New World Inferno: Book Three in a Young Adult Dystopian Series

by Jennifer Wilson

  A swirl of anxiety scattered in the room’s growing light, spiraling out and grabbing hold of any vulnerable heart in striking distance. A charmer in a cage of vipers, Triven’s hands rose, temporarily quelling the fear. “We are going to get them. There is a place we can hide everyone,” his eyes shifted to me questioningly. I knew he did not agree with my plan, but still he continued. “We’re moving out tonight, I know there are lot of questions but we need you to trust—”

  A sea of shouts drowned Triven’s last words. The desolation that had kept these people imprisoned finally given way. Undiluted fear, anger and hate soured the room like a fine poisonous fog. Mistrust had been brewing since we had left, and it was finally boiling over. No, not just boiling over, it was devouring them.

  “You just said we can’t trust anyone!”

  “We will starve out here!”

  “Why should we trust you? You left us!”

  “My family is out there!”

  “You can’t hold us here!”

  “You still haven’t answered…”

  “How do we know you didn’t do this?”

  “Or her for that matter?!”

  “I’m not going back to a Tribe. I will kill everyone in this room before that happens.”

  “Maybe you’re the traitor!”

  Wave upon wave of terrified verbal vomit spewed out, the noxious fumes contaminating the room. Voices clamored, their volumes growing as panic took hold of the crowd. My eyes darted to the windows as my fingertips brushed the hilt of my holstered gun. If these people didn’t shut up, if they didn’t listen, the Tribes were going to find us and then we were all dead. We needed these people under control and we needed it now. A few shell-shocked citizens still lingered on the floor cradling themselves, but the majority of the once docile group was now converging on us, and it was apparent their leaders no longer had control of the situation.

  Shoulders jostled me, jockeying for their voices to be heard. The sea of bodies morphed, pulling and pushing us in its wake. Mouse’s slight frame had disappeared into the sudden swarm while Triven became the dam blocking the door. Though he held strong, it was clear he was losing ground. On the other side of the tide, a head of silver hair could be seen twisting to those around her. The crowd pushed closer, my heart rate escalating with their intensity. Both Triven and his mother tried to calmly restore order, to subdue their people, but their empty raised hands did nothing to pacify the ex-Tribesmen. Archer pointed her rifle into the middle of a man’s chest while Baxter was climbing onto the lockers to try and reign in the escalating chaos from above.

  This was not going according to plan. In fact, the entire situation was a fiasco. Damn it, we didn’t have time for this. These were supposed to be the civilized people, the rational ones on this side of The Wall.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. The word pulsed with each heartbeat.

  Then one man caught my eye. He was the largest and the loudest of the group, steamrolling his way through the center of the throng. I vaguely remembered seeing him upon our arrival, though I had paid him little attention then. It was “Tank”. Though I had not taken the time to learn all of the Subversive members’ names or faces, his was certainly one I had never seen before today. I would have remembered this one. A mohawk of dark dreaded hair hung to his tree-trunk-waist. His nose, much like the rest of him, seemed oversized, but when compared to his bugging eyes and enormous skull, it seemed rather proportionate. But the part I would have remembered, the part that I couldn’t have been forgotten, was not his size, but the markings on his face. They weren’t tattoos, but scars. Fine deliberately puckered pink lines spiraled from his temples down his cheeks. A dark patchy beard covered most of it, but what was visible, was striking. I had seen those markings occasionally before. He had been a Wraith and only their deadliest warriors had borne those marks. While no one dared touch the man, a small group shadowed his steps, rallied by the man’s intensity. Round face reddened with rage, the behemoth’s eyes were set on Triven who was still blocking the door. His intention was clear­—move or be moved. The barrel-chested man only had to clench and unclench his oversized hands twice before I reacted.

  “ENOUGH!” I roared over the chaos and as the man’s fist rose toward Triven’s face, I let my knife fly.

  7. FUSE

  C RIES BROKE OUT, cutting through the pandemonium as a thin red line split the front of the ex-Wraith’s shirt. He froze, staring down in shock before fingering the blossoming crimson stripe on his chest. The man’s face lifted, burning a deeper red than his shirt front. His eyes widened before narrowing to slits at the sight of the barrel of my handgun suspended under his flaring nostrils.

  The blade had barely nicked his chest, but the edge was razor sharp. I made sure of that every morning. The hilt was quivering in the wall next to the temple of a motionless wide-eyed woman. Aside from the man’s rage fueled breaths, the room had gone utterly silent.

  I used the hushed moment to cock the firearm and level it directly at his heart. It was an unnecessary action, as the gun was a semi-automatic, but it got the point across. Move and I shoot you.

  “Were you trying to kill me?” The man snarled through stained teeth.

  “You’re still standing there, aren’t you?” Triven’s hand brushed the lower part of my back as I spoke, the brief contact whispering to tread carefully. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you in the face. If I hadn’t been worried about giving away our location, I might have. Although that may not freakin’ matter anymore, seeing as all of you idiots might have already done that for us!” My glare swept the room, pleased to find a few remorseful faces. “Are you kidding me?! What the hell is wrong with you people? Did you forget where you were? Have you already forgotten what it’s like out here? Who you are in this world? We are not inside your precious concrete tunnels anymore. You are not safe out here. Away from this group,” I gestured to the room, “you are nothing but traitors, deserters.”

  “We know better than anyone else what it’s like to be alone out there, rebel.” The man sneered, jabbing a sausage finger at the door behind me. Others nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Really?” My eyebrows rose accusingly. “Really? After you defected, how long did you survive on your own before the Subversive found you? A few days? A few weeks? Maybe a month if you were lucky?”

  His mouth opened then clamped shut. Heads stopped bobbing.

  “That’s what I thought. You don’t know shit about what happens out there when you’re on your own. You won’t survive a day, Wraith.” I spat the last word at him, knowing it was a low blow. Several other faces flinched.

  Rage ran off the man in sheets. I could taste it. Smell the urge to strike me.

  “Grenald…” One of his trailing shadows warned him from behind, eyeing my steadfast firearm.

  Arstid’s voice carried over the crowd. “Maybe the council should—”

  Raged pulsed through the crowd, but I was the first to speak.

  “No, no more councils. These people need to make a decision, on their own, right now. Within the concrete walls of the Subversive I followed your rules. But we are not there anymore. That world you built is gone.” Arstid recoiled from my unapologetically harsh words. “We’re in my world, in my home and I make the rules this time. I’m going to do my damnedest to keep all of you alive, but the truth is, no one is safe here. Especially not on your own. If you want my help, you’re going to have to trust me. Trust us. Trust each other. If you don’t, there’s the door.” I nodded toward the exit. A few stray eyes twitched longingly to the open door behind us. “But, walk out that door and you’re done here. This world is about to change forever and if you leave us now, good luck. We won’t be coming to rescue you again. The war you have all wanted so badly is here. And things are about to get a lot uglier before they get better, but I can promise you this. It’s better to fight it together than to die alone. We have seen what we are up against. Believe us or not, I don’t really care. But for the first time ever,
Tartarus needs to be a united front. Prove to me that those concrete hallways weren’t the only thing holding you people together. Prove that there is still decency in the human race and unite. Unite… or get the hell out.”

  Several people stared opened mouthed, and it dawned on me that these were the most words many of them had ever heard me say. And a there was weight in my words, the air was heavy with it. In the stunned silence, the pattering of small feet echoed to my side before stopping. Mouse’s fingers squeezed mine, her silent pledge one of loyalty. More surprisingly was the second set of steps following closely behind hers, and while I never took my eyes off the huffing giant towering before me, I caught a glimpse of unruly blonde hair bouncing next to Mouse. There was stirring in the room full of human statues. Some made their way to the front, to our side. Seven people in total—Arden, Baxter and Archer were among them. Though Archer looked less than happy about the situation, she still stood tall next to Triven’s shoulder.

  All other movement in the room had ceased. No one dared breathe, much less move. My threat clung to the silence, dripping from the ceiling, plastering the walls. It was an ultimatum, but still, I was not their leader. I wasn’t even one of them—not really. Questioning eyes fluttered to each other, before falling on their leader’s weary face. One word and Arstid could undermine me completely. One word and her people would turn on me. One word and we had already lost the war.

  Arstid’s eyes softened as they fell on her citizens, before landing hard on me.

  My stomach dropped. Her glare said it all. It was over before it had ever begun.

  Drawing to her full height, she closed the gap between us. Grenald took a tense step back at her approach. With a twisting grace, Arstid spun away from me, effectively inserting herself between my gun and the giant. The barrel now aimed at the middle of her own spine as she faced Grenald. I knew I should have lowered the gun, but I didn’t. Instead my finger tensed on the trigger. Then she spoke, sealing my fate.

  “These people, your people, kept you alive, helped feed and clothe you, gave you a home in a world that turned its back on you.” She gestured to everyone in the room. To the community that had flourished despites the odds. “We are not a Tribe. You are not forced to be here. We are your friends, your true family. The Subversive saved everyone in this room and if you cannot trust us now, then you have no business being here. But know this. Turn your back on us now—when we need one another the most—and Phoenix is right, we will not be there to save you again.”

  Grenald’s face flushed deep purple as his lips contorted into a snarl. With a scalding exhalation, the ex-Wraith shoved past Arstid, his broad shoulder clipping her bony one as he stomped to the door. Those nearest scattered from the raging bull’s path. With a roar, a colossal fist slammed into the frame, sending shockwaves rattling through the door, but instead of exiting, the man turned, planting his broad back against the wall next to the opening. Fingers folded, his hands clamped down upon his partially shaved head. Sparks flew from his dark eyes, but still Grenald stayed. And it seemed that with the furious titan now guarding the door, any other thoughts of desertion evaporated.

  The city’s law of survival was reflected on all of their faces. The same words that haunted all of our dreams.

  Join or die.

  These people weren’t a Tribe, but they were still children of Tartarus. The desire for survival still burned in their blood, coursed in their veins and pulsed in their hearts.

  Together we were a band of survivors. Alone we were dead.

  When no one else moved, I reholstered my gun and retrieved the knife from the wall. “Okay. Everyone get comfortable, it’s going to be a long twenty-four hours.”

  FORTY-SEVEN PAIRS of curious eyes followed me as I moved through the dimly lit space. Several people scattered as I shooed them away from the metal cabinets they were huddled against. None spoke. Listening to that many people breathe, their tongues held by fear, anger and grief was torture. Their silence was oppressive. It made me wish a fight had broken out. At least that would have relieved some of the tension.

  The atmosphere was humming with unasked questions, but mercifully the stunned people kept their mouths shut. Judging by several glances at my sheath, I assumed it was out of fear that I would throw a knife at them too. Which, in all fairness, I might have.

  Mouse’s hand still clutched Maribel’s swinging idly between them as they followed me through the rows of lockers. Eyeing me suspiciously, Arstid trailed close behind. Her glare was burning a hole in the back of my suit. She had sided with me only a moment ago, but that didn’t change months of mistrust. Nor did it clear her name in my book either. We were allies now, but not friends.

  At locker number two-hundred-sixty-two my feet halted. It was the number of pages in my father’s favorite book in the edition I had nicked from the old library. The latch was cold, its rusted surface untouched for nearly a year. The hinges protested as I popped the handle, but the faded blue door swung open. A waft of dusty air caressed my cheek as it opened and I smiled. Stepping back to reveal the contents, sheer pleasure warmed my chest when Arstid’s eyes popped wider.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Her voice was hushed.

  Several onlookers pressed closer to get a better look, Grenald’s massive frame prominent in the cluster. Triven and Baxter had flanked him, ready to subdue if necessary.

  Reaching in, I snagged a silver MRE pouch and launched it at Grenald’s stained chest. “Consider this a peace offering.”

  He frowned at the packet dwarfed in his gargantuan hands. For a moment, I thought he might crush it, but instead he turned, handing it to a small boy cowering next to him. The child’s eyes warmed and the giant’s cleft chin dipped in my direction. Peace offering accepted. I mirrored the ex-Wraith before catching Triven’s eye, letting my gaze linger.

  See, I’m playing nice, it said and based on the quirk of his lips he got the message.

  Beckoning the girls closer, I grabbed two more handfuls of the silver ration pouches. “Start handing these out to the other children. Make sure everyone shares.”

  I scanned the growing crowd as the girls sought out the other children, daring someone to try and claim a meal from them. It seemed I wasn’t the only one concerned. Archer materialized, her rifle resting prominently on her shoulder. She began to trail the girls as they handed out the food to the other kids. Her glare alone was ward against any selfish thought. Still, no one bothered Mouse or Maribel, instead they were watching me.

  I moved methodically, carefully selecting each numbered door. Several were meaningless numbers burned into my mind by necessity, others bore more significance. The address of a favorite character’s home, the page which held a favorite quote, the days counted since I came to this hellish city—each locker held different things, each one seemingly random. The clusters of people skittered as I waved them aside to gain access to each closed door. Gasps rose from the Subversive’s members as they watched the contents being unearthed. Bags of freeze-dried food, bottles of purified water, blankets, books and lanterns. Even Triven’s eyes widened with each new unveiled warehouse stash.

  “When you told me you had supplies hidden here, I assumed a few dirty blankets and a bottle of water.” Triven eyed the purified water as he handed it off to a weasel-faced man who bore the signs of once being a Scavenger. The missing teeth and yellow pallor that never seemed to entirely fade always gave them away.

  “I thought you had learned not to underestimate me.” I smirked as his ears flushed pink.

  “Apparently, I needed to be reminded of how enterprising you are.” He winked a hazel eye and it was my turn to flush.

  To my utter surprise, no one rushed the exposed supplies, but instead gathered closer together clinging to each other in hope. It seemed with the emergence of supplies, the panic that had so forcefully gripped the room moments ago had subsided, for now. But even as the provisions were handed out, I could see the worry blossoming again. My stash was never meant to
feed such a large group of people. They knew it wouldn’t last.

  I pushed a handful of food packets and water bottles into Triven’s open arms.

  “There’s not enough for everyone, they’re going to have to share and ration themselves. This all needs to last the day.”

  Surreptitiously, I slipped five silver packets into the satchel now slung over my shoulder. They were promptly followed by six books, an oversized shirt and two water bottles. Only Triven’s keen eyes caught the light-fingered action. His eyebrows rose but he said nothing.

  “How many are we going to take with us tonight?”

  We had never solidified this part of the plan, sidetracked by the mob situation that had nearly derailed us.

  Tightening down the satchel’s strap, the numbers started ticking through my brain.

  “Ten at most, anything else will risk too much exposure.” I eyed the members of the Subversive, counting off the key players we had mentioned on the rooftop before stopping on one member in particular. “Bring Grenald.”

  Triven’s brow creased as he handed the supplies off to a maternal-looking woman to continue doling out. As she moved away he leaned in closer with the pretext of helping me tighten my shoulder strap. “You think he can be useful?”

  “I think we should keep him close.” My gaze flickered to meet his. Triven’s breath was warm on my cheek, making it hard to pull away. “There is one more locker.”

  I nodded over my shoulder for Archer and Baxter to follow us. In the back corner of the room, near the hidden vent shaft I had spent many nights sleeping in, was locker four hundred and twelve.

  When the door popped open, Baxter let out a low whistle and despite herself, even Archer eyed me appreciatively. Three handguns, one rifle, ten clips, and seven throwing knives layered the faded blue interior. Before I had met these people, before I knew what it was to rely on someone else, I had always kept stashes of weapons near each of my hideouts. It was stupid to travel with this quantity of weapons on your person. The weight alone would only slow you down, and flaunting that many weapons definitely made you a more desirable target. These had been my reserves, my safety blanket. Like everything else hidden here, they too had been slowly filched from the Ravagers’ warehouse over the period of six years.