Kristen Simmons - Three

I remembered what Sean had told me weeks ago in Knoxville—that the carriers received messages from Three at the safe house to take to the other branches. Rumor was that their base was in the same location, but no one seemed to know for sure. Maybe it was a coincidence, but what if Three had used this house as a checkpoint of sorts? A place to stash their supplies? Someone had clearly been here recently, which meant that someone from Three might still be alive, and if so, we needed to find them. If the resistance branches could unify we could strike back at the MM, and we needed Three’s intelligence to do so.

Rat and Jack were mumbling something to each other warily.

“What?” I asked. “If they survived, they can help us.”

“Like they helped us in Chicago?” spat Jack. “We had Three contacts scattered around the city. In uniform, even. And where were they when the tunnels fell, huh?”

My shoulders rose defensively. Sure, Three was illusive, but I’d never heard anyone in the resistance openly talk bad about them.

“We’re all on the same side,” I said.

“Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart,” said Jack. “Three’s on their own side.”

Thunder cracked, and white lightning split the sky. The rain slashed against the roof. In the distance, thunder rumbled, on and on, like it would never stop.

Maybe Jack was right. Even if Three had survived, hope that they would help was probably just a dream. We couldn’t even find the tracks that had left the safe house ruins, much less the rebel kings.

When the final two guys on our team had returned from checking the other houses, I told them all about Tucker’s call. That seemed to ease some of the tension. Because Tucker had already spoken to me, they decided I should be the one to continue to answer, that way in case anyone was listening they wouldn’t know how many were in our group. Despite Chase’s silent reservations, I wrapped the radio back up in plastic and hoisted it over my shoulder.

We moved on after that. I followed Billy, who made his way down the center street, a dinner plate held over his head like a halo, blocking the rain. The handle of the gun rested against his lower back, molded beneath his wet T-shirt.

We spread out for the remainder of the afternoon, spearing through the woods, tromping through the sand. The sky drew back to a thin layer of white, and my clothes grew tough and chafed my skin. Blisters crowned my feet, but we didn’t rest. Slowing would have turned the questions from a whisper to a shout: Where were we going? Who would we find? Chase felt it, too. He didn’t have to say anything; I could see it in the way his fists clenched, the way his gaze rested on nothing, always moving.

As we entered an old state park, the beach gave way to swamps and marshland. Twisted trees blocked our path, their white roots like long, spindly fingers diving below the murky water. We carved a single-file line down a trail forged long ago and abandoned before the War, slapping at the mosquitos that buzzed in our ears as our heavy footsteps crashed through the brush.

Our party thinned. Rebecca and Sean had fallen behind again, and to keep them connected to the others, Chase and I slowed our pace, isolated in the middle of the train. We weren’t about to leave our friends defenseless, but we couldn’t lose track of the others, either.

When it seemed the path had been completely lost, we rested beside a stream to wait for Sean and Rebecca. The light was dimmer beneath the trees, and a curtain of vines and foliage created an isolated cove. We sat on moss-covered rocks and split a can of oily tuna and powdered mashed potatoes, silent, but for our thoughts. I nearly cried with relief when I took off my shoes to shake out the sand and dipped them in the cool, clear water.

After a while Chase rose and waded in. Facing away, he squatted low to dip his hands in the stream. He took a drink. Then pulled his shirt off over his head.

My cheeks warmed. I thought I should avert my eyes but I couldn’t look away; he knew I was here, but still it felt like I was intruding on something private. There was something different about him—in the bow of his head and the way his arm fell slack—that made my heart ache.

He stood, wrung out the shirt that he’d dipped in the water, and scrubbed it over the back of his neck. The muscles of his shoulders shifted, rolled, made winged blades as he lifted his arms. A raised scar cut from the side of his ribs to his spine. The light that filtered through the trees glinted off the metal handgun tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

Before I could stop myself I was moving forward, shocked back to reality by the sound of the splashing water around my ankles.

He turned to face me, his emotions guarded. I swallowed, aware of how his eyes moved between my eyes and my lips.

A beat passed. Then another.

“How’d you get that scar?” I asked.

One brow arched.

I flattened my palm over his back. At my touch he siphoned in a sharp breath and twisted away, shaking out his shirt. It couldn’t have hurt him. Was he embarrassed? Of the way he looked ? It seemed impossible.

I placed my hand on it again. This time he stilled.

“I know it’s from the MM.” I felt the rough skin, the ridges, tracing the map of his body. And waited.

“Two months in I tried to run.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “There was this girl at home. The kind that made you want to try.” His smile melted. “I got caught in a fence. Then I got caught by a guard.”

My chest tight, my fingertips rose climbing his back, drifting over his shoulder to the puckered scar on his bicep, where he’d taken a knife in my defense outside a sporting goods store. He shivered, watching my hand.

Lower. Goose bumps raised the dark hairs of his forearm. I lifted his knuckles, tracing the cuts and indentations, following the half circle around the back of his thumb.

“And here?”

“My first fight in the FBR,” he said, voice strained. “The guy bit me.”

“Like this?”

Gently, I lifted his hand to my mouth. And bit down on the calloused flesh of his thumb.

His eyes shot to mine, so dark I couldn’t see his irises. There was one weightless moment, the suspension just before the fall. And then a voice rang out through the woods.

“Over here!”

It was Billy—not too far away. A flush crept over my skin as Chase twitched in surprise, then shoved his shirt back over his head. My feet had sunk into the silt and pebbles, making it hard to move. It took some time to get our shoes back on, but after we did the seconds caught up, and we raced upstream to where Billy and the guys from Chicago had gathered.

At first I just saw the animal—a dark, filthy mutt. Pulse spiking, I scanned the area, ready for an attack from the rest, but they were nowhere to be seen. This one was probably an outcast. Closer, I could see its mangy fur, and how its belly was only half the circumference of its rib cage. It was clearly starving.

The dog had managed to step though a can, getting its paw stuck on the sharp, clean edge of the lid as he’d attempted to pull it out. It hurt him; he whined pitifully, then growled, and then whined again. I watched with a cringe as he tried to chew off the trap and found the metal barely rusted. It hadn’t been here long.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Chase told Billy when he crouched down and whistled. A low growl emanated from the animal.

“You’re not me,” Billy returned, fire in his glare. “I don’t walk away when something needs my help.”

Chase dragged a hand over his jaw but remained silent. I wondered if he could still see the flames tearing down the roof of the Wayland Inn, swallowing Wallace whole.

Rat chased the dog away before Billy could approach it, and crouched to pick another recently opened can off the ground. He tossed it to Jack.