New World Inferno: Book Three in a Young Adult Dystopian Series

by Jennifer Wilson

  An involuntary grunt escaped as Triven pressed a sizzling compress to the uneven wound in my left bicep.

  “You should let me use some of the serum on it.” Triven said. The cloth in his hand came away crimson, but the bleeding had slowed.

  “I’m fine.” I told him for the tenth time. “Besides it’s already clotting and it was a clean enough cut, just sew it up. I’m not wasting any more of Doc’s healing serum.”

  Archer scoffed in disgust as she glowered at a spot in the floor. “Now you want to be stingy with it? Save a stab-happy Taciturn, no problem. But heal someone on our side? Naw, let’s just sew the arm up and see if it turns green and falls off later. I mean, I’m pretty amazing with only one hand, so maybe you’ll be good with it too.” She waved her amputated stump at me. “I’m sure I could round up some of my ex-Tribe members and see if any of them are game to help speed that process along for you. On the other hand—pun intended—maybe it’s a good thing you’re too tough to use it yourself. It’s not like we’re in short supply or anything here!”

  “Are you quite done ranting?” Triven rolled his eyes at his old friend when she finally paused.

  “Give me a minute to catch my breath.” Archer said, continuing her incessant pacing. I got the impression she wasn’t a big fan of confined spaces.

  “What do you mean short supply?” I derailed her train of thought before she could start again. This time her steps faltered. She looked at each of us in turn as if a guilty admission had slipped from her lips. She chewed on the words carefully for a moment before finding the right ones.

  “There was a fire in Doc’s medical bunker.”

  A flurry of questions exploded from both Triven and I simultaneously while Mouse’s hands flew.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  Maribel?

  “Who started it?”

  Is everyone okay?

  “What happened?”

  “Is Doc okay?”

  Explain!

  She held up her hand to quell us. “Only some of Doc’s serum survived and not the strongest stuff unfortunately, but the real problem is that his equipment to manufacture it was completely destroyed. He brought all of it with him from the Sanctuary and without that tech he can’t make more. What we have is all we may ever have.” Her dark eyelids slipped closed for a moment. “Two were killed and two more were severely injured.”

  “Doc?” His name clung to my throat like sandpaper.

  “No,” Archer paused, waving her hand dismissively. “He wasn’t there at the time. The council was in meeting.”

  “Who then?” Triven blurted out. I tried to build up a wall between my emotions and the names that were lingering on Archer’s unwilling tongue. A scrap of bandage wound between Triven’s fingers at his side, the only sign of anxiety on his otherwise stoic frame.

  “Nixon and Cas were helping out in the lab when…” The subtle shake of her head spoke volumes. These were not the two that had lived.

  Triven hissed, while Mouse’s hand flew to cover her gaping mouth. Tears shimmered in her eyes. To me, however, these names meant nothing, just two more Subversive members I had successfully avoided. Triven caught my quizzical look and responded and sighed. “Father and son. Our most recent additions, before you. Nixon was a rarity, a Scavenger who loved his child more than the Tribe life. Cas was only nine.”

  “Seven.” Archer corrected solemnly.

  I reached out and pulled Mouse to my side protectively. “Who survived?”

  “Veyron and Arden were there, healing from the attack in the alley. They’re alive, but they both suffered a lot of burns and with the limited supply of serum… Well, some say they are lucky, but I’m not sure they feel the same way.”

  “But they’re alive?” My heart sputtered a little faster. They were maybe the only other Subversive members I cared for since being abducted into their underground society. The last memories I had of them were bloodied faces drowning in a sea of Ravagers. I assumed that like my parents, I had lost them to the most feared Tribe in Tartarus. But they were alive. Relief washed through me, healing wounds I hadn’t realized were open. Marred or not, they were still alive. My friends. It wasn’t until this moment I realized that’s what they were. Friends.

  “Who?” I asked. Mouse squeezed my hand silently echoing my question.

  “We have ideas, but…” Archer’s mouth pinched as if she had already said too much. “Maybe we should wait for Arstid. They should be back soon enough.”

  An understanding glance passed between Mouse, Triven and I. Soon enough wasn’t good enough, not when time was against us. We needed answers now. Triven stood, walking toward her to coax more words from his disinclined friend. “The more we know now the better.”

  “Maybe it’s better if we don’t wait for them at all.” The words fell from my lips before I had intended to let them go.

  Triven’s hazel eyes fell on me reproachfully as Mouse raised her eyebrows in surprise, but it was Archer who responded first. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Though I refused to look at Triven, my words were for him too. “All I am saying is it seems a lot of things have gone wrong within the Subversive and all of the ones I have personally witnessed seem to involve your leader. The raid on the Ravager’s warehouse, the night we breeched The Wall—those ambushes weren’t a coincidence.”

  “Yeah, well there were quite a few of us who were there those nights, myself included. You going to accuse me next?” Archer bristled. “Or maybe it was Veyron or Arden. Hell, he only burned off half his face in that fire. Maybe that was all part of the master plan?!”

  “Who requested they stay in the infirmary?” I asked.

  Archer’s lips pressed tight, giving me an answer despite their silence.

  “Go ahead, tell me it wasn’t her.” I avoided speaking Arstid’s name, sneaking a glance at her son. Hurt rimmed his eyes, but I could tell it wasn’t merely what I had insinuated, but the fact that I was right about some things. He could see the gaps, the holes where she could have betrayed them. Triven’s jaw worked, grinding down the thoughts he didn’t want to believe. Still he came to her aid, “My mother may be many things, but she would never turn on her people.”

  I wondered if he heard the lack of conviction in his own words.

  “Yeah and she’s not the one wasting the last of our medical supplies healing the enemy.” Archer said, folding her lean arms over her chest. The fingers of her right hand tapped impatiently as her stump twitched with a mirrored phantom movement. “Why the hell did you do it anyway? She was the enemy!”

  A stiff silence hung in the room causing Archer’s eyebrows to reach impressive heights. Triven’s eyes wandered from Archer’s face to her arm before sliding back to me. The corner of his mouth contracted into a frown. I knew then that he was thinking the same thing I was. She was an ex-Tribe member. Left for dead by her own kind. If we—children of the Sanctuary, born free of the Tribes—had abhorred the idea of uniting the Tribes, how would those betrayed and exiled feel? To the other Subversive members, these people were not simply murdering Tribe members. These were blood relatives who had left them to die in the streets. Kinsmen they had escaped from, and now we were asking our people to call these monsters allies once more. It would be like asking me to side with Minister Fandrin. The contents of my throat turned to cement.

  “Well?” Archer twisted the word expectantly.

  While shame stole our voices, Mouse found hers. Index finger raised, the child pointed to her shoulders in turn, and then in a downward arching motion that only moved her wrist, she closed over her finger into a fist before finally making a sweeping gesture at the room around us. Archer’s brow creased in confusion. “Sorry kiddo, I didn’t catch that one.”

  Irritated Mouse huffed. Triven translated without looking at his old friend.

  “We need them.”

  “Excuse me?” Archer scratched at her ear as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “WE. NEED. THE
M.” I over-annunciated, speaking a little louder than necessary. A strange smile tightened her mouth as Archer’s dark eyes searched mine, looking for the joke she was obviously missing.

  Laughter bubbled to her full lips, too chirpy to be sincere. “You mean we need them dead, right?”

  “On the contrary my trigger-happy friend,” I spoke gingerly this time, willing the words not to be true. “We need them alive… we…” The words faltered unwilling to come out. I remembered all too clearly how furious I had been when I found out what the Sanctuary’s rebels had wanted from us and I didn’t want to be the one to unleash that rage in Archer. Especially not when her rifle was still clutched in her hand. I didn’t know her story as to how she escaped the Wraiths or how she had lost her hand in the process—Triven never divulged anyone else’s tales. It was one of the reasons I trusted him with many of my own. Now however, I wished I knew more about what led Archer to the Subversive’s ranks.

  This time she laughed in earnest, her booming voice echoing off the dilapidated walls in way that made all of us cringe. My eyes shot to the door, wary of who else might have heard.

  Unlike myself, Triven was willing to shoulder the burden. His words came out gently, like telling someone their loved one was dead.

  “We need to unite the Tribes.”

  All signs of mirth slid from Archer’s dark face. “You need to tell me what the hell happened over there. Now.”

  ARCHER SLUMPED TO the ground as if her knees suddenly consisted of water. The rifle was still clutched loosely in her hand, making her look like a child clinging to a lethal safety blanket. What little color was left in her face had tinted green and for a moment, I thought she might vomit. My feet reflexively drew away to avoid the potential mess. We hadn’t told her every gory detail—Triven had breezed over the extent of my torture, which was fine by me, living through it once was enough—and my lineage had been carefully omitted, but for the most part, she now knew what we knew. There were rebels inside of the Sanctuary. They had already started a war and were bringing The Wall down in just over than two weeks, and they needed us ready and waiting for that moment with the Tribes in tow, otherwise we were all dead. In truth, even with the Tribes on our side—which was an impossible task in itself—our chances were still slim. Passion cannot always trump the sheer force of weapons, and The Minister’s army had a substantial amount of force. Without the Tribes, we were out-numbered and out-armed. With them, we had new enemies at our front and old enemies behind us. The question was, could we put centuries of hate aside long enough not to kill each other first? My hopes were not high.

  “Shit.” Archer stared unfocused at my feet. I knew that feeling, all three of us did. Her throat spasmed, her own words threatening to choke her, but still she didn’t move. I had expected an explosion, an uproar that would make the Ravagers look gentile. I had braced myself for that. But this? This pale silent response was not what I had anticipated. In fact, the longer Archer stayed silent, the higher my anxiety rose. Triven eyeballed his friend with similar trepidation.

  It wasn’t until Mouse cautiously left my side, her delicate hand cupping Archer’s wan cheek, that the warrior girl began to thaw out of her trance-like state. Sluggishly the tense muscles relaxed until the gun fell loose from her fingertips. Archer’s hand closed over Mouse’s, enveloping the ivory skin in ebony. She stared at the little girl I loved before looking at each of us in turn.

  “This is a death sentence.” Her voice was flat as it echoed my own past words. “Either way, we’re screwed.”

  My shoulders sagged under the weight of her words.

  “It’s better to die fighting for what you believe in.” Triven’s words were powerful, but lacked true persuasion. This was a devil’s errand. We all knew it. Triven and I had merely passed into the stages of acceptance already.

  With a spark of sudden madness, the fire in Archer’s eyes rekindled as she glared at him. “I won’t help you.” The words were soft, laced with an underlying fear I had never heard in her alto voice.

  “Archer—” Triven cajoled, but she cut him off, pushing Mouse’s hand away.

  “NO Triven. You can’t ask that of me. You of all people know my hand didn’t simply fall off on its own.” Triven cringed as she waved the vacant stump of her left arm at him. “She took it from me, nearly killed me. Shit, she would have succeeded if you hadn’t found me. I never want to see that woman again. You can’t ask that of me!” His slender body shot off the floor, trusty rifle back in hand. Her index finger flicked the trigger and though it wasn’t pointed at anyone, yet, I moved Mouse back to my side. Archer’s feet began to stomp the soiled floor, tiny clouds of dust erupting as she prowled.

  “Woman?” I asked Triven, pulling Mouse closer.

  Archer halted mid-step, pointing the barrel of the gun at me as she gesticulated each word. “My. Mother.”

  Lowering her weapon, she shook her missing hand in my face.

  Her mother?

  Oh…

  It was her mother who had taken her hand.

  Archer must have seen the dots connecting and horror registering on my face because she snarled, turning her scowl back on Triven. The gun leveled at his chest and Triven’s hands rose in defense.

  “I won’t help! THIS…THIS PLAN IS SHIT AND YOU KNOW IT. I WILL KILL HER FIRST—” She was screaming now, all sense to keep quiet lost. If she didn’t accidentally shoot us right now, someone else would certainly hear her and come to finish the job.

  “I’m the heir to the Sanctuary!” I’m not sure what made me say it, but regardless the effect was what I wanted. Archer froze, her head swiveling toward me.

  “What did you just say?” Shock hushed her tone, but it was too late.

  The damage was done.

  Someone had heard us.

  All eyes turned to the door as heavy feet descended. Scrabbling, I dove for my handgun lying discarded on the cot while shoving Mouse to the floor. My fingers grazed cool metal as a tattoo-covered man burst through the door, the barrel of his gun aimed at my face.

  3. SCARS

  T HE TACITURN WE killed tonight had been true to her word. Her Tribe would come to avenge her—we just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Our guns turned on the intruder as the shadows spit a second person through the darkened doorway. Both Triven’s and Archer’s guns shifted to the newcomer, but I stood transfixed on the first Taciturn man before me.

  His tattoos were clear, even in the dull jaded light. What had held my attention, however, had not been the ink induced marks, but the young man’s face… or what was left of it. A sickening tapestry of angry red flesh and sinew had woven itself over half of his once handsome features. The scars had devoured an eyebrow while the left side of his lips had been pulled taught into a permanent grimace. The man was nearly unrecognizable except for his eyes… Then he spoke. The face was all wrong, but the voice I would have recognized anywhere. It was the same one that had shared many dark nights with me in the Subversive’s holding cell.

  “Phoenix?” He spoke as if afraid to say my name aloud.

  The gun went limp in my grasp. I stammered, my voice was suddenly small, “Arden?”

  Arden’s face moved in unfamiliar ways beneath his scarred mask. There must have been nerve damage. Still the expression of shock was unmistakable. It seemed as if he was equally surprised to see us alive.

  My old cellmate crossed the tower’s floor, seeing only me. Despite my desire to look away, he was all I could see. Shame eroded my thoughts as I urged my eyes to blink, to look away from what had become of Arden’s face. I shouldn’t have stared. I should have focused on his hands, his shoes, anything else, but instead my gaze remained frozen on my friend’s ruined face. For an instant, I could smell smoke from the fires that had marred him, the scent stinging with each step that brought him closer, as each scar came into sharper focus. I choked down a sob. I hadn’t done this to him—not directly—but I had left him in that alley to die all those weeks ago. If I had fought Maddo
x harder, maybe I could have saved him from this fate. I could have… I could have…what? Brought him with us? To what? My conscience whispered to me. To die like Maddox did? To get tortured like you?

  It was as Arden’s arms wrapped around my stiffened frame and my traitorous eyes finally blinked, that I realized I should look at him. Not at the scars, but at him—the good man beneath the disfigurements. At the friend I had once thought I lost. Over Arden’s shoulder I could see Triven trying to recover his own poise, his gentle features tainted by shock and pain for our friend.

  Was that same look on my face?

  Letting my muscles relax a little into his touch, I squeezed Arden back, silently vowing to never avert my eyes from my friend’s face again. He deserved that much. Scars can disfigure a man, but they don’t have to change him.

  Even so, I was grateful for the additional seconds of composure when Arden stooped to help Mouse out from beneath the cot. Tears blurred her eyes as well, but instead of pulling away in disgust as most children would have, the tender girl gathered Arden’s face in her hands. His eyes widened as she gently caressed the patchwork of welts and leaned in, placing a single kiss over the spot where his left eyebrow had been. Pain mingled with gratitude swam in his undamaged eyes as he leaned in, kissing the crown of her dark hair in return.

  Missed you. Mouse signed to him.

  “Missed you too kid.” Arden said, the right side of his mouth pulling into a smile. The left refused to follow suit.

  My gaze wandered to Archer as Triven took his turn embracing our old friend. The flames of rage had dimmed in her eyes, but with a curt nod, she made it clear our discussion was not over—merely postponed. I made a note to relieve her of her rifle before that particular chat resumed.