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

by Jennifer Wilson

  I had nearly forgotten our second intruder until Baxter spoke, his usual note of playfulness gone. “This isn’t the time—”

  “Where’s my mother?” Triven interjected, glancing past Baxter into the barren hallway. The fact that he had addressed Arstid as his mother didn’t go unnoticed. Had he actually missed her?

  It was in that moment reality dawned on me that I had not simply imagined the smell of smoke on Arden. In fact, the scorching perfume clung freshly to both men. How had I missed the cloud of anxiety that had enveloped the room upon their arrival? The gun gripped tighter in my hand.

  “There was another attack tonight—from the inside.” A tremor shook Baxter’s last word.

  Arden continued in his wake, “There was an incendiary bomb. It took out our entire support system.” The good side of his mouth pulled down to match the ruined one.

  “What are you saying?” Archer whispered, the hush of her tone sending fresh chills up my arms. We knew the answer in the pit of our stomachs. All of us did. Still it had to be said aloud. It had to be made real.

  Even though they were expected, Baxter’s words set the world on end.

  “The Subversive’s bunker has fallen.”

  THE SMOKE FILLING the night seemed thicker now. Choking the air out of my lungs.

  The Subversive has fallen.

  The Subversive has fallen.

  The Subversive has fallen.

  Those words echoed over and over in my mind as we ran. It seemed unreal, like another toxic-induced hallucination courtesy of The Minister’s torture and Ryker’s drugs. Only this was real. This was the world we had come back to. We left a city in the throes of a brutal power struggle and we had returned to utter pandemonium.

  Our safe haven was gone.

  Nineteen more of our own were dead. Add in the man and his child in the infirmary, and that put the Subversive’s death toll at a whopping twenty-one citizens. For perspective, only five had died in the entirety of the last year. Now more than twenty-one in a matter of months. This was the most devastating loss their people had seen in nearly a decade, since the long-ago night the tunnel was caved in on the Sanctuary’s original escaping rebels. Since the night of my own parents’ deaths.

  I could hear the others running alongside me on the skyline, could sense their energy sparking in the dark, but I felt oddly removed. Both Triven and Archer had gone sickly pale at the news, even Mouse’s already slight frame seemed to deflate. I could feel the agony radiating from their moving bodies. See it in the stiffness of their strides. Hear it in their strained breathing. I could empathize, even feel it to an extent, but my pain was not theirs. As they mourned, a selfish voice whispered in my ears. At least the ones I love are safe. Disgust quickly followed the momentary relief, but even so, it was not strong enough to overshadow the relief I felt that Mouse and Triven were alive. I had come to respect many of the underground haven’s citizens, but I had not grown up with them, I had not loved them in the same way. I didn’t know many of the people in the Subversive, and in truth it had never truly been my home. But it was theirs. For the first time, I felt like an outsider to Triven’s grief. I had lost people, but not my entire world, not my way of living.

  While my companions grieved the loss of their people, I grieved the loss of our only safehold. Without the Subversive bunker, we had nowhere to hide, no steady food supply. Our small army was already faltering. As I watched my friends run—their ordinarily sure feet stumbling with anxiety—I doubted they had even begun to consider the loss of their home, their minds still drowning in the loss of their friends. If we couldn’t unite the Tribes, if we couldn’t breach The Wall in time, we were dead. It was no longer merely a possibility but a fact. Without food supplies and fortified shelter, we were sitting prey—waiting to be picked off one by one.

  As everyone else’s minds quieted with desolation, mine flew into overdrive. Twenty-one corpses left eighty-five survivors from the Subversive’s bunker—fourteen of which were children. With Mouse and I added to that, there were now eighty-seven people. Eighty-seven hungry mouths that would need to be fed, to be kept alive… Shit. There was no way we could protect that many people, feed them all, hide them.

  My feet stayed their course, running with the pack, but the desire to change course, to go in the opposite direction was overwhelming. It was alluring, primitive even. Being back here brought the need for self-preservation slamming back to the forefront of my mind. The sting of fear that had always poisoned Tartarus’ air made my skin crawl with a thousand bugs, whispering a warning that I was going the wrong way. That I would die if I followed these people. The rogue girl inside murmured in my ear. You’re better off alone… But even as she spoke, her words died away. I wasn’t her anymore. Ignoring the ache burning in my feet, I pushed harder, taking lead of the group.

  The Subversive’s survivors had scattered, fleeing into the very city they had hidden from for so many years. Thrust into a place that was actively hunting them for being traitors and adversaries. In desperation, the Subversive’s members took to the only safehouses they knew of, mine—well the ones I had told them about anyway. There were seven they knew of, and eight more locations I had not divulged. Still, it was not enough to keep everyone safe, and with a traitor in their midst I had no intention of revealing my other safeholds.

  The Old World school, however, was one of the places I had told them about and this was where we were headed. It was the largest and most accessible location and while this meant it could house the most people, it also meant it was the least safe. Baxter had sent the majority of the survivors there and though Arden had offered to go round up the others, I refused, saying we needed his keen eye with us. The truth was I had left him behind once before, and I would never do that to my friend again. He had suffered once for my betrayal. I would never let that happen again. Something in his eyes told me he understood.

  As our shadows flew across the skyline, my instinct began to claw its way out. Survival mode 101: fight or flight? That was the question. Fighting could give us freedom, but flight gave us better odds of survival. Not all of us of course. I could not hide an entire community of people, but I could hide Mouse, Triven and myself. The question was, would Triven agree, or worse, could I even ask that of him? A part of me knew if I asked, he might say yes. It would be the ultimate act of selfishness, the paramount act of betrayal and abandonment of both worlds. I wanted to. God knows I wanted to, but as I watched Arden leap the rooftop gap beside me, I thought of what I had said to him back in our cell a lifetime ago. He had asked me if I thought I would run given the chance and tonight my answer still rang true.

  “I’m afraid that chance has already passed.”

  If I wanted freedom, genuine untainted freedom, then we would have to stick together.

  Raising my hand, I signaled to the others to slow our little procession. The school’s derelict building looked silent, dark and untouched just as I had left it. Normally this was a good sign, but not tonight. There were no guards on lookout, no sign of movement, not a single indication of our people. A chill ran down my spine. Had the others made it there? Was this an ambush?

  “Triven…” I whispered, glancing at the broken windows, searching for a glint of a gun, a shadowed face.

  Nothing.

  Next to me, Archer gripped and re-gripped her gun, her sharp jaw tense.

  “They’re there.” Triven spoke. His voice was husky, breath ragged from the five-mile run.

  “Baxter?” I asked, my eyes still scanning the building.

  He stammered, “I—I don’t know. We split off to get you. Arstid said they could handle the evacuation, but…”

  “They are here.” Triven’s voice was firmer this time. His eyes were sharp, rebuffing the possibility of any possible contradiction.

  “Okay.” I nodded to the street below us. “Okay… We will need to enter from the ground level. There is a hatch on the back corner—”

  “We know.” Baxter spoke, gently re
minding me.

  “Right.” I shook my head. Of course they knew, I had told them how to access it. I changed mindsets. “I should go in first and check the building out. If it’s clear—”

  “We will go in together.” To my surprise, it was Archer who cut me off this time, although everyone else didn’t look too far behind in voicing the same opinion. Even Mouse’s hands were hovering, ready to protest.

  Keeping my voice low, I let the intensity rise. “How do you know the Ravagers aren’t waiting inside ready to kill all of us? I know that building better than anyone else. I know where the vents lead and how to get in there unseen. If this is another trap, I can take care of myself. There is no point risking all of our lives.” I glanced at Mouse meaningfully and was rewarded with a terrific glare from my tiny friend. Triven, however, looked down at her, the crease in his brow deepening. As much as he wanted to believe his people were in there safely waiting for us, he knew I was right. This could be a trap.

  He signed in resignation, “Phoenix and I will go in. If it’s safe, we will signal for you.” Our three vocal friends objected noisily while Mouse stamped her tiny foot, but Triven merely held up a hand. “We need to ensure the safety of at least some of us. There is too much at stake.”

  Both our gazes fell heavily on Archer and Mouse. They knew what must be done. They knew our mission and despite Archer’s scowl I knew we could trust her to tell the others if we didn’t return.

  “If we’re not back in fifteen minutes—” I began pointing to my father’s watch hanging from Mouse’s neck.

  “Come in guns blazing.” Baxter caressed his rifle, a smile pulling up his lips.

  All playfulness disappeared as I corrected him, finishing my sentence.

  “Run.”

  THE STREETS WERE silent as Triven and I moved to the shadowy building. I could feel eyes watching us, though it was hard to tell if they were friend or foe. Still, nothing moved but us. On the horizon, the first brushstrokes of dawn were painting the sky, disrupting the lingering blackness. We had maybe forty minutes before the night sky would no longer give us shelter under its veil.

  Dead ivy hung over the secreted vent. The brittle stems appeared untouched, showing no sign of having let fifty odd people pass through. Triven seemed to be thinking the same as I swept back the vines, instructing him to hold them. Like mine, his eyes traced the ground for footprints or broken creepers, and like mine, his eyes found nothing. Carefully, I pulled the rusted vent from the worn brick wall and with a nod climbed into the pitch-black shaft. In the wake of losing all visuals, my other senses perked up. Despite Triven’s careful hands and cautious movements, the sounds of the grate shifting back into place and his knees sliding to catch up to mine seemed painfully loud. I knew it was only because I was not the one making the noises, but still it caused my ears to twinge.

  We moved forward as fast as we dared. Time was of the essence, but not worth being careless. The space was tight, but not as small as many of the vents I had explored over the years. Triven’s wide shoulders would have no problem navigating these, brushing the sides occasionally yes, but not impaired. We couldn’t stand, but at least it was manageable on all fours. It was the vents you had to belly crawl through that were the worst. Darkness distorts time and what were probably minutes, felt like an hour. Eventually a waft of cooler air brushed my cheeks. The fresh oxygen swirled in my nostrils bringing with it the scent of decay and long-forgotten parchment. This was the scent of the school I fondly remembered. It was almost as good as the library’s.

  Triven’s hand brushed my calf, pausing as he realized I had stopped moving. His long fingers closed gently over my leg, reminding me he was there—that he was ready. It was an oddly grounding sensation, comforting even.

  Carefully reaching to my left, my fingers found the loose grate I already knew was there. Before sliding the cover aside, I unholstered my gun. Hearing the quiet slip of metal on fabric behind me signaled that Triven had done the same. I flexed the calf under his hand. Ready?

  He squeezed back. Ready.

  The grate moved without a sound, my expert hands knowing when to pull and where to release. Muscle memory was an amazing thing. I peered into the room beyond waiting for a sound, searching for movement in the shadows. It was nearly as dark as the vent itself, the grey linoleum floors barely visible. As with our approach outside, no sign of life could be seen. Methodically, I moved forward, gun sweeping the seemingly empty room.

  Throat tightening, I slid one foot out from beneath me, the soft sole landing noiselessly on the floor. As my heel touched, another disturbing thought crossed my mind. What if this wasn’t an ambush? What if the Subversive members never made it here? What if they hadn’t gotten this far? What if they were already dead and we were hunting ghosts.

  Please let this be an ambush.

  If it was, then maybe—maybe—Triven’s people were still on their way, maybe they weren’t dead… yet.

  As that thought spilled free, I straightened and froze. The cool tip of something round met my temple and despite the utter darkness, I knew exactly what it was.

  The muzzle of a handgun always felt the same.

  4. AMBUSH

  D ESPITE THE OBVIOUS intent of the assailant, the trigger had not yet been pulled. That was their first mistake. The second was putting the weapon within my reach.

  Whipping my neck forward, I raised my left hand. The back of my fist slammed into the weapon forcing it and the owner’s hand into the wall as I pivoted. My wrist twisted, palm slapping the weapon as I pinned it. My right hand followed its gun seeking a target, but it was quickly met with resistance. Bony fingers captured my forearm, keeping my weapon at bay. Despite the slenderness of the clammy fingers, they were surprisingly strong. It was a reminder that while people here were grossly underfed, we fought harder than any of the Sanctuary’s citizens. And we fought dirty. I slammed the assailant’s hand into the wall twice, hard. A shot fired as Triven’s knees thundered inside the vent. If he stuck his head out now it was going to be blown off. Shoving one foot in the vent’s opening, I found Triven’s chest and kicked him back. As his body tumbled inside, the force threw my attacker and me backward. Metal clattered against the ground, our guns sliding just out of reach as our bodies tangled. Two swift punches cracked my mouth, the third narrowly missing my ear as I twisted away in the blackness. My own blows only landed twice as I aimed for the largest target I could find. Bare knuckles cracked against bone, maybe a shoulder, then a jaw. It was nearly impossible to fight a shadow in the dark. Finally, my fist sunk into softer flesh, driving hard into the body colliding against mine. There was a huff followed by a choked wheezing. I had hit the stomach. Lunging at the noise I tackled the hunched body to the ground. I could hear the person’s head crack against the floor and took advantage of his temporarily dazed state. Floundering for my gun, my fingers instead found something heavy. The object grated against the floor, snagging on my rough fingertips—a dislodged brick. It scraped as I dragged it off the floor and prepared to strike the lolling head beneath me. I barely noticed the flicker of light filling the room, nor Triven’s face as it blossomed into view. Nor did I see the shock of white hair. Instead, it was Triven’s shout that broke the spell.

  “Stop!” His voice boomed in the otherwise deserted room.

  Gripping the brick I was about to smash into her skull, my arms froze, hovering over my head. The woman beneath me now had a cropped white head of hair and while her face had aged grievously since I last saw her, those spiteful honey colored eyes were unchanged.

  “Mom?” The word fell from Triven’s lips with a sense of desperate relief.

  At the sound of Triven’s voice, Arstid’s struggling ceased. Her head swiveled, tears welling as she lit on her only son’s illuminated face, a torch light glowing in his hand. With a burst of strength, the woman shoved me off her. On shaking knees, she blundered toward Triven, pausing before reaching him. For a moment, neither moved, as if afraid the other was a mirage. S
he broke first. With a violent lunge, Arstid collapsed into her son’s unfurling arms. Her head pressed to his shoulder before tilting to examine his face. I wondered what changes she would find there.

  “I thought I lost you…” Too. She did not speak the last work but I could hear it. Her husband was long dead and she had already begun to mourn her child as well.

  “Where are the rest of the survivors?” Triven asked his mother, soothing her shaking arm.

  “Here. They’re here, down in that bunker-type room. It was my watch. I’m sorry I thought maybe you were Ravagers, that we had been betrayed again…” Her words were painted with disbelief. “The others?”

  Her eyes turned back to me, but the love that was there a moment ago for her son, had vanished. It was obvious her apology was not meant for the both of us to share. I glared back, still not entirely sure this wasn’t a set up.

  “They’re waiting for our signal. We weren’t sure it was safe.” Triven stepped back from his mother, her arms lingered, reluctant to let go. I wiped the trailing blood from my bottom lip, concealing a vindictive smile as she did the same with her nose. It had a little crook to it now.

  “I’ll get them.” I said, moving toward the vent without waiting for a response. Despite my dislike of the woman, I needed to cool off and Triven deserved a moment alone with his mother. Even if I didn’t trust her, he did, and besides of all the people left in the Subversive, he had nothing to fear from her. Arstid was many things, but she was not my grandfather. Family still meant something to the woman.

  FORTY-SEVEN PEOPLE were cramped into the windowless room of the school’s basement and the look on their faces as we entered would plague me forever. The dank walls were lined with huddled bodies, arms clinging to each other seeking refuge. Their home was gone and with it their last shreds of hope. The room was laden with silent tears leaving trails down soot-covered faces, wide eyes that seemed unable to close and panic so tangible it salted the air. It was desolate and suffocating. Only a few groups seemed restless, eyes flickering to the door and their leader conspiratorially. One huge man in particular caught my eye. If his name wasn’t Tank it should have been.