I glance up. The moon is hanging low and heavy in the night sky, and I wonder if she’s somewhere she can see it. “Where the fuck are you, Ren? We’re going to lose Collin.”
And there it is—the fear that I don’t want to acknowledge. I can’t abandon her—he wouldn’t want or expect me to. Finding her will be my first priority until I have her safely back at my side, snapping with anger and demanding answers I can’t give.
But every minute I spend looking for her is one I don’t spend looking for him.
Collin will die because I have to find her, and she might never forgive me for that.
Chapter 4.
Old Allies
Claire is waiting for me on her porch, blowing on a cup of tea and staring into the dark. I notice her long before she notices me, and I swallow my irritation. She has spent too many years in 1 to remember that it’s dangerous to stand like that—backlit, smelling like a fucking buffet.
“Even 1 has the occasional breach, Claire,” I say, stepping out of the darkness. She flicks a look at me, and I see the knife in her hand, the tension in her body. I dip my head, a smile tugging my lips.
Of course she didn’t forget. Claire didn’t survive this long by making stupid decisions. “What happened?” I ask, climbing the stairs to stand next to her.
“If I help you, will you stop killing?” she asks.
I go blank, and let my gaze drift away. “I’m not controlling this, Claire. The killing will end when Ren is back where she belongs.”
“What if she did leave?” Claire asks, softly.
I give her a dark glare, and she nods. “I agree. That girl wouldn’t have left you unless she had a dead body to prove her brother’s death.”
She wouldn’t have left then. I wouldn’t have let her.
“Come inside, Finn. Let me help you, if I can.”
I give her a long look, but she’s not explaining shit and I’m desperate enough that I’ll take whatever scraps I can find. And if it doesn’t fall the way I want, I can walk back out. There is nothing stopping me from that.
A brief thought crosses my mind, that she could have Kenny’s men in there—but if I can’t trust Claire, there is no one left that I can trust, and that is too depressing to consider, so I follow her into the little house.
Orwell is in the living room, along with two older men I don’t know, and a girl young enough that she didn’t see the change, or life before the Walls.
I go still in the doorway, and Claire pokes me with one bony finger, pushing me to one side as she enters behind me. “You can walk into the damn room, O’Malley.”
I flick a look at her—I trust Claire. But these other people—I don’t know them, and I don’t have any reason to trust them.
“They can help you,” she says, softly. “Listen to them.”
I look at her, and then I step into the little room and take the single free-standing chair. Claire pats my arm as she moves past me, settling next to the dark-haired girl with wide, brown eyes. She sees me watching her, and her gaze drops, almost scared.
My lips twist. Little Haven mouse. She’d never survive outside the Walls. I let my gaze travel the other three, focusing on the two I don’t know. “Who are you?” I ask, tugging my katana around so it isn’t stabbing into me. Claire makes a snort, and I flick a look at her. I’m past civility.
“Luke Holts. I served as Andrew’s chief of staff during the turn,” one of them says. I narrow my eyes. I remember him and Kelsey’s father and mine huddled around maps, blacked out by the infected. Holts had been influential in getting the Havens in working order. He saved lives, by hiding us behind walls. But he kept the supply trains running in and out of the East for years—even after the initial evac orders ran, and civilians were safe.
He saved lives then, too.
I swing my gaze to the other man, a wiry man with gray hair, teeth too white and unnatural in his smooth face. He smiles, wide and smooth. A fucking politician. “Sonny Kamen.”
“You ran against Kenny in the election,” I say, cutting him off.
“I did. And I fought in the East, in Detroit and then Chicago.” I sit up a little straighter, my interest piqued. I don’t know everyone who fought in the East—there were far too many to keep track of everyone, but I know those battles and I know we barely survived them.
“Why did you lose the election?” I ask, softly.
“Because he didn’t have my support,” the girl says, her voice softly musical. I shift to stare at her. She’s leaning forward, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders, and I reassess quickly—she might look like a baby of the apocalypse, but this girl has more going on than I first saw.
“Who are you?” I ask, quietly.
A tiny smile turns her lips. “Holly. I’m the acolyte that Omar planted here to keep him aware of what happens in the Haven. I’m the one who controls our Order here—because with just a few words, I inform his opinion.”
“Why?” I ask and something sparks in her eyes. Respect. I’m asking the right questions.
“Because he kept me alive. When my parents were dead and no one gave a damn, Omar took me and made sure I was safe. When he joined the Order after Columbus, he rose quickly through the ranks. And then he asked me to be an acolyte. He had a dozen of us, and he scattered us around the country, so he could keep a finger on the pulse of the people, even when he was locked in the Stronghold.”
Conniving old bastard. “He knows what’s happening here?” I ask, and she nods. Licks her lips, and fear darts into her gaze for a moment.
“He’s coming here,” she says.
I nod, shoving down the familiar anger. Kenny will be pissed, having us both in his Haven again.
The president would just have to learn how to deal with the little disappointments in life.
“So why are we here?” I ask.
“If you want the Order to help you—even through the back channels that Omar can offer, you have to stop killing,” the girl says. I lift an eyebrow, and her expression goes fierce. “I won’t control them if you continue to slaughter us. The killing of the Order stops. Now.” “Do you have her?” I ask, and she sits back.
“We don’t know. There are theories, but we can’t know—not for sure. Not yet.”
I look at Sonny. He’s the one who interjected, and I want to reach across the room and shake him. “Then what the fuck am I doing here?” I snarl.
“Listening for once,” Claire snaps and the girl gives a soft snicker that makes me want to pull my gun.
I force myself to sit back, and Orwell speaks up. “Every few months—Stiles has a personal truck delivery. It’s not cleared through the Walkers. It almost cost him the presidency, because I couldn’t justify the danger of exposing the Haven to god knows what to make him happy. I was overridden by the Order. But it happens. I think he smuggled her out of the haven in one of those delivery trucks.”
My heart drops. Because if she isn’t in 1, she could be anywhere. Chasing Collin, even knowing the clues he would leave, was hard enough. I had no hope of finding Nurrin—she had no idea what to leave to help me. And even though I knew it was a strong possibility, hearing it spelled out so certainly—it guts me.
“Where would he take her?”
Holly tilts her head. “Omar is reaching out. We aren’t as blind as you think—and being taken away from 1 isn’t a death sentence.”
“She’s with the Order,” I snarl. For Nurrin, that is a death sentence. Claire makes a noise in the back of her throat, and I shift, realize I’m clutching my gun. Her gun. When the fuck did I draw?
Holly studies me, and I meet her piercing stare coldly. “You look at the Order and see the killing. The sacrifice and vice clubs.” She says.
I hesitate. Something in her voice slows me. Amusement and a hint of pity. “If all we were was a cult that thrived on the chaos, we wouldn’t have grown every year since the change. We have. We went from one insane man feeding babies to the horde to an Order that touches every hav
en in the nation and controls the presidency. We are about so much more than a few vices and killing.” I think she means it to be comforting. But it’s not. It’s terrifying. Holly stands. “Will you stop killing?” she asks, and I hesitate.
“Yes,” I say, “but when you find who has her—I will kill whoever hurt her.”
She stares for a long moment, and then nods. “Gentlemen.”
We all watch silently as she exits the room, and then Holts releases a breath. I glance at him, and he offers up a tired smile. “She’s useful—probably more than I want to think about. But the girl is creepy as fuck.”
Sonny laughs next to him, and I assess them. “If Holly can find Nurrin, why are you here?” “There’s a horde on the move,” Orwell says heavily. “Our far scouts have see it moving this way.” “How far out are they scouting?” I ask, shifting.
“Twenty miles. The horde isn’t closing on 1, not yet. But it won’t take much for them to shift direction, and if they do…” He doesn’t finish the statement. He doesn’t need to. A horde will devastate 1. Even if the Walkers and the standing army did their job—something I’m not convinced they could do—I’ve seen the horde and what they do. They can’t be stopped.
“Evacuate,” I say, looking at Holts. “You’ve done it before—get the people out of this place.”
He looks old. That’s what bothers me. Andrew Buchman had a young administration. They ran on the youth vote—a family man with a young daughter and a beautiful wife and a finger on the pulse of the people—especially the ones under thirty.
Holts was thirty-eight when ERI-Milan broke, spreading like wildfire. Thirty-eight and fervent with the belief that they could do something, could save the world.
And in his way, he did.
But I don’t see that fanatic belief in his eyes now. I see resignation and death.
“We have nowhere to go, O’Malley. The Havens are ours—but you know the infection holds the Wide Open. We can’t reclaim it.”
“If you stay behind these Walls, you’ll die here,” I say.
“You know the infection. Teach us how to fight it.”
I laugh, a sharp noise. Fury and disbelief and hopelessness fill me. “I don’t know shit, Holts. I never did. I was seven when ERI mutated in Emilie. Seven fucking years old. I knew we were visiting friends and I knew my mum died. That’s all I fucking knew.”
“But you’ve survived,” Orwell says, desperation leaking into his voice.
“Because I don’t fucking rely on Walls to keep me safe,” I snap, jerking out of my seat. I can’t stay here— I need to find her and even if I tell them—they won’t listen.
No one ever fucking listens. Not when Mother told them not to use ERI, and not when I told them the Havens would fall. Not when I said the virus was changing. Not when I told Buchman that trying to take back Columbus would cost too many lives.
I blink, shaking the memories. Fucking memories.
“I survive because I’m not hiding behind walls, hoping the dead don’t notice me. You can’t.” I stop, staring at them watching me. They don’t understand.
“Take them out of the Havens,” I say dully. “Put them in a place where they aren’t defined by their limits and fear.”
“Who?” Claire asks, her voice shaky with fear. I look at her. I’m so tired. I want Nurrin and Collin, and a quiet place to rest.
Even knowing it can’t last, I want it.
“Everyone,” I say. “Take everyone out of the Havens.”
Chapter 5.
Reluctant Trust
The lesson that I learned, in my years of fighting in the East and watching the world fall to pieces, is that everyone wants something. And really, for most of us, it’s basic. We want to live. We don’t even need to tack happy on. We just want to live our lives. Some of us need to buy the lie to do that.
And that’s my problem. Because I hate lies. I hate them when there isn’t a reason for them, and I really fucking hate them when they’re well-intentioned.
The Haven is a lie. It’s a promise of safety that can’t really be delivered. Walkers can patrol the Walls, and the far scouts can clear out any wandering infects. But in the face of a horde? They can’t do a damn thing, and the walls meant to protect and keep the civilians safe become the tool that keeps them from escape.
It’s a pretty lie.
But in the end, a lie is a lie, and it doesn’t matter how pretty it is—it’ll still kill you.
The day drags slow. Sonny and Holts leave shortly after I tell them to evac the Havens, and Orwell stays only long enough to murmur a few words to Claire before he gives me a searching stare and vanishes.
Waiting makes me anxious—I can feel her slipping away. Claire eventually banishes me from the downstairs, and I lock myself into the dusty bedroom on the second floor, lying on the bed.
I don’t lie to myself. And the truth—the ugly truth that I’ve been avoiding is this is my fault. All of it.
Nurrin is with the order, Collin god knows where, because I wouldn’t make the hard choices. I should have killed Dustin before it became a threat.
And I never should have left her alone in 1. I knew it was dangerous—knew Kenny would use whatever he could to hurt me. She was a First, in a town run by the Order, and I fucking left her.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back on the dusty pillow. She had been furious and gorgeous, demanding answers as she stood in my little room.
Maybe I’m the one who fucked up. If I had been able to trust her a little more, maybe this wouldn’t have happened—she wouldn’t have needed to go to Kenny for information. She would still be here.
I roll to the side, the thought making me sick.
Whoever has her—whatever is happening. I could have prevented it, if I had just fucking trusted her.
“Finn.” Claire’s voice is soft and jerks me from my thoughts. I drop my arm from where it’s resting over my eyes and reach for my gun. “Finn, you need to come downstairs.”
“Give me just a second,” I grit out and I hear her pad away, the distinct limp in her step heavier than usual.
I can’t think about all the shit that’s not right. I can’t think about anything except getting her back, and finding Collin. I sit up, methodically strapping on my weapons, and head downstairs.
Omar is standing in the small kitchen, listening to one of Claire’s Haven urchins chatter about a zombie pack that wandered too close to the Wall. His head is down, and he’s focused on the child like he holds the secret to the end of ERI-Milan.
I step in quietly, and Claire pauses in the midst of pouring a cup of tea. Her eyes dart to me, nervous and afraid, and I force a thin smile as I let my gaze wander of the Black High Priest.
He isn’t wearing robes. He’s dressed for combat, in dark brown cargo pants with tear-away pockets, and steel-reinforced fabric. His shirt matches, covering him to his wrists, slightly bulky over the body plates.
He looks like he did when we fought side by side for Kelsey.
Rage hits, hot and sweet and endlessly familiar, and I take a deep breath, trying to push through it. I’m not here because of a dead girl I couldn’t protect.
I’m here for the one I can.
Holly steps up to my side, and eyes me sidelong. “You know he’s taking a risk by coming here, don’t you? The Black Priest rules from the Stronghold. It’s been that way since Sawyer first created it. He controls our militant arm from there—and Omar has enough enemies that leaving the Stronghold could backfire. We can’t help you if he’s deposed.”
I give her an icy stare. “You don’t know your priest as well as you think if you believe he’ll lose his position because he took a few days away from the casino. If I know anything about Omar, I know he wouldn’t willing risk his position for anyone—especially not me. And he wouldn’t leave without safeguards.”
“O’Malley, don’t give the girl all my secrets,” Omar rumbles, without looking away from the child. Claire makes a small noise of displeasure,
and steps forward, drawing the boy away and pressing a small bar of chocolate into his hand. She pushes him from the room, and the boy goes without complaint.
I stare at the Black Priest. Once upon a lifetime ago, he was my friend, the partner who kept me alive, the quiet rumble in our convoy that made shit make sense and settled Kelsey when she was furious and impetuous.
Which was more than it wasn’t.
And then he became something else, something so wrapped in tragedy and my own failure that I couldn’t separate my rage for it from my anger at him.
I still can’t. And everything in me—every fucking thing—screams that this is a bad idea, that trusting him will end with blood and death.
Omar straightens, giving me a searching stare. “Is she worth risking your life?”
I don’t answer, just lean back against the door and cross my arms over my chest. Omar mutters a curse.
Rubs a hand over his head. “You’ll need me to help you. She’s not going to be easy to retrieve.” “How not easy?” I ask.
“Enough that I’m not convinced this a good idea,” Omar says, cryptically. “Walk with me.”
I hesitate, and his gaze turns hot and heavy. My lips tighten just a little and I push off the door, and move to Claire. Drop down to give her a quick kiss. “I’ll be back later.”
“Be careful. I don’t trust him,” she says, loud enough that Omar hears. I hide my grin in her hair, and hug her before I step back and nod at Omar. Holly takes a step after us and Omar turns, pinning her with a glare. Her lips compress, and I see what I saw the first time I looked at her—an apocalypse baby with no idea of the world.
Omar pushes open the door, and I follow him outside.
Chapter 6.
Ghosts of the Past
The first time I saw Omar, I was twelve. Five years after ERI-Milan broke in Atlanta, we were still adjusting to life behind Haven walls and the fact that there was no end in sight.
The World Without End [Box Set] Page 35
