Tracey Ward - Backs Against the Wall

“How’d you get out?”

It’s the million dollar question. It’s one I would have asked a long time ago, but Ryan is more patient than I am. It’s also a question I don’t want to answer because the answer is too ugly. Too real. But if anyone is going to understand it, it’s Ryan.

My heart is in my throat, threatening to choke me, but I swallow past it.

“I killed a woman,” I tell him hoarsely.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He barely breathes.

“She tried to kill me,” I tell him quietly, because I feel compelled to explain. To make him understand. To make sure I understand. “She stabbed my friend. I’m not even sure he’s still alive. But then she came at me too and I knew she’d kill me if she got the chance. I knew she’d finish him off when I was gone, so I killed her.”

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, thumping loudly. Painfully. It hurts to breathe.

“It was easy,” I whisper.

Ryan clears his throat, then hands me the bottle. “You’ll never get over it.”

I pause, the bottle at my lips. “Gee, thanks. That’s helpful.”

“You won’t because you’re a good person. Because you know it’s messed up. That it’s wrong. It’s been over a year and I’m not over doing it. I know I never will be, but I live with it. Sometimes it even makes me feel better knowing that I can’t get over it.”

I take a drink, hand the bottle back.

“Why?” I wheeze against the burn.

He takes a long drink. “Because if I hate it, I’m still human, you know? I’m not an animal yet. Not like some of the other people out there.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

Ryan shrugs, capping the bottle. “Whether it does or it doesn’t, it’s what works for me. Maybe it will work for you or maybe you’ll have to find something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, I’m not an expert.”

“Maybe I should ask one,” I mumble, thinking of The Hive looming in my future and the many killers within its walls. I spin Vin’s ring absently, wondering if he’s still alive. The ring feels especially heavy on my finger, weighing down my already injured, aching arm.

“What’s that?” Ryan asks, eyeing the ring.

“A key.”

“To what?”

I sigh heavily. “Probably my own prison.”

Ryan leaves to get me something for the infection he’s sure is coming. I don’t know where he’s going because I don’t ask, but I have a hunch. A hunch that’s been forming since I smelled the soap on his bed. When he comes back with familiar brown bottles, I know for sure.

“How is he?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

Ryan looks at me in surprise. I’m surprised myself because one thing we all know when dealing with Crenshaw is that you don’t go blabbing about it to other people. He doesn’t want to trade with everyone, doesn’t want to be known by everyone, so if you’re in his good graces you stay there by zipping your lips.

I grin, feeling awkward breaking the rules. “Is he alright? I usually bring him meat because he refuses to hunt, but… I’ve been busy lately.”

Ryan grins as well, his surprise turning to understanding. “He’s good. I’ll take him some meat tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want me to tell him you’re home?”

“No,” I say immediately. “Don’t mention me. I don’t want him to know I talked. Take him meat as payment for the medicine. I’ll go see him when I’m—I don’t know. Not so busy, I guess.”

Ryan stops his work with the bottles but he doesn’t look at me.

“Are you going back for him? For your friend?”

“Yes,” I admit wearily. “I promised I’d come back for all of them.”

He looks up, frowning at me. “All of who?”

“My friends inside the Colony.”

“You made friends inside the Colony?” he asks skeptically. “As in more than one?”

“You say it like it’s impossible,” I snap at him.

“Well, you’re not exactly…”

“What? What aren’t I, Ryan?” I ask sharply, glaring at him.

He grins. “Friendly.”

“Oh shut up,” I grumble, knowing he’s right.

He goes back to arranging my medicines, chuckling to himself. I take my disgusting herbal blends without complaint, promising to continue taking them at regular intervals. Ryan has brought me food to eat as well, and I swear old dry carrots have never tasted so good. They’re absolutely dripping with freedom.

“I have to go,” Ryan admits reluctantly. “I don’t want them to come looking for me.”

“Okay,” I reply evenly, feeling relieved and anxious at the same time.

There’s nothing about Ryan that doesn’t bring out contradiction in me. I want him to stay but I don’t know how to be with him here. I want him to go but I’ll miss the feel of him nearby. I hated it the first night I met him, how he confused everything and filled the room nearly to bursting with just his laugh. But now… I don’t know for sure. Now I’ve learned I can be around people, and if I have to be around anyone, I’d rather it was him.

“You’ll be okay?” he asks.

I give him a pointed look.

“Right, of course you will. Alright, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He rises from beside my bed, backing toward the door.

“So soon?” I ask, surprised. “Isn’t that risky?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, I guess. When do you want me to come back?”

Tonight .

“Tomorrow.”

He smiles. “You sure?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head with a wan smile, “but come back anyway.”

He leans down abruptly, taking me by surprise. His lips brush across my forehead once quickly, then, before I can freak out, he’s heading for the door.

“Lock this behind me, okay?” he calls to me.

“I will.”

He pauses, halfway out the door. His brown eyes find mine, holding onto me for a long, silent moment. He opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it. Finally he says quietly, “Goodnight, Joss.”

“Goodnight, Ryan.”

When he’s gone, I close my eyes and picture him heading down the stairs, his strange weapon in his hand. He’s crossing the street, heading parallel to the park, back toward the building with the wood burning smell and the real mattress and the books in the walls. He’ll sleep on the bed with the scattered blankets smelling of soap and sweat. And maybe they’ll smell a little of me. A little like Colony soap, harsh laundry detergents, vomit, fear and longing. It’ll smell like a caged animal newly released to the wild. Shaking scared, disoriented. Angry.

A week later, Trent shows up at my door.

Alone.

Ryan has been visiting every other day, checking on my arm to make sure infection isn’t running rampant. That I haven’t turned green. That I’m not jonesing for human flesh. It’s a worry you have these days no matter where you got your cut. Open wound means open to the sickness. No exceptions. I’m on full loft lock-down until I’m better healed and I am going out of my mind with boredom. My new favorite past-time? Knife throwing. It won’t do you a bit of good with a Risen, but with other people (something I am surrounded by lately), it’s a good talent to have.

Too bad I suck at it.

When Trent knocks on my door, I have a knife raised in my right hand. I was ready to throw but now I’m statue still. Waiting.

“Joss.”

That’s all he says. Just my name. Just once, low and deep in the way he says everything. Even. Methodical. Creepy as balls.

I tip toe to the door, my hand still raised high with the gleaming, sharp blade at the ready. I suddenly wish I had a peephole on my door, though I don’t know what it would matter. I know what he looks like. He won’t have a weapon showing, even if he intends to murder me.