by Mira Grant
I had charity. I had buckets of the stuff. I also had a bruise on my face and a spike of cold ice in my stomach, and all I knew about my future was that I was getting out of here. One way or another, I was getting out of here.
The dinner bell rang. We put down our bottles and our lists and moved on to the cafeteria, leaving the guards to lock up the liquor. It was a short walk from the room where we’d been working to the food line; we were the first ones there. Piles of trays flanked the door. I picked one up. Dinner wasn’t likely to be inspiring—fish, potatoes, and steamed greens—but it would fill my belly until morning, and that was what mattered.
One of the women from my crew positioned herself next to me in the line. “He only hit you once, huh?” she asked, a thin veil of friendly concern stretched across a great chasm of greedy nosiness. “That’s pretty good. Usually he really goes to town for the first offense. Sasha lost a tooth. She’ll never sneak cookies back to her quarters again.”
None of the girls on the crew had visibly missing teeth. My fear of Clive increased. He knew how to hit so any permanent injuries would be concealable: That spoke to special training, and special training often came with increased pain tolerance. There had always been a question, at the back of my mind, of whether he’d come from a gang or military background. I was finally ready to cast my vote with “military,” probably United States Marine, where he would’ve learned how to hit and how to block and most importantly, how to conduct his life with the sort of ruthless discipline that would have been utterly necessary when he was seizing control of the Maze. He looked to be in his late thirties, too young to have been here before the Rising, but this community clearly stretched back that far; a raw recruit in the beginning, then, fresh out of basic training—or whatever the jarheads called it—and following his platoon into the uncertain dangers of the zombie apocalypse.
I was willing to bet that if I pulled the records for military units dispatched to the California-Oregon border during the Rising I’d find him, smaller, skinnier, and less hewed out of the living flesh of some distant mountain, with a little more exposed skin and a few less scars. Desertion had been easy during the Rising. Every nation in the world had been finding members of their military scattered around in farmhouses and shopping malls since the dead began to rise, because all the media we’d had to go by had insisted that playing warlord was the only way to win. Build your walls high enough and leave the rest of the world to burn. Fuck ’em all, they sent us out here to die, that had been the philosophy of the deserter.
In his own way, Clive was no different from the laughing, milk-pale girls in the showers, the ones who’d grown up inside the compound, never seeing the sun. This place had become his world during the Rising, and he’d somehow risen to the position of heir apparent. Maybe he’d become leader the old-fashioned way, waiting for his old mentor to die and then stepping up. Or maybe he’d gotten tired of standing in the shadows and arranged for a quick, brutal assassination. Come to think of it, that was the old-fashioned way too. Everything was fair in love and dictatorship.
“He only hit me once, yes,” I said primly, sliding my tray along the counter to the milk and desserts. Blackberry trifle again. There were days when I was astonished we didn’t all piss purple, the lot of us. “Not too hard. He fancies me, and I was just trying to make sure I wasn’t going to be too sick to be of use. I don’t suppose he’s too thrilled with the folks who made him do that.”
“Obedience—”
“Obedience has to be learnt, sure, but do you really think of Clive as the sort of man who enjoys beating a defenseless woman because she didn’t know he needed to be informed about her itchy vag?” I gave her a withering look as I picked up my tray. “I’d hoped we could be friends. Now I’m not sure that would be a smart choice on my part. You’re clearly the sort who spend all their time looking for an opening, and I have better things to do than spend every waking moment watching my back. So I’ll offer you this olive branch: Leave me the fuck alone, and I shan’t start watching you for things to tattle about the way that you’ve clearly been watching me.”
Her mouth hung open as I turned and walked away from her. I didn’t stop. This was a calculated gamble, and one I needed to have pay off if I was going to get the freedom to go looking for Ben. Convince them that spying on me was not only bad for them, it was counter to their best interests, and I might be able to start moving around this godforsaken place without the fear they’d go running to Daddy the second I stepped out of the room. Part of that was making sure they thought of me as the biggest threat going, next to Clive himself.
I sat with my back to them and waited. Clive was watching us, I knew that: He didn’t generally grace the cafeteria with his presence, but he had his ways, and made appearances when he felt something needed to be defused. I’d seen several small fights break out between the other girls, one of which had ended with a broken nose. That had summoned him, all right—summoned him to kiss the winner and tell her he loved a girl with spirit. They hadn’t gone after me thus far, but I’d been playing meek and keeping my head down. Maybe more importantly, Clive hadn’t gone at me before. Oh, he’d pushed me during our first meeting, but I didn’t get the feeling that counted for these girls. That had been an… introduction, almost, the sort of thing that said “hello, welcome to the neighborhood.” Now that he’d written a bruise across my face like proof that I was no longer the new girl, I was fair game.
They were good, these Maze girls: I barely heard the scrape of chair legs being pushed back on the tile floor, and I heard that much honestly only because I was pretending to chew, lifting an empty fork methodically to my mouth over and over again. I steeled myself for what I was about to do. If Clive didn’t take this as well as I was hoping, I might be seeing Jill again sooner than expected, as a patient. But I had to try. If I wanted to be free to look for Ben, I had to try.
The lead girl’s hand was barely an inch from my shoulder when I whipped around and buried my fork in her leg. She howled, mouth forming a perfect “o” of surprise that snapped closed when my fist slammed into her jaw and sent her crashing over backward. It was a textbook takedown, and I should have been proud of myself, but there wasn’t time, there’s never time when a real fight is going on. Seven girls on my work crew, and six of them set against me—unfair odds, even with that first girl on the floor. She was between them and me, and that was good. The dawning rage on their faces was less good.
I kicked my chair back as I stood, grabbing the second chair at the table and flinging it into the center of their cluster. I wasn’t aiming to hit anyone, and I didn’t; the chair sailed past them to clatter harmlessly against the wall. But it distracted them for a precious few seconds—long enough for me to pick up my tray and slam it against the face of the next girl in the line. Sasha, I thought it was, and going by the sickening crunching sound the tray made on impact, she might wind up missing a few more teeth after today.
At least their cluster reassured me that I was doing the right thing, and I hadn’t just put a fork in someone who was coming to extend an olive branch. Most people don’t bring a gang with them when they want to make peace.
A hand grabbed my hair. One of them had managed to flank me, getting into my blind spot while I was distracted with hammering poor Sasha. That was fine. The thing about going into the field with long hair is that the body learns to channel less attention into that sort of pain. I reached back, grabbed the wrist attached to the hand holding me, and twisted until I heard something snap. A girl howled. Another girl slammed her head into my midsection, sending me stumbling backward until my ass hit the table. That was convenient. I let myself rock back farther, shifting my weight onto my elbows, and slammed a foot into the face of each of the two girls coming after me. One of them yelped and staggered backward, her nose gushing blood.
This was it: the moment when Clive would get involved if he was going to save them from me. I knew he wasn’t going to save me from them. Scenes like this one h
ad probably played out a thousand times before, each unfolding in its own unique configuration, but with one constant—the new girl at the center, fighting for her place in the pack. Well, I didn’t want a place in the pack. I was going to kick, claw, and sucker punch my way to outsider status, and if they didn’t want to let me have it, I’d settle for being the biggest, baddest bitch on the block. The one no one questioned, because she might nut them if they did.
Part of me understood that I was just making myself more appealing to Clive, and increasing the chance he’d try to run me down when I got away. I shunted that part aside and kept on fighting. Playing the weak sister wasn’t going to save my neck, and if my greatest fear was being too attractive to a man who wanted to destroy me, well, I could learn how to cope. Coping was a skill I was becoming increasingly practiced at.
The girl who’d tried to chat me up in line screamed and ran for me. I waited until she was almost close enough to do some real damage. Then I straightened my hand and aimed it like a knife at the soft center of her throat, letting her momentum do the rest as she slammed herself into my rigid fingers. The jolt traveled up my arm to the elbow, forcing me to pull my hand back. I folded it into a fist, waiting for the next blow.
There wasn’t one. She wobbled, going pale, before she folded up and toppled to the floor, where she joined the other three girls that I’d managed to knock down. The three who were still standing hung back, glancing at me and at each other, like they were trying to figure out what happened next.
What happened next was I flipped my hair nonchalantly back, lowered my fist, and asked, “Did you lot want to go again? Because I can. Or we can wipe up all this blood before somebody amplifies and we have to explain the situation to Clive.”
Slow applause started from the doorway. I turned, unsurprised to see Clive standing there, one shoulder against the doorframe, clapping with what seemed like genuine enthusiasm. I took a chance and dropped a quick curtsy in his direction. To my surprise and traitorous pleasure, he laughed.
“That was brilliant,” he said, starting across the cafeteria toward me. He cast a hard look toward the girls on the floor, shaking his head. “Some people never learned the first rule of starting trouble. Don’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure of the final result.”
“Aw, go easy on them,” I said, trying to make my tone light and flirtatious to cover my genuine concern. “They were coming at me six to one. They had good reason to think they’d win, don’t you think?”
“And yet there’s not a scratch on you, and they’re bleeding on my floor.” Clive stepped over the unfortunate Sasha, reaching out to smooth my hair back from my face with the knuckles of one hand. I didn’t shudder or pull away. For that alone I should have received some sort of an award. “You have hidden depths.”
“I grew up on a sheep farm,” I said. “Turns out being surrounded by herbivores big enough to amplify will give you a bloody good motivation to study in your self-defense classes.” There hadn’t been a sheep farm within twenty miles of Drogheda, but there was no reason to tell him that. Let his preconceived notions of where I’d come from direct his reactions, and let me keep a slice of the truth in reserve, for when I might genuinely need it.
“I like that in a girl,” he said, and lowered his head, and kissed me.
This was a test. I knew it was a test, and even knowing that, it was virtually impossible to stop myself from tensing up and pulling away. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t rapacious, either, but as I hadn’t consented to what he probably considered a “romantic gesture,” the distinction didn’t matter. What mattered was making him believe I was enjoying myself. I forced my shoulders to drop and my jaw to relax, pretending as hard as I could that I was kissing Audrey, and that this was all some sort of surreal dream that needed to end as soon as possible.
His tongue touched my teeth. I gasped despite myself. And Clive pulled away, eyeing me thoughtfully. For one terrible moment, I thought it had all been for nothing: that my inability to pretend to enjoy kissing a man I hated was going to blow the whole gig. Then he smiled.
“Poor thing,” he said. “I know this is moving awfully fast for you. I told you, I’m not going to push, and no one is going to touch you until your contraception implant runs out. But when it does, I promise, we’re going to make beautiful babies together.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two of the girls from my work group glaring—at me, not at him. What I had was what they all wanted. Good. They wouldn’t betray me when they saw me sneaking out, then, not if it meant I might be dragged back and beaten into going along with Clive’s plans for me. Better, far, to let me exit quietly, and let Clive find a new favorite who actually wanted his meaty hands all over her body.
“I’m glad you can wait,” I said, voice a squeaky whisper.
“I’m a patient man. But not”—his voice rose as he turned on the others—“with people who cause this sort of unnecessary trouble. Aislinn is your sister now. She should be your friend, not your target. I am disappointed in all of you. There will be no desserts for the next week, and the next person I hear has raised a hand against her for any reason will be answering directly to me. Do I make myself clear?”
General murmurs of assent, none large enough to rise above the herd. Clive’s eyes narrowed.
“Did I ask you to mumble?”
“No, sir,” said the six girls, in shaky unison.
“Good. Now get yourselves cleaned up.” He tossed me a smile before sauntering calmly toward the door.
“I’ll get the doctor,” I said, and trotted after him.
I was testing my limits, but the gamble paid off: He gave me an approving nod, and said, “That’s the way to look after your girls. I’ll see you soon.”
Apparently it wasn’t sneaking around if I announced where I was going loudly enough to be overheard. That was good to know, and might serve me very well over the next few days. He went one way down the hall. I went the other, gathering speed as I walked toward Jill’s office.
The door was ajar. She was inside, along with an older white man I hadn’t met before. I knocked on the wall to get her attention, and said mildly, “There’s been a bit of a bar brawl without the bar in the cafeteria. Half the girls on my work crew got their teeth knocked in, the poor wee lambs. Do you think you’ve got the time to come stop the bleeding and set up whatever decontamination protocols you lot use before there’s a zombie apocalypse alongside the mashed potatoes?”
The older doctor recoiled. Jill looked, briefly, amused. Then she clamped her professional expression back into place, grabbed a battered black bag from the counter, and said, “Lead the way.”
We didn’t hurry back down the hall to the cafeteria. We were halfway there when she asked, voice pitched low, “Did you instigate this?”
“Not as such,” I replied. “I just didn’t do anything to discourage it when I saw it coming. It’s easier to move around without anyone tattling on you when they’ve all decided that you’re the boss.”
“I can’t wait for you to meet mine,” she said. “I don’t think these techniques of yours will work on her.”
I wanted to ask who she was working for, but I knew it wouldn’t do me any good; not while we were still here, passing through who knew what kind of surveillance patterns. It was obvious she knew them well enough to know when it was safe to speak and when the only safety was in silence, but I didn’t have that advantage. All I could do was follow her lead and trust that she hadn’t been ordered by Clive to lead me astray. The only real proof I had that she was on my side was a needle to the arm and a single meeting with Audrey, neither of which proved anything. I had only her word that the injection had been a contraception booster, and if Clive was trying to test my potential for loyalty, putting me in a room with the woman I loved would be an excellent way to do it. I had no potential to be loyal. Not to him, and not while Audrey was still alive.
Jill stopped in the doorway to the cafeteria, looking at the six women inside
. The ones I’d hit or stabbed hard enough to cause bleeding were sitting down, having done their best to staunch the flow, but there were red streaks on the floor and red blotches on their clothes. This whole room was a hazard zone now. The women who weren’t bleeding or blood-splattered were pressed against the wall as far from the others as they could get, trying to avoid contamination. They looked horrified. I couldn’t blame them. Jill looked like she was trying not to laugh. I couldn’t blame her, either.
“Ash, please go and find some clean towels and about three gallons of bleach solution,” she said. “If anyone asks what authorization you’re acting on, tell them mine, and Clive’s, since he sent you to find me. For the moment, you’re going to be my nurse.”
“Does that mean I get to hold a scalpel?” I asked brightly. Several of the women whimpered.
“Maybe later,” said Jill. “Now go.”
I went.
This was the most freedom of movement I’d been granted since my capture, and I was going to use it to its full effect. I took mental notes as I trotted down the hallway, trying to connect visible doors, air vents, and junctions to my growing internal map of the place. I knew we were in an old hospital, pre-Rising, probably midnineties, if the shape of the walls was anything to go by. Any Irwin who spent a lot of time poking around in pre-Rising outbreak sites learned to enjoy architecture. A few of us have even written books about it, since we’re the closest things to experts the world has left in certain schools of design. We lost a lot of hospitals when the dead rose. A lot of business parks and hotels. Not the sort of places that inspired the passion of, say, an art deco art gallery, but there was love in those buildings too. Even the most cookie cutter development had passion behind it, if you knew where to look.
