Eve

by Anna Carey

Page 45

  “And you’ve obtained permission to live outside the City?” another asked. He was shorter, bulkier, his gut hanging over the belt of his pants. He rested one hand on the green Jeep.

  “Yes. ” Caleb nodded. He’d stripped off his jacket a mile back and the collar of his thin T-shirt was now ringed with sweat. “But it was all lost. ”

  The third soldier grabbed the packs from us. He sat in the road and riffled through them, looking over the unlabeled cans, the tattered map, and the tent. Then he turned to the others and shook his head. His hair was cropped close to his skull. He was shorter and smaller than me, his face thin.

  “What are your names?” The stocky one asked. He spoke to Caleb, but his eyes scanned my hair, the exposed crescent of my face, and my thin, scarred legs.

  Caleb stepped toward me. “I’m Jacob and this is Leah. ” His voice was clear, unwavering, but the redheaded soldier kept looking at me.

  Sweat slicked my skin. Let us pass, I thought, my eyes on the soldier’s shiny boots. Please, let us pass.

  I listened to him breathe. Then he cracked his knuckles, a sound like snapping twigs. “Remove your shirt,” he said. I bristled, before realizing he was speaking to Caleb.

  Caleb’s hands rested limply at his sides. “Sir, I didn’t—I don’t—” he began, his voice strained.

  “Please—let us alone,” I said, raising my head for the first time. “We just need food and a good night’s rest. ”

  But the stocky one pulled a knife, a slow smile curling on his lips. In one swift motion, he ripped the sleeve from Caleb’s shirt, exposing his tattoo.

  “What do we have here?” the redhead said. He kept his hand on his gun. “An escapee? Where’d you pick up the girl, you sorry sack?”

  The one with the shorn hair stared at me. He seemed so young, a thin mustache barely visible above his upper lip. “It’s her,” he finally muttered. “It’s the one. ”

  Caleb charged the redhead, knocking him off balance. The younger one looked on, tentatively. The stocky soldier grabbed me around the neck and held the knife there, its cool metal pressing against my skin. The soldier breathed in my ear, the stench of alcohol on his tongue.

  The redhead tumbled backward, pulling Caleb into the garage, down next to the Jeep. His head hit the bumper as Caleb grasped desperately for his gun, the soldier elbowing him.

  “You morons—do something,” the redhead pleaded, as Caleb came down on top of him. “Help me. ” Caleb was bigger than the soldier, his weight enough to pin him, momentarily, to the floor.

  “Take her,” the stocky one said. He pushed me onto the younger one, who hung his thin arm around my neck, holding me to his chest. His heart pounded against my back as he tried to pull me away from the men, now clustered at the Jeep’s front tire.

  The stocky soldier punched Caleb from behind, the dull thud of his knuckles landing at the base of Caleb’s skull. Caleb fell on top of the redhead, stunned.

  “Stop!” I screamed as the biggest soldier lifted his knife. His arm moved with great fury as the blade sank into the side of Caleb’s thigh.

  The soldier raised his weapon again, this time pausing to aim higher, at the soft flesh of Caleb’s throat. He was going to kill him.

  I reached my hand to the young soldier’s hip, feeling the end of his gun. There was no time. I didn’t think, just yanked it from its holster and raised it in front of me, pointing at the soldier whose knife was at Caleb’s neck. I stepped forward, breaking free from the boy’s grip.

  I pressed down on the trigger. A quick cloud of smoke expanded in front of my face. The soldier screamed as the bullet ripped through his side. Caleb rolled over, exposing the redheaded soldier, and I fired again, wincing as a bullet buried itself in his stomach.

  Tears blurred my vision. I could barely breathe. Caleb grabbed the soldiers’ pistols and threw them across the pavement. The redhead let out a moan, blood gurgling in his throat. And then he was silent.

  Caleb tried to stand but he let out a terrible scream, the thigh of his pants a deep red. “We have to get out of here. ” He looked at me. Then he stumbled a few feet and collapsed, his face twisted in pain.

  Beside me the young soldier had his hands up, his feet locked in place.

  “You,” I heard myself say. “You’ll drive us. ”

  “Are you serious?” he asked. He looked thinner now, smaller, his mouth a trembling line.

  “Now. ” I pointed the gun at him until he started toward the car. “Now!” I yelled and he hurried to start the engine.

  The soldier pulled the car out of the narrow garage. I helped Caleb in, never lowering the gun, and slammed the door.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “FASTER,” I SAID. “YOU HAVE TO DRIVE FASTER. ”

  My hands were still shaking. I kept the gun on the soldier as he turned left onto the cracked road marked 80. I spun around, looking out behind us for signs of other vehicles. Soon they’d be coming for us, the King’s army on alert, searching for the people who had killed their men and stolen their car.

  The soldier pressed down on the pedal. In the seat behind me, Caleb tried to bandage his leg. For an hour he’d applied pressure to the wound. Now he peeled the soaked pants from his skin, releasing another terrifying gush of blood.

  “We have to stop the bleeding,” I said, as the Jeep barreled over uneven pavement. Caleb’s face had gone pale. “You’re losing too much blood. ”

  “I’m trying,” he said, fastening the ripped strip of fabric around his thigh. His movements had slowed, his hands pausing on the knot, as if he needed time to think before tying it tight. “I just have to get this . . . ” he trailed off, his voice quieter than before.

  I could see him slipping away, each movement more labored than the one before. I rested my finger on the trigger, my attention again on the soldier. In his face, I saw the two men in the cellar, their voices calm as they searched under furniture and through the closets, looking for us. I saw them killing Marjorie and Otis. I heard the blast that took Lark, and the violent snapping of twigs as they chased me through the woods.

  “I told you to hurry up,” I said, my voice cold.

  “I’m sorry, I’m trying,” the soldier said. His foot pressed the pedal again, sending me back into my seat.

  Caleb let out a low groan. His hands were covered with blood. After a long while, the soldier glanced from the gun to the road. “If we stop, I can help him. ”

  I kept the pistol on him, afraid what he might do if I moved it away. Behind me, Caleb shook his head no.

  “You’re lying,” I said. “It’s a trap. Keep moving. ” We couldn’t have been more than sixty miles outside Califia. We would find help when we got there. Caleb would be able to rest.

  “There’s an emergency kit in the glove compartment,” the young soldier offered. He nodded to the small plastic drawer in front of me. “I can stitch up the wound. ”

  “I don’t trust you,” I said. But behind me, Caleb was clenching his fists together, trying to steel himself against the pain.

  “If I do it, you have to let me go. ” The soldier’s gaze met mine, his eyes pleading under his thick awning of black lashes.

  I looked behind me, where Caleb gripped the seat, his head back. His makeshift bandage wasn’t helping. Anything could go wrong: the old tires could explode, the gas tank could empty. And if we encountered any more troops he would need his strength. Caleb’s eyes closed as he drifted slowly, surely, into an unshakable sleep.