Eighteen Months Later
“Entrance Seven is secure.”
I release the button of the radio clipped to my shoulder and wait. Russell stands by my side, his eyes never leaving the boarded-up window that served as the high school gym's entrance before the outbreak.
I've never been on a security check with Russell, and we don't know each other all that well, but I'm willing to bet money on the fact that he's thinking the same thing I've been thinking all night. That it would be complete bliss to travel outside. To breathe fresh air and feel sunlight seeping into our pores. But that's not going to happen. Not for us, at least.
Since we're some of the youngest people living in the compound, we aren't allowed to venture outside, not even with supervision. Apparently, we're too weak and helpless to protect ourselves in the outside world. So we're stuck inside, saddled with the task of wandering around the compound in the middle of the night doing safety checks.
“Entrance Seven confirmed,” the voice crackles through the radio. “Proceed.”
Russell and I make our way out of the gym and into the main hallway.
“Why does it always smell like sweaty socks in this hallway?” Russell asks, scrunching his broad nose.
“Probably because half the kids that went here kept their nasty gym clothes in their lockers. That kind of stench tends to linger.”
“That's disgusting,” he murmurs. “Why not just take your clothes home at the end of the day and wash them?”
I peer up at his flat blue eyes and shaved head sitting atop his six-foot-two frame. He looks and acts less like a teenage boy and more like a seasoned soldier. Everything by the book, orderly, and only done under direct orders. No questions asked.
“You were never a lazy, sloppy teenager, were you?” I ask, smiling at how out of touch he seems, even after less than a year living in the compound. “You never cruised around with your friends, caring more about what trouble you could get into instead of marching home to launder your gym socks?”
He answers with a curt “no.”
I roll my eyes. Of course not. Russell doesn't seem like the type to look for trouble, nor the type to make friends easily. Cracking through that hard outer shell and opening up to people would require too much vulnerability.
I feel bad for him. No one at the compound has tried to reach out to him, which is actually incredibly sad, seeing as how we're forced to live together in such tight quarters. So it's a no-brainer to assume the average teenagers who had space and time to roam wouldn't spare him the time of day.
But I can't feel too bad about it. It's not like I'm inviting him to the common room to play Yahtzee anytime soon.
We stop at the next door and I shake the handles to make sure the locks are still engaged. They don't budge.
“Entrance Eight is secure,” I radio in.
This time, the voice comes back only milliseconds later.
“Entrance Eight confirmed. Proceed.”
Turning back toward the south side of the school, we continue on down to the last two doors of the night.
“Can I ask you a question?” Russell says, surprising me.
“I think you already did.”
He looks down at me, his light brows drawn together. Good Lord, the guy needs to socialize more.
“That was a joke,” I clarify. “Go ahead.”
He clears his throat and shoves both hands into the pockets of his tattered blue jeans. “Your dad's kind of a big deal around here, isn't he?”
My head jerks back in surprise. Wherever I thought he was going to take the conversation, this definitely wasn't it. Yeah, it's a freaking godsend that we live in a community where there is a doctor present. Many other groups and colonies don't have that same luxury. And yes, that particular doctor happens to be my father, but I wouldn't consider him a 'big deal'.
In our new life, with our new family, he's simply a necessity that others have to go without while we don't. Out of the twenty-three people in our home, we have a doctor, two teachers, a handful of artists, three chefs, and at least seven retired soldiers. Our odds are better than most communities. Some are made up of nothing but homeless men and alcoholics. At least, that's what we're told.
“I guess you could say that, but you'd be wrong,” I answer. “My dad isn't a big deal. Now, his degree? Maybe. His experience? Definitely.”
“I don't know. People here look up to him. Like he's the chief of a tribe. Or at least an elder.”
My lips purse to keep from laughing when I picture my father wearing a huge feather headdress. He so doesn't have the kind of features needed to pull that off.
“Maybe. I mean, he's useful, yeah, but that doesn't give his life any more value than anyone else's here.”
“And your mother is one of the teachers,” he states.
“Yes. She taught English before she retired.”
Russell looks down, confused once again.
“She doesn't look old enough to be retired.”
We stop at door number nine and I lean against it instead of checking the lock.
“That's because she's not.”
Our conversation is verging on normal, and I actually like it. No talk of death. No talk of our lack of a future. And no talk of the people outside these doors; the ones we're trying to keep out.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she had a health scare a few years ago. Dad was iffy about her going back to work after that, so she stayed home just to appease him.”
Feet braced shoulder-width apart, hands still in is pockets, Russell looks like a scary person trying to do an impersonation of a relaxed one. And he's failing at it, quite impressively. But he's trying.
“What's with the interrogation?” I finally ask.
The muscles of his neck tense as he swallows and carefully considers his answer.
“In the old world, you would have been seen as 'privileged' or at the very least 'well-off'.”
I don't think I like where he's headed with this. In the compound, things like money or status are rarely talked about, mostly because they don't exist anymore.
“Uh-huh,” is all I say.
“But here, you're supposed to be just like everyone else.”
I instantly go on the defensive.
“We are just like everyone else.”
“Mmm, not really.”
“Yes, really,” I say, raising my voice. “My family is just as scared and imprisoned as yours. They're hanging on by a thread, just like yours.”
“Yeah, but if you wanted something, it would be way easier for you to acquire it than if, say, I were to ask for it.”
I don't understand where he's going with this. It's not like my parents are sitting on some golden throne, barking out orders to their loyal peasants while slave girls in rags cool them with grass fans.
“Actually, no,” I say, thoroughly insulted. “It would be just as difficult for me to get something because, in case you haven't noticed, there aren't a whole lot of somethings floating around for people to grab. Unless you're talking about the fact that I've been using a brush I stole out of a locker instead of our stupid government issue combs, then yeah, holy crap I'm so blessed!”
“You have the biggest room here,” he points out.
I balk. “It's the freaking Home Economics room, and we needed it because it's one of the only living spaces here with a sink. If my dad is going to be examining and working on people, he needs running water.”
He keeps pushing. “Your mom and her little friend always get to bypass the line during meals.”
And now I'm pissed.
“Because they're both diabetics! They're kept on a strict diet since they don't have a sure way of getting insulin if they run out.”
He takes a step back, but I can tell the fight isn't over by the way he crosses his arms and levels me with a glare.
“So when you disappear, and an hour later we're told a shipment of supplies just came in and you waltz into the common room ea
ting a granola bar... that's just coincidence?”
Crap.
He has me there.
My family does a lot for our little community, and the jobs come with very few perks, but there is one perk in particular we never take for granted. When supplies are delivered, whether it be food or linens or toiletries, mom and dad are always called down to get first dibs. And of course, I always go with.
My silence answers the question for him, and his lips curl up in a grin.
“Yeah, that's what I thought.”
I'm beyond irked, so I try to ignore him. Our check is almost over, and the sooner I'm rid of him, the happier I'll be.
I shake the doors, report in with control, then carry on down the hall. I want to take the high ground and just walk away, but Russell's assumptions are still eating at me, so I wheel around to face him.
“What does it matter? Really?”
He clenches his jaw and takes the last few steps to banish the distance between us. I know what he's doing. He's using his tall frame and imposing body to intimidate me. But he doesn't scare me. Not one bit.
“We're in an abandoned school with half a dozen families that somehow, against all odds, made it to safety before the entire country was ripped apart at the seams.” His words are short, barked, like a drill sergeant in training. “They lost spouses, friends, children... some of them lost everything. Everyone here is a survivor. Unlike out there.”
He points to the closest boarded-up window and my eyes follow.
“We're equals here. There's not a hierarchy of importance or status in these walls. At least, not for anyone else. So the fact that you and your folks get special treatment? It's bull.”
I cross my arms over my chest and take a step closer.
“What's your point?” I bark. “If you're trying to say something, don't beat around the bush. Just be a man and come on out and say it. I don't have time to decipher all your babbling.”
This dude is seriously rubbing me the wrong way, and I have better things to do than stand in a deserted hallway arguing with a guy whose opinion I couldn't care less about.
Russell smiles at my invitation to speak freely and leans down so his eyes are level to mine.
“I don't like you.”
I snort. Like that's news to me.
He doesn't like anyone, so hooray for no special treatment.
“So?” I counter. “Am I supposed to care? Are my feelings supposed to be hurt? I'm a little confused about how you want me to respond to this breaking news.”
“You think you're entitled because you were raised a spoiled brat. And now you think the world owes you something.”
“Excuse me?”
“You're the worst kind of girl,” he continues, venom dripping from his words. “You use your money and your chest and your pretty brown eyes to get everything you want without ever having to work for it.”
He did not just go there.
Anger boils to life in my veins, big and bright and boisterous. Without taking the time to think or consider the consequences, I let my body do the only thing it wants to do in this moment.
My hand rears back, fingers balled into a fist, and throw my entire body into a punch that lands square on his chiseled jaw.
It would be magical if he flew back and landed on his butt like you see in movies, but of course I don't have that kind of strength, so his head only whips to the side. But the splotchy red spreading across his skin gives me plenty of satisfaction as I take a step back.
“The world and everyone in it don't owe me a thing,” I say evenly. “I'm smart enough to know that. I'm not privileged or entitled or spoiled, Russell. I'm trapped.”
I gesture to the walls that are practically entombing us.
“And even if I were any of those things, it wouldn't matter now, would it? This place is our death bed just as much as it is our salvation.”
He shakes his head, either in disbelief or annoyance, I'm not sure. Nor do I care.
“Face it, Russell.” I lower my voice so the powers that be will have one less thing to be pissed about. “None of us are getting out of here alive.”
CHAPTER TWO
When I walk into the control room, there are two women waiting for me inside.
Marsha, our unofficial 'dispatch', sits with her eyes glued to her desk. The other, taller woman stands with both hands on her hips, staring at me – her daughter – with stern, disapproving eyes.
“Was that really necessary?”
My mother, Tanya Winters, isn't the kind of woman to beat around the bush.
“Hey, he was the one being a jerk,” I say, instantly jumping to defend myself. “Not me.”
“Even if that's true, it doesn't give you the right to resort to violence.”
I disconnected the radio from my shoulder and click it back into its charging station, all the while trying to avoid my mother's death glare.
“Not all of us hold etiquette as highly as you do, Mother,” I grumble. “Especially with the end of the world on the horizon and all.”
“I'm not concerned about you being a lady, Maya.” Her voice softens, but still somehow holds its edge. “I'm worried you're going to get hurt.”
I whirl around on my heel. It's so much easier to stare my mother down now that we're the same height. But I'll never hold the kind of steel she has in her gaze. I'll never be able to make someone feel as if they're only three inches tall.
“Are you saying I can't take care of myself?” I point to the screen airing security footage. “Were you even watching?”
“That's not what I'm saying at all.” She closes her eyes with a sigh. “You've proven you can take care of yourself.”
By the set of her shoulders and the slight downward tug of her lips, I know what memory she's replaying behind her closed lids. It's something we don't talk about. Something we don't mention. But I know she replays it just as often as I do.
Jared's limp body sprawled across my lap. His blood leading out through the bullet hole on the left side of his forehead. Me, shaking and mute, in shock, raking my fingers through his hair.
It seems like that was an entire lifetime ago when in reality it's only been a year and some change. Try as I may to put that memory to rest, his eyes are still the last thing I see when I go to sleep and the first thing I see before waking to greet the day. And in my dreams, I feel him. I feel the scruff of his jaw moving against my cheek, the warmth of his hand as it slides into mine. I hear the deep rumble of his laugh, the way he says my name, as if it's the most precious word to ever grace his lips.
Every night. I see him. I feel him. I hear him. And every morning, I wake to know he's gone.
My mother opens her eyes and all traces of ire are gone.
“Walk me to the common room.”
Instead of poking the bear and furthering our fight like I might have done in the past, I let her slide her arm through mine and we walk down the hall. Linked together, we head to the common room where our community will congregate to watch the nightly news on the one media outlet the states have left.
In what was once the school's computer lab, all twenty-three residents of our temporary home gather around in rolling office chairs, every pair of eyes trained on the laptop in the corner.
Every pair of eyes except mine.
I glance around the room, watching emotion flicker across every resident's face.
There's shock, despair, grief, even disgust.
The news anchor updates the world on our losing battle, just as she does every night, and I keep my sights on what matters most right now.
It's too risky focusing on a dream or a goal that's months or years away. Yes, I want the streets to be safe, the water to be clean, and the daily death toll to dissipate, but that's not happening anytime soon. So the only thing I need to focus on is the health, happiness, and safety of everyone crammed in this room.
My new family.
We were all smart, cautious, and well prepared. Even with the odds agai
nst us, we survived the initial outbreak and found this place. We accepted the casualties and found ways to live without venturing into the outside world.
Will our stockpile eventually run dry?
Sure.
Will the men that risk their lives to deliver good to our community one day realize it wasn't worth the risk?
Probably.
But until that happens, our little village works. Aside from the occasional skirmish.
Speaking of which...
“I hear you had a disagreement with your security detail.”
My father's low voice greets my ears, but I don't turn to face him.
“It was minor,” I say, hoping he'll brush it off.
In all the world, there's one person I can't stand to let down. One person I can't stomach the thought of disappointing.
My father.
“Why don't you try not to leave any physical evidence behind next time, hmm?”
I glance up to find my father staring straight ahead, a smirk lifting one side of his lips. Following his gaze, I meet the irritated eyes of Russell, who's sporting one hell of a bruise across his jaw.
I grin, and Russell averts his eyes.
“Jesus, Maya,” my mother whispers. “Were you wearing brass knuckles? The kid looks like he was dropped by Mark Tyson.”
I roll my eyes. “I think you mean Mike.”
“Yeah,” she nods. “Him too.”
Our attention turns at the soft pinging from the laptop screen, alerting everyone that a breaking announcement is about to scroll past. Everyone perks up, leaning forward as they try to read the white writing against the red backdrop.
“President Decker to recruit soldiers for special containment assignment,” someone from the front reads aloud. “Training to commence immediately upon establishment of task force. Intel suggests President Decker will travel to meet with other world leaders to discuss forming alliances in an effort to keep uninfected citizens safe.”
“What kind of training could prepare people to face this?” I ask my father.
“All kinds.” He shakes his head. “Especially if they're pulling civilians.”
I'm confused. The announcement didn't say anything about civilians.
The Blood Pawn Page 2
