by Katie French
Doc maneuvers the solar car around the barrier and out of the city. He keeps the headlights off, which makes the going slow. With the windows rolled down, the wind whips through, fluttering our clothes, but at least it helps with the smell. Still, the stink of death, even the feel of it, hovers in the car like an odor that can’t be washed away.
What have we done? I think. What have we done?
When he pulls onto the dark road leading back the compound, Doc finally speaks. “Gun’s in the pack. We might need it.”
I lean around, open the pack, and draw out the gun. When I hand it to him, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” When I look at him questioningly, he nods toward the backseat. “I’m sorry I shot it. Shot her.”
I take a deep breath. “You were trying to save me.”
“Well, I really screwed up.”
I don’t look at him. I stare at the crescent moon and the stars around it. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not worth it.”
“What?” he asks, flicking a glance at me before looking back at the road.
“Nothing.” I rub the little girl’s body beneath my shirt.
Doc looks over. “It looks like you’re pregnant.” I glance down at my rounded shirt and then at Doc. He shrugs. “Sorry.”
I don’t answer. I keep one hand on the gun and one on the girl.
Suddenly, Doc slams on the brakes. I can barely get my hand out before my body goes crashing in to the dash. Luckily, I’m able to keep my weight off the little girl, and, instead, slam my shoulder into the dash. “What the—?”
“Look.” He points out the windshield.
About a hundred yards away, men walk three abreast past the intersection—twenty, maybe thirty, all carrying weapons. A burly guy with moonlight shining on his bald head swings a baseball bat lazily in front of him. Another carries a rusty sword slung over one shoulder. I see a few guns, but mostly blunt objects or blades. They’re looking for a fight. And they’re headed for the compound.
“Crap,” Doc whispers. “Have they seen us?”
I watch for a moment, but no one turns our way. “The car is so damn quiet. Thank God you have the headlights off.”
Doc grips the steering wheel with white knuckles. “I could turn around and circle back.”
“Don’t.” I watch the procession of violence. “These men aren’t heading to the compound for tea. Follow them. But be careful.” I grab the door handle.
“Me?” he asks.
Stashing the gun in my pants, I try to pry the little monkey from around my body, but her grip only tightens until she’s crunching my ribs. “Ow. Okay, okay. I guess this peanut is coming with me.”
“Coming with you?” Doc looks terrified.
“I’ll go on foot. They aren’t moving very fast, and if I don’t stick to the road, I can get to the compound before them.” I grab the pack, make sure the box of ammo is inside, and hand the Taser to Doc. “Wish we had two guns.”
“You know what I’m going to say.” Doc’s eyes gaze into mine.
“Then don’t. I have to find Auntie.” Quietly opening the car door, I slip outside. I can’t see the men marching up the road, but I know they aren’t far. “See you at the compound.”
Doc looks miserable, but I have to give him credit. He doesn’t once tell me how terrible this idea is. That it may be my worst one yet. Desperate people do desperate things. And when you’re beyond desperate, what do you do? The only thing you can think of.
I shut the door without a sound. When I open my shirt, two dark, round eyes peer up at me.
“Hang tight, Peanut.” Looking back up, I take off running.
Chapter 28
Clay
I almost can’t believe my eyes when I behold the scene unfoldin’ before me. The dark shapes are nothing but shadows illuminated by the glow of the fires raging down below, but the voices are unmistakable. Hank’s whiny alto can be heard from every rock peak across this valley. With any luck, Cole’s with him.
I was lucky as hell to get out of that pipe. And lucky as hell it busted away from its strappings and fell against the side of the crater at an angle where I could climb out with a bit of sweat. The smoke was terrible. For a minute, I thought I’d suffocate in that hot metal tube, but then my head popped out into clean night air. I was able to climb up the rocky slope to the top. That’s when I heard Hank’s donkey bray.
Even now, his whine cuts through the night like broken glass through skin. “Clay’s dead. Now, it’s your turn.”
“He’s not dead!” a voice yells. A kid’s voice. “Clay’s not dead!”
My pulse picks up before I can even form the words. Cole.
I shoulda known that bastard would go after Cole. He’s been eying him ever since we strolled into their shantytown. And there’s no accountin’ for what Hank might do to Cole if I ain’t there to stop him.
I start running.
A series of pops explode in the crater ahead of me. Down below, a fire flares, momentarily illuminatin’ the bodies on the ridge. There’s a lump sittin’ on the ground that can only be Betsy. Three other figures stand by the cliff’s edge, two little and one big. The big one is the driver. He probably still has his gun, though there’s no tellin’ if he can use it. And he sure as shit can’t use it like me.
Sprintin’ up, I used the shadows as my camouflage. They ain’t lookin’ back here anyhow. They’re too busy arguin’ over who’s gonna throw my little brother to his death. Rage boils in my chest, turnin’ into somethin’ molten. It slips down my limbs, into my fingers, and up into my brain. I let that familiar feelin’ tighten my fists. This feeling is what someone I knew—hell if I can remember who now—used to call the Cold Steel. As I run toward the shapes, I feel more hot than cold. More fire than ice. Ready to burn whoever stands in my way.
All other thoughts fall away as I make my approach on the driver. His outline is the farthest one to the left, with long arms and legs silhouetted against the night sky. My eyes make out his head, his hand, and the solid shape of the gun in it. I’m six feet away. Five. I run as quiet as I can, but he turns toward me as I draw back my fist.
My fist sails through the air and connects with his jaw in an amazin’ pop. The dark shape of his head snaps sideways. He doesn’t have time to call out before his knees unhinge, and he buckles forward. My other hand snaps out and snatches the gun before he has time to take it to the ground with him.
God, it feels good to have a gun in my hand. I whip toward Hank and Cole at the lip of the crater.
“Let him go and back away slowly,” I say to Hank, aiming at his chest. “Or I’ll separate your head from your scrawny, chicken neck.”
“Clay!” Cole shouts.
The lump on the ground who is indeed Betsy repeats it. “Clay!”
“You survived,” Hank says, using Cole as a human shield. “You’re just in time. Now you can watch your brother learn how to fly.”
“You son of a bitch,” I spit, trainin’ the gun over Cole’s shoulder where one of Hank’s dark eyes peeks out. It’s too close of a shot to take even if I’ve practiced it a thousand times. If either of them move an inch… “Let go of him, step away, and I won’t shoot you.”
Hank laughs, gripping Cole’s arms until the skin puckers white between each of his fingers. “You think I trust a word that comes out of your filthy liar mouth? Mike didn’t trust you, either. You were supposed to get in, not out. Get it?”
I take a step forward. “I don’t give two hot shits about Mike, or you. Now give me Cole, or I’ll stop askin’ nice.”
Hank’s smile widens. “Don’t think so.” His eyes flick to the space behind my shoulder.
There can only be one thing he’s lookin’ at. I whirl in time to dodge the hunk of rock in the driver’s raised fist before he brings it down. The rock misses my skull and smashes down on my shoulder with a bone-quaking crunch. Pain shoots down my arm, up my neck. The blow sends me teeterin’ right. I lift the gun in my right hand, aim at the driver, and get
my grip on the trigger.
Arms wrap around my legs, yankin’ me sideways. The gunshot rings out, but I can tell it missed as I fall into the dirt. A thorny bush claws at my face as I go down. I tighten my fist as I fall. A gunslinger never lets go of his gun. Not unless his hand is gone with it.
On the ground, tangled in a bush, I roll and sit up. Hank’s wrapped around my legs. He shakes his head and springs away. Bounds like a jackrabbit into the dark. My left arm’s hurtin’ like the devil, but I don’t need it. I pull my right arm free from the branches and level the gun at Hank’s retreating backside.
“Aaaaggghh!” a voice yells to my right. The driver rushes at me with the rock again. I swing the gun right, center it on his chest, and fire.
My gunshot rolls over the hilltop. In the moonlight, I watch as the driver stops in his tracks and stares the flower of blood seeping through his shirt. The rock falls from his hand. His face is stunned. It’s the face they all have as they realize their card’s been punched. His jaw drops. His eyes find mine and mark me as the one who took his future. Then he falls face-first into the dirt.
“Never give your position away before you attack,” I say to his dead body.
I get up and aim at Hank retreating over the hillside.
Cole’s arms circle my middle, and his sweaty face presses into my stomach.
I watch Hank’s shape grow smaller in the distance. Then I uncock the gun and hug my little brother.
We walk toward the road, Cole and me, with Betsy behind us. She started followin’ when we left the crater’s edge. Cole threw a rock at her and told her to git. Guess she was in on the plan to get rid of Cole. But she just kept sobbin’ and slumpin’ after us. One rock was all Cole had the stomach for because after that, he left her alone, and she kept her distance. I don’t know what to do with her. I ain’t about to abandon no girl, but I’m not real keen on takin’ her with us.
The shoulder the driver smashed with a rock blares with pain, as persistent as the alarms ringing in the crater below. It’s dislocated, and it won’t be any good ’til it’s set right. When we’re far enough down the hill to put a good distance from Hank, I stop walkin’.
Cole peers up at me with wide brown eyes. “Your face is dirty.” He points at my nose.
I laugh despite my pain and run my sleeve over my face. When I pull my arm away, the fabric is black. “Better?”
He nods, his hair flopping over his eyes. “You looked like a soot gremlin.”
“What’s a soot gremlin?” I ask, swipin’ at my face again.
“Auntie used to pretend to catch ’em in the fireplace. Said they was magic.” He flashes a smile. “I’m glad you ain’t dead.”
I lean toward him. “I’m glad I ain’t, too.”
Behind us, Betsy shuffles up, hiccuppin’ with sobs. She plods to a stop through some branches and watches us with wet cow eyes. We glance at her, and then turn away. She’s like a mosquito we’re sick of swattin’.
“Cole, I need you to do somethin’ for me.” I tuck my gun in my pants and use my good hand to massage my dislocated shoulder. “Need you to pop my shoulder in real quick.”
He stares up at the left shoulder under my shirt, the joint sitting too far forward. “Won’t it hurt?”
“Like a kick to the balls,” I say, smilin’ so he knows I’m fine. “But it hurts more havin’ it out of place. It’ll feel better when it’s back. And I need this arm.”
“For Hank?” Cole asks, his frown returnin’.
I lean down and put my hand on his shoulder. “That bastard won’t hurt you again.”
His eyes go to my shoulder. “How do I do it?”
I glance behind me and then down the hilly slope. Betsy looks up at me from twenty feet away, her face glistening with snot. The rest of the hill is quiet, except for the occasional rumble beneath our feet. The bomb did its job. Everything behind me collapsed as I climbed up that pipe like a monkey with his tail on fire. The people in that compound are either dead or about to be. The guilt constricts my chest again, but I push away. Those people weren’t nothing to me. This boy, this bright-eyed boy with a smile that will light up any dark corner, is what I care about. I know it’s probably wrong what I did, but I had to.
I lay down on what looks like a clear dirt patch, though it’s hard to tell in the dark. “Come sit by my bad shoulder,” I tell him. He sits on his bottom with his feet toward me and waits for his next instructions. “Put one boot here,” I say pointing to where my shoulder and neck meet, “and one here.” I point to my ribs. “You’re gonna need to push away with your legs while you pull my arm up and back.”
He stares at me with wide eyes. “What if I hurt you?”
“Won’t hurt,” I lie. “Just go slow, but don’t stop. Take my hand, pull my arm slowly back, and then up. The arm bone has a ball at the end. The socket is a cup. You’ll probably feel it when they fit back together.”
He nods, reachin’ down and takin’ my left wrist in his hands. “Yell if you want me to stop.”
I lie back, closing my eyes, and slow my breathin’. “Keep going ’til you feel it pop back into place.”
I close my eyes while Ethan begins to draw my arm away from my body.
The pain that was a throb begins to spike harder and harder as he pulls. I draw myself away from my shoulder and turn my mind in. She’s there the minute I go lookin’—Riley with the dark hair and dark eyes. I see the soft, peach divot of her belly button, the way her bottom lip is fuller than the top, so full, round, and red it’s like a ripe fruit. I picture myself takin’ it between my lips. Tastin’ her. The longin’ swells in my stomach.
My shoulder pops, and my body constricts with white-hot pain. I let out a groan. Shockwaves of fire radiate down my ribs and into my neck.
“Sorry, Clay!” Cole scrambles to his feet. “Told you it would hurt!”
I feel the socket with my good hand. He did it. Slowly, I raise the arm. It hurts like a gut wound, but it works. The arm works.
“You’d make a hell of a field medic,” I say, pullin’ him in for a pat on the back. He falls on me with a giggle. With my good hand, I tickle until he’s belly laughin’ and rollin’ on top of me. Even with my shoulder hurtin’ fit to beat hell, this is the best I’ve felt in a long time.
“You seem better,” he says, starin’ into my face.
I frown. “I do? What was I like before?”
He sighs. “Not you. You were… lost.”
“I’m here now.” I ruffle his hair, tryin’ not to let him see how lost I still feel.
Gunshots stop us cold. I sit up, an arm around Cole. Even Betsy stops her cryin’ and looks down the dark hill to the bend where the road curves to the cavern’s entrance.
“Mike’s here,” I whisper.
Cole’s a frozen statue. “What do we do, Clay?”
I listen for a while. Men cry out. Guns rattle their staccato beats. How much blood is bein’ spilt?
“We get the hell away.”
I get up and pull Cole with me. We turn west, still skiddin’ down the moonlit hill with Betsy on our heels. It’s slow goin’ with the rough terrain. I can’t carry Cole with my arm the way it is. The gunfire continues in segmented bursts. There’s another explosion. “Jesus,” I say, “they’re really going at it.”
“Will they all die?” Cole asks.
I keep my head down and continue walkin’. “That’s none of our concern.”
We get to the bottom of the hill and the rocky dirt road that circles it. The gunshots fade behind us. Even Cole seems to have relaxed a little. And Betsy, still a dozen paces away, seems to have fallen in behind us.
Our pathway is a dirt driveway that climbs a steep incline. It’s slow going up the hill. But when we reach the top, the moonlight illuminates a flat, two-lane highway that will lead us out.
But as we’re headin’ toward it, a shape comes into a view. Someone runs up the road ahead. My hand drops down to the gun in my waistband, and I draw it out.
The runner doesn’t see us, so I put my hand on Cole’s chest to signal for him to halt and be still. The jogger is slender and small, a boy maybe. His hands circle a distended belly.
Headlights climb over the hill and pin the boy in their beams. He freezes and tears into the scrub. I watch, not sure I saw what I think I did. That boy didn’t look like a boy at all. It looked like—
“Who was that?” Cole asks, his hand tightening around mine.
The figure tries to plow through the brush, but the car—a sleek, futuristic vehicle with an engine as silent as death—goes off-road after the runner. From this distance, they won’t spot us, but we can see it all go down—the runner joggin’ into the weeds with both hands on his belly, the car barrelin’ over the scrub, catchin’ up to him and pinnin’ him in its headlights. Cole and I drop into the weeds as someone jumps out of the passenger side and tears after him.
“Clay?” Cole asks.
I hush him and keep my eyes on the struggle. If they don’t see us, they’ll go away.
The bigger figure drags the boy back, kickin’ and thrashin’. As the pair crosses in front of the car’s headlights, both figures come into view. A muscular military man with short-cropped hair and camouflage clothes drags the boy by the arms into the car. The man must’ve been from the compound because he’s dressed like the ones I saw. The boy is harder to see, he’s thrashing so hard. Slender arms and legs piston back and forth. The bulge on his belly is an object under his shirt, lumpy and hard judgin’ from the shape. When the boy strains against the military man’s grip, his face is finally lit up by the car’s headlamps.
Not a he. A she. Short, dark hair, dark eyes, a cupid-bow mouth, and a delicate jawline. My body freezes. I know that face.
A bolt of lightning rips across my forehead, separatin’ my brain in two. I hold my head and try to breathe. I can’t move. My head. I… can’t…
