The Forsaken

from the brush. “David, not Dave. I hate nicknames. You?”
    “Alenna.” I still don’t trust him. “Don’t get too close to me or I’ll run. Are you really from New Providence?”
    “Yeah, center city. Franklin Street.”
    I nod. “I’m from Thayer Corridor.”
    “That’s not too far from where I live.”
    I watch him closely, looking for any signs of aberrant behavior. I don’t see any, at least not yet. “I’m heading for the camera,” I finally tell him. “The one that’s linked to the Harka Museum. There’s obviously been a mistake, so I’m going to signal for help.”
    “I doubt anyone’s gonna help us.”
    “Why’s that?”
    He doesn’t answer.
    “You have a better plan?” I look around, thinking about all the awful things that might happen to me if I keep standing here talking.
    “Honestly? No.” David bends down. “Can’t find my glasses.” He starts rummaging in the underbrush. “Ah, here they are.” He lifts them up and puts them on, adjusting the black plastic frames.
    “We need to move,” I tell him, edging away. We’re in so much danger, the last thing I want to do is waste time. I’m not even sure if this boy is an ally for real, or if he’s putting on an act.
    “Wait. I’m coming.” He takes a few tentative steps forward and winces. “I hurt my foot somehow. It’s been killing me ever since I woke up.”
    In a way, I’m relieved to know he’s injured. He’s less of a threat if I can outrun him. He takes another step forward, limping.
    I think about trying to ditch him in the forest. But for the moment it feels better to be with someone else than all alone. I’ll just have to keep my guard up. I still can’t believe that I’ve ended up here.
    We start hiking in the direction of the camera. I push my aching body forward, climbing over fallen tree branches and rotting logs. David lags behind. The ground is spongy beneath my feet, marshy and wet. My shoes are already soaked and muddy. Mosquitoes and gnats swarm my mouth and eyes, buzzing against my ears.
    David and I don’t talk much. It’s hard enough just to keep going, and the thick, damp air makes it tough to breathe. Both of us are panting.
    “Alenna, stop,” David suddenly whispers.
    I look back at him. “What?”
    “Listen.”
    It’s then that I hear the howling noise:
    Aooooooooooooo!
    It’s a plaintive, animalistic wail that echoes through the trees.
    My body stiffens. The sound isn’t close, but it’s not too far away either. I move backward and press myself against a tree trunk, holding my breath until the noise stops. I exhale slowly. I look over at David. He’s crouching low to the ground.
    “What was that?” I whisper.
    “Don’t know, but it didn’t sound good.”
    We wait another minute.
    Only silence.
    Eventually we resume our desperate hike.
    Fifteen minutes later, we finally reach the clearing in front of the spiral staircase. After a few seconds of anxious searching, I spot the museum camera, wedged up fifty feet high in a thick Plexiglas box, between the V of two massive tree branches. Its lens points directly down at us.
    I’m now in the exact same place where I saw the blue-eyed boy. Even though it’s sweltering in this jungle, I instantly get the chills. I try not to think about the robed figure. I suppress my fear—I can’t let it overwhelm me. David and I stare up at the camera as I listen to the blood rush through my veins.
    The camera glares back at us with its cold, dead eye. I can see our reflections in the Plexiglas box. I already look filthy, small, and terrified—which is exactly how I feel.
    David just stands there, looking resigned, with his shoulders slumped. Like he expected this would be his fate. Like he knows he’s guilty of something. But what? He seems like the shy, studious type. Maybe he was planning on doing something awful, and the GPPT detected his mental aberration, just as it should?
    “I gotta find something to write with,” I explain. I kneel and look for a thin twig. I find one almost instantly. But it’s harder to find something to gouge letters onto. My fingers plunge around until I discover a large, damp, waxy leaf, the size of my hand. I stand up in view of the camera.
    “I’ll keep watch,” David says. “Make sure no one sneaks up from behind.”
    I take the stick and start writing on the leaf. It doesn’t work too well, but I keep at it until letters are marked into its surface, like messy etchings.
    I manage to fit two