Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

I prepared myself for recognition, panicked that the unveiling would not occur on our terms.

“You got any food, Sister? It’s been two days….”

He didn’t know who I was. I found myself both relieved and disappointed.

When my escort backtracked, the man slumped and scurried back into the anonymity of the makeshift shelters. I wiped my sweating palms on my pleated navy skirt, then squeezed a single finger along the tight collar of my button-up blouse.

“Not yet,” Chase said under his breath. He tilted his head toward a unit of soldiers standing outside a cleared area contained by yellow caution tape. The cement within that circle was stained red and black. The table where the soldiers had signed people up for the draft was broken in the center, and painted a sticky burgundy that attracted particles of dust and leaves. The MM had left it there in defiance of what had happened, as if daring a civilian to celebrate the death of a soldier.

Behind it, against the side of a building were three single lines grouped together, painted in the same neon green as the Save Us Sniper sign.

A bell resounded from the back of the Square, startling me. Though most people had given up on breakfast, it seemed there were to be some rations after all. With renewed energy, the starving sprang from the bricks, and stampeded toward the soup kitchen lines.

I ducked out of the way of a sprinting family, and aimed for a silver bus in the opposite direction, where volunteers could donate blood in exchange for rations vouchers. It was parked sideways between two buildings, marking the entrance of Tent City, just as Sean had said. A CLOSED sign hung low enough to have been spat upon multiple times.

We followed the length of the bus to a large Dumpster, overflowing with the last bits of trash that people couldn’t use for shelter or warmth: broken glass, damp paper, and food too long gone to provide any nutrition. It smelled rank, like mold and vomit. My nose scrunched up involuntarily.

Hidden in a nook between the bus, the building, and the trash was the rendezvous point, and a quick scan told me that we were the first to arrive.

“Sean should be here by now.” My heels tapped impatiently. Chase’s gaze darkened, and I followed it to the bus window where five printouts had been posted.

John Naser, aka John Wright. Robert Firth. Dr. Aiden Dewitt. Patel Cho.

Ember Miller. And there below my picture, in bold letters: ARTICLE 5.

A tightness stole my breath, like a fist squeezing my lungs. It was one thing to know this picture existed. It was another to see it for myself. Part of me wanted to tear it down, to burn it, but I couldn’t, because that was the whole reason we were here.

Movement at the end of the bus snapped me back into the present. Chase and I spun toward the sound, expecting the rest of the team.

“S-sister?” a small female voice squeaked.

It was a small, lumpy woman, no more than twenty, with a face as pale and cratered as the surface of the moon. Her eyes were round, and her hands latched in place over her mouth. My insides knotted when I recognized her navy uniform matched my own.

We’d wanted a couple people to see us, but not those employed by the MM.

Chase’s hand rested on his gun. He glanced behind her for soldiers. The Sister’s gaze lifted from me, to him, and back to me. She knows our faces, I thought, but then remembered that she’d called me Sister. She hadn’t studied our mug shots. I nearly laughed as I realized what she must be thinking: a FBR soldier and a Sister of Salvation, sneaking off to a deserted area. Not. Good.

There was no time to strategize. We had to act before she did. Sean was minutes behind us, and if this Sister called her friends, we’d have only moments before the soldiers arrived.

With only a fleeting look at Chase, I rushed toward her, taking care to let my shaggy black hair fall over the side of my face.

“Are you g-going to the soup kitchen?” she stammered.

“Yes,” I said, trying to sound relieved. “I was just on my way.” I thought if I told her to meet me there my intentions to ditch her might be too obvious.

“Are you all right?” she whispered, grasping my elbow. Sean was right—the Sisters here were different than at the reformatory. They were afraid.

“I am now, thanks to you!” I fisted my left hand so she couldn’t see the thin gold band on my ring finger. There was a lesser chance of getting cited for an inappropriate relationship if people thought Chase and I were married, but Sisters were only Sisters because they weren’t fortunate—or compliant —enough to be wives. How could I have missed this detail? Covertly, I switched the ring to my right hand.

I could lose her in the Square, I thought. Distract her in the crowd. Though I’d been around Sisters at reform school, I’d never worked as one, and didn’t know the ropes. If she tried to do a secret handshake or something, I’d be busted.

“Where’d he go?” she asked, frightened. “He was so big!”

I looked behind us, feeling my stomach lurch when I didn’t see him either. Where had he gone?

When we reached the brick paddock, we ran into three of her friends, already doubling back for their lost companion. The masses congregated at the far end, where the Sisters had been heading to assist with breakfast.

“Peace be with you,” a wide-eyed blonde said to me. The apples of her cheeks were pink from the wind.

I smiled demurely, feeling my hairline dew with perspiration.

“And also with you,” came the canned response from my captor. Immediately, I parroted the phrase.

The crowds were still too sparse here for me to disappear, but if we got too much closer to the pack, Chase was not going to be able to find me. I was already kicking myself for separating. We would each be more vulnerable left out in the open alone.

We can rendezvous at the Wayland Inn, I reminded myself. I hoped we’d get there. Soldiers crawled all over the place. Wallace had said there’d be more here since the attack the other day, but that didn’t calm my nerves. I was glad now for the cover these Sisters provided.

The smell of unwashed human bodies thickened as we drew toward the rations lines, overriding the burned oatmeal in the air. People watched us hungrily, and in self-defense I hung my head and kept close to the other girls.

The next time I looked up was to catch myself before running into a soldier.

My heart tripped hard in my chest. A squeak came out of my throat as he bumped my shoulder. I stumbled to the side.

“Watch it,” he said. He didn’t even glance my way. An unexpected rage slashed through me. I didn’t want another soldier pushing me around as long as I lived.

Seconds later a woman screamed, her voice feral and high, clawing at the base of my brain. The soldier, still beside me, jerked his head up like a fox, sniffing the air, and then he unhooked the gun from his belt and raised it toward the sky.

“He’s been shot!” I heard a man in the direction of the soup kitchen shout. But the soldier at my side had not yet fired. He was talking about someone else.

More voices joined his.

“Sniper!” they cried. “Sniper!”

I JOLTEDback, slamming into someone behind me, then was shoved back into the Sister who’d dragged me out here. Her broad cheeks had turned a dark shade of pink.

“Oh no,” she was repeating. “Oh no oh no oh no.”

I heard the shot this time, a loud crack that resounded through the air and ricocheted off the buildings. The soldier that I’d nearly run into was nowhere to be seen.

Code seven, Chase had said when the sniper had struck before. A civilian attack on a soldier . During a code seven all FBR units had been permitted to return fire.