Chapter 6

Sawyer’s surly attitude was unchanged in the morning as the rain poured over the city outside in buckets. 

His wanting to go to a Junkyard for scrap metal didn’t surprise me. His asking me to come with them did. 

Apparently, I couldn’t be trusted to stay alone and watch the Dauntless––a smart move, because I couldn’t be––but if I intended to stay with them, I had to do some heavy lifting.

I had no problem with that. In fact, I welcomed it and the distraction. 

The Junkyard that Sawyer and Nash chose to steal from was a small one near the industrial district. The Junkers who lived in the Junkyards were clusters of men and women who had no problem taking advantage of any situation in their path. They mostly dealt with Electricians, often watching them as they took parts for their equipment in exchange for some kind of hand-made device. Even marauders were careful around them. The Junkers lived on scraps and never left their garbage piles. That made food scarce for them, since most smart survivors hoarded whatever food they could find. 

It was rumored that the Junkers had turned into cannibals.

So why Sawyer elected to steal from them was beyond me.

When I asked him, he gave me a wicked, mischievous look.

“Because they have every part I can think of, and if the theft goes badly, we have a thousand places to run.”

That much was true. In its prime, the industrial district was a hive of pipelines, smokestacks, and towering buildings. Half a dozen buildings were erected in the district, each one centralizing in some kind of heavy machinery or hard product. From the oil and gas sector, thousand of barrels of gasoline were sent daily to the Trade Board where they would be distributed throughout Aon and its meager provinces. The watering sector pumped fresh water from the ground and filtered it until it was drinkable for Westraven. They were also responsible for taking care of the dirty water we used. 

But the metalworking sector was the largest in the district. Westraven was famous for its engineers and their tools, as well as for the Sky Guard and their weaponry. 

When the Hellions came in The Storm, it was one of their first targets.

Bombs turned the smokestacks and pipes into charred black sticks. Central buildings and warehouses were imploded, as though a mighty fist had punched them down to the earth. Piles of shrapnel and rippling sheet metal were strewn around the ground. Electric wires dangled out of the warehouse windows and over the doors. The entire district was encased in gnarled barbed wire, the spiky clumps of metal attempting to warn us away. 

I gazed at the stocky, haunted looking factory standing erect in front of the ruins, through the shadows lingering beyond its cracked windows. I half expected a pack of Hellions to burst into sight and tear us to pieces. 

Sawyer strolled through a torn gap in the fence without missing a stride. 

I was a little more cautious and a lot more grateful that Nash convinced Sawyer to let me have my knives back. I had a feeling that he was the reason Sawyer let me come at all.

As we treaded past the fence to the heart of the metalworking factory, I swept rain soaked hair off my face and zipped my jacket up until the collar jutted against my chin.

“Where are the Junkers?” I asked as the rain pounded down around me. I’d only been to Junkyards a couple times, but I figured they all enjoyed the same style of living––towering piles of useless crap that was too rusted to save. 

“Probably inside here,” Sawyer stated, pointing at the door we were about to walk through. 

I glared at him. “Do you always walk into dark buildings owned by possibly cannibalistic hoarders?” 

Sawyer glanced at me, and even offered me a small grin. “Marauder, remember?”

I scowled, but followed him inside. Mentally, I made the excuse that I wanted to get out of the rain before it froze me. Truthfully, I felt a lot more comfortable with Nash at my back.

Once we were inside, Sawyer turned to the left. We quickly followed him into a vast, empty room. 

There was nothing––no machines, tables, or equipment– to tell us what had once been in here. The two hundred foot space was gutted, the hard concrete floor coated in thick layers of dust and dirt. Rain pattered on the curved plate glass roof canopying over our heads.

But the light that illuminated the tarnished metal walls didn’t come from the stormy sky. In front of us was a set of double doors propped open, a beckoning orange glow spilling out into the hollowed room. Mechanical noises groaned from within it.

Sawyer took out his flintlock pistol and held it at his side. He didn’t stop walking. 

“We need to move fast,” he said in a quiet voice. “I want to walk out of here with something for the Hove-porter. Take some scrap if you can manage to carry it, but the Dauntless needs to get off the streets. After that, we can think about fully restoring it.”

“Can I know where you’re planning to take it yet?” I asked half seriously, since I didn’t expect him to answer me.

Sawyer hesitated, narrowing his eyes suspiciously from over his shoulder as he walked through the desolate room. He turned away and fell silent. I didn’t expect him to answer me.

“The ports.”

“The ports?” I repeated, shocked that he’d answered me. “As in the ones owned by the Trade Board? The ones that everyone stopped raiding because they’re supposed to be cursed?”

“The same.”

“They were never cursed,” Nash rumbled. His voice was close to my back. “Just a lot of bad luck. The Hellions haven’t passed by them in years, and nothing outside suggests there are any other survivors hiding in them.”

Which made sense, since the ports were all but bombed to oblivion when the Hellions attacked. Hundreds fled to the large air hangars in hopes of finding shelter, only to be picked off easily by the much faster, stronger, smarter Hellions.

“Besides,” Sawyer commented, his voice echoing slightly as we approached the fiery light, “where else are we going to hide something as big as the Dauntless?”

Sawyer slowed his pace as he came to the exit of the massive hall. He stalked to the door and tucked into cover by its frame. Nash and I followed him. We peered around the corner where the glowing orange light and heavy clicking and grinding noises were coming from. The room beyond was a cavernous space with hundred foot high ceilings and a network of catwalks. Lining the far wall was a row of towering kilns pouring white-hot molten metal into ten- foot wide, cast iron funnels. Steam raced out of the funnel tops and large gears on either side of the funnels clicked and rotated, the machine probably signaling water to be pumped into its cooling area. The contraption hissed as it moved through the base of the cooling box, which looked like another giant kiln. At the very bottom, a sliding door clicked open like a yawning mouth, and spat out a distorted metal sheet.

I frowned at the casting machines. All six of them were battered and producing warped products. I turned my head to the right, squinting through the thick steam and shadows. I thought I could make out the edges of a control panel, but I wasn’t sure. 

Doubting I would have use for the control panel, I turned my attention to the most glaring item in the room––the giant pile of junk.

Sitting in the center of the casting chamber was a towering mountain of scrap metal, cogs, pipes, and gears. Other than that, the room was empty.

“Why are they running the casters?” I whispered.

“Could be forming the metal to make parts for trade. Some people still might still remember their jobs from before The Storm,” Nash whispered at my back. I shivered at the feel of his voice against my neck, though I didn’t mind the sensation.

“Doesn’t change who they are,” Sawyer grumbled. “They’re not generous folk. We run into them, we knock them out.”

“Not exactly a friendly negotiating,” I muttered.

He shrugged. “If you want to be skewered and roasted on a spit, then by all means, try to reason with them.”

I scowled at Sawyer, but couldn’t come up with an argument. I suppose I should have been glad he didn’t immediately say we should kill them. I was a thief, not an assassin.

Turning his back to me and drawing his cutlass and pistol, Sawyer stepped into the casting chamber. I followed, putting my hand on the hilt of my knife. Nash strode up to my side, his hands balled into fists.

Sawyer moved in a circle as he approached the junk pile, his tawny eyes scanning for hidden enemies. He holstered his cutlass when he reached the metal mountain, though his pistol remained in his hand and his eyes never stopped moving.

“Nash, Gemma, start collecting.”

Nash nodded and began scaling the pile. I looked at Sawyer. “I don’t know what to look for. I’ll watch the ground. You collect what you need.”

Sawyer looked at me for a moment, then nodded and holstered his pistol. He turned and climbed the pile of scrap.

I turned my back to them and curled my hand around my knife hilts. I watched the corners and the shadows, felt the heat flaring from the casting machines as the molten metal poured from the kilns. Over my head, Sawyer and Nash worked through the pile, speaking in hushed tones and gently pushing aside pieces of metal they didn’t want. With the sizzling sounds coming from the funnels and cooling boxes, I didn’t think anyone would hear us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that angry eyes were watching us.

I paced around the sides of the junk pile, each step tenser than the last. I scrutinized the shadows and waited for our enemies to get impatient.

Still nothing.

“You boys gonna be much longer?” I asked, keeping my gaze on the dark corners. 

“Hard to say,” Sawyer remarked. “Why, do you see something?”

“Not down here––”

As I was talking, I was turning to the scrap mountain. I froze in mid-sentence, my eyes widening as I watched the Junkers rappelling from the catwalks on thick ropes. They brandished knives and raised them to strike at Nash and Sawyer. The marauders didn’t see or hear them.

“Sawyer!”

He snapped his head in my direction, saw my upturned finger and wide eyes. His flintlock was out of its holster before he ever saw the threat. He leaned back and tilted up his head up. When he saw the man descending over his head, he startled. But he fired a shot nonetheless. 

The bullet struck the rope the Junker was using to descend. He let out a surprised yelp when the line snapped. The sound was cut short when his head smacked straight onto the top of the metal mountain. His neck bent at an awkward angle, his body flopping awkwardly between Nash and Sawyer. The two men raised their heads, seeing the same thing I was.

Two more Junkers flipping around on their ropes and sliding down to attack. 

I watched Sawyer fired another round at the descending Junkers before I was driven into the ground.

I was so busy worrying about Nash and Sawyer that I didn’t watch my own surroundings. I didn’t think that other attackers might have been hiding in the shadows that I thought were watching me, each one of them waiting for the perfect chance to pounce.

The right side of my body slammed against the concrete with jarring force. I scrabbled against my attacker, both of us trying to get the upper hand.

I lost.

A lanky Junker straddled me, the edges of his dented, homemade, scrap-metal armor digging into my hips and thighs. Oily dreadlocks dangled from his head like fat spider-legs. I swung my fist at his chin. He grabbed my wrists with one hand and pulled them away from my body. His other hand struck me square in the face.

Stars burst behind my eyes from the punch, but I didn’t black out from it. Or from the second one, though I came close. My head filled with pain, each movement becoming a ruthless spike jabbing into my skull. 

I wouldn’t beat him with physical strength. Speed was my only chance.

Pooling strength into my lower body, I bucked my hips and pitched to the right. It was like moving a ton of bricks off my stomach, but I managed to tip the Junker off balance and toss him onto the ground. The gangly man roared and lashed his boot at my face. I grabbed his ankle and pulled it away from my body. With my free hand, I grabbed a knife and jabbed it into the back of his knee. 

The Junker screamed in agony, clutching his wounded leg. I pulled the blade out and scrambled to my feet. My boot shot into the man’s temple. That single strike sent him to the ground, where he didn’t move again.

I whirled to the mountain of scrap metal to see how much trouble we were in. It was worse than I thought. 

Both Sawyer and Nash were still trapped on the pile. Sawyer had his cutlass out, swinging and slashing at the two Junkers climbing up from the main floor. Maybe they wouldn’t have been a problem, if one of the rappelling Junkers wasn’t creeping up on his back with a knife in hand. Sawyer saw him and whirled around to stop the knife from going into his neck, but the other Junkers took advantage of his back. Two blades sliced across his lower legs. Sawyer buckled and winced in pain. The Junker at his back slammed a harsh punch into his temple, nearly knocking him out. 

Across from him, Nash was facing the same three-on-one-battle. But he didn’t have a sword or a pistol. All he had were brass knuckles and brute strength. Seeing him fight was impressive. Every time his fist struck one of the Junkers, I heard a sound like a tree-branch snapping. All three Junkers had blood smeared on their faces. 

But they had blades, and treated Nash like hunters wearing down a cornered bear. Every time he hit one man, another would slice a line across his back or his stomach. None of the cuts looked grievous, but the Junkers would get bolder. Strong as he was, Nash would weaken soon. The cuts would get deeper, bloodier, and then they would close in for the kill.

I couldn’t be in two places at once. Helping Nash meant Sawyer would die. Helping Sawyer meant Nash would be cut to ribbons. That was assuming I could climb the pile fast enough to get to either of them. 

There has to be another way. T, think, Gemma, think, think––

The answer was right in front of me, right in the boiling cauldrons of blazing hot liquid metal. Nash said that these Junkers continued to make their own materials. 

Wouldn’t it be a shame if something happened to those materials?

I sprinted past the scrap metal mountain to the control panel. I noticed the deep groove dug into the floor, a manmade trench to catch the molten metal if one of the cooling boxes failed and released the lava onto the floor. 

It would probably do the same for all of the boxes.

Maybe.

I ran until I was beside the panel. It was a scratched metal box missing its door. Dozens of switches and breakers lined the interior, each one labeled for its corresponding kiln or cooling box. In the middle of the panel was a large red lever with a label that read: “PULL DOWN FOR EMERGENCY RELEASE.” 

Please let that mean what I think it means. 

I stopped and whirled around. The Junkers were closing in on my marauder allies. Nash and Sawyer looked about ready to collapse, and the Junkers didn’t seem to be short on energy.

I placed my fingers in my mouth and whistled, an ear-piercing shriek that couldn’t be missed. The Junkers whipped their heads in my direction. They saw where I was, and froze in terror that quickly morphed into rage. 

I grinned and grabbed the main power lever. “Guess you’ll need a new stream of revenue, boys. Unless you can catch this one.”

I pulled down the lever. 

Immediately, the flow of the molten metal increased from the kiln. The steady stream was now a waterfall. It spilled over the funnel, too heavy to be caught. The gears stopped clicking, the emergency lever shutting off the flow of cool water. Steam billowed in a thick fog as the uncooled metal spilled out of the cooling box’s sliding door, gushing unevenly into the trench in the floor. 

Now there’s an interesting cast, I thought wickedly.

The Junkers started screaming incoherently, abandoning the battered marauders and charging for me. 

But I still wasn’t done. Flipping the knife in my hand, I hammered the hilt of it against the thin switches, snapping each of them off. There was no way the Junkers would be able to make their faulty metal scrap now. 

I didn’t have time to boast or enjoy my victory. The Junkers closed distance fast. The last thing I had time to do was glance over their shoulders and meet Nash’s eyes. He was holding his battered body, sliding down the scrap metal pile with his collected items. He divided his attention between his footing, the unconscious men he’d fought, and me. His eyes were wide, as though he was horrified he couldn’t move fast enough.

“Go!” I screamed.

The Junkers halted just feet away from me, as though they remembered there were three of us. I decided the best way to get their attention was to sweep a wide, roundhouse kick into the closest man’s head. He dropped like a sack of bricks. The Junkers howled, but I was already running. 

Thankfully, there was a door close to the control panel. Since the Junkers sprang on us with virtually no warning, I had to assume it was open. I grabbed the handle and shouldered through it, throwing the metal door hard against the wall. I ended up in another wide room like the one we came in through. Sheets of rain poured through the scattered, broken skylights overhead, creating puddles that I splashed through on my way to the exit––a torn down wall leading outside, fifty feet away. It might as well have been in the clouds.

Something hard and sharp skittered over my shoulder, nicking my leather jacket. I jumped as I watched the blade clatter to the ground in front of me. Okay, so one of the three men chasing me knew how to throw a knife. Best to keep running, only faster.

Rainwater doused me sporadically as I continued to weave an erratic pattern through the corridor. I vaulted over clumped metal debris on the right, then dashed a hard line to the center, and finally veered left. It made the journey longer, but I didn’t gain any knives in my back.

The Junkers were closing in. Metal armor clanked against hard, wiry bodies. Feet pounded pools of water. Grunts of exertion hounded my steps. 

I pushed myself harder and faster, forcing my mind to ignore the aches growing in my legs. The open wall was just ahead of me, a curtain of rain pelting down into the yard. I barreled into the storm, instantly re-soaked to the bone. I blinked the streaming water from my eyes, searching for a hiding spot to lose the Junkers––

My eyes froze on a deformed shadow in the sky. It hovered and descended between the cluster of snapped smokestacks less than fifty feet away.

No, I thought. No, not here––

Rough hands gripped my shoulders and yanked me back. I landed on sharp, unforgiving gravel. My elbows struck the ground and jolted my knife from my hand. The Junkers wasted no time in pummeling me.

I rolled to miss the kick that would have landed in my spine. It hit my right shoulder instead. Still painful, but nothing I couldn’t deal with. The kick that landed in my stomach was less forgiving. 

I gritted my teeth against the pain and launched to my feet, missing another boot and slamming my fist into someone’s jaw. I ducked, whirled, and kicked again, hitting what must have been someone else’s ribs. I threw out elbows, swept out legs, refused to stop moving. All I needed was a single opening, a chance to break out of this circle of death and run for cover.

I never got it.

The punch came out of thin air. Thanks to the torrential downpour, I couldn’t see where my enemies were until it was too late. The blow collided with my cheek and pitched me to the right. Arms looped through mine and held me upright. As soon as I was straightened, the Junkers surrounded me. 

Rivulets of water sluiced down the dents of their rusted armor and soaked the thin tunics beneath. Their dreadlocks were plastered to the sides of their face, matching the wildness of their eyes. Each face was twisted in a hate-filled scowl, revealing chipped, yellow teeth. Even through the hammering rain, the sour reek of their unwashed bodies and rotting breath gagged me, 

In the distance, shrouded by shadows and veiled by rain, were two more figures creeping out from behind the wall of an abandoned warehouse. Dark as it was, I could still see the pinprick red of their eyes as they closed in. 

I twisted my upper body, struggling to slip free of the Junker holding me. A solid punch to my stomach stopped my fight. Another hit landed in my ribs before I had a chance to breathe. Two more strikes rammed into my torso, filling it with pain. A hand fisted my hair and jerked my head up. This time, I saw a knife.

I widened my eyes, but was still looking over the Junker’s shoulder.

The thugs had no idea what was behind them. Not until dagger-like claws stabbed into the knife-wielding Junker’s shoulders. He tilted his head back and screamed, making it all too easy for the Hellion to sink its teeth into his throat. 

His scream became a choking gurgle, stark red blood gushing out from the gaping holes in his neck. The two other Junkers started yelling and leaping away. The man trapping my arms let me go. I dropped to my knees, hearing a sharp cry and a thick, ripping sound, like something tearing skin away from bone. I grabbed my knife from where it fell and watched a body drop in front of me. 

The Junker who’d been about to cut me now lay bleeding out in the rain, a huge chunk of flesh missing from the left side of his throat. Wide, dead eyes stared at me with surprise and horror. I raised my head and watched another Hellion trap a second Junker on the ground. Its claws were plunged deep in the shrieking man’s back, pinning him in place as it clamped its mouth on the back of his neck. He wailed in agony as the Hellion pulled, lifting the flesh from the dying man’s spine.

A sharp, raspy growl came from behind me. I pitched to my feet and swung the knife back. I was doing it to keep the Hellion away from me. 

I wasn’t expecting to cut open its face.

The cold steel sliced open a gaping wound on its cheek. Its head barely turned, blood-red eyes fixing on me. I raised the knife and aimed another stab.

The Hellion tilted its head and let the blade fly harmlessly into the empty space over its shoulder. It barked harshly and snapped its pointed teeth at my upper arm. I yelped in surprise and jumped back, getting the distance I desperately needed. I kicked the beast in the stomach before it could recover, buying myself a chance to escape. The dread set in when I turned and bolted into the rain.

I didn’t know how long I had until those dagger claws plunged into my back. There was no way I could outrun one of the creatures, let alone two. All I could hope for was Nash and Sawyer escaping––

The Hellion chasing me let out a sudden squawk. Another one screamed with rage. I pushed myself faster. I didn’t want to know what was going on. Not unless I was at least a hundred feet away and hidden on a roof.

A man’s sharp grunt of pain stopped me.

I whirled around, petrified as Nash attacked the final Hellion. Sawyer was recovering, the severed head of the Hellion lying at his feet behind me.

This Hellion had a mouth full of blood streaming down its chin. More drizzled from its fingertips like red lightning. The first Hellion might have been caught unaware, but this one wouldn’t be.

Sawyer lunged with his cutlass, aiming to run the Hellion through. It turned away, but not far enough. The blade sliced into its body right below the ribs.

The Hellion didn’t seem to notice. It hissed and grabbed the sharp, naked steel, and pulled itself forward. The cutlass went straight through its body. The Hellion slashed its claws at Sawyer when he was too stunned to move. He came back into himself and stepped back, but wasn’t going to get far enough––

Nash cracked his fist into the side of the Hellion’s head. The brass knuckles circling his fingers glistened under the rain. The monster roared and turned its attention on the large marauder. The back of its fist crashed against Sawyer’s cheek, pushing him away from the fight. At the same time, the monster sped toward Nash, hissing and spitting, and moving too fast for the marauder to do anything but raise his arms––

I didn’t remember moving. One second I was standing back, watching the fight, the next I was right beside the Hellion, watching its head turn, and sweeping my arm down with every ounce of strength I had left. The blade punched through the Hellion’s soft eyeball. Dark gore spewed out of the ruined eye and onto my hand. The Hellion’s shriek pierced my ears mercilessly. I grimaced and twisted the blade as it swung its claws at me. The Hellion’s cry ended abruptly, its arms flopping down and banging harmlessly into my sides. I yanked my knife from the monster’s face. Watched it slump onto the ground.

I stood over the monster’s body, stared at it, waiting for it to get up. 

It didn’t. Sawyer made sure. He stalked over to the monster and hacked the cutlass onto its neck. Two more swipes, two more meaty crunch sounds, and the beast’s head was removed from its body. I continued to stare at it.

“I killed it,” I finally whispered. “I killed a Hellion.”

I didn’t know I was shaking until Nash put his hand on my shoulder. A bruise swelled over his temple, and his shirt was a mess of sliced fabric that concealed the paper-thin cuts on his chest. He smiled grimly when I looked at him. “You did.”

My breath caught in my throat. Killing a Hellion shouldn’t have bothered me. They were murderous creatures with no thought or care for the torture and suffering they put humans through. They would have eaten me without hesitation––while I was still alive––and gone on to Nash and Sawyer for dessert.

But I had never killed anything before.

Nash squeezed my shoulder. That was when I realized I was shaking. 

I shrugged away from his touch and stepped back. My bruises throbbed under the cold rain, reminding me of the beatings I’d taken, both old and new. Sawyer appeared on my right. He seemed to be in the same state as Nash––bruised and lightly cut. If the slices on his legs were bothering him, he didn’t let it show.

“That should be the last of them,” he said, “but I don’t feel like staying here and waiting for reinforcements from either side. We have what we need for now, but we can come back later.”

I gaped at him. “You’re coming back?”

“Sure,” he replied. “As far as I know, this was the only Junker gang in the industrial district. Most people go to the Southside Junkers for supplies. More variety.” He glanced at the bodies of the three Junkers who’d followed and attacked me. “Besides, it’s not like these guys will give us trouble any more.”

I would have berated him for his callousness, if I didn’t hear the tinge of sadness to his voice. Sawyer was masking his pain. I knew all about masks.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “When dead men start haggling you for trade, you know you’re in serious shit.”

Gallows humor. The only kind that survivors had left. 

It worked. Sawyer smiled, and even Nash managed a dry chuckle behind me. Right then, I knew three truths:

Sawyer might be wary of me, but he was beginning to trust me. Nash probably talked his partner into helping me because he cared about me.

And finally, the gut punch to it all.

I would never forgive myself when I betrayed them.