C. Redwine - Deception

Behind us, people shuffle to a stop. Some of them approach the top of the hill and gape at the sight of Lankenshire perched in the distance like a beacon of salvation.

“One more night,” I say, raising my voice so that those around me can hear. “We’ll arrive at Lankenshire tomorrow. Tonight, we’ll camp there.” I gesture to my left.

The patch of land I’m pointing to is twice the size of the meadow we camped in before. Once upon a time, it may have been a farm or a dairy. Now it’s a huge expanse of high grass and collapsing barns. It gives us enough space to establish a perimeter so that we’ll see any threats from the forest long before they reach us. I have no doubt that the Commander worked quickly to find another way across the river. At some point, he’ll catch up to us again. I just pray it isn’t tonight.

We follow the path down the side of the hill and then branch out toward the field. The wagons bounce roughly over the uneven ground, and we have to slow to a crawl to accommodate them.

Once we reach the grassland, I give the order to set up camp with the wagons and the weakest among us in the center, and the others arranged in circles around them until our strongest and most capable surround the camp, armed and watchful.

Then, because twilight is still nothing more than a smudge of gray in the early evening sky, I allow for a cooking fire to be lit so that Nola and Jodi can roast the pigs and rabbits Frankie and Willow caught during the day’s walk.

Frankie is a different man in the wake of Thom’s death. Subdued, introspective, and allied with Willow—something I would’ve sworn to be impossible two weeks ago. Having all of my inner circle at peace with one another eases the weight I carry, but I’d trade it all for Thom’s life in a heartbeat.

I pace through the camp while food is passed from person to person and conversations slowly flutter to life around me. Eloise sits with her back against a wagon wheel and eats with one hand pressed firmly against her bulging stomach. One of the older women who also rides in the wagon during the day sits next to her, talking softly and occasionally reaching out to pat Eloise’s belly.

I’m glad Eloise has a friend. She looked like a lost little bird even before receiving the news that her husband had died in the Wasteland. I’m also glad I chose to tell her nothing more than that he’d died trying to bring the device back to the Commander, and that Rachel finished the job for him. It’s the truth, if you take out the fact that Melkin tried to kill Rachel to get the device, and she took his life instead. And I did remove those facts. Because her husband died trying to save her life. Even if his methods were questionable, his love wasn’t, and she should be able to cling to that. Plus, Rachel doesn’t need Eloise to haunt her during the day the way Melkin does at night.

Moving on, I pass Adam kicking dirt onto the cooking fire to douse the flames for Nola and Jodi. The anger he harbors still simmers just beneath the surface, but he seems to have accepted my leadership now and is trying to make the best of it.

Or he’s learned how to lie, and I should keep a closer eye on him.

The people clustered throughout the field have become as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I can’t remember all of their names yet, but I know their faces. I know which ones will leap to lend a hand without being asked, and which ones will barely wait for my eyes to open in the morning before they bring questions and complaints my way. I know which ones are still in shock over losing their loved ones and their home. Which ones are angry at the Commander, the killer, or both. Which ones are angry at me. The sound of their voices, the shape of their thoughts, and the increasing trust they throw at my feet have become the fabric of my days.

So when I walk through the camp, nodding to this girl or clapping a hand on the shoulder of that man, I’m doing more than making my way toward the guard post I assigned to myself and Rachel. I’m looking in their eyes. Letting them look in mine. Reassuring them that I know them, I see them, and that they matter.

I’m more than halfway between the center of camp and the outskirts when something tingles across the back of my neck. A sense that something I just saw is somehow . . . wrong .

Trying to make it look like I’m simply acknowledging another greeting called out to me, I turn and slowly scan the area I just crossed.

Eloise and her friend still sit against the wagon wheel.

Adam has joined Nola and Jodi for dinner.

A scattering of children play tag around clusters of seated adults.

Jeremiah and a few of the older men sit in a tight circle, heads together, playing checkers.

Behind them, close to the edge of the field, a man with black hair and olive skin stands beside the far corner of the aging barn, watching the camp.

He isn’t one of ours.

My hand is already reaching for my sword when the man meets my eyes for half a second before turning and slipping into the woods.

He’s wearing the uniform of a Rowansmark tracker.

“Stop!” Logan yells, and runs toward the southern tree line.

“Logan?” Frankie asks, already running toward him even before he knows what’s wrong.

“Rowansmark tracker!” Logan tosses the words over his shoulder as he plunges into the forest.

I leap up to follow them when the concussive boom of an explosion tears across the field. Before I can turn to see what happened, another boom sends me to my knees. The explosions sound like thick rocks being torn apart. I skid forward on my palms, and a sheet of yellow-white flame blazes to life from the ground three yards to my left.

One second, there was nothing but grass and a flat, white stone I nearly tripped over when I took my place at the guard station assigned to me. The next second, the force of the explosion knocks me to the ground as a wave of voracious heat rolls through the air, sucking out the oxygen and leaving the exposed skin on my face and neck feeling crisp and tender.

Dense, white smoke pours out of the flames, and I cough in harsh, hacking sobs as I crawl toward the next guard post. Behind me, another explosion rocks the field, and another sheet of pale flame leaps for the sky.

People scream. Run toward the wagons or toward the forest. Fall down and crawl while others run past them.

It’s chaos. And chaos kills.

I struggle to my feet as another explosion rips through the air, this one closer to the tree line. Those running toward the forest skid to a halt and look around wildly for another plan. Before they can move, another piece of the ground bursts into flames, right beneath the feet of an older man I recognize as one who’d taken to sitting by Jeremiah every evening to play checkers.

He screams, a long, high wail of agony that tapers off into silence as his body twists away from the fire and falls to the grass in a smoldering heap.

A woman next to him leans over and vomits while another man grabs her around the waist and pulls her away.

I rush toward Drake, who stands ten yards from me at the next guard station. Another small slab of white rock, about the size of a loaf of bread, is hidden in the long grass. It catches my foot, and I fly into the air before slamming down onto the ground a yard from the stone.

The fall saves my life.

Behind me, the slab of stone sizzles for a second and then bursts into flame with a terrifying explosion of sound and heat. I press my face into the grass and start crawling as a thick cloud of white smoke pours from the fire. The smoke is bitter and leaves an acrid taste in my mouth.

Someone snatches the back of my cloak and drags me forward. My eyes are streaming as I look at Logan’s furious expression.