by Katie French
“Miss Nessa did this to you,” I hear Ethan say near my ear.
I look up. Ethan and Betsy are standing a few feet apart, watchin’ me. What would they do if I rolled over and died right here? “Tell me more about Nessa,” I say to Ethan.
“She cut open your brain and fiddled with it. She did it to Betsy, too.” He looks over, and his face softens as he takes her in. “Nessa hated Riley. She wanted you all to herself. She made me pretend to be Cole so you’d go back to memories from the past and forget about Riley.”
I stand and suck in several deep breaths. “Where is Nessa now?”
Ethan shakes his head and looks at Betsy. “We don’t know. You shot her. We hope she’s dead, but—”
“But evil people have a way of not stayin’ dead,” I say.
“But Riley’s alive,” Betsy answers flatly. “She just got pulled into that car.”
Ethan nods. “It was two people. One had a bug head. The other had a buzz haircut and a gun.”
I peer down the two-lane highway, now deserted except for the moonlight and stars. “And you saw where they went?”
His head bobs up and down so fast it’s hard to keep track with my headache.
“Okay,” I say, straightenin’ my shirt. “Lead the way.”
We hike it as fast as we can, sticking to the road’s shoulder. Here, there’s little to hide behind even if we wanted to. The land stretches out like a vast, sandy sea, pocked with gnarly bushes and ornery plants that refuse to die. The road narrows.
Beside me, Cole—no, Ethan—walks with his eyes on the horizon and his mouth shut. Some kids don’t know when to shut up, but not Ethan. He could be a gunslinger for all the steel in his eyes.
Lookin’ at him brings another lump to my throat, but I swallow it down. I let the fire of hatred ignite in my belly. Nessa. She did this to me. She’s the one I should train my guns on.
And what about Riley? If we find her, what will I feel? Love? Confusion? What if I don’t remember? What if I can’t find the feelings I had? What if they’re lost forever?
“Can we stop?” Betsy whines.
“Shut up, Betsy,” Ethan says. “You’re lucky we didn’t leave your dumb butt behind after you tried to kill me.”
“I didn’t try to kill you. Hank did.”
Ethan whirls around and glares at her. “You were gonna let him!”
“Quiet.” I hold out a hand to tell them to be still. Standing still, I listen to see if I heard what I think I did.
A bang rumbles through the desert. A gunshot.
“Someone’s shootin’,” I whisper.
Ethan goes rigid. “Riley.”
I put a hand on his chest to keep him from flyin’ off again. “Stay behind me.” I draw out the gun I took from Hank’s driver. The pistol ain’t much to sniff at—a forty-five-caliber semiautomatic with scratches on its nose. Whoever owned this didn’t know shit about takin’ care of a gun. I hope it’ll still fire. My shoulder throbs from being out of the socket, but when I lift the gun, the muscle memory of it soothes me.
“Let’s go.”
We find a dead body in the road and footprints up and down in the sandy shoulder. A lot of shit went down here. Hopefully, no one’s still standin’ who wants to take my head off.
“Stay here,” I whisper to Ethan and Betsy.
Ethan throws his hands down. “But, Clay—”
“Not another word. Too dangerous.”
They throw me disapprovin’ looks, but I ignore them. I give Ethan one last look and then slink down the gravel road.
From this far back, the hill’s swell hides the entrance from view. I did everything I could to get the hell out of the underground facility, and I’m runnin’ right back in.
Focus on the task. Don’t get killed. Kill those who’d stop you.
I slip around and peer out into the open.
The entrance comes into view, doors wide open. Two more dead bodies decorate the steps. Scorched earth and blast marks darken the indestructible doors. The bodies are crispy lumps, still smokin’. The smell of charred chemicals drifts on the air.
I creep up, gun ready. Nothin’ moves outside. The inside is too dark to see, so I ready myself and slip inside.
I stand in a dark corner and survey my surroundings.
The air is heavy with smoke. Thick concrete walls and floors are splashed red from dim emergency lights. The alarm I heard when I climbed out of the pipe has stopped, so either someone shut it off, or the backup power generator is dying. If that goes, I’ll be in total darkness and shit outta luck.
I listen, but I only hear the occasional rumble of rock somewhere deep inside. I close my eyes and listen deeper. Past the rumbles and groans of the structure. Past the thud of my heart in my ears.
Then I hear it.
Somewhere, someone is breathin’.
Openin’ my eyes, I scan the room. Across the dark room is an even darker shadow. The shadow of a man with his back to one of the large square pillars that holds up the ceiling about twenty feet away.
I watch for several more breaths, waitin’ for the shadow to shift, and it does. I don’t think he’s seen me.
As quiet as I can, I reach down, find a piece of rock, and toss it across the entryway. It skitters down the hallway just to the right of his pillar. When he hears the clatter, his head pops out from behind the pillar. It’s the man I saw grab Riley and drag her into the solar car. Is Riley with him? If not, where is she?
If he hurt her…
I aim my gun and square my shoulders.
His head slips back before I can get a clean shot.
Pressin’ the gun to my chest, I breathe in and out slowly, makin’ no sound. Ain’t no sense in rushin’. The quick and the dead ain’t always polar opposites. Sometimes, the quick are just as dead.
Long minutes pass. I hear him shift uncomfortably. He’s convincin’ himself there was no one in the hallway. That it was only a rockslide or a rat. Soon, he’ll give up the waitin’.
Sure enough, his head peeks around the pillar again. Just a glimpse before he pops his skull back behind cover. He’s testin’ the waters. In a minute, he’ll do more than dip a toe in.
“Clay?” calls a voice from the open doorway. “Where are you?” Betsy calls, pokin’ her head in the open blast doors. The red emergency lights make her cheeks ruddy.
She’s a perfect target. A sittin’ duck.
Pillar man thinks so, too. He leans around his hidin’ place and aims at her.
I pull my trigger.
My shot catches him in the chest, though a little higher than I wanted. Blood spurts in a red fountain as the bullet rips through his flesh. He yelps, graspin’ at a wound he wasn’t expectin’. But the shot ain’t clean. He’s wounded bad, sure. But not bad enough. He whirls toward me, tryin’ to suss out where the shot came from, but I’m tucked back in my corner again, safe from his vantage point.
But Betsy ain’t safe. The fool girl crouched into a ball when the shot went off, but she didn’t take cover. She stands like a cow before slaughter, holding her ears and tremblin’.
“Get down!” I yell at her.
A bullet smashes into the wall inches from my head. Bits of concrete pepper my face and neck. I pull back tight.
“I’ll kill her!” he shouts. “I’ll blow the top of her head off and watch her brains ooze out. You can watch, too!”
Betsy sobs and trembles. She doesn’t even have the sense to get out of the way.
“You think I care?” I say, keepin’ my voice level. The less he thinks I care about her, the better her chances are.
“You do care or you wouldn’t’ve shouted at her to get down!”
He sounds mad now, insane. His wound hurts like a bitch, I know. He’s over there wantin’ me to hurt like he’s hurtin’. With all that blood he’s losin’, he’s gettin’ desperate. “I swear to Christ I’ll shoot her in the guts!”
He fires, strikin’ the ground near Betsy’s feet. She screams and runs around lik
e a headless chicken.
“Next go her knees!” he screams.
“Fine!” I shout. “What do you want?”
“You come out and toss me your gun. Then I’ll let you two go.”
Lies. He’ll shoot me in the guts. Betsy, too. What kind of gunslinger would I be if I watched him shoot a woman to bits while I hide in a corner?
“I’m comin’.” I walk out, my gun aimed harmlessly at the ceilin’ and my hands up. From behind his pillar, the top of his buzzed haircut peeks out and then tucks back in.
“Clay, don’t,” Betsy sniffles.
I take another step toward the room’s center, my eyes on his pillar about fifteen feet away.
“Toss your gun!” he yells.
“Sure, sure,” I say. “But first, do I got your word you’ll let us go?”
“Right,” he says, his voice dry. “Now toss it.”
I crouch down, the gun in my hand. Going slow. Slow. I focus on the solidness of the gun in my hand, the steady beat of my heart. My eyes are locked on the spot where his head will appear.
The fuzz on the top of his head appears from behind the pillar. Then his eyes.
I wait.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yells. “Toss it.”
“I want you to let the girl go first. Let her run off, and then I’ll toss it.”
His hand appears, wavin’ the gun wildly. “I don’t have time for this! Toss the gun or I blow her guts out.”
Blood runs down his wrist and drips from his fingers.
“You won’t blow her guts out,” I say coldly. “You’re chicken.”
“What did you say?” he asks, his voice as cold as mine. The shriek is gone. Replacin’ it is the cold steel of pride.
From my crouch, the gun still in my lowered fist, I smile a little. “I said you’re chickenshit. You can’t shoot a woman. You’ll shit your pants before you can pull the trigger.”
“Watch me!” The man steps out from behind the pillar. His face is ghastly white and his shirt is stained red. When his eyebrows angle down and his lips pull back from his teeth, he looks like a dog about to bite. His finger curls around the trigger as he points the gun at Betsy’s heart.
From the ground, I aim and pull faster than you can say lightnin’. Before he can turn his head my way, his gun blasts out of his hand and clatters to the floor.
There’s a beat before the man realizes his hand is hit. He stares at the bone and mangled flesh, eyes bugged out like he can’t quite believe.
He opens his mouth to scream, and I fire again. He falls backward and disappears into the dark.
Once the ringin’ in my ears subsides, I hear Betsy’s shrieks from the doorway. She’s makin’ a aaaiieee, aaaiieee sound like a tortured rabbit.
I walk over and clamp a hand on her mouth. “Shut up,” I say. “You didn’t listen, and you almost got us both killed. You gonna listen now?”
She nods beneath my hand. I pull it away. Her face is a map of blotchy islands in a sea of tears. “Go back where I told you. Stay with Ethan. Don’t make me tell you again.”
She runs through the door and outside.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
A sound from the back of the dark room brings my gun in that direction. I freeze, listening again, but there’s nothing. I can’t assume everyone in here is dead, but I don’t got time to find every red-necked gunman or wounded undergrounder in the place. I need Riley.
Still, it feels like someone’s watchin’ me.
There’s no time. I pick a dark hallway and run down it, picturin’ Riley’s face.
Chapter 31
Riley
I stare across the dormitory, not really believing my eyes. “Bran, is that you?”
He smirks, but he still hasn’t lowered his gun. “Aye. Takes more’n a few critters to end ol’ Bran.”
I look him over, trying to see signs of the creatures’ attack, but I find none. There’s not a scratch on him. In fact, he looks healthier and cleaner than I last saw him, with a trim beard, combed hair pulled back in a low ponytail, and a clean T-shirt that shows off his blue, swirling tattoos. For an old man, he looks pretty imposing with his gun aimed at my chest. “What happened to you?” I ask.
Beside me, Corra warily looks at him.
Bran tips an imaginary hat to Corra. “We’ve been watching you fer a while, Dr. Washington. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
Corra stares openmouthed. “Last I heard, you were taken. What are you doing back in my compound?”
Bran shows a row of yellow teeth. “Doesn’t look like it’s yours anymore. Under new management, so to speak. Caught ya with your panties down, did they? No matter. We don’t care who owns the compound. All we want is the bugger under your shirt, Riley.”
This is madness. I start to raise my gun, but Bran takes a step forward. “Drop yer guns! I swear to the mother Mary I’ll fill ya full a lead. Drop ’em!”
“Okay, okay,” I say, lowering my gun. Inside my shirt, Peanut yips and shifts around.
Bran’s face lights up as he peers at the lump under my shirt. “Kick over the guns and then hand over the critter.”
I stoop, set the gun on the ground, and kick it to him. It slides across the concrete floor and lodges somewhere under a bunk. Corra does the same. I put a protective arm around Peanut. “You have the guns. Now leave us be.”
Bran walks forward, his gun still trained on us. “Gonna need the critter. Killin’ you is just part and parcel of the job. Sorry. Them’s my marchin’ orders.”
“So, this was all just a ruse? Who do you work for?” I ask, stalling for time. Maybe Dennis will find us, however unlikely that is.
“I work for the land o’ the free, the home of the brave. The only place left in this shite world governed by a democracy. And they’ve taken an interest in your experiment, Washington. They’d like to see for themselves. And I make my wages delivering what they want. I thought you had them at Kirtland. I was shocked to hear the beasties were here.”
Corra’s jaw trembles with rage as she answers Bran. “The Free Colonies?”
Bran nods.
“If they’re so free and brave, why send a coward like you?” she hisses. “Why take innocent lives?”
“We didn’t blow up your dome. That was some other muckshits. Seems like you’ve got a lot of enemies.”
With tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, Corra straightens her shoulders. “I’ll make a thousand enemies before I give up my work. That”—she points to Peanut under my shirt—“may be the only chance humanity has left. I’ll die before I’ll let you take it.”
Bran nods. “Right. Like I said before. Now turn around and kneel. Let’s get this over with.”
Stall, stall, stall. “Wait! How did you get out of the strip mall? We thought you were dead.”
“They attacked me, sure. Tore my damn shirt off and a chunk of me hide, too. But I fought my way out and saw it as my best chance to bugger off.”
“So, you sell yourself to the highest bidder? Don’t really care who you hurt in the process. What about my aunt? How will she feel when she learns you’ve killed her niece?”
Bran’s face tightens. “Ah, Bell. It t’was a shock to see her after all these years. But alas, the rent must get paid, molly. Sorry.”
Trembling with rage, I glare at him. “You’re not one bit sorry.”
He shrugs. “Hand over the critter. Let’s not drag this out.”
I stand stock-still. “Come and get her.”
He growls under his breath and stalks toward me. With one hand, he shoves Corra to her knees. Then he whirls on me, towering in a wall of muscle, stinking of smoke and sweat. My eyes flick from his thick arms, to the veins popping out at his neck, to the blue tattoo curling over his forearm. He pushes the gun into my temple until it hurts. Then he leans in so close his beard tickles my cheek. “Hand. Over. The. Maggot. Or I shoot her”—he nods to Corra— “and you can watch her bleed out.”
My throat
constricting, I hold Peanut tight. I can’t hand her over. She’s just a baby. Tears roll down my cheeks. The gun pushes against my temple so hard my head begins to throb. “Don’t do this.”
“Your choice.” Bran turns the gun and points it at Corra.
“Don’t!” I yell.
The door thwacks open. Bran lifts the gun to the figures streaming in. Three grimy men aim back at him, and behind them is a huge, bald man with a latticework of scars around his neck. He pulls in a woman, gripping her by the forearm. My aunt.
“Auntie!” I shout.
Gun barrels move between Bran and me. Behind the wall of men, Auntie gives me a nod. She looks awful—covered in grime and soot, a cut clotted with blood and dirt on her cheek. Her clothes are filthy and torn, and her long braid is flecked with rubble. What in the world happened to her?
The tension is heavy.
Across the room, the big man presses a hand to his scarred throat and speaks in a slow, garbled voice. “Drop… your… weapon.”
Bran shakes his head, the handgun scanning between the three men with guns. They’re a ragtag bunch with dirty clothes, grimy faces, and an assortment of guns. One has a sawed-off shotgun, one has a very old-looking revolver with a long barrel, and the last has one of Corra’s new-age handguns, the same as the one I kicked under a bunk somewhere. If I could get to my gun and find cover, maybe I could get us all out of here. But Auntie’s on the other side of the room and Corra kneels on the floor beside me, stunned.
The bald man with the neck scars speaks again. “Drop… your weapon. Or… we fire.”
Bran curls his lip back in a fierce sneer. “You fire, and I fire. We’ll see who walks away.”
Is this a bluff? If the men take him up on it, we’ll all be dead. Mike can’t want his men shot, but there’s three of them and only one of Bran. I’d be happy if they take each other out, but we’d be caught in the crossfire.
“No one needs to fire,” Corra says, standing up. Her lips tremble with rage. “Mike, you’ve destroyed this place, killed my people. Your work is done, isn’t it?”