The Blood Pawn

by Nicole Tillman

  I want to tell him that I agree with her, but that would be admitting something I'm not ready to come to terms with quite yet. So instead, I follow him to a table and pick up the first handgun I see. It's a Ruger LC380. I know this because I've shot one before.

  Unbidden, a memory springs to the forefront of my mind.

  He charges me, his eyes wild, ugly sores popping up on his skin that weren't there an hour ago. Blood-tinged saliva drips from his open mouth as he takes in thick breaths.

  Clawed hands raise as he runs toward me, fingers aimed at my throat, and when I look past all that into the blue eyes I love so much, I don't see my Jared. The beautiful cerulean stare I fell in love with is gone, replaced by the deep, ruddy maroon of busted blood vessels.

  This isn't my Jared. This isn't even a person.

  It's something else.

  Something evil.

  Something... hungry.

  I raise my hands and take aim.

  “Forgive me.”

  His putrid breath hits my nostrils.

  I pull the trigger.

  I sit the gun back on the table. I don't want to touch it anymore. I can't. Not without losing myself.

  Moving on down, I look at the options.

  Thanks to living with retired soldiers for eighteen long months at the compound, I can identify most of these firearms.

  There's a .308 Winchester, a Mossberg 590A1, a Glock 17L, an AK-74, and a Ruger 10/22. There are a few others I don't recognize, but I pick up the Glock.

  Before I can even test the weight in my hands, it disappears.

  “Hey!”

  Turning around, I find the creepy instructor shaking his head.

  “Nope. I have something better for you.” He smiles, and I can't help but cringe. “Come with me.”

  While everyone else gets their choice of guns, we make our way around the tables and into a supply closet reeking of mothballs and gunpowder. I don't immediately follow him in, mostly because he gives me the willies, but he's not inside long.

  “Here we go!”

  I gawk at what he's carrying.

  An ax... and a machete.

  “You're kidding.”

  He shakes his head glumly. “Can't say that I am.”

  He hands them off to me and I stand there looking at them. They're not even clean! The ax head is rusted so badly there's not a glint of silver to it, and the machete handle, which was once covered in electrical tape, is flaking off in my hand.

  “Do they want me to die?”

  He laughs, and it sounds more like a hiccup than anything else. “Winters, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “These suit you much better.” Nervousness passes behind his spectacles, and I'm instantly suspicious. “You can risk getting closer than the others.”

  It clicks.

  While the others have the option to shoot from a distance, I don't. They want me right there in the thick of it, engaging in hand-to-hand combat.

  “So, I'll be out there hacking away at them, and if one of my teammates happens to hit me instead of the enemy, no big deal, right?”

  “Right!” He quickly backtracks. “I mean, no. No, they won't be shooting at you.”

  “Oh, I see. I'll be fending for myself then with no backup.”

  “Exactly!” He thumps me on my back. “Glad you're on board.”

  When I turn around, the rest of my crew has already left for the firing range, but Tara stays behind. I lift the ax in her direction and fake a smile.

  “Scale of one to ten, how scary do I look?”

  She sighs. “Solid six.”

  “Ouch.” I lower the ax. “Guess I should have seen this coming, huh?”

  Mr. Creepwad slams the door behind him, leaving Tara and me alone.

  “Help me,” she blurts, grabbing me by the arm.

  I draw back in surprise. “Help you do what?”

  “I'm not comfortable around guns and I have no idea what I'm doing.”

  The tip of my machete points to the door that just closed. “Tara, he just asked if everyone-”

  “I know! I lied! I don't know anything about them other than to point the open end toward whatever you want to kill and pull the trigger.”

  She doesn't know how to use a gun, yet she's expected to mow down any zombie hordes we come across.

  Swell.

  “Come on,” I say with a sigh. “I'll show you the ropes.”

  I show Tara the basics using the Ruger. As far as recoil goes, it's the safest and easiest bet for her to start with. We go over how to remove the safety, how to check if there's a round in the chamber, and how to load and unload. She's a good student. I don't mind working with her.

  We're set up between Cain and Brian, and I catch her watching what they do, how they hold themselves, and she tries to mirror their stance. She wants to learn. She wants to get better. That's obvious. But the fear I sense in her when she raises the gun to fire for the first time has me on edge. Props to her for facing her fear and doing what she needs to do, but bless her heart for being put in the position in the first place.

  “Breathe in, but don't pull the trigger until you're already releasing the breath,” I instruct.

  I'm telling her everything my father told me when he taught me how to shoot. Being a doctor, I didn't really expect him to be big on firearms, but he has a soul-deep level of commitment when it comes to his family, and that extends into being able to protect us. So both my mother and I were taught how to shoot, how to protect ourselves, and how to do it safely.

  Tara's first shot completely misses the target, and I can tell she's already discouraged.

  “That's okay,” I say brightly. “Don't expect perfection the first time you pull the trigger. Try again.”

  BAM!

  This time, it nicks the edge of the target, but only barely.

  “Hey, that's progress. Again.”

  I don't watch her hands or her target. Instead, I watch her face.

  BAM!

  Just as I suspect, she closes one eye before shooting.

  “Hold up, Wyatt Earp.”

  I take the gun from her and step up to the shooting platform. After bracing my legs, I adjust my shoulders and raise my arms.

  BAM!

  A hole appears in the target only one ring away from the bullseye.

  I lower the gun and hand it back to her.

  “What did I do that you didn't?”

  She laughs. “Uh, hit the target?”

  “No. Besides that.”

  Tara shakes her head. “I honestly have no idea.”

  My finger reaches out to tap her between the eyebrows.

  “I had both eyes open,” I say. “It may feel natural to close one eye when shooting, but that doesn't work for everyone. It all depends on your eye dominance.”

  “Eye dominance?” The poor girl looks so confused.

  “You especially want to keep both eyes open when we're out there.” I point to the other side of the fence.

  I watch her visibly pale at the thought, but she shrugs it off quickly.

  “Why's that?”

  “When you're shooting with one eye closed, your peripheral vision is compromised. You can't see if there's someone about to attack you from the side. Keep both eyes open and you'll always know what's happening around you.”

  I think she's about to give it another go, but she doesn't. She clicks the safety back on.

  “I should be the one out there with a rusty ax.”

  Nope. We're not doing this right now. No pity party for Tara.

  “Take the safety off.”

  “I can't do this, Maya!” she yells. “Just holding the thing scares the piss out of me.”

  “Try. Again.”

  “I don't want to!”

  Now she's making me mad, and I don't want to be mad at Tara.

  “Just do it. One more shot. Just one. After that, we'll do whatever you want. You want me to shoot for you for the rest of the hour? Fine, I will. But just t
ake one more shot with both eyes open, just like I showed you.”

  The muscle in her jaw ticks, telling me she's grinding her molars, debating on whether or not to listen. But she really doesn't have a choice. Not if she wants to succeed here.

  “Fine.”

  I stay back behind the platform. She doesn't need any direction from me. I've shown or told her everything she needs to know. From here on out, it's up to her to adjust accordingly.

  BAM!

  My eyes squint against the sun to better see the target.

  Second ring out.

  Not bad.

  She turns back, surprised.

  “See?”

  Her wide grin is infectious, and I smile right along with her.

  “You've got this.”

  Back inside, Professor McCreeper tells us to line up along the far wall. We wait quietly, watching his every move as he sifts through the pile of paper targets and jots down notes.

  “What do you think he's doing?” Martina whispers beside me.

  “He's trying to remember how to read.”

  The girls chuckle, but Cain casts a stern glare down at me and I purse my lips to banish a smile.

  A loud bang rings through the room, and I'm still so amped up from shooting that for a moment I think it's a gunshot. But I look to the front of the room and realize it was the slamming of a door.

  Celeste waltzes into the room with her head held high, a gun in one hand, an obliterated target in the other.

  “Oh, yay,” Sully deadpans. “She's back.”

  My thoughts exactly.

  Her nose is bandaged and she has a huge purple bruise running down her jawline, but by the way she struts across the floor, it doesn't seem to bother her.

  Suddenly, shame washes through me, and I want to hide my face. I know what everyone is thinking: That the monster in the room did that. They're thinking I can't be trusted, and maybe they're right. Maybe I can't.

  Cain holds out his fist for me to bump, but I slap his arm away.

  “Don't.”

  “What?” he says, quirking a brow. “Can't blame me. I mean, that's some beautiful work right there.”

  “I hate you so much right now.”

  Celeste falls in line and waits with the rest of us. Once our instructor finishes whatever he's doing, he turns to face us all, clipboard in hand.

  “Since there's so many of you, you'll be sectioned off into two groups,” he explains. “Don't try to swap; it won't work. And don't whine to me if you're not where you think you should be.”

  He starts at the far end of the line.

  “Ruth Miller, Beta. Carson Palmer, Beta. Todd Brooks, Alpha. Celeste Baker, Alpha.”

  We all roll our eyes in unison. Of course.

  “Miranda Vogel, Alpha. Remy Brown, Alpha. Wes Newman, Beta. Kaylee Teller, Alpha.”

  I assume being on the Alpha Team is a good thing, so I cheer silently for Kaylee.

  “Curtis Mayfair, Alpha. Kendra Mayfair, Alpha.”

  The twins cheer, high five, and chest bump. Which is a little unsettling to watch.

  “Brian Ashford, Beta. Sully Hackett, Beta.”

  I grin. At least they're on the same team.

  “Cainen Holebrook, Alpha.”

  Looking up at Cain, I smirk. “Cainen?” I mouth. He blushes just the slightest bit.

  “Martina Garcia, Beta.”

  He stands in front of me, pen pointing at my face but eyes glued to the clipboard.

  “Maya Winters, Beta. Tara Young, Beta.”

  I sag against the wall, thankful to be put in with most of my friends. All except Cain...

  “Why is Maya a Beta?” I jerk my head around to find Tara glaring at McCreeper and jutting her thumb in my general direction. “She's one of the best shots you've got, and you're sticking her with rusty garden tools.”

  McCreaton glares down at Tara, and I have the oddest urge to step between them to protect her. But that wouldn't be good for either of us, so I stay rooted where I am.

  “Careful, Young,” he warns. “She's the only babysitter you've got.”

  Inch by inch, Tara withers. I don't even need to be looking at her to know there are tears springing up in her eyes. When she turns, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and give her a shake.

  “Well, that was stupid of you.”

  “I know.” She sniffs back her tears. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, don't worry about it. Besides, it's probably a good thing I'm not grouped with Celeste.”

  Cain still hasn't moved from the wall, so I kick his boot with mine.

  “Hey, Debbie Downer, what's your problem? You're an Alpha now. I think that comes with bragging rights.”

  “Yeah, well, I don't really feel like bragging.” He crosses his arms and looks up at the ceiling.

  “Hey.” I move away from Tara and touch his arm. “What's wrong?”

  His breath comes heavy, as if he's waging an internal battle. When some of our friends step away to give us room, his shoulders relax.

  “Heard the guards talking about this last night,” he whispers, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Only they called us the Alphas and the Disposables.”

  I cringe. As if I don't already feel expendable.

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.” He reluctantly pushes off the wall and turns to walk toward his group. “Be careful.”

  I've always hated that phrase. It seems so ominous. And the way Cain says it, it almost sounds like the beginning of a goodbye, which I like even less.

  Martina and Tara come up behind me and we all watch Cain walk away.

  “Poor guy,” Martina says. “At least you'll still be able to spar together.”

  True. There is that. But something tells me there's a deeper reason for this divide. The people in our group are smaller, shorter, with less muscle mass. The Alphas are a little beefier. Most are either six foot or lacking a few inches. They even look meaner. Cain with his scar and broody stare. Kaylee and her tattoos and crazy hair. And now Celeste, with a broken nose and bruised jaw, courtesy of yours truly.

  Yeah... I should be an Alpha. I belong in that group. But McCreaton is right. My friends need me. And if I'm being completely honest, I need them too.

  The people running this program pack everything they can into every single day. You'd think with so much to do it would be exciting, but it's not. It's becoming monotonous.

  Every day I spar with Cain in the training room. Then I help Tara on the range. Slowly, she learns her way around every gun I put in her hands. When Cain can spare time away from his Alpha brothers and sisters, he and Brian help me practice wielding my ax and machete. Sometimes Cain gets a little too into it and Brian has to step away so he's not designated as the target.

  “It's all in the wrist,” Cain says, gripping the machete. “You don't swing with a stiff wrist. You whip it.”

  He demonstrates the proper 'whipping' technique and I copy him. It's harder to work with than I thought it would be, but I'm learning.

  “Nope. That's not it.”

  I lower the blade and look to him, but he has his back to me.

  “How can you tell? You weren't even watching me.”

  “I can tell by the sound.” Cain abandons the gun he's cleaning to approach me. “When you do it right, there's a certain sound it makes. Like a whistle.”

  “A whistle.”

  “Yeah.” His arms cross over his chest as he looks at the ground. “As a kid, did you ever take a twig or a stick and swing it through the air as fast as you could? Like a sword?”

  I did actually. A lot. I was a small child, much smaller than my classmates, and doing things like that made me feel big. Strong.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember the noise it made as it slashed through the air?”

  Glancing down at the ground, I try to remember. I summon the memory and erase everything but the noise. My father at the grill, my mother bringing in laundry off the clothes line, the neighbor's dog wagging its tail by
the fence. I block all that out and focus on the noise...

  He's right. There's a distinct sound to it.

  “It's like the wind yelling,” I say. “Like a breathy whistle. It's quiet, but it sounds-”

  “Dangerous,” he finishes for me.

  Right. It's invisible, subtle, but dangerous.

  Out of the blue, Cain lightly grabs me around the back of the neck and presses his forehead to mine.

  “If you're going for the kill shot, aim right here.” His fingers move back and forth just under the base of my skull. “This is mostly cartilage and small pieces of bone. It's one of the easiest places to slice through. Aim for that.”

  I swallow hard, thrown by the heat of his hands on my cool flesh.

  “Got it.”

  I won't forget that spot.

  The other Betas mostly keep to themselves, but Sully and Martina sometimes convince them to join the little competition they have going on. Each day, they wage bets on who will shoot the best, and every day McCreaton adds more obstacles and challenges, causing them to get more creative with their bets.

  With each passing day, I watch the others change. They bulk up or grow leaner. Me? My body remains the same. Completely unchanged. But I FEEL different.

  I feel faster, stronger, more resilient. And not just on the range or on a sparring mat. I feel confident, even happy, in all other aspects of my so-called life.

  Even though I know danger lurks thick and ugly on the other side of our fence, inside these walls, I feel safe. Free even. Happier than I did back at the compound with my parents. My parents who I miss like crazy. They're probably at their wit's end, not knowing what's happening with me, but I have yet to find a phone in this place, so I don't know how to contact them. But I will. One day.

  I have so many things to keep me going now, to keep me focused. Mostly Cain, since he's my own personal cheerleader. I didn't come into this looking for a friend, or even an ally, but I trust him and he trusts me. Being in his presence is easy because I know I can count on him to have my back and he knows I'll return the favor.

  We work well together, which makes it all the more difficult knowing that when this gets real and we're forced to jump into action, he won't be by my side.