads her forehead and her cheeks are flushed a bright red. Still, she is alive. Sleeping heavily with jagged, halting breaths.
    Hope’s eyes scan the room. On one wall is an enormous poster with the heading: What Makes Someone a Less Than? She remembers it’s what Book called himself and studies the poster more intently.
    Beneath the heading is an elaborate chart. A columnadorns one side, with the heading Forbidden Categories . The list includes Radiation Deformities, Homosexuality, Incompatible Skin Color, Political Dissidents, Nonapproved Religious Affiliations, Mentally Infirm. And goes on from there. Hope doesn’t know what to make of it.
    â€œHere. Drink this.”
    A prisoner bends over her, clad in the same gray dress that all the girls wear. Distinguishing her from the other inmates is a black eye patch covering one eye. She holds out a cup of water. Hope recoils.
    â€œIt’s okay,” the girl insists. “I work here.”
    Hope turns away. “I’m sick because of people who work here .”
    â€œIt’s not like that. I’m here to help. I’m a prisoner just like—”
    Hope doesn’t want to hear it. She sends an elbow into the girl’s arm and the cup of water goes flying.
    The girl with the eye patch sighs but says nothing. When she picks up the cup and refills it from the sink, Hope notices how bone-thin she is. Nearly skeletal. Like Faith. She offers the cup to Hope once more. “Just a sip,” she says.
    Something about her expression