Remnant (The Slave Series Book 3)

by Laura Frances

  The trembling starts somewhere in my center. Then the tears, hot like fire searing down the weathered skin of my face.

  Outside, rebels run and shout, organizing some kind of response. But what can they hope to do?

  My eyes close, and I clench my fists, but I will not resist all the things I feel. I have to feel it with them, feel the terror that sliced through their hearts when the buildings quaked. How many mothers dove to hold their children? How many husbands met the eyes of their wives when the floor collapsed under their feet? Was there even time to connect before it all shattered?

  Here in this empty room, stripped clean weeks ago to build a barricade that no longer exists, I cover my mouth and scream. It comes out broken, a hoarse, cracked cry spilling out from my deepest places. The tension threatens to rip apart my body, and an ache blossoms in my forehead. The stress bends me forward until I'm sitting on my heels, fingers pulling at my knotted hair.

  How many of the Watchers knew this was coming? How many among us withheld the warning? My knees hit the cold ground, pressing the tender spot where the root made contact. I press into it harder, because pain might make the sorrow quieter. Maybe a distraction will lessen the grief. My hand smacks the floor, again and again, but nothing is helping. The screaming and the hitting and the pain...none of it's enough.

  My head hangs forward, and I hunch in the stillness, wondering what the point is now. They are all dead.

  Meli is pale.

  She lies on her back on a mattress stained in her own blood. Her wound is tightly wrapped, with a black band high on her thigh.

  I sit with my legs stretched on the cold floor beside her. I haven't told her about the towers, but maybe someone else did.

  “Almost,” she whispers into the dim light, the words slipping past lips that barely move.

  I nod, eyes still burning. Chest still aching. Sorrow is draining, and I haven't slept.

  Meli lets out a breath, slow and measured...a pressing down, controlling the pain. She says, “You surprised me, you know.”

  I look away and don't respond. She doesn't know that I am breaking, and all the courage I'd built up is slipping.

  “Drew too,” she says. “You're more than we expected.”

  “That wasn't a hard thing to accomplish. You couldn't have expected much.”

  I feel her glare.

  “Don't you dare.” Her tone draws my eyes back. “Don't you dare lessen the person you've become.”

  Her eyes burn holes through me. Tears slip down her cheeks, cutting across dry, tan skin, damaged by the elements and by war. But her lips don't quiver. Her body doesn't tremble. They are tears of anger, full of outrage. So much more than this moment between us.

  She holds my gaze, and I find that words aren't always needed. Sometimes silence is louder. Under the intensity, I feel exposed, all my shortcomings and doubts brought to the surface. My eyes burn hotter, then spill.

  I whisper the thing I always think. “I wish my parents were here.”

  Her eyes soften. I don't wipe my tears.

  “They were braver than me.”

  “That's not true.” She pushes up on an elbow. “They were brave for their circumstance. And you are brave in yours. There's no difference.”

  I look away. “I guess.”

  “Guess all you want,” she says, shifting on the bed, the motion straining her voice. “But I know. Someday you'll see it.”

  When Takeshi enters, I leave her. As I’m exiting, I glance back to see the prince settling on the floor beside Meli’s mattress, his forehead falling to his hand. She reaches lazily to run fingers down his arm. I turn away.

  A woman walks the hall, passing reserve food to those still conscious enough to eat. She touches my arm when I move around her.

  “Please eat,” she insists, her tired eyes begging. She lifts the tab on a can of cubed vegetables, and a nauseating smell fills the air. I smile and take it, pressing down an urge to gag. This hungry, even the smell of food makes me sick. I down the contents without a breath, and she collects the can.

  I walk numbly toward the outside doors. Some of the weaker Workers are slipping away, lying along the walls, their breaths barely noticeable. We have so little food. Water isn't enough. I want to sit with them, press my head to the wall, and be done. My own freedom doesn't look as appealing in the shadow of all this loss. How will we go on living knowing we failed to save them? But then who's to say any of us will get out of this valley alive? One more blow, and we all fade to memory.

  The sun blinds me. At first my eyes blink, adjusting. I stand in the rubble, surrounded by chunks of concrete walls and split beams, piles of glass shards, and ash. Sunlight cuts through white smoke and dust that hangs in the air unfiltered. I lift the collar of my shirt to cover my mouth and nose.

  Around me, rebels sit and stand with drooping shoulders. I turn slow, taking in all their sullen expressions. They wear the same despair that threatens to undo me. Looking at them is like looking into a mirror, and the idea doesn't sit well. The last time I looked in a mirror, the girl reflected back to me was braver, even with fresh burns and bruises. Fire bursts in my heart, the heat spreading. This is what the Council wants. This was always their goal.

  It's a living thing, this rage, boiling from deep in my chest. My fists clench at my sides, the tension growing until I can't keep it in. I can't contain it. Meli was right. I am changed.

  I find the highest pile of concrete debris and scramble to the top. I need to be high. If I could, I would climb the outer wall to the roof and stand on the edge, but this is closer, and the words are coming fast.

  I block out every pair of eyes that sees me, ignoring the way they stare. What I have to say is for another audience, one that I know is listening. Maybe they cannot hear me with their own ears, but they've hidden their disciples among us; they've planted deceit in our ranks and corrupted our friendships. They've killed our mothers and our fathers. Children die because these wicked people are greedy. They're selfish, and they won't quit. But neither will we.

  “If you think these deaths will stop us,” I shout, lifting my face to the sky-scraping factories looming for miles before me. “If you think you can quiet us with your threats, then you're fools!”

  I think of my parents.

  “You will not win this!”

  Drew flashes in my memory, and Tom and Alex. Then I see Edan, sweet-faced and kind...so much like my father.

  “Even if you bury us all, this is over! It's done! We're done!”

  A woman nearby yells in agreement, then three more voices rise. My body trembles, shaking in the rush. Footsteps crunch over debris behind me, and a soldier appears at my side. His eyes connect with mine, tear stains cutting through ash, and he turns his face to the distance, letting out an angry cry. Soon the entire pile I stand on is crowded with rebels, and they fill the street below. Their shouts resonate through my body, and when I open my mouth again, a gut-wrenching sound pours out. The words are finished, and all that's left to do is relieve the pressure.

  The cries rise from our depths, filling the dirty air with hope. It’s like Sam, his small arms beating the air, punching away his nightmares in a back room of the factory. And Workers embracing Watchers the day they came to join us. That is hope, and we all scream for it together, fists and guns raised.

  Our voices fill the street, the tones and volumes blending together. I imagine the sound barreling through dank alleys, filling all the empty rooms, rattling to life the dead. If only a voice could bring them back. If only words were enough to heal them.

  I stand in the middle of the shouting, no longer joining…but listening. Feeling it. Allowing my courage to grow again.

  Then my eyes catch on something moving in the distance. Gradually, the others see it too, and all our voices taper off.

  16

  We are all frozen, immobile...except one.

  A Watcher, tall and blond and kind and brave. The one born to the wrong father.

  That W
atcher emerges from our silent crowd.

  From the shadows and alleys, limping Workers coated in dust move toward us, reaching. Among them are soldiers, arms full of women and children and wounded men. But not all the soldiers are ours; some of them are Watchers without white bands, gently carrying the weaker ones to help.

  The soldiers around me move to action, and I stand a few more seconds at the top of the pile, letting the scene burn itself to my memory. I never want to forget this.

  When my feet hit the ground, I run, hobbling when my knee tries to buckle. I reach a man first, his face streaked in mud and blood and white dust.

  “How'd you do it?”

  He bends, coughing, and I offer my arm for support.

  “How did you get out?”

  “The towers,” he says, gasping. “They're gone.”

  “I know. We saw them fall—”

  “But the Watchers...they all left. Left the towers completely unguarded. Some came back to help us.”

  The next cough chokes him. He drags in a breath. “It was our one chance.”

  I'm stunned, locked in his tired gaze, understanding the kind of courage it took to simply step outside their doors. I know the risk.

  From behind him, an older Watcher says, “We caught wind of the Council’s plan just in time.”

  The Worker touches my arm. “Your shouts. They guided us out of the smoke.”

  I direct him toward the factory, where Solomon guides the new arrivals to another building...where I cried, believing they were all dead. But they were running when my mouth stretched in a scream. They were fleeing for life like I did the night Edan yanked my door open, sending me falling the floor.

  It all surges back: the heightened fear, waiting for a bullet to cut through your body, running with more power than you should own, because one slowed step...and death may take you.

  “They called us in,” the Watcher explains, wiping a hand down his face. “Gave us orders to assemble on the airfield.”

  He looks out over the street, then throws me a sideways glance. “You're a Worker, right?”

  “I was.”

  Something sparks in his eyes. It looks like pride.

  “That's right,” he says, softly. “That's what I meant. How did you get out?”

  “The first group. A few weeks ago. A Watcher called Edan got me off my tower.”

  He nods, eyes narrowing in thought. “Young guy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know him. He was always too cheerful for the job.”

  Sorrow chokes me. “Yes,” I say again, but the word is a whisper.

  We stand silent for a several seconds, watching the activity around us. Cash runs toward the factory again, an old man cradled in his arms.

  “He's dead, isn't he?”

  I turn my gaze back to the Watcher. He studies me.

  “Edan. I'm sorry, it's just—the way you answered.” He pauses. “He's dead.”

  “He died for his friend.”

  He mutters something under his breath.

  “What's your name?” he asks.

  “Hannah.”

  Maybe it's the burns and bruises or the fire lit behind my eyes. Whatever it is, I've captured his attention.

  A slow smile reshapes his lips.

  “I see. Maybe I should have known that. I've heard lots of stories about you.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I wouldn't believe the things you hear. Most of them aren't true.”

  “But the good ones are. Isn't that right? You survived the cells. Stood up to a Councilman.”

  He makes those things sound bigger than they were. “It wasn't like that.”

  He steps back, laughing through his nose.

  From an alley, a rebel calls for aid. Some have collapsed, he's saying. We need to carry them in!

  I take off toward the alley, but the Watcher stops me.

  “We’ve got this,” he insists. “You’ve done enough.”

  I shake off his hand. “No one has done enough until we leave here.”

  I move again toward the call.

  “Fine, but stay close. There’s a huge reward on your head.”

  A grunt sounds in my throat, and we take off. “They’d be foolish to believe the Council will hold to their word.”

  Aspen runs past, and I grab her arm. “Tell Cash I went farther out. Some of the others need help getting here.”

  “Be careful,” she says, and we part ways. I follow the Watcher and a few others into the alleys, where the air is thicker with ash. It irritates my throat, and soon most of us are coughing, breathing into our collars or sleeves.

  “This way!” a voice calls, and we follow in the cold, gray wind.

  It isn’t long before we find people collapsed. I run to a woman who clings to a dumpster, body bent forward, exhausted. She lifts her face, and I’m met with relief.

  “Are we almost there?” she asks, too tired to hold her head up. I wave a soldier over.

  “You’ve made it,” I say. “You did it.”

  She’s carried away to safety, and I move on, searching for more survivors.

  As we rush deeper, the Watcher glances back a few times to check on me. I steel myself and don’t allow him to see where I’m weak.

  We move farther, and the group fans out, spreading into the side streets. I stay with the Watcher, scanning the alley walls for living bodies.

  “We came from this way,” he calls back. “There’ll be more up ahead.”

  Some of the bodies we pass are lifeless, and I struggle to leave them. After five minutes, I’ve not seen another living soul. My pace slows, and I’m short on breath. The Watcher offers that we should take a minute to rest.

  “Just here,” he says, gesturing to a corner where we can lean. I slump against the brick, bending forward, hands to my knees.

  A weight slams into the back of my head, and the light is gone.

  17

  My memory comes back hazy, fuzzy on the edges.

  Everything is black.

  Open your eyes, a thought suggests, and I try, but they won't obey.

  A far away sound hits my ears.

  The mountain is exploding. Have to get up. Have to get to them.

  Pain bursts in my chest, and I remember it: Grief. They're already dead.

  The next memories come fast:

  The towers.

  Smoke and ash filling the streets.

  White-coated faces calling for help.

  Arms reaching.

  The Watcher.

  I wake up gasping. My eyes fly open, and all I take in is light. Blinking, adjusting, I try to sit up, but when I move my head, throbbing pain forces my eyes closed again.

  The floor beneath me is filthy and cold. The room is abandoned, stripped bare, ransacked. I'm familiar with the structure of this space. A factory.

  Footsteps approach, a slow crunching somewhere behind me. My heart pounds, drumming in my ears, overpowering the sounds I need to hear.

  “Get her up.”

  Cold washes over me when I hear his voice. Hands grip my arms, hauling me to standing. The room spins, and I strain forward, gagging, but my stomach is empty.

  My head bobs. A figure steps into my view. He is clothed in red, and a mask hides his face. But the facade is useless now; it is the lesson I learned at our last meeting: they are only human.

  “I said I wanted her unconscious,” he says. “You've nearly killed her with that blow to her head.”

  “My apologies, sir.” That voice is familiar too. The Watcher. “I didn't think it would matter in the end.”

  “It matters to me!” Titus' voice booms through the open space. His breaths are ragged.

  “It matters to me,” he says again, this time restrained, measured. “She is the only weakness I have left to exploit. If she dies short of that purpose, you and I will have a problem.”

  No reply, just a tightening of the fingers on my arms. Titus inches closer, and I keep my unsteady gaze on him, tracking every movement. I
don't look away, even when he stops a foot in front of me and I can see the brown of his eyes—proof of the man behind the mask.

  “You think all Watchers are good men at heart.” His quiet, calculated words poisoning the air around me, making it harder to breathe. “You trust too easily. That is your weakness.”

  “Maybe.”

  The knuckles of his gloved hand strike my face, and I grit my teeth against the pain, my eyes rolling, trying to find balance again. His finger stabs the air in front of me.

  “You will only speak,” he snarls, “when I permit it. I had enough of you the last time.”

  Another step closer, and his fingers grab my face, squeezing. Tears spring from my eyes, and I don't care. I don't care if he sees my pain; he is the cause of all of it. All the fresh wounds on my skin burn under the pressure. This is his favorite move; he always goes for the face.

  “What is it that he sees in you?” he murmurs, false-pity lacing his tone. “Just a filthy slave. Do you think you'll walk out of this valley and start a life with him?” His head tilts. I grind my teeth, my skin crawling to get away. His face hovers an inch from mine, the mask a barrier between us. His voice drops to a whisper.

  “You will not leave this valley. I will see to that personally.”

  With a shove, he releases me and walks away.

  “You're wrong.”

  He stills. I stare at the back of his hood, fueled by all the things I've seen in the last days. He may only be one of five, but he is the one I hate the most.

  “So brave,” he mutters. “And so naive.”

  He turns on a heel and moves toward me, his masked face angled, expressionless, but I sense the malice boiling beneath.

  “I assume you're referring to the barrage happening at our borders. You'll be interested to learn that we are holding them off. They won't get in,” his voice lowers, “and you will not get out.”

  Lies. But what if it's true? Tremors shudder through me. I fight it with words.

  “You're afraid.”

  He laughs, an empty sound. “I fear nothing.”