Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

“Sean!” I croaked, eyes streaming. He was breathing, however shallowly, and in a burst of movement, he rolled on his side and vomited violently. I sobbed with relief.

And then Chase’s hands were on my face, my hair, my shoulders and legs.

He swore sharply, snatching away the hot St. Michael medallion from my skin. It stuck, but when I tried to cry out, I coughed again. Exhaustion made my vision waver. My eyes streamed with tears.

“What were you thinking?” he shouted furiously. The world behind him spun. I felt another urge to be sick. “You could have been killed! You never listen!”

“So what!” I was drained and scared and burning everywhere. I didn’t care what happened to me.

“So what ?” he repeated, as if I’d struck him. He looked like he didn’t recognize me.

“Take it easy,” said someone behind me. Tucker.

Chase rounded on him fast, and instantly the teams shifted. Not the resistance against the MM. Not Chase against me. But us against my mother’s killer.

He hit Tucker square in the jaw before he ever saw it coming. Tucker flew back, spitting blood on the deck. The exertion toppled Chase, too, and he fell forward.

“You two are still trying to kill each other?”

I looked up. A lanky man with long, peppered hair was pulling Tucker off the ground.

“Wallace!” croaked Billy.

Wallace’s face was smudged with smoke and sweat. He crouched beside Billy, first slapping him on the back and then pulling him into a tight embrace. “You’re all right,” he said several times. “Just a little smoke is all.”

Chase swore, and I followed his eye line to a crowd of our people—Houston and the brothers and Riggins included—all gathered around the bench where I’d sat with Chase yesterday.

All gathered around a body, lying still upon it.

Lincoln.

“Gone,” I heard Wallace say grimly. “Gone when the boys found him.”

Choking. Coughing. My beaten heart twisting. Think about it later. We had to get out of here.

I knelt, glancing over the edge. The riot below had grown, and the soldiers were trying to contain it. The line closest to the building was waiting for us.

“We’re done,” said Riggins, hands on his glistening head. “We’re done.”

“You did this! They came here for you!” Houston approached behind him, eyes red, but not from the fire.

I couldn’t answer, lost to another coughing fit. Me? If Wallace had only listened! But then again, Tucker wouldn’t be beside us if he’d turned us in.

“We’re not done,” said Wallace. There was a crazy light in his eyes when he stood from Billy’s side. He removed a gun from his waistband—the black pistol he carried—and chambered a round. It was then that I noticed the crate he’d left when he’d found Billy. It was filled with ammunition and firearms.

My burning eyes widened.

“Think!” said Chase. “Fire escapes are blocked. Boiler exit is blocked. Front and rear doors are out.”

“No!” Wallace shouted. The others had left Lincoln now, and were gathered in a tight half circle around those of us still on the ground. Eight from the resistance had made it to the roof before us, Wallace included.

“We’ve lost!” shouted Chase.

“We’ve lost when I say we’ve lost!” Knoxville’s leader roared back. “We have rules, Jennings! We don’t abandon our brothers! We don’t abandon our home! This is our chance to take a stand—”

“We can’t fight if we don’t live!” Chase yelled.

“This is the fight,” Wallace said with finality. “This is the only fight that matters. The one we fight today.”

Then he grabbed a pistol out of the crate and shoved it into Billy’s trembling hands. Still weak, the boy wavered when he stood. He stared at the gun in his hands and said, “Wallace?”

A whir and a crack as a bullet flew by. They’d seen us on the roof and were attacking.

No. We couldn’t die here.

“Line up,” Wallace told us.

“Wallace, please,” I begged him. Chase was dragging me away from the ledge, teeth bared.

“Line up!” Wallace demanded. The other guys faltered, ducking low beneath the ledge for protection. Fearful glances were passed among them. A temporary break in the smoke brought a hailstone of more bullets. Riggins, swearing profusely, grabbed a gun and kneeled behind the barrier, aiming down toward the line of soldiers. Two others followed. Houston’s hands were cupped over his ears, but though his lips moved he made no sound.

“Crazy bastards,” muttered Tucker.

A jet of flames burst from the stairway and then was sucked back inside. The roof beneath our feet trembled with the strength of an earthquake. Had I a voice, I might have screamed.

A weak voice came from behind me. “Through the other building.” I turned, surprised to find Sean sitting upright.

Yes. The office building adjacent to the Wayland Inn was abandoned. The space between them was narrow, maybe three feet. We might be able to jump in through a parallel window.

An instant later Chase and Tucker were running toward the bench where poor Lincoln lay.

They lowered his limp body to the ground, and I had the sudden revolting memory of the base, transporting the dead prisoners in laundry carts to the crematorium. I hadn’t known those people, but Lincoln was not a stranger. I knew what his laugh sounded like. I knew how tall he was when I stood next to him. That was when I realized— really realized—he was dead.

Tucker and Chase each took an end of the wooden bench. They carried it around the stairway exit, toward the side of the roof that interfaced the office building. I helped Sean up, and we ran to follow. There was a shattered window down a few feet across the gap. I watched as they leveled the bench between the roof’s ledge and the windowsill, making a slide into the darkened room below. The curtain of jagged glass above made for an ominous entrance.

When I glanced back four more of the men were gone, maybe back through the smoke-filled stairway. Wallace was shouting, gesturing in wild motions with his arms, and forcing Billy to his knees before the ledge. When Billy tried to get up, Wallace pushed him down.

He’d lost his mind. Billy was like a son to him, and here he was, preparing to sacrifice them both for a fight we’d never win.

Billy was coming with us, and Wallace and the others too, if I could make them.

But as I approached, it hit him, an invisible bullet, slicing through the smoke. It ripped through Wallace’s shoulder and threw him to the ground, flat on his back.

I ducked low, hearing Chase bellow my name. I kept going.

“Wallace!” I pulled him up, and then Billy was there, and Wallace, groaning, was seated, blood flowing freely from the blackened shirt just below his collarbone. “We have to go,” I said desperately. “Come on! Now!”

“Wait, wait a second,” Billy was saying. “Wallace?”

Wallace was shaking his head, regripping the pistol that he’d dropped.

“Billy is going to die,” I said flatly. “You are going to kill him.”

He met my eyes, and I saw the infection, the fever of insanity circling the whites around his irises. I summoned all my strength to burn clarity through my gaze, and after a moment, he blinked.

“Get to the safe house,” he said, voice scratchy. “We’ll meet you there. All units are pulled in. You have to get on the road now.”

My thoughts turned to Cara, waiting at the checkpoint. How much time had passed?

“Take Billy,” Wallace said quietly.

My stomach dropped.

“No!” shouted Billy, grasping his shirt like a child. “You’ll burn—”

“Take him!” shouted Wallace, and in a burst of strength stood and shoved Billy at me. Chase was suddenly by my side. He grabbed a struggling Billy around the shoulders, locking his arms down.