“I’ll get him. You stay here.” Curly takes off running down the hall, dodging the falling concrete and small flames.
I claw against the wall until I’m upright, and then move down the hall after him, dragging my leg behind me. I try to shield my face from the intense heat of the flames and focus on the door five feet away, instead of the pain. When I reach it, I slip inside and gasp. Trey’s room is no more. The ceiling is completely caved in, the mountain blasted through. When I look up, I see the night sky and a few pinpricks of stars. His bed, dresser, nightstand, floor—everything is covered in concrete, sheetrock, and dirt. Golden embers light the room, and I know it’s only a matter of minutes before this room looks like the hallway outside.
“Jeb!” I scream.
“I found him,” he yells. “But he’s trapped!”
I follow the sound of his voice to where the bed used to be. Curly is underneath a pile of rubble and crawls out when he sees me.
“I don’t think we can get to him,” he says. “And even if we could…” His eyes glaze over.
My breathing stops, and time stands still for a moment. I know what he’s saying, but I refuse to believe it.
Adrenaline, like a bolt of lightning, flows through me. I grab the first thing I see and shove it off the pile of rubble. Grunting, I hurl a large rock behind me. “Help me, please,” I yell as I claw through the dirt and debris.
Curly’s arms appear beside me, and he groans as he tries to remove a large slab of concrete. I grab the other end and heave, my muscles straining, the veins popping out of my neck. It moves several inches, and we do it again, and again, until we’ve cleared a path.
The heat is intense. The four-foot flames lick the doorframe, and the room is filling with smoke.
“We have to hurry,” I say, locking eyes with Curly. Even as I say it, my voice sounds muffled, as if I’m trying to talk underwater.
Something tickles my throat, and I hunch over, my body racked with coughs. By the time I’m done gasping for air, Curly has cleared another section of debris.
That’s when I see it. Trey’s leg.
My heart pounds. I continue to pull rocks, scraps of metal, and parts of the ceiling off him until my arms ache. As Curly grunts and lifts the last concrete slab off Trey’s chest, I shine my flashlight on Trey’s face. I’m afraid of what I’ll see.
His eyes are closed as if he’s sleeping, but his face is covered in tiny cuts. As the flashlight travels down his body, my stomach rolls. A piece of metal rebar is sticking out of his chest right near his heart. Blood stains his shirt and his bed.
I turn away as my stomach heaves. I vomit up my dinner, the one I ate without Trey beside me. I refuse to believe what I see. The smoke rolls into the room, and I’m hit with another coughing fit. When I turn back to Trey’s body, Curly is kneeling over him, his fingers pressed to his neck.
For one brief moment, my heart stops beating, and I can’t breathe. He has to be alive. He has to.
But the pained look on Curly’s face when his eyes meet mine causes my blood to run cold despite the heat pressing in on us. He shakes his head and stands, and I feel as though I’m having an out-of-body experience. This can’t be happening. I refuse to believe for a moment that Trey—my Trey—is dead.
Curly takes my arm and tries to lead me to the door, saying something about needing to get out of there before the whole place crumbles. But I pull free and run to Trey, tripping over the piles of debris. I cradle his head in my lap like I did that day in the training facility. Stroking his scratchy face, I kiss his still-warm lips and think about lying in his arms only moments before. I tilt my head back and scream. An animalistic howl that reverberates through the night sky above us. I can’t leave him. I refuse to leave him.
Curly’s hands drag me to the door.
“No,” I cry. “I’m not leaving without him.”
Curly isn’t listening. He is too strong. In a minute, I’ll never see Trey again. Just like I never saw Garrett after Trey forced me to leave him. I do the only thing I can think to do. I fight.
I kick him as hard as I can in the leg. He lets go of my arm and curses.
“I’m not leaving without him,” I cry. “Help me get him out of here.”
Curly must think I’m crazy, and now he’s risking his own life to help me, but he hesitates.
“Help me, please.” Tears sting my eyes and bathe my face, their saltiness mixing with the smoke flavor of the room as they run into my mouth.
Curly turns back to Trey and climbs over the debris.
“You have to pull out the metal bar,” I shout.
Curly looks at me like I’m crazy, but then he must realize I’m right. I turn away as he grips the bar between his hands. I hear him scream, and then I turn back in time to see him lift Trey over his shoulder and stumble forward. “Stay close,” he says, leaping over the fire in the doorway.
I grab my flashlight and follow him. The flames singe my legs, and I look down to make sure I’m not on fire.
In the hallway leading to the exit, we stumble past bodies. This part of the Compound seems to be the hardest hit. These people were probably trying to escape when it was blasted through. I don’t allow my flashlight to linger on the faces, too scared it may be someone I recognize. Most of the walls are caved in and the ceiling is missing, exposing pieces of sky, or the earthy mountain above us. Outside the entrance to the kitchen, I notice a blonde ponytail splayed out on the floor, and my breath catches. It’s Kaylee. I cry out to Curly and kneel beside her, my hands closing over her delicate wrist, feeling for a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.
“She’s alive,” I yell. Curly waits with Trey in his arms, and I know he must be tired. I have to hurry. I slap the girl’s cheeks, but she doesn’t even stir. I try to lift her to a sitting position, but she slumps against the wall. I can’t carry her. I’m too weak. But I try. I lift her over my back and take a few steps, but a rumble and blast in another part of the building knocks me to my knees. Kaylee rolls off my back and lies still on the concrete floor.
I join Curly. “She’s still alive, but she’s too heavy.”
“We have two options. We can leave her here, or we can leave Trey and take her with us.”
My eyes widen. “I’m not leaving Trey.”
Curly starts up the hallway toward the exit. “Then your decision is made. I can’t carry two people at once.”
“Can we come back and get her after we get Trey out of here?”
Curly hesitates. “If we can get back in without killing ourselves, then yes.”
I kneel next to Kaylee and promise to come back for her. She is still unconscious, and I doubt she even hears me. Hurrying down the hall after Curly, I almost collide into his back. “What is it?” I cry.
He turns. Beads of sweat are pouring past his creased eyebrows and into his eyes. “The hallway is caved in ahead. We’re trapped.”
“There’s another way out,” I say, remembering the hidden staircase in the janitorial closet.
Curly looks doubtful, but he hefts Trey over his shoulder and follows me back down the hall, the way we came. Before we reach Trey’s room and the fire now billowing down the hall, we turn down another corridor. In the smoky darkness, everything looks the same. Wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, I move past doorway after doorway, struggling to remember the location of the janitorial closet. My fingers curl around the wooden doorframe that leads to the recreation room, and I know we’re close.
“Sienna,” a voice calls from further down the hall. A flashlight illuminates the floor in front of me, and I see Trina standing in a doorway. She has a cut on her forehead and an abrasion on the side of her face, but other than that, she looks okay.
“Trina!” I run to her, tripping over debris and falling into her arms. She’s standing in the broom closet doorway.
“You remembered,” she says, pulling me into the small room. Her eyes light on Curly carrying a man’s body over his shoulder. “Is t
hat Trey?”
I nod as my throat closes.
“Is he… is he okay?”
Fresh tears fill my eyes as I shake my head. Turning away from her shocked stare, I come face to face with Nash.
His face flashes through emotions faster than I can track them. Surprise turns to confusion, then just as quickly, anger blazes through his eyes, mixed with a tinge of sadness. He slams his fist into the wall, and thankfully, it collides with drywall instead of cement block.
“We have to get out of here,” Curly huffs. His arms quiver from the weight of Trey.
“Here, I’ll take him.” Nash steps forward, takes a deep breath, and heaves Trey’s body onto his own shoulder. “What happened?”
“His room collapsed. We found him trapped under all the debris,” Curly says, flexing his arms.
“I’ll go first,” Trina says. “Follow me.”
Nash goes next and Curly follows, pushing against Nash’s back to give support as he ascends the curving metal staircase. From above, I hear Nash groaning and grunting with effort. My legs are like dead weights, and I drag my bad leg up the stairs behind me. It’s hard to see where I’m stepping as tears blur my vision and collect on my chin. I don’t let my mind wander to the reason Nash is having trouble getting up the stairs. I refuse to believe it. If I don’t believe it, it can’t possibly be true.
I feel the outside air before I see the night sky. The desert breeze is cool and welcoming on my face as it dries my tears. I gulp the air, trying to soothe the fire in my throat. As I stumble out of the hidden hatch on the side of the mountain, a noise thunders above. My eyes search the sky. Several red lights soar above us in the darkness, and my heart skips a beat.
Drones.
“Run,” Nash yells at the exact moment the adrenaline kicks in. I stumble down the side of the mountain, tripping over rocks and roots. Nash’s bulky shape is ahead of me, Trey’s body slung over his shoulders.
I trip and fall, hitting my chin on the hard earth. Pain shoots through my face, and I’m certain there must be blood, but Curly is there beside me, helping me to my feet and guiding me the rest of the way down the mountain.
A large explosion causes me to turn and look, even though Curly is urging me forward. I gasp in horror as the drones drop bomb after bomb onto the mountain and our underground home.
A cry escapes my lips when I think of Kaylee and her blonde ponytail. I never had a chance to go back for her. And now, it’s too late.
“Keep moving,” Nash yells, already several yards ahead of me.
I turn my back on the home I’ve come to love and the people who became my family.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I cling to the ground as tears run down my cheeks and fall to the earth. Voices morph around me. A girl crying, a man cursing, a boy sounding tired and confused. I don’t know what they’re saying, and I don’t care. I want to leave this body. I want to be rid of the pain, the despair, and the heartache. For a moment, I am gone. I am in Trey’s arms. He kisses my neck and whispers in my ear. Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.
“Sienna, we have to go.” Someone is shaking me. Their voice is familiar, but it isn’t the one I want to hear. It isn’t Trey’s husky voice.
“Sienna! They’re coming. We have to hide!” Curly’s voice speaks low in my ear, and I turn to him, dazed.
“Who?”
“The government sonsofbitches. We have to go, now!” He helps me to my feet and pulls me along beside him. I can barely make out the shapes of Nash and Trina already running for cover amidst some Joshua trees.
“Wait! What about Trey?” I sob. “We can’t just leave him there.” That’s when I see them. A caravan of government vehicles making their way toward us, their headlights bouncing as they off-road over the desert terrain.
“We have to,” Curly says, gripping my arm hard, probably so I won’t try to run from him. “We can’t move as quickly with him. We’ll collect his body after they leave.”
Comforted by this thought, I run with him, tripping over low-lying cacti that infiltrate the ground. We hide behind our own strand of Joshua trees and wait as the vehicles draw closer, the gunning sound of the engine the only noise in the night sky.
The vehicles stop only a few yards from where we just stood, and my breath catches. A car door slams followed by several others, and I see Radcliffe’s face as a headlight illuminates the man clearly in charge. Radcliffe moves toward the base of the mountain—or what’s left of it—where Trey lies dead. He kneels by his body. Someone gives a shout, and then several other men run over. These men look like medics and carry a stretcher between them. They load Trey onto the stretcher, carrying him back to their truck.
“No,” I whisper. Tears fill my eyes and sting my cheeks. I’ll never see him again. I’ll never kiss his lips, hold his hand, or feel his arms around my waist. The cruelty of life settles on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.
I have to resist the urge to rush forward and gouge out Radcliffe’s eyes with my fingers. I would never make it within twenty feet of him before I’m gunned down.
I watch as they load Trey’s body into the vehicle, and the caravan drives away. Hot tears slide down my face and run into my mouth. I allow myself to cry for a few moments, and Curly doesn’t say anything, but I do see him discreetly wipe his eyes. When I’m ready, I rake my palms across my face and turn to Curly.
“What now?” My voice sounds stronger than I feel. At least it doesn’t sound like my heart feels—broken, torn in two, ripped to shreds. As long as I can keep Trey out of my mind, I might be able to make it through the rest of this night.
Curly clears his throat before he speaks. “Let’s go see what Nash wants to do.” He pauses. “He’s in charge now,” he says. As if I need a reminder.
We traipse across the desert to the other strand of Joshua trees where Nash and Trina are crouched. They stand when they see us coming.
“What’s the plan?” Curly calls out as we near them.
“I just got a message from other Fringe survivors,” Nash says. “Apparently, there’s quite a large group from the west wing who escaped before the passageway was blocked.”
The news sends a tingle of relief through my body. “How many escaped?” I ask.
“A hundred, I think.”
Which means a hundred didn’t.
“Feeling guilty?” Nash sneers.
My eyes narrow. “Why should I?”
Nash takes a step toward me, his hands clenched in fists. “Maybe because you sent them here, you dirty spy.”
“How do we know you didn’t send them here? With Trey gone, doesn’t that make you leader of the Fringe? How convenient.”
“Guys, that’s enough,” Trina snaps. “We have more things to worry about right now than who’s a traitor, which neither of you is.”
“Yeah, Commander, if you’re leading us, now is the time to do it,” Curly adds.
Nash grumbles under his breath before straightening to his full height. “These bastards can’t get away with this. They took away our home and our leader. They killed our friends and our family. They will pay. Let’s meet up with the other Fringe members and decide which government building we should bomb. In the middle of the day.”
Retaliation. Of course that’s Nash’s plan. And you know what? Revenge has never sounded sweeter.
***
“It’s okay. That’s our man,” Curly says when we spot the headlights of an approaching truck. We’ve been walking for a while, sticking to the abandoned tracks and keeping a look out for more drones. Per Nash’s instructions, we split up. Curly and I are in charge of getting the guns and ammo from the off-site location, while Nash and Trina meet up with the other Fringe members and secure the explosives.
A white truck pulls to the side of the road, and we climb the small embankment to meet it. An older man with a ponytail hangs out of the truck, nervously glancing around.
“Just you two?” the man drawls.
Curly nods
and motions for me to get in the passenger side. I scoot over until I’m only inches from the man I assume is a farmer working with the Fringe. In the glow of the overhead lights, the jeans, suspenders, and sun-aged face give it away.
“What happened?” the man asks, his voice rough.
Curly sighs. “The Compound was attacked by drones.”
“How’s about the shipment? All the food?”
“Gone.”
The man, who looks to be in his sixties, slams his hand on the steering wheel and curses. His eyes turn to me. “Who’re you?”
Before I have a chance to respond, Curly butts in. “She was a friend of Trey’s.”
“Was?” he asks.
“Trey’s dead,” Curly answers, tripping over the words.
The man lets out a cry and turns away. He bows his head for a moment, and my heart breaks. It’s bad enough I have to endure my own pain, but it’s even worse seeing others mourn.
Once the man composes himself, he sticks out a weathered hand. “Ray Jones. But you can call me Jones.”
I place my hand in his and feel the calloused skin of a man who’s spent years with his hands immersed in the soil. “Sienna,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jones nods and turns his attention to the steering wheel.
On the drive to where the weapons are stored, exhaustion kicks in. I think I may be in a bit of shock. I’m surprised by my lack of emotion as my body grows heavy. I welcome sleep to take me away from this nightmare. Letting the voices of Curly and Jones wash over me, I close my eyes and tilt my head back against the vinyl bench seat.
I sleep, and I dream. Trey and I swimming in the lagoon, laughing. I reach out for him, but instead of taking my hand, he disappears under the water, as if something is dragging him down. Diving under the water, I try to look through the murky depths, but he’s not there. When I surface, I yell his name, but there is only silence. I swim around, praying it’s a prank, but he never surfaces. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I call his name. Scream his name. Sob his name. But there is only the sound of my breathing and the distant hum of a drone.
Catalyst Page 26
