To the Well-Organized Mind

Chapter Eleven

[Fen]

Feral humans have different levels of cerebellum remaining. There are some who eat their meat raw. But there are also some who know how to make a fire and prefer their meat cooked. Reports have shown that they have learned how to weave baskets. Some know how to tie knots. All of them cherish children.

-Anonymous

Leir is everywhere and suddenly nowhere. His head is broken, bashed in, even as his intestines litter the ground and lie strewn across the fire. The male ferals are off, running into the forest, and I know that means I'm supposed to step up and free the prisoners. Nia is the bait, I am the savior, and we are supposed to meet up back where the mountain lion attacked us. She pointed out landmarks to ensure I'd find my way back.

Everything is going according to plan. Time is ticking.

But there are eight females remaining. They've encircled Furie and the others more tightly, clutching spears themselves. Of course they have self-defense. Of course the males aren't the only ones who fight. What had we been thinking when we devised this plan? I can't face off against eight ferals on my own.

I draw in a breath, trying to keep from hyperventilating.

"Nia charged in there against all of them," I whisper. "The least you can do is to create confusion for your comrades to escape."

It sounds right, and it should be easy enough. But taking that first step out of the shelter is the hardest step I have ever taken. I wish Nia were here to shove me out.

When I finally stumble to my feet, I start moving forward without taking my stick. When I realize I've left it, I curse, turn around, grab it, and start again. By that time, my movement has already been noticed.

One of the ferals cries out, pointing, and four of them make a line of spears to face off against me. Their spears look a lot sharper and more efficient than my paltry stick, so I slow to a halt. Glancing over the ferals' shoulders, I try to catch Furie's eye.

Then I remember that these are ferals and they don't speak our language. They don't speak period. So I can shout without my instructions alerting them to our plan.

"Furie! Get ready to run!" I hurl rocks and sticks I find at my feet—anything to distract the ferals and make them hesitate to attack me.

From behind, Furie wrestles a feral, seizing its spear. The feral has more strength, but Furie is more desperate. Sarah joins the fray, making the ferals more concerned about the threat behind them than my pathetic attack at the front.

But it's still three against eight, and the three are even more starved and weathered than the ferals that have lived their entire lives in this wilderness. We need to focus on running, not fighting.

I dart forward, looking for Jessi. If I can grab the girl, we can all make a run for it.

It takes a precious moment to locate her. Two feral females are pulling her and the other child out of the glade, back into the cover of the woods. If they make it to the edge, I know we'll be hard-pressed to find them again in their own territory.

Running forward, I knock against a feral, hardly noticing when she bites into my arm. I rip myself free and continue forward again. Sarah is suddenly next to me, screaming for her daughter.

"Jessi! Jessi, come to me!"

Jessi doesn't hear or doesn't react. She moves along as if she's deaf and numb, not needing any prodding from the feral females. The other child is holding Jessi's hand. It's impossible to tell if the child is male or female, younger or older. Definitely smaller.