Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

and up to the tree line. Still no sign of the flashlight. And without one of my own, I can’t follow into the woods. I’d walk right into a tree.

‘Hey!’ I hiss. ‘Who’s out there?’

No answer. Branches creak, silver in the moonlight.

All six coats were on the rack, so it’s probably not one of the Guards. I take a risk: ‘It’s me, Blake! I just want to talk to you!’

The icy wind flings the words back in my face.

Frustrated, I walk back towards the house—and then stop.

Footprints in the snow. Some are mine. Some are not.

I bend down, squinting in the dark. The foreign prints are big, bigger even than my oversized boots. At the FBI morgue, there was a pathologist named Dr Norman—a tall blonde with the kind of insight that made me nervous. I once saw her use a complicated equation to estimate a man’s height by looking only at his severed foot. ‘You know what they say about men with big feet,’ she told me. ‘Big feet, long corpse.’

I don’t remember if the hiker had large feet, but he was tall. I’m guessing these prints are his. It seems unlikely that yet another unknown party is out here.

There’s not enough light to follow the tracks into the woods. But I can follow them in the other direction, and see where the guy has been.

I follow the prints up the gravel driveway and around the side of the house. The tracks stay close to the walls, I guess so the guy could duck under the windows and stay out of sight. They go in both directions. He went and came back along the same route.

I feel a chill as I follow the trail. The guy walked halfway around the house. He was right here, while everyone was asleep. And this time he didn’t trigger any of the cameras—I assume, since I didn’t hear anyone’s phone go off and no one else is up. Fred’s theory that the hiker wouldn’t be able to sneak past the cameras was wrong, or at least outdated. He’s learned where the gaps are.

It feels like I’m being watched. I turn to scan the forest. No movement.

The prints go right up to my bedroom window. There’s some confusion before they keep going. The guy must have paused here. I look through the window but can’t see anything past the curtains and the darkness. Could he have heard me getting up? Could I have heard him, and that’s why I got up?

The tracks continue past two more windows without any signs that he slowed down. They stop at the last window along. This was his final destination.

There’s a dim light inside, and the curtains haven’t been closed all the way. I peer through the gap. There’s a blanket draped across an antique reading lamp inside, casting a muted glow across a pile of clothes and part of a bookshelf. Zara is on the bed in a satin nightdress, eyes closed, hair fanned across the pillow, mouth slightly open. An open book has fallen onto her chest.

Around my feet, the tracks fade in the falling snow.

CHAPTER 19

Say a few kind words before you cook me, spread me and bite me. What am I?

‘How’d you sleep, Lux?’

‘Yeah. Good. Fine.’

Donnie takes a swig of milk straight from the jug. ‘That bad, huh?’

I laugh nervously. ‘Right. I guess I’m still getting used to the bed. You?’

‘Couldn’t sleep. Almost got up and went out back.’ He tilts his head in the direction of the slaughterhouse.

I swallow. ‘You do that?’

‘Sometimes. But Fred wants to wait until the new cameras arrive.’

I don’t know why it shocks me that Donnie works out his frustrations on the prisoners. I already know that it’s not about the money for these guys. I remember what Fred said about Samson: He was proud of what we’re accomplishing here.

I sprinkle some salt into my coffee. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how much do you get paid?’

Donnie looks confused by the question. ‘For what?’

‘For, you know, the work you do here.’

Donnie puts the milk back in the fridge. ‘I get to live in these beautiful surroundings with great people and make a real difference in the world.’

So, nothing. I wonder if the others all work for free. I sip the salted coffee. Usually I use a drinking straw, like a vein pumping into my mouth, but I couldn’t find any in this kitchen.

Kyle enters, bleary-eyed. He doesn’t look rested. I wonder if he sleepwalks, like me.

‘Morning,’ I say.

He just grunts and grabs a Red Bull from the fridge.

I wince. ‘There’s a lot of sugar in those.’

‘Yeah, no shit.’ He jams some bread into the toaster. ‘Where’s Zara?’

‘Out collecting yeast with Cedric,’ Donnie says. ‘Fred’s in the editing room.’

‘Do the subscribers know about the sabotaged cameras?’ I ask.

‘No,’ Donnie says. ‘They think it’s a planned outage. But we can only sustain that for a day or two. Rumours are already circulating. Subscribers are saying we’ve all been arrested. That’s why Fred’s in there. Gotta cobble together some old footage to make content that seems new.’

‘Making a difference in the world,’ I say, deadpan.

‘Right.’

Kyle’s toast pops up, startling me. He opens the fridge and grimaces. ‘We’re out of eggs.’

‘You’re doing a supply run this morning, right?’ Donnie asks. ‘Can I come?’

Kyle shrugs.

Donnie seems to take this as a yes. ‘Great. Lux?’

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I got a hole to dig.’

Sadness sweeps across Donnie’s face, and I find myself wishing I’d been less blunt. ‘Right. Okay. See you.’

Fred emerges not long after, stretching a crick out of his neck.

‘How’d the editing go?’ I ask.

‘Ugh. It’ll get the job done, but it’s like a stew made of offcuts.’