C. Redwine - Deception

Someone climbs into the wagon beside me, but I don’t turn. I don’t look away from the wide-eyed, terrified expressions facing me. “I know what you’re capable of, you filthy coward. But you have no idea what I can do. What I’ve already done.”

Melkin’s eyes haunt my memory, and I clamp my lips shut before my truth pours out into the green-gray air and condemns me.

“Good job,” Logan says for my ears only as he wraps an arm around me. When his warmth presses against me, I realize I’m shaking. “You made them understand.”

I look at the silent crowd who faces us and realize he’s right. They know they’re prey, and that someone close to them might betray them. They’ll be on their guard. And the one who marked the doors last night knows his days are numbered. I meet Logan’s eyes and find the same furious sense of betrayal in him that exists within me.

“We’re going to find whoever marked those doors,” he says.

“Yes, we are. But first, we need to light that fire and get out of the city before the army reaches us.”

He nods, and sways sharply to the left. I grab his tunic and face the crowd again.

“Frankie and Thom will light the fire. They have horses and can catch up to us once the blaze is burning. Jodi, Eric, and Lila will oversee getting the wagons and livestock out of the building. The rest of you get into your assigned positions. We’re leaving this city, and the Commander’s army, behind.”

I raise my Switch into the air again. “And if you’re the one who betrayed us, find a dark hole to hide in and stay behind. Because I promise you, if you leave this city with us, you’re as good as dead.”

The crowd moves quickly, casting furtive glances at each other and talking in hushed bursts. In five minutes, we have the wagons lined up on the main road leading out of the city. The survivors flank the wagons in their assigned positions, though Willow and Adam will be leading us until Logan’s had medical treatment and can once again walk in front.

In the dim light of dawn, we can see movement on the distant bluff. The army is coming for us, but they won’t reach us. Not today. Thom and Frankie mount their horses and head toward the fuel lines we built last night. The rest of us start walking north through the ruins. Minutes later, a shout goes up from behind us, and I turn to see a sheet of brilliant orange and red flames devouring the row of houses at the edge of the city. Black smoke gushes into the air and spreads across the sky as the fire eats through the dry tinder we left for it, greedily devouring the fuel lines, and then explodes into terrifying life in the Wasteland itself.

The fire is a voracious beast consuming everything in front of it. Trees flicker gold and orange against the dawn sky as flames slide over trunks, race across branches, and then leap for the next tree. Suddenly the bluff is alive with frantic motion as hundreds of soldiers realize death is coming for them unless they get out of the way.

We’re free of the Commander and his army, at least for the moment. But we’ve exchanged one threat for another, and as we make our way out of the city, I slowly study the expressions of those around me. Looking for secrets. Searching for guilt.

Hunting for a killer.

Isit on the bench in the medical wagon, holding the canvas flap out of the way so that I can watch the smoke-drenched ruins disappear in our wake. There’s no sign of the Commander and his army, though Thom and Frankie said they saw significant movement on the bluff as they were lighting the fire.

If we’re lucky, by the time the Commander and his troops get around the blaze, we’ll be well off the main path to Lankenshire, our trail will be hidden, and he won’t be able to find us.

Just in case we aren’t lucky, I’ve been busy trying to think of every worst case scenario and at least two solutions to each. The constant throbbing pain in my head that multiplies with every bump of the wagon wheels makes thinking clearly almost impossible. When we hit another bump, I let go of the canvas flap and grab my aching head instead.

Rachel, who sits opposite me where she can watch for signs of the army’s pursuit, huffs out a little breath and says, “We’re clear of the city now. No one is following us. Either let Sylph treat you, or I’ll do it myself.” The worry in her voice softens the sharpness of her words.

I make myself smile at her, and then turn to Sylph, who sits with Smithson beside an open crate of medical supplies.

“Open your mouth, please,” Sylph says. I obey her and grimace as she sprinkles a pinch of bitter white powder onto my tongue. “There. That should help the headache. Now let’s take a look at this cut.”

Sylph’s fingers are much gentler than Rachel’s. She treats my cut like a new friend she’s just getting to know while Rachel treats wounds like challenges that must be overcome through sheer strength and tenacity. Still, even with Sylph’s gentleness, brilliant shards of pain jab at my skull like they’re trying to drill through the bone.

I sit still while she pats antiseptic on the wound and carefully cuts a small strip of bandage to protect the area from germs. Smithson moves to the bench opposite me, his eyes constantly seeking his wife like he’s afraid if he turns his back she might disappear.

I know the feeling—my eyes are trained on Rachel as she crouches by the wagon’s entrance watching the road. She’s already left me once to tell Drake to write down the names of everyone in a marked room. As soon as I’m finished in here, she’ll resume guard duty along the western flank, and I’ll take my place in the lead. After that, we’ll be focused on staying ahead of the Commander, keeping our people safe from the predatory elements in the Wasteland, and catching whoever left the message in our room last night.

My hand reaches for the gray metallic object that pinned today’s message to our floor, and I worry its smooth surface with my fingers as I pull it from my pocket.

I don’t want to let Rachel out of my sight, not when I know one of our own has betrayed us, but of everyone in camp, she’s one of the most capable of handling herself against a killer.

Besides, the coward only attacks at night.

“It’s a shallow cut. No stitches required. You were lucky,” Sylph says.

“I would’ve stitched him up last night if he’d needed it,” Rachel says.

Sylph’s smile is quick and bright. “I’d have given half a day’s food ration to see that.”

Rachel sounds offended. “I can stitch up a cut. I sat through the same Basic Medical class in Life Skills as you did.”

“Yes, but I paid attention.” Sylph’s voice is warm. “You spent every minute in Life Skills pretending you were somewhere else.”

“Well, maybe if they’d taught us something worth knowing instead of wasting our time with how to sew a pretty dress or set a fancy table, I would’ve had more incentive. Besides, I did well in Basic Medical.”

“Mr. Phillips said you had the worst bedside manner he’d ever seen.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “I just have a low tolerance for whining.”

I laugh, and the pain in my head is nothing but a faint twinge now. The powder has done its job.

“I can put more salve on this if you’d like. Maybe it won’t scar quite so . . . badly.” Sylph’s cool fingers brush lightly against my neck, tracing the edges of the brand the Commander burned into my skin while I was at his mercy in the dungeon. It’s still healing, and the new skin feels tight and itchy.

“Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing you can do to make it look like anything less than the Commander’s Brute Squad insignia,” I say. And because both Sylph and Smithson look uncomfortable, I laugh a little. “Is it really that bad? Do I need to wear a scarf for life?”