Remnant
Laura Frances
Copyright © 2019 by Laura Frances This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
PART ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
PART TWO
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
SPRING
53
54
55
56
57
58
ONE YEAR LATER
Note from Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
For Michelle and Jennifer.
Thank you for pulling me out of the fog when I needed it the most.
This is for the scared ones, the awkward and uncomfortable.
This is for the quiet ones, the hidden and the hiding.
You are more than you think, even after you lose it.
You’re still brave, even when you don’t look it.
Courage is a process, and for some of us,
the journey is more a stumble than a march.
Open your mouth and let out the feelings.
Don’t be afraid of freedom.
Sometimes our greatest fear is being known,
but it’s what we need more than anything.
PART ONE
1
“The stars are out.”
He murmurs the words, and something in his voice makes me sad.
The sky is clear, the snow past. We stand on the roof, and I lean my neck back enough to get a view of the millions of twinkling lights set against a black sky, then drop my gaze to the streets below. Even beneath a canopy of stars, I can’t feel the beauty of it. Nervous energy pulses through my body. This valley is primed for war.
Cash stands with his eyebrows pinched, staring into the darkness. Golden hair has appeared along his jawline, and I like it. My father used to grow a beard, in the last years.
“Will he come?” I ask quietly. “Do you think the Council will join the fight?”
“No.” I’m struck by the finality of his tone.
“Even at the end they’d stay hidden?”
No response. I sense the weighty thoughts he’s battling, but I can’t get at them. I grab the sleeve of his coat and gently tug. At last, he turns to me. The smile he offers is more for my sake than his, a small lift in the corner. He leans his hip to the wall and watches me.
There isn’t much I can say that hasn’t already been said. It makes no sense to ask what’s wrong. Still, I want to help him.
“What do you want to see most?” I ask, crossing my arms against a cold gust of wind. The wound in my shoulder aches, reminding me of Drew. But if I focus hard enough on each moment as it comes, maybe all the deaths will feel more bearable.
“In the South,” I add.
Cash continues to study me, his gaze moving over my face. I worry that I won’t be able to draw a response from him, but after a time he steps closer.
“You.”
There is no grin when he says it. The word leaves his mouth like a natural thing. Just sincerity. Honesty. I always expect a degree of shyness from Cash when he says things that matter deeply. But this time there is only steadiness. He looks at me like he’s sure, like this is something he’s considered…and decided.
“Me?”
“The South is just a place,” he says, and there is the hesitation—the shift in his body; the fight to keep speaking the things he wants to say. “If I lost you, I wouldn’t want it.”
An unconscious movement happens when he’s speaking; my arms loosen and fall. I shift closer. The vulnerable words he’s saying draw me in, echoing what I feel.
Soldiers stand only a few feet from us. Since the new wave of Watchers joined, I often feel their eyes on us, observing the connection Cash and I share. I sense them watching now.
“What would you do?” I ask. His fingers brush against mine, eyes following the movement.
“The North will need help when this is done,” he says, flicking his gaze to mine, then back to our hands. I know the truth. Regardless of my fate, this nation will need him as it mends.
2
I sit on a chunk of fallen wall, and cold seeps through my pants, cooling the skin on the back of my legs. But the sun broke through the clouds after the Watchers came, and now I close my eyes, pressing my elbows to my knees, leaning into it.
The crunch of heavy boots hits my ears, and my eyes open. A Watcher ambles past, hard gaze trained ahead.
“They’re huge,” Aspen mutters beside me. She sits with her knees drawn up.
My head turns, following the soldier who passed. He moves toward a gathering of men near a blown-out wall at the front of the factory. Just inside rests the charred skeleton of a tank.
“A result of their training.”
She’s right; they’re all exceptionally strong. But I’ve come to learn that, given the opportunity, most Watchers would trade the benefits of militant training for another life—any other life—without a second thought.
“Can we trust them?” she asks, the words barely a whisper.
I don’t answer right away. I want to say yes, but I can’t be sure. What I end up saying is, “Some of them.”
She stares at me.
“Most of them,” I add, offering a hopeful smile.
Her stare only intensifies, her gaze sweeping over the scene around us. Aspen knows, more than some, what it means to trust the wrong soldier. The cut scabbing on her neck is proof.
We continue watching, and my expression falls. I saw the barricade when it first exploded. I helped reassemble it before it was blown to the sky a second time. Maybe most of them are loyal, but the few who aren’t worry me.
Ian steps out of the factory several yards down, and my instinct is to track his movements—to watch for signs of betrayal. I forgave him; it was a choice I made freely, and I make it again every time doubt creeps in. But does that make him safe? Does my forgiveness mean anything in the bigger picture of this conflict?
No. It doesn’t.
I lift a hand to wave when he sees us. He returns it, his lips curling in a careful smile. I try to trust Solomon’s final words on the matter.
There is not a soldier here who cannot relate. Ian will live with the guilt of his decisions as we all do, though I pray one day we all find peace.
Aspen slides to her feet and arches her back.
“Have to find Mom. Promised I’d check in.”
She reenters the factory, and my ears follow the grinding of her footsteps until they’re gone. S
he’s changed. I hate what Jace did to her, but the experience has altered her view on things. I can’t say it’s all bad.
Ian and some of the others turn toward an alley and slowly raise their weapons. I rise from the rubble and make my way to see, careful not to stumble over fallen debris. Three soldiers emerge onto the wide-open street. Two wear white bands, with their guns trained on the man in the middle, who carries a pack slung over his shoulder.
“Where’s Solomon?” one asks, his voice gravelly.
“The Infirmary,” I say. “At least he was. This way.”
I lead the group of rebels inside, over a threshold no longer fixed with doors. The chilly temperature raises bumps on my skin. All the cold air from the blizzard sits trapped in the inner rooms, and it slowly creeps down the halls, eventually spilling into the open air outside. With the lights out too, this factory has become nothing more than a cave.
I barely recognize the Infirmary; half of the room lies in pieces, blown apart when the tanks detonated. Piles of concrete and metal lie mangled, with the outer wall completely destroyed. We’ve lost our medical unit, but when the South comes, it won’t matter.
Solomon stands at the back of the room, the only section still intact. Cash and Takeshi are with him. He points toward the streets, speaking too low to be heard as we approach. We catch his glance.
“Sir,” a soldier says. “This man claims to have a message for you.”
The third Watcher, unmarked by white, steps to the front of the group.
“It was Bo who sent me.” His words come out rushed, breaths still labored from running. “It’s the Council. They’re mobilizing.”
Solomon steps into the man’s space. “What do you know?”
“They’re utilizing everything,” the man says, his eyes wider. He’s afraid. Whatever he knows terrifies him. “Vehicles, tanks, manpower…they were fueling jets when I left—”
“A couple flyovers, and we’re buried,” someone mutters.
“That’s the thing,” the messenger says. He talks with his hands, all his features animated. “Bo’s got a plan to cripple their air assault. If we can take out their jets, it might level the playing field enough to hold them back.”
“What about the helicopters?” I ask.
Cash shakes his head. “Their primary use is moving shipments and troops. They won’t use them in combat.”
“What’s his plan?” Takeshi asks. “There’s nothing we can do once they’re in the air. We’d have to hit them on the airfield.”
Solomon glances around the room, where rebels mingle. A few pace within earshot. He nods to the door.
“Let’s move this somewhere secure.”
The messenger drops his pack on the floor. “There’s food in here,” he says in a low voice. “But not much. Give it to the weakest among you.”
Solomon lifts the pack and unzips it. Peering in, he says, “Offer it to the children and the sick.” He holds it out to me by the strap. “And take something for yourself.”
In the moment he leaves, I’m given a small, grateful smile.
As the group moves toward the hall, I grab Cash’s arm.
“If they’re talking about sneaking into the compound—”
“My presence would blow the mission,” he says, connecting with my eyes.
His gaze slides slow off mine when he turns to follow the group. Maybe I’m wrong to express concern over him; this is a war, and danger is necessary to bring it to an end. But he doesn’t scold me for it. Instead, his eyes offer kindness. Just before exiting, he looks back to me again and says, “I’ll find you.”
When they’ve gone, I follow the cold hall toward the old cafeteria, where the children play, trapped in the chilly, dimly lit room. Flashlights sit wedged into tight spaces, the beams cutting across the darkness, blinding me when I step in their path.
I stand in the shadows for a time, watching. Sam sits on the floor with his brother and sister. They giggle as they roll a food can back and forth. I envy their innocence. Sam understands the dangers we face, but even he can escape in play, his mind preoccupied for a few quiet moments. My eyes follow the path of the can.
Food is a blessing, my father said to me once. I’d turned up my nose to a can of pale beans. Somewhere, Hannah, a child is going to bed with nothing. Somewhere out there— he pointed toward the window, his finger aimed high, as if to indicate there was a world beyond the high-peaked mountains —a father is putting his child to bed without dinner. Not by choice. Simply because he has nothing to give.
I wonder now how he could know such a thing, when he never crossed the mountains. Sometimes I think there were stories from before, memories passed down through generations. But at some point, they stopped sharing. My father must have been an exception. He wasn’t afraid to give me glimpses of what else was out there.
The grinding of the can on the dirty floor draws up another image. It’s the woman writhing in pain in the Infirmary, her body bloodied and burned in my first days here. Her wounds, mangled arm and bones laid bare, are etched in my memory.
A shrill cry pulls me back. Ben sits with one of the nurses, his face twisted from fussing. He’s smaller than the night I lifted him from the ground. Weeks surviving on nothing but the liquid they pumped into his veins has removed the roundness, leaving a gaunt child who desperately needs a full meal.
I step out of the shadow, and his eyes brighten. He calms when I lift him, sharing my warmth. His head falls on my shoulder. My knees touch the cold cement.
With my free hand, I open the pack and pull out small bars of food, similar to what I ate on the mountain trail with Drew. I pass some around to the children and watch as they tenderly chew small bites, moving the food away from teeth that hurt.
Ben smiles at me through the shadowy light, gnawing on a bar of packed grains. He offers me a bite, but I only nibble the edge, grinning when he tries to force more into my mouth.
When all the food is gone, passed around to those who need it most, I curl in a corner with Ben and fall asleep until a nurse comes to take him.
3
Cash finds me just as the sun dips low behind the buildings. Small patches of snow still catch the last rays of light, glowing bright against the gray of surrounding streets and buildings. The contrast brings a tightening to my chest. In the days coming, things will be different. We will either be free…or dead. Those are the only options; I will not go back to the life we lived before this.
I lean against a stable wall, my arms crossed against the chill. Soldiers roam everywhere, black shadows moving and shifting, guarding what’s left of this compound. We are easy targets now without the barricade and its illusion of safety. I clench my teeth, staring down a darkening alley.
Cash settles at my side, leaning so our arms touch. Warmth radiates from his body, and I want to scoot closer. But my gaze stays trapped on the empty alleyway just across the street.
“When do they leave?” I ask. He pushes off the wall and turns to face me, breaking my gaze from the darkness. The inches between us allow our words to be private.
“Half an hour,” he says.
“How many?”
“Three. You’ll want to be there when they leave.”
My eyes shift to the last of the color fading above the factories.
“Takeshi.” He nods.
“And Meli.”
Another nod.
I breathe down the anxiety trying to stir in my middle; maybe not all my friends will die. I only just found them.
“How will they do it?”
He tells me in quiet words that the team will meet Bo, get into the compound, steal explosives the size of their palms, and plant them on the bellies of the fully fueled jets.
“Bo can’t pull this off without recruiting from our soldiers?”
“He doesn’t trust many in his unit.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I trust Bo,” he says softly. “This may be our only chance.”
Static drifts
on the air, raising the hairs on my neck. We tense, breaking apart to search the area. A speaker nestled above our heads crackles, coming alive. Fear slides through me, and I grab Cash’s arm.
“This is a message for my son, Cash Gray.”
Titus’s voice fills the valley, echoing off the high walls of the factories. I tighten my grip, and we stay this way, waiting in the pause. All around us, rebels stop to listen, guns raised.
“You asked for honesty the last time we spoke. I will now honor that request.”
Cash’s arm tenses beneath my fingers.
“You are killing them,” Titus says. “The rebellion in your heart has stirred this war into reality. You, and you alone, are to blame for what comes next. Remember,” he says. “I warned you this would happen.”
Gunshots sound through the speakers, and my body jerks. Cash slowly backs away, glaring at the ground while we’re forced to listen. Voices scream out, but we cannot reach them.
“He’s killing them,” a nearby voice says. “They’re dying!”
“We have to stop this!” another soldier shouts.
“He’s here,” I whisper, and anger ignites. Their screams bounce off the buildings, echoing through every deserted place, every filthy alley and roach-infested home. The sounds rattle deep inside of me, shaking loose the memory of my parents’ deaths.
Cash said Titus wouldn’t come, but he was wrong.
“Their lives are in your hands now,” the wicked Councilman continues, his voice a hollow sound ringing out across too much open space. “They know who to blame in the end. Come to me when you’re ready to negotiate.”
When the static disappears, thirty seconds of silence follow. We stand in the cold, wordless. In the distance, I think I can still hear the popping.
4
“We cannot leave them to be slaughtered!”
A third of the rebels stand crowded in the halls, flashlight beams making their features strange. They push against one another, eyes wide and faces red. Solomon stands among them, listening to their outcry. Cash and I push our way to the center. My blood is boiling.
Remnant (The Slave Series Book 3) Page 1