Having stopped watching Freya, Misha startled slightly when he heard movement in the water near him. She had quietly swum over to his bobbing head, an exaggerated expression of concern on her face asking if he was okay. Stiffening his legs, he stood back up to his full height, moving slowly so as to reduce splashing, and gave her a nod. She nodded back, then smoothly slipped beneath the surface, probably having felt a good stone with her foot.
Misha slogged back to shore, partly crawling across the rocks. He headed straight to the big flat rock holding the baskets where he emptied his pockets, relieved to be significantly lighter. It seemed everyone was gathering at the baskets, so he chose to stay there as well, letting the adrenaline work its way out of his body by repeatedly wringing his soaked clothing and putting back on the boots he had left beside the baskets.
When Lenny arrived, even in the low light it was easy to see that his dark skin was deeply flushed. Add to that his wet clothes, and it was obvious who had caused the commotion.
It’s okay, Shaidi was signing to him. After the Diana, most people would panic if something large brushed their leg.
So that’s why he had gone splashing toward shore. Misha wondered if he would have done the same. More accustomed to the ocean than others, he was used to the occasional brush with seaweed, fish, or various bits of detritus, but if he felt something he thought was a shark? He didn’t know how he would react. Maybe he would have fled to shore in the same way, and as such, found he couldn’t be angry with Lenny. Besides, it seemed he was beating himself up enough about it, Shaidi’s words having zero effect on his shame-filled face.
Freya was the last to arrive, depositing the stones she had gathered into one of the baskets. Boyle signed to her, asking if it looked like they had enough to train with. She nodded, then handed Misha his grenade, which he had completely forgotten about. Gripping it in one hand, he grabbed the handle of the nearest basket with the other. Katrina gripped the opposite handle, and together they hauled the heavy basket up off the rock and began shuffling awkwardly with it back toward the dock. There were more people than basket handles, so halfway there, everyone carrying switched with those who weren’t.
Upon reaching the dock’s end, they found Nessie sitting on the box of remaining grenades, working out the best way to attach one to an arrow. Freya told everyone to take a short break while she went through the stones, picking out the ones that wouldn’t work. Misha chose to sit on the end of the dock, his legs dangling over the water. The moment he was down, exhaustion swept over him, dragging his chin down to his chest and his eyelashes together. He hadn’t slept well the night before, what with the impending attack, and the day had been full of high-energy tasks. The adrenaline was over half of what was keeping him upright, and its departure left more exhaustion in its wake.
A slight tug on the back of his shirt caused Misha’s eyes to fly open, and his head to twist around. Danny was standing there.
“You looked like you were about to fall in,” he whispered, moving around to sit down beside Misha. “You all right?”
“Just tired,” Misha admitted. He was also scared, but there was no point in admitting that as well. Everyone was scared.
“Yeah, me too,” Danny nodded.
“You think you’re going to be okay to do this with that arm of yours?” Misha asked, mostly to keep talking. It was something to focus on, something to keep his eyes open.
“Don’t know. Swinging should be fine, like Freya said, but it’s loading I’m worried about. I’ll need to use my bad arm to help with that, and I’m not sure I trust it to hold out in the situation we’ll be in.” Danny shuddered as though cold, despite the warm night.
“How’s Bryce doing?” Misha changed topics. “I’m assuming not bad considering he’s part of this ridiculous endeavour.”
Danny turned to look at his scavenging teammate. “He seems stiff, but I’m sure he’ll be fine slinging. I’m more worried about his swollen eyes affecting his aim. If his perception of distance is off, he might end up damaging the wall, or worse, the grenade could bounce back toward us.”
“Bryce is smart. If he doesn’t think he can do it, he’ll give his grenades to someone else.”
“This plan is insane.”
“I know, but then sometimes the best plans are.” Misha was thinking about the Day, when he had first met Danny and the others. They had formed an insane plan in order to escape a prison, one that had Misha throwing a firebomb and running for his life. He had been running with Mathias and Tobias then, while Alec provided sniper cover. All of them were dead now, none having survived the Diana.
While Misha sank ever deeper into his memories of that time, Freya finished her sorting. Danny once again startled him back into the present, but this time it was by simply moving to get up.
The stones had been organized into several piles, clearly depending on how similar they were to the grenades. Nessie had moved off of the grenades’ box, so the potential slingers could return the ones they had been carrying. Misha was amazed he had forgotten he was holding his while sitting at the water’s edge; however, the indentations in his palm suggested he had been holding on very tightly.
Freya delayed returning hers to the box. Holding up her sling and grenade, she showed everyone the best way to load it. By hooking the lever so that it was on the outside of the leather strip, they could pull the pin after loading and save some time. Considering they had only seconds, Misha was relieved none of them would have to be wasted getting the grenade into position in the sling. Freya mimed pulling the pin to make sure everyone understood.
Lining them up at the edge of the dock, Freya handed out a stone to everyone. She was starting with the pile that was least like the grenades, presumably teaching them how to sling properly before teaching them how to sling the small explosives. After a few demonstrations—her stones arcing as high as they would need to in order to clear the wall and plopping so far out into the water that they could barely be heard—she moved down the line and got each person to sling their first stone. No one was anywhere nearly as good as Freya, but some weren’t bad considering it was their first time. Misha’s first attempt had no height to it, the stone whizzing low out of the sling, managing to skip twice on the wide river’s surface before breaking the water tension and disappearing below.
Once everyone had fired their first shot, Freya gathered up the next round of stones and handed them out. This time, before someone fired, she gave them advice and instruction on how to improve their shot. Those standing beside the outsiders who had warned them, quietly translated her signs, even when the advice was not directed at them so that they could learn from the mistakes of others. Misha over-compensated with his second shot, the stone going virtually straight up, barely getting enough distance to clear the edge of the dock and land in the water.
One stone and one person at a time, Freya taught them to sling. They spent hours at it, working their way up to the stones most like the grenades. They focused on only one target, one way to aim, allowing muscle memory to sink in. If anyone wanted to learn to sling properly, to get as good at it as Freya, they were to learn on their own time afterward. Misha was pleased to see his progress and the progress of others. They were getting good, hitting the height and distance that Freya wanted of them. Only White and the stranger, Tommy, couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. In the end, they bowed out, giving up their grenades to more competent slingers. It was quickly decided that Freya, Boyle, Yasmin, and Bryce would get the extra grenades, having proven themselves the best of the bunch. It seemed Bryce’s injuries had no effect on his capabilities to swing a sling.
After the last stone had been thrown, Boyle and Karsten dismissed them all with orders to sleep until sunrise. That wasn’t a lot of time, but Misha was grateful for even a single hour. But first, he headed to the community centre to pick up his dogs.
In small batches, groups were leaving the centre. Bitch Bridge had been connected and everyone not staying to fight was being
moved there. It seemed a lot of people that were usually in the non-combatant category were staying to fight. The only people without a choice in the matter were children under thirteen, clearly pregnant women, the badly injured or sick, and elderly who were too frail or too blind to wield a gun. Misha didn’t stay at the centre long; the moment he picked up his dogs, he headed for his container.
Ladders had already been set up to reach the top of the containers, making it easy for Misha. One by one, he got his dogs up. They had learned to climb ladders, but it was awkward for them. Misha had to keep behind each dog, offering whispered encouragement, pushing on their butts, and half catching them when they slipped. Other ladders, some lashed together, bridged the gaps between the container rows. It seemed Harry was still trying to quietly move containers to bridge other gaps, but it was slow going. Nessie must have offered him all the good, large scraps of leather and thick wool she had, as they had wrapped them around the long logs they used for rolling the containers. This slowed the process down considerably, as each time they had to move a log from the back to the front, they had to rewrap the wool and leather, which tended to loosen and fall off. Still, it quieted the process considerably. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for the clicking of the dogs’ toenails on the container tops.
Upon reaching his container, Misha wasn’t terribly surprised to find Bullet snoozing next to the opening in the roof. The dog was very clever and had no difficulty with ladders. Leaving the other three with him, Misha climbed down into his container, prepared for the scent of dog piss. He was pleased to discover none of them had peed during his absence, the container smelling only of their fur and breath.
Curling up on the mattress beside Rifle, Misha hoped to follow orders and sleep until sunrise. Or maybe until a bit before sunrise; he wanted to make sure all of his dogs were up on top of the container before anything happened. Up there would be the safest place for them.
Rifle huffed next to Misha as if hearing his thoughts and not liking the idea of having to climb a ladder. Misha had to admit he didn’t like tomorrow’s ideas either.
27
Abby’s Captured
Her face throbbed in time with her heartbeat, her cheek swollen and bruised. Abby didn’t want to think about how bad it would have been if she had not cut the stinking man’s arm, if he had managed to hit her with all his force. Other parts of her body pained her as well, from the various bruises blooming about her, to the friction burns stinging her skin. She refused to cry out or complain, sitting still with the others who had been captured. At least three dozen of them were being held in the cafeteria, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bench seats that lined the tables, their arms tied painfully behind their backs, ankles lashed to those beside them. Many of the other captives bore injuries similar to Abby’s, the ones who had fought back but ultimately lost. A few, mostly guards from outside, had worse injuries, but whoever these attackers were, they patched up the bullet holes they had put into people. Not all the fence guards were in the cafeteria, however, which said to Abby that they had probably been killed. None of them would have simply run away. Of course, not everyone was hurt. There were those who had been quickly cornered and knew their odds were better with surrender. In one corner of the room, at a table sat several children along a bench, their parents bound and worrying at a separate table. Abby kept silently thanking Thomas who was secured across the table from her, the entire left side of his face turned unnatural colours. If his warning had come any later, she and her family would have been in the stairwell, and then all of them would have been sitting in here.
The only sound in the room was crying. A few adults, mostly parents, wept silently but the main concentration of sobs came from the children. The kids were largely ignored by their captors, but if any adult tried to talk, one of the large men posted around the room would stride over and swat the back of the individual’s head with a curt “shut up.” Everyone learned quickly not to speak.
The guards seemed to have no problem with people looking around, so Abby did just that. She put a name to every captive she could see, which was nearly all of them. A lot of people she knew only slightly, but her nearly eidetic memory put names to the faces. Every time someone new was brought in, she added them to her unfortunately growing list. It was especially heartbreaking when she spotted Crichton and Bronislav at separate tables, with bruises, black eyes, and cuts to match everyone else. She had hoped at least one of them would have escaped capture. She wondered if the invaders knew that the two of them were the Black Box’s leaders.
Abby took the time to study the guards. She came up with mental names for them based on their features, such as Scar-twin and Clean-twin on either side of the door, Bruiser for the one who did most of the head smacking, Fidget for the guard who patrolled most often, and so on and so forth. She deliberately committed even the smallest details of these men to her memory, so that if they ever got out of there, Abby would be able to recognize them again.
The door opened and another captive was dragged in. Winchester was hog tied and carried by three men and a woman, his eyes darting wildly about the room. They paused briefly when they met Abby’s and again as they fell upon on the children. He said nothing as he was borne to an empty space along a bench, apparently having already learned the no-talking rule. The woman cut his legs free, then held the blade to his throat as he was manhandled onto the bench between a fence guard and a farmer. Once seated, one of the men crawled under the bench to lash their legs together. A thin trickle of blood ran out from Winchester’s hair, sliding past his ear and down to his chin. The woman with the knife to his throat noticed. She checked out the injury on his head that had produced the blood, and deemed that it didn’t need bandaging. Only then did she withdraw her blade. The moment it was safely away, Winchester jerked back, attempting to strike her with his skull. The woman was fast, however, and nimbly dodged away.
“I wouldn’t try that again if I were you,” she threatened, taking her knife back out and placing the tip against the back his neck.
“But you know I had to try at least once,” Winchester calmly replied.
“Fair enough,” the woman said with a grin, her teeth an unexpected mixture of black, grey, and yellow compared to how nicely the rest of her looked.
The four who had dragged Winchester in then departed the cafeteria, leaving the captives alone with the guards once more.
Winchester sought out Abby’s eyes from his place two tables over. He stared hard into Abby’s eyes, then glanced at those next to her. He did the same motion three more times before Abby figured out what he was trying to communicate; or at least what she thought he was trying to communicate. She shook her head to let him know that no one else with her had been taken, that Lauren wasn’t there. Winchester nodded, then proceeded to take stock of their surroundings as Abby had, seeing who was there that he could identify and had the angle to spot. Most people had done this once seated; definitely those who had fought the hardest. Abby didn’t like that some people seemed to have given up, that they stared at their laps or laid their faces flat on the table. She wondered if some of those people were just faking their hopelessness, making themselves appear docile, but Abby had no way of knowing. For now, she kept vigilant, taking in all the details she could, silently deciding who would be the most useful in various situations. Unfortunately, her imagination wasn’t nearly as good as her memory, and so she could only think of a limited number of situations that might occur.
One such thing she couldn’t foresee did happen. The next time the door opened, it wasn’t another captive being brought in; a woman walked into the space, with Jo tagging along behind her, eating what looked like porridge or perhaps oatmeal out of a small plastic container. Abby hadn’t imagined seeing Jo again, and the well of anger that opened up toward him shocked her. It was because of him that all this had happened. They had taken him in, malnourished and exhausted, conditions he couldn’t fake, and in return, he opened the way for the wolves. H
e was just a boy; this couldn’t have been his idea, but seeing him standing there, wearing the clothes they had given him, a smile on his face while he ate… Abby never thought she’d be capable of hurting a child until that moment. In that moment, she would have throttled him if she weren’t tied up.
“Who here is your leader? Did we capture him or her?” the woman asked, her eyes scanning the faces of the prisoners. “Who in this room is highest on the food chain?”
Although a few eyes looked to Crichton or Bronislav, enough of the residents looked at others to make it go unnoticed.
“No? Not going to step forward? All right, that’s fine.” The woman carried herself with an air of authority, with complete confidence. She looked down beside her at Jo. “See anyone here you think we should talk to?”
Jo’s eyes absolutely lit up. He carried his food with him as he walked around the room, looking at everyone seated there, his hand occasionally dipping inside the container to pull out a glob and shove it into his mouth.
“This one,” Jo pointed to Crichton.
All the hairs stood up on the back of Abby’s neck. Had anyone told Jo that he was one of their leaders? Or had he just picked him because Crichton was the one who was there when he woke up? The one who asked him questions?
Defensive Instinct (Survival Instinct Book 4) Page 37