The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) by Tarah Benner Page B

alive to mourn my loss, and Greyson would probably die in prison without ever knowing I was trying to save him. He would probably think I had made it out west with my dad and was living happily without him.  
    Maybe that wasn’t so bad.
    I let my head fall back against the tree, overwhelmed by thoughts of my own mortality. My blood-matted hair stuck to the rough bark, causing a searing pain that rippled down my shoulders to my fingertips.  
    Is this really it? I thought, utterly disgusted with myself. Is this how I am going to die? Tied to a tree, waiting for it to happen?
    I imagined what my dad would think if he saw me tied up like this, waiting to be killed. Surely he would berate me for being so unobservant. They weren’t quiet in their approach by any means — I should have heard them coming. After all my precautions, all my worrying, I still hadn’t been alert when it counted.
    My mom would cry over my predicament, but my dad would expect me to come up with some way to get out of this. I could practically hear his words: You got yourself into this mess. You better get yourself out of it.  
    Greyson would. He would do something bold and unexpected. They wouldn’t know what hit them. But me? I was the planner. I should be able to come up with some kind of plan to escape.
    Maybe that was my downfall. As soon as my original plans fell apart, I was helpless to adapt. I had no plan B. The plan had been simple: avoid the carriers. That was my survival strategy with the PMC, too. Avoid, avoid, avoid. Avoid attracting attention, avoid getting caught helping Greyson, avoid death. My strategy wasn’t panning out too well.
    Why was I going to just sit there and let them kill me? I couldn’t accept it. I had to try to fight back — to free myself — something. My death would be just as horrible if I died trying to fight against it.
    I twisted my wrist in the restraints, gauging the tightness of my bonds. I could feel my hand stopped by the plastic near the lower knuckle of my thumb. It was tight, but ripping my own hand off still seemed better than being their prisoner, and much better than being their next kill.  
    I tried my other hand. It seemed even tighter. Desperately, I looked around for my knife. Of course, it was nowhere within reach. That would be too easy. Maybe carriers were smarter than I gave them credit for.
    Taking a deep breath, I yanked both of my hands at once. This accomplished nothing but the painful scraping of the plastic against my skin. I pulled, eyes watering.  
    I must have made a noise — a slight whimper or a rustle of leaves — because the carriers stirred, looked around, and one made a move to get up. I froze, watching them watch me.  
    They looked at each other. The big one who seemed to be the leader made an eerie gargling sound in his throat, and they turned their backs to me.  
    I sighed with relief. I would have to be more careful. If they decided I was a flight risk, they might speed up whatever they were planning and kill me instantly.  
    Maybe if I waited long enough, one would leave to get water or go to the bathroom. Surely they wouldn’t all leave at once, but if even one or two of them were gone, I might be able to fend off the others. The ratio of humans to carriers that would be an even match wasn’t a sure thing, but I knew for certain I wouldn’t be able to defend myself against four.
    I hesitated to try to break free again. Every move I made caused the leaves under me to crunch loudly. I sat there, mind racing, as the sun rose in the sky. The warmth of the noon sun should have been comforting after the cold night, but I felt myself break into an anxious sweat.
    What were they waiting for? At this rate, my best guess was that they were planning to cook me for dinner, but that didn’t fit what I knew about carriers. They foraged in abandoned houses for food, fed from dumpsters, and ate roadkill when they were pushed out of cities. But why else would they wait to