He put the photo back in the closet, closing the door.
“Maybe you should change clothes,” Trent said. “Until tomorrow.”
Clarissa nodded. She waited until he left the room to cry.
Traveling down Interstate 95 to Manhattan
CLARISSA
They had a truck. Thank God, they had a working truck. The man from Letliv who donated the vehicle to their cause—a priceless possession in these times—was a saint as far as Clarissa was concerned.
“A little over a hundred miles left,” Trent said the following morning. “But we shouldn’t drive into the city. We’ll attract too much attention.”
“I know,” Clarissa said softly. “We can hide the truck and walk when we get to the Bronx, maybe.”
She could barely stand to look at him now. With his shaved head, the army-issued uniform, and the M16 slung over his shoulder, Trent looked just like one of Colonel Lanche’s men. He had transformed into her worst nightmare.
As for her, she wore Karen’s drab clothes and hoodie, hoping to avoid recognition. If she was identified, she’d be executed. Without a doubt.
Trent had half of the pamphlets on him, and she had the other half. In case something happened to one of them
Please God don’t let anything happen
then the other would still be able to spread the word.
“What if we can’t get in from Forty-Seventh Street?” she asked.
He stared straight ahead, his eyes on the many stalled cars on the highway that he had to maneuver around. “Then we wait for change of shift at one of the side entrances, like Barker said.”
“Last time we tried that, we missed it. It happens so fast. There’s only a short window of time, and if we miss it, we have to wait four hours.”
“Then we wait.”
A long-dead body lay on the side of the road, nearly skeletal now that the rats and birds had picked it clean.
Clarissa looked away and forced herself to breathe. What happened to Roy’s body? They’d had to leave it on the road after the gunfight with Lanche and his men. No burial. No going back.
God—what if that was Roy’s body?
The thought brought bile up in her throat. No. No, it couldn’t be. It was just a stranger.
“When we get in, we need to start spreading the pamphlets all over the Tracks,” she said. Better to focus on what lay ahead, and not on the past.
“And I need to find Annie. We need to get her out.”
She nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her. She wanted to get Annie out too, and Evan. But she wanted everyone out. They couldn’t stay long. Their mission was to distribute the pamphlets so the women would be prepared to leave in the near future, not right at that moment.
If they spent too long there, searching for Annie and Evan, they might never get out at all. But there was no sense in trying to explain it to Trent again.
He knew the consequences of what would happen if they failed. And he still wouldn’t ever give up on the chance to get his sister out.
She loved that he was so fiercely loyal. So protective.
He must have been an incredible husband.
Would he ever be able to move forward? To leave his past behind him, and love someone new?
Someone like . . . her?
Stop. Stop thinking like that. It didn’t matter. Just because he slept with her, gave her shelter, didn’t mean he was looking for a new wife.
If anything, after losing Karen he probably was even more wary of falling in love again. Because he knew, like she did, how much it hurt to lose someone you loved.
Her fingers went to her throat, seeking out the locket that wasn’t there. The only picture of her daughter.
After she’d given her baby up for adoption when she was a teenager, she felt like a piece of her had been torn away. Like something was constantly missing from her life. Her friends told her not to worry, that she’d have another baby when she was ready for one. When she was older, when she was married.
But another child would never replace the daughter she’d given up.
Just like sleeping with Clarissa would never replace Karen, for Trent.
“I’m going to pull over soon and hide the truck,” Trent said. “We’ll have to walk from here.”
“We can walk down the FDR drive,” she suggested. “Should only be about ten miles.”
He laughed. “Only.”
“Here’s what I learned from all our walking to get to Letliv: figure three miles an hour if we walk at a decent pace, so a little over three hours to get there. It’s not so bad.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
She grinned. “You’re in good shape, don’t worry.”
He pulled the truck off the road and they drove at a snail’s pace into an abandoned car wash.
“This should be a good place to hide out,” he said.
They gathered up their gear. Packs with food for a week, and water. Guns.
“Where will we stash our stuff when we get there?” she asked. “We can’t be seen in Grand Central with guns.”
“I’m not going in unarmed,” Trent said. “I’m supposed to be a soldier, right? So I’ll have the M16. We’ll hide the packs and your gun somewhere safe.”
She wished she could pretend to be a soldier, too. Being without a gun made her so vulnerable . . . just like she was when she was actually living there.
“I’ll protect you,” Trent said.
But Trent didn’t know what they were going into. He wouldn’t know how hard it would be to protect her—not until they were in the middle of it all.
Grand Central Terminal
EVAN
Evan felt strange in the soldier’s uniform. It hadn’t taken too long before he’d been able to convince Lanche to let him join the soldier’s ranks. Evan knew how to kiss asses and do things he didn’t want to do, just because he was told to do them. That’s what high school had been like, really.
But he was scared to sleep in the bunks with the other soldiers. None of them seemed to know about how Scar had messed with him, or even where Evan had come from. Perhaps they assumed that he was someone’s son, a kid who’d been living with the families and then gotten moved up to soldier status when he’d turned eighteen.
That’s what he hoped, anyway.
He rubbed his freshly-shaved head. The rifle slung across his chest bothered him, considering Evan had always considered himself a pacifist. He’d risked his life to dodge the draft at the other FEMA camp, for God’s sake. Yet here he was, wearing a uniform and holding a gun he’d literally begged to get his hands on. Pacifism had pretty much gone out the window. There was no peace when he was being terrorized.
I could shoot them now, he thought, watching the men as they slept. He recognized some of them from the Tracks, men who visited the women there. Messed with them the way Scar messed with him. But he wouldn’t shoot them. Of course he wouldn’t.
The Colonel, on the other hand . . . if he could shoot the Colonel . . .
No. Someone else would just take his place. Scar, probably—Lanche’s right-hand man. Evan shuddered at the thought. Besides that, the Colonel was always armed himself, and almost always had guards right near him.
Evan set his rifle down next to him, like the other soldiers did, and closed his eyes. He was determined to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day. How would he know which men were good, and could be trusted? The bad ones would be easier to find. They were the ones who were mean to the citizens, constantly on a power trip. The ones who would ignore a cry for help if they felt like it.
God, help me, Evan prayed. He wasn’t used to praying, and he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. Did he have to kneel by the side of the bunk?
He didn’t want to get up and potentially wake anyone, so he stayed in bed. Surely God would be able to hear his prayers even if Evan’s head was still on his pillow, right?
God, please let there be good men in the bunch. Please let Barker and Clarissa and Jenna come ba
ck for me and Annie, and for everyone. He paused, wondering if it was okay to wish for someone’s death. And if it is your will, God, please let Colonel Lanche die. Or change his ways, he amended. That would be better.
Amen.
Evan still couldn’t sleep. Too much snoring. Plus, he missed being near Annie, even if it meant sleeping on the Tracks. He liked having her nearby, knowing she was safe. Where he was now, he had no idea if she was okay or not.
God, please watch over Annie and keep her safe, he added to his prayer.
Amen.
Suddenly a thick, heavy hand clamped down over his nose and mouth. Evan couldn’t breathe. He flailed in the tiny bunk, kicking his legs out in terror.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Stop struggling,” his attacker whispered in his ear. It was Scar.
Evan stopped instantly, hoping that obedience would calm Scar down. It worked. Scar shifted his hand off of Evan’s nose, but kept it tightly over his lips. Evan breathed as much blessed air as he could through his nose, unable to even open his mouth under Scar’s heavy grasp on his face.
“If you make any noise, I will kill you,” Scar hissed in his ear.
Evan nodded, tears flowing down his cheeks. He was terrified, but he was angry, too. Angry at himself for crying. For showing Scar how much of a hold on him he truly had. And angry at Lanche for not keeping his word.
Lanche had promised he’d call Scar off. And ever since Evan had spilled what he knew about Barker and his friends, secure in the idea that the intel could no longer harm them, Scar hadn’t touched him.
Hadn’t even looked at him, really.
Stupid of Evan to think that Scar wouldn’t want vengeance. A whimper tore out of Evan’s mouth, muffled under that heavy hand, and Scar laughed softly. There were other men so near, just a few feet away, still sleeping. How did they not wake up?
Or maybe they were awake, and choosing to stay silent. To keep their eyes closed and pretend not to see. To not make waves.
Scar flipped Evan onto his stomach, freeing his mouth. He gasped for air hungrily.
But he didn’t scream. What would happen if he screamed?
If he screamed, the men would wake up, they’d have to. And they’d see him getting fucked like a bitch. They’d never again see him as a soldier like them, as a man.
All Evan wanted was to be a man, for once.
He felt Scar’s knees straddle his own thin thighs. Felt his pants get pulled down roughly.
Just live through this second.
Evan focused on the pillow. Focused on the feel of the rough cotton pillowcase beneath his cheek. He forced himself to pretend it wasn’t happening. That he couldn’t hear Scar spitting onto his hand, a thick drop of spittle landing on the small of Evan’s bare back.
The pain ripped through him as Scar forced himself inside, but Evan didn’t scream. Didn’t do anything, couldn’t do anything.
Focus on not making a sound. Don’t give Scar the satisfaction of knowing he hurt you.
It was over so fast, and Scar sat on the edge of the bunk, breathing heavily, rebuttoning his pants.
“Did you like that, pretty boy?” Scar whispered, leaning down so he was close to his ear.
Evan closed his eyes, which felt puffy and swollen from crying, and kept his mouth shut, hoping Scar would leave.
“That’s what I thought.” Scar laughed quietly, looking around.
None of the other soldiers had woken up. Or at least, none had opened their eyes.
And then Evan was alone in his little bed again. His whole body hurt from tensing his muscles, his ass on fire.
He was wet down there, too.
Spit? Come? He reached his hand around to touch his asshole gently, wishing he could rub away the pain.
Blood.
Evan bit the pillow to hold back a cry of anger, and fear.
I’m going to kill Scar. It was the only way.
An abandoned apartment building, outside Grand Central
CLARISSA
CLARISSA cursed under her breath as she followed Trent down the hall in the abandoned apartment building in Midtown.
“It’s not your fault,” Trent said again, taking her hand.
“I just can’t believe we missed evening rations.”
She kicked some litter to the side of the hallway in frustration. Without the distraction of rations being handed out, it was too risky for them to try and break into Grand Central. They’d have to wait, out of sight, until the next day.
“We’ll get in first thing in the morning,” Trent reassured her. “It’s probably for the best. We’re worn-out from walking—this way we can rest up and go in alert.”
He knocked on a half-closed door and it creaked open. A large circle with an X spray-painted through it was on the door. After the Pulse hit, when the army was evacuating everyone, they marked all the residences like that. Some had numbers spray-painted in those circles, for the amount of people they found alive . . . and those they found dead.
Looked like whoever had lived in this place had gone to the shelter early, of his own volition. Maybe he’d run out of food and water. Made sense—most people only had a few days’ worth of supplies to survive on, a few weeks at most. Clarissa had been like that too.
God, to think of all the times she’d had to stop by the grocery store on the way home from work just to pick up dinner. Having an empty pantry once the food she’d pilfered from the diner was gone made going to the FEMA shelter an easy choice at the time. She’d never thought it would turn bad. No one had.
“This’ll do,” Trent said, guiding her inside. The sun was setting fast, and the apartment was dark. “We can’t afford to make a fire in case someone sees it,” he said. “We’re too close to the camp.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “It’s not cold.”
They went through the small apartment until they found the bedroom. The bed was made, which stuck her as oddly ridiculous. She plopped down on the edge and smiled up at Trent.
“You’re right,” she said, “I’m exhausted.”
He set his pack down and lay beside her, still dressed in the uniform. She turned her back to him so she couldn’t see it, and snuggled against him, her bottom nestling against his groin.
His cock hardened against her ass, and she stilled. She was wearing Karen’s clothing, her disguise. And having her back to him . . .
Fuck. He had to be thinking about her. How could he not be?
But she didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to see him looking like one of them, like a soldier. So she stayed put, trying to relax into the sensation as his cock nudged against her, and he reached around, caressing her body.
Memories flashed through her mind, that same feeling of trying to relax and make the best of a situation she didn’t really want—
“Please, stop,” she whispered. So softly she was barely aware if she’d spoken out loud or not.
But immediately, his hands were off of her, and he sat up. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled sadly at him. “You don’t need to be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just . . . I don’t feel comfortable having sex right now. Not while I’m dressed like Karen, and you’re dressed like a soldier. Too much . . . weirdness.”
He nodded stiffly. “You’re right. I’m sorry—fuck. I’m . . .” He sighed and lay back down, keeping about a foot of distance between them.
“Is this . . . is this because I look a bit like Karen right now?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It’s dark, Clarissa.” He paused, as if that explained it all.
“Thank you for being so respectful when I asked you to stop,” she said quietly. “I know that’s not always easy for men once things get started.”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s not easy,” he said. “It takes two to tango. I don’t want to do anything you’re not okay with.”
Clarissa smiled at him, feeling better. She rested her head on his chest, wrapping her arms around him. After a moment,
he kissed the top of her hair gently.
“The way you look at me when I’m dressed like a soldier,” he said, “it kills me.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“I wish you didn’t have to go back into that hellhole tomorrow with me,” Trent said.
“I don’t mind going back,” she said finally. “Because we’re going to help change everything there. It’s worth it.”
“You know,” he said, “I was thinking about what you said about making a town newspaper. It’s a really good idea.”
“Really?” The newspaper idea sparked something inside her she’d never felt before when she’d read books on making career choices or trying to decide on a major. “How would we make paper for it?”
“I’m thinking hemp. Not the let’s get high on marijuana kind, but the industrial kind. Easy to grow, lots of fiber—which is great for making paper—and it reaches maturity in months, not years like trees.”
“Isn’t hemp illegal to grow?” she asked.
“You’re kidding, right?” Trent laughed. “I think we can make up our own rules about stuff like that in Letliv. People would love to have a newspaper. I bet we could even find a printing press if we scavenge around long enough, or build one ourselves.”
“No psyops, though, okay?”
“Hell no,” Trent agreed. “These pamphlets, it’s different. We’re trying to save lives with little more than a sound bite. For your newspaper, you can write about whatever you want, get other people to contribute articles, post things for barter, that sort of thing.”
Wow. She could write whatever she wanted. The idea had possibilities. She’d never thought of journalism as a career path before. But she loved to read and heaven knew she had an opinion on everything. When their newspaper got going, she’d make sure both sides of issues were fairly covered so people could make up their own minds. It was a heady feeling.
For the first time in her life, she wanted to be something more than a waitress, to do something more than just make enough money to get by. How ironic that it had taken such a huge crisis to bring her aspirations to light.
“You’re gonna kick ass at this newspaper thing,” Trent said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re . . . all lit up.”
The Thrust Page 9
