by Joe Hart
“No,” she whispers, seeing his pack is missing as well. Zoey steps down out of the ASV and returns to the fire ring. “He’s gone,” she says.
“What do you mean, gone?” Tia asks, coming to her feet. She hurries past Zoey as Ian and Eli both stand as well. Tia’s muffled curse is clearly audible and a moment later she comes striding back to them.
She stops in front of Zoey and without blinking, slaps her hard across the face.
Zoey’s head snaps to the side, the corner of her mouth on fire as she tastes blood.
“Tia,” Ian says.
“No! She did this. She disobeyed him and now they’re both gone.” Zoey looks up into the older woman’s face, her normally placid features rigid with anger. Tia brings a finger within an inch of Zoey’s eyes, her hand trembling with rage. “You know what he did, don’t you? He entered himself in the fucking competition to get her back.”
“You’re right,” she says, her vision blurring. “It’s my fault.”
“Tia, we don’t know exactly where Merrill went,” Ian says, stepping up beside both of them. “Perhaps he’s doing reconnaissance. Maybe he’s even gathering the schematics for the city sewer as we’d planned before.”
Tia continues to stare, undaunted by Ian’s words, and Zoey drops her eyes, unable to withstand her glare. She feels a tear slide down her stinging cheek.
“There’s only one way to know for sure,” Eli says, moving to the ASV. He grabs a small pack, hoisting it over his shoulders. “I’ll go check things out. Be back as soon as I can.”
“Eli,” Ian says as the other man starts out of the clearing. “Be careful.” Eli nods and is gone among the trees. Tia stares at Zoey for another drawn moment before stalking off around the side of the ASV.
Zoey stands with her head down, blinking away hot tears. Ian’s hand touches her shoulder, trying to draw her into a hug, but she pushes him away.
“You should give me to the trade in exchange for Chelsea. They’d do it, I’m younger than her.”
“You didn’t mean for her to get taken, and you couldn’t prevent Merrill from going after her, just as he couldn’t stop you from witnessing the trade firsthand.”
“But Tia . . .”
“Tia will calm down and see that we will have to work together to get them both back. She will forgive you.”
“I can’t forgive myself,” Zoey says, turning away from him. She paces to the edge of the forest and finds a small hollow at the base of a crooked pine that she nestles herself into, curling into as small a shape as possible. She wishes she could keep folding in on herself until she disappears, become only an empty place in the world where she once was.
Because that is what she feels like now.
She closes her eyes, but the image of Chelsea being dragged away is there waiting for her in the dark, and when it fades she sees new and horrible visions of what will be done to her as soon as she’s fought over and sold.
Her thoughts become elongated and spastic as they meld into a nightmare where Chelsea is hauled away again and again, but this time she can see the faces of her captors. She recognizes Ken’s yellow grin, and the Director’s cool gaze, and when the last figure turns she wakes herself with a scream, because it is her own face she sees floating there in the darkness.
Zoey pants, sucking in breaths of air that do nothing to calm her as she comes fully awake. She unclenches her aching fists and sees bloody half moons where her fingernails gouged her palms.
The sun has moved past the center of the sky and is angling toward the mountain in the west, its glittering peak barely visible above the trees. She manages to stand and is about to head back in the direction of their camp when Ian appears from around the nearest pine.
“Ah good, we were beginning to worry,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Eli’s returned.”
They hurry back to the ASV and find Eli and Tia leaning against its side. Eli gives her a tired smile as they approach and she can’t help the quaver in her voice when she speaks.
“Did you see them? Is Merrill there?”
“Yes. He’s there.” Eli sighs. “He was one of four men who had enough money and entered into the competition for Chelsea. Looks like they auction the women off according to age. They must’ve got her to tell them how old she is because she’s the youngest at thirty-nine.”
The forest begins a lazy spin around her, nausea squirming in her stomach. “When?”
“Tonight.”
She sinks down to the nearest rock. “Is there any way to get Merrill out? If he comes back, we can find the map of the sewer and get Chelsea—”
Eli shakes his head. “All the men who entered are locked up in separate cells in the center of the trade. It’s like they’re on display. Guys were taking bets on who would win, some were yelling at Merrill because he’s obviously not from Southland and the others are. There’s guards all around the cells, no way I could see to get him out. Besides, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want us to.”
Tia winds up and kicks a small rock off into the underbrush and paces away then back, hands on her hips. “Then we hit them before the competition. Right now. We go in through the sewer and take our chances.”
“That would be suicide, Tia, and you know it,” Ian says.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No. But getting killed will not help Chelsea or Merrill.”
“I’m not just going to stand by and watch!” Tia yells, her fiery gaze falling on Zoey. “I won’t.”
“Maybe that’s all we can do,” Eli says.
“What are you talking about?” Tia asks.
“Merrill’s trained in hand to hand. He’s strong, a good fighter, and with Chelsea being what he’s there for, it wouldn’t surprise me if he won.”
“Yeah and he’s missing a fucking leg too. Did you forget about that?”
“Both of you, calm down,” Ian says, holding his hands out. “This is not a time to quarrel.” He glances between the two of them. “But Eli may have a point. If Merrill were to be victorious, he could simply walk away with Chelsea, no worse for wear.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Tia says. “What if he slips or the guy he goes up against is better than he is?”
Ian rubs his grizzled chin. “Eli, how is the competition set up?”
“From what I heard, they lead Chelsea out to watch from the stands in the center of that ring along with everyone else and then put two of the men in with each other. They get to choose what kind of weapon they fight with, but it’s all blades or axes, no guns.”
Zoey cringes. Of course they would promote the most brutal and bloody death. Judging by the reaction of the crowd the night before at the execution, the competition would have to be as ruthless as possible to please the masses.
“And do they limit the competition to one fight an evening?” Ian asks.
Eli shakes his head. “No. All of them draw straws. The two with the shortest straws fight. Whoever wins faces the next guy chosen until there’s only one left.”
“But if Merrill’s first and wins he’ll be worn down by the second fight, and what if he gets injured?” Zoey asks. “That’s not fair.”
“This isn’t something built on fairness,” Ian says. “It appears a lot is left up to fate.”
Zoey rises to her feet. “We have to do something. We can’t just let him fight and hope he wins.”
“Yeah? And what’s your plan, girly?” Tia says. “You have some brilliant idea you’ve been keeping to yourself?”
“No. But there was a woman at the execution and I . . . I recognized her.”
They all stare at her. Eli licks his lips. “What do you mean? You know her from the ARC?”
“No. Not from the ARC. She looked familiar, like I saw her in a picture once or something.”
“Regardless, what difference does it make?” Tia says.
“Last night, she was right beside the man who was killed, and her face—I could tell she was dyin
g inside. For some reason she’s not locked up. Maybe she can help us.”
“And what, you want to go back in there? Forget it.”
Zoey moves past the others to the ASV and climbs inside. Merrill’s coat, the one she wore the night before, lies in the far corner of the bench and she picks it up as Tia climbs into the vehicle behind her.
“You don’t listen very well,” Tia says, her voice softer than it has been all day.
“No.”
“But I guess that’s the one thing that got you out of the ARC in the first place.” Zoey traces a frayed patch on one shoulder of the coat. “And it’s why you’re walking again.” Tia steps closer and cups Zoey’s chin in her hand, bringing her gaze up so they are eye to eye. “I’m sorry for hitting you.”
“I deserved it.”
“No. You didn’t. The bastards that took Chelsea deserve it, not you.”
“They deserve worse than that.”
Tia studies her for a long moment. “Are you sure you want to go in?”
“Yes. I owe them both that much. And if we don’t try tonight, tomorrow might be too late.”
Tia releases her chin and draws her into a rough embrace, which she’s never done before. Zoey hugs her back, emotion rising in her so suddenly she almost bursts into tears. When Tia lets her go she’s surprised to see the older woman’s eyes glistening.
“What do you need?”
She thinks, briefly running over a list in her mind. But it’s all guesswork right now; she won’t know exactly how anything is going to go down until she’s spoken to the woman from the execution. “Money,” she says finally. “And another couple magazines for my pistol.”
“I’ll get what cash Ian has on him.”
Tia is partially out the door when Zoey stops her. “We’re going to get them back,” she says. Tia gives her a brief smile and a quick nod before disappearing outside, and Zoey wonders if Tia believes her any more than she believes herself.
36
Wen shudders, dry heaving over a pail in the corner of the kitchen.
Her stomach unlocks itself from the solid constriction it’s become in her middle and she slumps to the floor, sweaty hair hanging in her face.
She wants to die.
Maybe she should do it. There are enough knives at hand to finish the job the poison started. She gazes at the handles sticking out of the butcher block. It would be so easy to slide one of the razor-sharp blades up the length of her forearm and just go to sleep.
Another tremor runs through her and she holds her hand out before her eyes. It shakes slightly, but nothing like it did the night before.
She’s not sure how much of the ten-eighty got into her system, but she wishes now she would have swallowed the bite of pie. She wouldn’t be sick and weak now, and she wouldn’t keep catching herself looking for Robbie to walk through the kitchen door at any second. Routine is a cruel thing, especially when the years of unchanging repetition make you temporarily forget your best friend is dead, only to suddenly remember and kick-start the grief all over again.
Wen wipes at her face, hand coming away slick with sweat. The only good thing is she’s been basically healthy all the years she’s been in the trade and this morning’s sickness was accepted without question by the Prestons when she sent word to them that she wouldn’t be able to cook today.
She fingers the bulge inside the pocket of her pants, the little canister empty now, useless and hollow. Just like she is. Why did she use the entire amount?
But she knows why. She didn’t want to take any chances. She wanted both of them dead. And even more so now. She wishes James could understand how destroyed she is, how much she wanted the plan to work as well, but he is carrying his own burden now.
He came to her earlier that morning, furious and unwilling to listen. And she was so weak there was nothing she could say or do to appease him. She even considered telling him what fate he would’ve met if Robbie and Fitz hadn’t been discovered, but the anger she felt at his selfish indignation wasn’t enough to fuel the blistering words.
So she weathered the storm of his fury and told him to leave her alone. And he had. But being alone was almost as bad as absorbing his rage. Between periods of vomiting she had dreamed of ways to finish what she and Robbie started. But short of sneaking a gun into the nest and trying to cut the Prestons down before Hemming kills her, there are no options. Her one chance was thrown out with the trash last night.
Before she’d gotten sick, after enduring the coliseum, she’d checked the waste bin behind the nest, hoping against hope that the Prestons would keep at least the pie to eat the next day. But her heart sank at the sight of the poisoned food splattered across its bottom, the slices of apple unmistakable even in the dim glow of her flashlight. Their vanity and wastefulness, two things she utterly despised about them, were what saved their lives.
Wen gazes at the window, the darkness growing thicker by the minute. The intermingling yells and music outside sets her teeth on edge and she has to breathe deeply to keep her stomach from clenching once again. This is what hell sounds like. She’s sure of it.
And soon the terrible noise will rise to another level as the competitors enter the dance floor, where the dark stain of Robbie’s lifeblood isn’t wholly dry yet. They will fight and die for yet another nameless woman, this one found, unbelievably, wandering less than a mile away from the trade.
It seems luck wasn’t on anyone’s side last night. Except the Prestons’.
“So close,” she whispers, and the husky rasp of her voice is like the sound of an animal trying to speak.
The smell of vomit is oppressive in the kitchen, making her tortured stomach turn even more. She stands, hobbling to the bucket, and without looking at its contents, moves to the door and outside.
The trade is in full swing, men moving in droves through the grounds, up and down the midway, their calls and fits of laughter like the constant buzz of a hornet’s hive. She glances around to make sure no one is in the vicinity of the mess area before walking to the side of the building and dumping her sick onto the ground. She returns to the door and closes it behind her.
Alone again, she pulls the single chair over to the sink and sits, leaning her head against the counter.
She sees Robbie smile, the terrified sadness on his face as the guillotine falls. Wen moans, clamping her eyes shut, but he is there too, and she knows then that she’ll never forget or be free of the night before.
Shaking, she reaches out and grasps the handle of the largest butcher knife, holding it so that it catches the feeble light thrown by the overhead fixture. She turns it several times before bringing it down to her wrist, pressing the tip there not quite hard enough to break the skin.
Goodbye Robbie, goodbye Prestons and trade, and goodbye . . . but she can’t get herself to utter the name, even in the silence of her own mind.
Wen draws in a breath, realizing it will be one of the few she has left, and focuses on the blade and the final cut she’ll ever make with it.
The muscles tense in her arm as she begins to bear down, a cry coming from her. The pain is so much sharper than she thought it would be.
And as she commits herself fully to what she’s started, there is a hard rap on the door and the knife slips from her grasp.
37
Zoey throws a glance over one shoulder, making sure the area in front of the little building is still clear.
The woman hasn’t been inside for more than a minute, so she’s fairly confident she hasn’t left out the back, especially since the dim light is still burning inside. She raises her fist to knock again, but the door swings inward and then she is looking at the woman’s pale face. The woman opens her mouth to say something but stops, eyes widening as Zoey tilts her head back enough for the light to fall on her features inside the hood.
They stare at one another.
And the recognition heightens to a point where Zoey nearly says a name that slips away almost as quickly as it comes.
Zoey pushes past her and shuts the door, the woman still dumbstruck. She looks around the room, confirming they’re alone before drawing the hood back.
The woman’s hand comes up to her mouth and it’s only then that Zoey notices the steady stream of blood running from her left wrist, crimson soaking through the fabric of her shirtsleeve.
“You’re bleeding,” Zoey says, nodding toward her arm. The woman looks down dazedly, and wipes at the flow coming from a slit above her wrist. Zoey spots a long towel hanging from a hook and grabs it, wrapping it around the woman’s forearm. She watches the blood seep through the towel and cinches it tightly, aware of the woman’s eyes boring into her.
When the bleeding slows enough that she’s sure the woman won’t faint, Zoey finally meets her gaze.
There is a feral quality to the woman that she recognized in her own features after escaping from the ARC, a lean wildness that speaks of horrors survived. As she studies her, the familiarity washes over Zoey once again, and this time her eyes catch on something that takes her breath away, the realization powerful enough to weaken her legs.
Above the woman’s right eyebrow is a white line of scar in the shape of an L tipped on its side.
“Rita,” Zoey manages to say, and the effect on the woman is immediate. Her lower lip trembles and she takes a step back.
“What did you say?” she whispers.
Zoey swallows. “You’re Rita’s mother. You’re Nell.”
The other woman blinks and begins to shake her head. “You’re not real. I’m dead. I’m dead on the floor.” She looks down at her arm to the towel tied there. “I’m dead.”
“No you’re not. I’m here. And you’re Rita’s mother.”
“She’s dead.”
“She’s alive.”
Nell closes her eyes, tears escaping from their corners as she leans against the nearest wall and slowly slides down it. Zoey kneels beside her. “She has red hair and green eyes and she looks just like you.”
“Stop. Stop it,” Nell moans. “Don’t say that. I don’t have a daughter, she was taken. She’s dead.”
