Josin L McQuein - Arclight

“How much longer do you think we have to wait?” I ask, because I can’t figure out how to ask him anything else. “Will they turn the alert back to normal so we know it’s over?”

“Maybe.” He scratches at the bloodstains on his fingers. The bandages he’d worn earlier are gone, lost either in the run or the fight, exposing purplish-black bruises on his knuckles. “Or maybe we died and nobody bothered to tell us.”

“That’s not funny,” I say.

“I didn’t mean it to be,” he says. “We have no idea what dead feels like. Maybe we’re there. Death would be simpler. No more mourning, no more waiting.”

“You don’t really think that, do you?”

“I guess not.” He shrugs. “If we were dead, someone would have let us out by now.”

“You think that’s how it works?” I ask. “Easy as opening the door?”

“That’s what Dad told me when my mom died.” Another shrug, like his brain’s linked the motion to ending a sentence.

“I don’t even know how my mom died . . . if she’s dead . . . nothing.”

We’ve become not friends, exactly, but tolerable allies through the bond of common loss and lack of options.

Tobin shifts again, fixating on Anne-Marie and Jove in the middle of the room.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” He slides to the floor, resting his hands on his knees.

“I know.” I slide down beside him, using the wall as an anchor for more than my posture.

“Do you ever wonder why Honoria and the others separate us like this?” he asks. “Why they stick us in a hole while they stand guard?”

“To protect us.” Obviously. The elders protect the young, like my parents did with me. I have to believe they drew off the Fade so I could reach the light. They did not throw me away; I refuse to be an outcast to two worlds.

“They didn’t think it through,” Tobin says. “What happens if they fall?”

“The locks open at dawn and we do the best we can,” I say.

“But if the Fade take them, we’re next. They’re gone, the defenses are shot, the ammo’s spent, and we get twelve hours to tick off what’s left of our lives before they come back to kill us. We’re penned in.”

He stops, like he hadn’t realized he was speaking out loud.

“Sorry, I’ve been around Annie too long,” he says. “I’m starting to babble.”

Anne-Marie’s oblivious to our staring, still sitting cross-legged with her mouth going ninety miles a minute, and using her teeth to even her fingernails in the pauses between words. She takes a marker from her pocket and starts coloring them in.

“Almost makes things feel normal, doesn’t she?” Tobin asks.

Absurd and normal, a perfect description of Anne-Marie.

A group of toddlers has Dante subdued, while Silver tries to pull them off. She has one upside down by the leg, which the kid finds hilarious. A boy named Jerome, a mid-year according to his gold name tag and sleeve patch, stuffs another up under his arm while threatening similar treatment for the next one who doesn’t behave.

“I guess we could sic the babies on them, if it came to a fight,” I offer.

It’s weird to realize this is the first time I’ve laughed, but it’s true. There’s not a lot of call for humor when you’re sandwiched between the probable massacre of one people and the possible extermination of another.

“Outfit them with flashlights and we might have a shot,” Tobin says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh, too, but it doesn’t last long.

A rolling tumbler and the click of a lock stops everyone short.

We all stand, braced for whatever waits on the other side of our door. Anne-Marie leans over Jove’s body; the upper-years form a defensive line to guard the babies. Tobin angles himself in front of me, one arm out to hold me back and away from the unknown.

The door opens slowly, allowing a foreign scent to flood the room with a metallic bite that brings cool, fresh air behind it.

“Cordite,” Tobin says. “From fresh rounds. Stay back, we don’t know—”

“It’s not the Fade,” I say, tapping my ear. The Fade don’t wear boots like the ones marching through the hall outside.

Our personal alarms switch from blinking red back to blue—not safe, but not danger, either—and Tobin drops his arm.

“Looks like you were right. We’re not dead after all,” Tobin says with a tired smile.

No one survives the Fade, but I’ve done it twice.

“Get a head count,” Lt. Sykes orders one of the men who entered with him. He looks terrible, with his hair plastered to his face like sandy mud. “Make sure they’re all here.”

That’s not as easy as it sounds. Parents rush the room, searching for their children; children run to their parents. No one stays still long enough to be counted. Those like me and Tobin hang back; we don’t have anyone to check on.

Mr. Pace shuffles through, kicking spent shells down the ramp. His face is drawn. The butt end of his rifle hits the ground with a hollow thunk when he spots Jove, and his whole frame slumps.

“Do I want to know what happened?” Mr. Pace asks, looking straight at me.

He kneels beside Jove, presses a hand to his throat, then passes it over Jove’s mouth and nose to make sure he’s still breathing. He snaps his fingers, and a man and woman in rumpled fatigues come to carry Jove to the hospital.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Anne-Marie says. “We tried to clean him up—Marina, Toby, and me.” She makes a circular motion with her finger in our general direction. “But we didn’t have enough water and the dispenser wouldn’t give us bandages.”

What’s left of Tobin’s shredded jacket litters the floor beyond the rust-colored spatter left behind when Jove’s taken up.

“Don’t be mad, please.” Anne-Marie goes quiet, which tells him more than if she’d kept yammering. “He and Toby . . . It was an accident. Sort of. ”

Sure. Jove accidentally painted a bull’s-eye on his face.

Everyone still inside the bunker listens to hear if she’ll recount the whole story. No one has to tell me they’ll gladly let me take the blame if Anne-Marie turns on me.

“Tell me the truth, Annie.”

“He said something about Toby’s dad,” Anne-Marie says, gnawing on the fingernails she just fixed.

Tobin slips out from beside me, coming forward to answer for what he’s done, but doesn’t get the chance.

“Annie!”

Her mother runs toward her, with Trey right behind. She starts tugging at Anne-Marie’s uniform where it’s stained with Jove’s blood.

“Mom, stop it.” Anne-Marie swats at her hands.

Trey rescues her with a bear hug that has her off the ground and out of their mother’s reach.

“You look awful,” he says. “What’s all this blood?”

“It’s not mine.” Anne-Marie dissolves into tears, hugging him. “I thought I lost you.”

“Not a chance.”

Trey looks the perfect imitation of Mr. Pace, standing next to him with a rifle hung over his shoulder. The same posture and resolve in the set of his jaw; he’s even shaved his hair down the same way. A week ago, Trey was a kid like the rest of us; now he’s one of those determined to make sure we live long enough to call ourselves adults.

“You should have told me.” Anne-Marie punches him in the arm as she lets go of him.

“Are you okay?” her mother asks.

“Can we use the showers?” Anne-Marie asks in return.

“Honoria told us to switch over to our individual generators until noon, but the water should be warm in twenty minutes.”

“Then I’ll be fine in twenty minutes.”

The whole family heads off in a clump, while I’m left behind without anyone to take me home or worry if the blood on my face and hands is mine or not.