by Katie French
“These guys comin’ in ain’t been trained like you. They’re green. Inexperienced. If we take ’em out before their numbers can overwhelm us, we’re gold.” I stare into each boy’s eyes with determination. “But we can’t fail. We can’t let ’em swarm in here and tear us up. Shoot smart. Shoot straight. Don’t waste bullets. Aim, breathe, and pull. Then reload and do it again. Don’t think. Just shoot.”
A boy in the back, maybe eighteen, with narrow eyes and a nasty scar on his chin, raises his hand. “Sir?”
“You don’t have to sir me. Just make it fast.” I glance over my shoulder. The tank’s barrel crests the gate, its tires crunchin’ over debris, bodies, everything in its wake. The rest of the army will be visible in seconds.
“So we shoot or die?” he asks, goin’ white.
I stare at him, steely eyed. “Ain’t that the way it always is?”
We crouch behind the Jeep, guns at the ready. Just as I’ve predicted, they let the tank through the gate first and use it as cover. The first face appears at its flank, a pudgy man with glasses above a soft body. He holds a double barrel shotgun and I can see he ain’t afraid to use it to blow my head off. I aim, take a breath, and make sure he doesn’t.
My gun cracks, offerin’ the sweet smell of gun powder, and then a hole opens up on the pudgy man’s temple. His arms go wide as if pulled by strings. When he topples, the man behind him steps up. As he aims, I put a bullet in his chest. His gun falls unused as his body falls backward.
“Wow,” the boy beside me says, eying me like I’m a wonder.
“Don’t watch me!” I turn back to the fight. “Shoot.”
After the first two, it gets harder to pick off the enemy. Nobody pokes their head past the gate for a few long minutes. The tank sits inside the gate, idlin’ and doin’ nothing. If they had more fire power, they’d have blown us to Timbuktu by now. We wait and wonder what their next move will be.
A gun cracks and a bullet buries itself into the boy beside me. He falls, gushin’ blood and is dead before he hits the ground. I whip my head up to the top of the wall and see eyes and a gun aimed at me. I shoot without a thought.
Two bullets wing out at the same time. One slams into the dirt beside me, blastin’ dust into the air. The other blows off half of my enemy’s skull. He disappears behind the wall; blood and brains dribble down the white paint.
“You two watch up there!” I say to the two boys at my right. “The rest of us keep an eye on the gate. Remember, put bullets in faces. Any faces.”
Our enemy grows tired of this hunt-and-peck game, and a surge of bodies pours through the gate. They yell some sort of battle cry and crack off shots.
I take out three militants with three quick bullets. The boy beside me misses twice, but manages to take out two at the front before they crest our Jeep. The others also shoot well, but there’s too many faces and not enough bullets. I empty my clip into the crowd. When the dry click greets me, I toss it into the dust.
“Another gun!” I yell to the boys.
Someone tosses me his. I take it and fire on a man with a giant beard. His body falls into the dirt beside us, kicks out once, and is still. Another follows on his heels and grabs one of our boys as a human shield. The boy shrieks as the man brings a knife up to the boy’s throat.
“Don’t shoot,” says the man with road goggles and a blood speckled facemask, “or I’ll—”
I pull my trigger and the goggle man’s face caves in. The boy stumbles out, crawls toward me, and hunkers behind my back.
“Up!” I shout. “More’s coming.”
Men spill over the Jeep like a tide. I shoot one, two. A man in green shoots at me, and I feel a punch in my shoulder and then heat and pressure. Luckily, it’s my right arm with its healin’ hand. I lift my left and plug a slug into his forehead.
The heat and pressure in my shoulder throbs. Warm wetness dribbles down my arm, but I can’t focus on that now. Another man with a crossbow runs ’round the Jeep and aims at a boy on the ground. I use my last bullet to stop his heart and ruin his shirt all at the same time. The man’s dead weight falls onto the boy in a mass of blood and bone. The boy scrambles out and comes to stand behind me like the other.
More enemies run at the Jeep.
“I need another gun!” I toss away the empty one.
A pistol slaps into my hand. “Keep ’em comin’!”
Crouched like this behind the Jeep, I pick off seven more militants as they crest the Jeep’s nose. The row of bodies slows them down and my bullets light ’em up. I start to feel weak and light-headed from blood loss, so I get one of the boys to tie a tourniquet around my right arm to stanch the blood flow while I fire with my left. We catch our breath for a minute while the battle still rages on the other side of the gate.
“What do we do?” the scared boy asks, adjustin’ the bandage lashed around my armpit.
I wipe sweat off my brow and try to stay clear. My head starts to buzz. “We gotta fight until they retreat. Nothing else we can do.” Where the hell is Nessa? I could use her right now.
The smallest gnaws his lip. “There’s so many.”
I nod, checkin’ our stock of weapons. From the dead bodies, we have four more guns with some bullets. Not enough from what I gather. I lift my gun as another figure runs at us from around the Jeep.
Nessa barrels out of the dark, her face pale. Blood is splattered all over the front of her clothes, though I can’t tell if she’s wounded or if she did the wounding. When she doesn’t stop her sprint and runs right for us, my heart begins to pound.
“Run!” She tugs me back.
My brain kicks into gear slowly, but when it does, my heart fires on all cylinders. I follow Nessa, wavin’ the boys with me. We sprint along the wall, away from the fight and the tank. As I run, I wonder what we’re runnin’ away from, but then I see a black object whistle through the air. It falls on the tank.
The explosion blasts us all forward.
I fall to the ground, hands over my head. When the explosion dies, I look up. The rest of the boys peer up, too. Nessa stands and stares at the smokin’ wreckage of what used to be a tank. More bodies burn. More people dead.
“That should send the rest of them packing,” Nessa says, tuggin’ back a strand of loose hair. The blood splatters on her clothes must be from someone else.
I stare up at her. “What in the hell was that all about?”
Nessa looks at me like she’s forgotten I’m here. She notices the bandage on my arm and the blood darkenin’ my white T-shirt. “You’re hurt,” she says, concern wrinklin’ her brow. She steps over to me and touches the bandage wrapped around my arm.
I swat her hand away with my usable hand. “I want to know what the hell’s goin’ on.” I look hard into her face. “How many more of those guys are out there, and why the hell do they want you dead so bad?”
Nessa sighs and rubs at a streak of blood on her cheek. “Those idiot Free Colonists. Bastards. Come inside the house. It’s a long story.”
Chapter 14
Riley
Merek declares Annabell’s fate. Death. He grips the gleaming ax in both hands, a terrible weapon by any account, with a giant curved blade sharp enough to split hairs. At the sight of the blade, Annabell begins shrieking in earnest. She thrashes against the two guards who drag her toward the wooden bench in the center of the platform.
I’m so upset my hands are trembling and a scream is caught in my throat. I should say something, protest, do…something. I look over at Doc, who watches with a look of horror equal to mine.
“Do something,” I mouth.
Doc turns his gaze away.
I look to Nada on the other side of me. She has gnawed her bottom lip raw. She won’t look at me and keeps her eyes locked on the stage.
They drag the writhing, screaming Annabell to the wooden bench and begin tying her arms to the base with leather straps. Face down, her golden hair whips back and forth like a flag in a wind storm, and her feet pound th
e boards. Merek stomps over, his big hands flexing on the ax’s grip as the blade gleams in the pink rays of dawn.
“No!” Annabell screams. “I’m faithful. I swear!” She lurches back, tugging her arms against the leather straps so hard the bench groans. Merek puts his foot on her back and forces her chest down on the wood.
“I didn’t do it!” she screams, lifting her face to scan the crowd. The wives and children stand off to the side, heads bowed. She can’t see them from where she’s positioned, but she can see us.
She searches our faces. “Help me!” Her eyes trail past me and leave burn marks on my skin.
“We should do something,” I mutter. Then louder. “This isn’t right. We should stop this.”
“Shh,” says a bender in front of me. Doc shoots me a look.
But I don’t look at Doc. I look at the blubbering Annabell, at the abject terror on her face. “Stop this,” I say as the guard raises his ax. “It isn’t right!”
I step out of line, my body trembling, my heart pistoning. “Don’t kill her!”
Annabell’s eyes find mine. Her tear-streaked face, covered in blood and bruises softens the tiniest bit as she looks at me. It’s a look of thanks. I nod to her. If no one will stand up against this injustice, I will.
Then the ax falls.
The gleaming metal swings so fast, I don’t understand what’s happening until a fountain of blood sprays from the place her head had been a moment before. Bone and muscles and skin and blood appear. Her head hits the stage with a dull thunk, rolls forward, and thuds into the dirt.
Her eyes are open. Her mouth is frozen in terror.
She isn’t smiling anymore.
“No!” I scream. I take another step forward. Her head watches me from the dirt.
Hands grab my arms. Drag me backwards.
Then they beat me and beat me, and the pain gives me something to think about besides Annabell’s hopeful face before the ax fell.
I lie in my bunk for hours.
They beat me unconscious. When I awoke on my bed, my whole body lit up with pain. Now my ribs ache, my back throbs, and my insides feel rearranged. I have no idea what they did to my face, but it feels puffy and swollen. Lying on my back looking up at the bunk above me, I think about dying. I think about not fighting anymore.
Then I remember Ethan. I remember Clay.
Tears roll down my cheeks and gather on the smelly mattress beneath me. At least in the Citadel I had my family. I draw strength from their presence like a tree draws water up through its roots. When the roots go, the tree is bound to fall. And fall I have.
I press my hands to my face and let the tears come.
Where is Clay now? What kind of horrors has he seen? I conjure a picture of his face and hold it there as long as I can. I picture him running a hand through his brown hair, the flash of his steel blue eyes as he looks at me. I think of his arms around me, his fingers caressing the skin along my back. Life without him is like a black and white photo of a sunset, flat and colorless. If he were here…I don’t want to think of him in the clutches of these morons, but I let the thought blossom anyway. If he were here, he’d ride in guns blazing, taking off guards’ heads left and right. I picture Bukowski in the dirt, his blood muddying the yard. I picture Merek begging for mercy on his knees, his britches torn and his white gloves dirtied.
If Clay were here…but he’s not.
Slowly I roll to my side, the hurt rolling with me. I just watched an innocent girl’s head roll into the dirt like a melon. When I close my eyes, I see the fountain of blood. The bone and gristle. Merek killed her without a flicker of emotion. He has to die.
Footsteps in the bunkhouse head my way. When I look up, Doc is leaning over my bunk. His face is soft, sympathetic. He winces when he sees my face.
“That good, huh?” I ask, touching my puffy cheeks.
He sighs. “I’ve seen worse. I’m glad you’re awake, though.”
“Wish I wasn’t,” I say though a dry throat.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, digging in his pocket. “Of course it does. Here.” He holds out a white pill.
I look at it and up at him suspiciously.
“Aren’t we beyond this?” he asks, keeping the pill out. “It’s a painkiller, nothing more. You can trust me, Riley.” When I don’t move, he flaps his arms in frustration. “Do you know how expensive this pill is? Just take it.”
I look up at his face and then at the pill. When I grab it and drop the pill in my mouth, he lifts a thin smile and hands me a cup of water.
“Never seen them do that before,” Doc says, leaning against his bunk. “Annabell broke a lot of rules, but I’ve never seen them behead someone.” Sadness flits across his face.
“Guess there’s a first time for everything,” I say.
He looks hurt. “There was nothing I could do to stop it. Honestly, if I thought speaking out would’ve helped, I would’ve done it.”
I sit up and lock him with a hard look. “Sometimes you do what’s right even if you know it won’t do a damn bit of good. Sometimes speaking up is all you have.”
Doc frowns and runs a hand through his brown hair. “You’re brave. I’m…not. Nada always wants me to be brave. I…” His brow furrows. “I’m the cautious one. It’s not glamorous. Nobody sings songs about the person who was cautious, but someone has to be. You think I like it? I don’t.”
I think about Clay, how he always told me to be cautious. Then I think about Annabell’s head.
“I can’t just stand by and watch.”
“You were right to do what you did. We’ve become just…brainless slaves. Maybe if someone gave us a voice.” He stares out the barred windows above our bunk. Then he shakes his head. “You’ve got a target on your back now. They’ll try to kill you in the games if they can. Probably pit you against the biggest, most vicious competitors.”
“Like Mister,” I say, nodding. The movement hurts.
“Right,” Doc says, sitting beside me. “Mister already wants to hurt you. Now, he’ll get a hero’s reward if he rips your head off.” Doc stops and looks at me. His eyes are soft, almost wet. He purses his red lips as he studies my face. “You’ll have to be very careful.”
I look at Doc so close to me and feel a strange pull toward him. He reminds me so much of Clay in his manner and the way he thinks things through. And he’s looking at me kind of…dreamily, like he wants to touch my face or something. He leans forward.
I sit back, breaking the moment into pieces. Doc looks down at his knees and sniffs.
“I should get back to work,” he says, standing up. “Let me know if the painkillers don’t take the edge off.”
I nod, watching him go. My heart’s still pounding, though I can’t pinpoint why. Did some part of me want Doc to kiss me? I roll back onto my bunk, the pain slowly throbbing down to a dull ache and try to picture Clay’s blue eyes. Somehow though, all I keep coming up with are Doc’s.
Tournament day.
My legs twitch and my brain buzzes the minute the guards ring the morning bell. The bruises all over my body ache, but nothing feels broken. The thought of what I’ll face today sends snaps of anxiety through my body until all I want to do is curl up into a ball.
Legs appear, dangling from the bunk above mine. Nada swings down and lands on her feet like a barn cat. Her eyes travel over my face, noticing the bruises and welts.
“Looks good on you,” she says nodding to my battered appearance. “Makes you look tough. Too bad mine are faded.” She touches her cheek and the slowly healing cut over her nose.
I hold my hand out in a stop gesture. “Don’t get any ideas. People know you’re tough. You don’t need a smashed face for that.”
She smirks and digs in a bag hanging off her bed. When she pulls out some sort of small black appliance and flicks it on, I lean over for a closer look. At first I think the buzzing object is a weapon of some kind, but then she begins running it over her head. Small flecks of hair fall into the collar of h
er shirt.
“Hair clippers,” I say, watching her. “I’ve never seen ones that worked.”
She nods. “We aren’t allowed razors, so Doc got me these one Christmas. Finding working batteries, that’s another story.” She clicks the motor off and holds them out to me. “You wanna try?”
My hands go up into my hair, touching the straight black tresses that fall past my ears and brush the nape of my neck. I might only have about five or six inches of hair, but at least it’s something. “No thanks.”
Nada frowns. “I’ve seen people lose their scalps in bunkhouse fights.” She nods at my head. “It’ll be a target for sure.”
I comb my fingers through my hair. How long will it take me to grow this out again? Six months? A year?
“Fine,” I say, swallowing hard. “Do it quick and I don’t want to see.”
Nada brings the clippers toward my head and I can’t help but cringe. When the first strands land in my lap, I look away. When she’s done, I run a hand over my bald scalp. A thin brush of stubble remains.
“You look good,” Nada says.
“No, I don’t.” I pick up black strands and run them through my fingers. So much hair, all gone.
Nada puts her clipper back and says nothing about my pity party. I stand up and put a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Good luck today,” she says.
I begin pulling on my shoes. “Any idea what we’ll be up against?”
Nada shakes her head. She glances up at Doc’s bunk, but he’s already gone. “He might know, but he wouldn’t tell me. I think that’s a bad sign.”
I nod. “He’ll still try to protect you if he can.”
“You, too,” she says. “I haven’t seen him interested in anyone but me since Father died.”
I blush at this and say nothing for a while. Then I turn and ask a question that’s been burning inside me for a while. “We won’t have to…kill the others, will we?” I whisper the last part.