Raiders are everywhere, packed into the house like sardines—eating, cleaning weapons, sleeping on the filthy carpet, standing at windows with binoculars. I want to run and never look back. I want to faint. I want to pee my pants.
In a corner of the room, beside a cold, ash-filled fireplace, sit Bowen and Jonah, their hands tied behind their backs. Jonah’s face is bleeding, his blind eye swollen shut. Bowen’s eyes meet mine, and I can hear him curse clear across the room. The raiders, all greasy and burly and armed, turn and look at me and the room goes silent.
Someone starts laughing. “Is that scrawny-assed kid the person Morrison saw running down the foothills?” Other raiders laugh. “Why don’t we set him loose and use him for target practice?”
Striker puts his hot, damp palm on my shoulder and towers over me like he owns me. “I have a better idea.” He cups my chin in his hand and slowly tips my head back. I’m too scared to protest, to fight back. And I hope and pray they can’t tell that I’m female. His fingers caress my neck and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Let’s bring him back to the compound and volunteer him for neck-tearing practice.”
The raiders explode with conversation, ignoring me so completely I might as well have just died. Their eyes gloss over as they start betting food, clothing, and weapons on how long I’ll last.
One man steps up to me and puts his beefy hands around my neck. I flinch and wait for him to tear it, but all he does is measure it, and then hold his fingers up in a small circle. He frowns. “I don’t see how he’s even worth betting over. Look how tiny his neck is!”
I think I’m going to be sick, barfing up all the food I ate at Kevin’s house over the past two days—not that I wouldn’t mind getting it out of my body.
An icy hand clamps my elbow and Kevin is at my side, yanking me a little too roughly toward the corner where Jonah and Bowen sit. I glance at Kevin. He’s pale, even his lips, and a thin sheen of sweat covers his face. A couple of feet from the fireplace, Kevin shoves me. I trip and slam into Jonah. He feels like a pile of bricks.
Bowen leans forward and glares at me, his green eyes like daggers. “Of all the stupid things you’ll ever do in your life, this one will top them all! Why are you here?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Give Jack a break.” Jonah shifts his body so my head is against a slightly softer spot on his chest, and I’m so limp with terror, I can’t help but press all my weight against him. “Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod and sniffle.
“Don’t cry!” Bowen whispers, which makes me want to cry even more. His face softens a tiny bit, and he looks right into my eyes. “Calm down, okay? We’ve got time to think of a way to get you out of here.”
I take a deep, shaky breath and nod.
“Good boy. Now, tell me why you’re here. Is Fo all right?” Fear darkens his eyes when he says Fo’s name.
It takes me a minute to compose myself enough to speak without bursting into tears. “Fo is fine. I came to warn you that you were about to intercept the raiders.” I wipe my nose on my shoulder. “I was too late. I didn’t know you’d been caught!”
Bowen hangs his head forward and groans. I want to scream. I want to fight. So many emotions are pent up inside me, I want to explode and take everyone in the house with me.
“It’s going to be okay, Jack.” Jonah’s voice is a gentle rumble barely audible above the sound of the raiders. And even though I don’t believe him, I relax a bit and look around.
Aside from a dining table and eight mismatched chairs, the house is empty of furniture. A glance through the window shows why—all of the furniture has been chucked into the backyard and chopped into a pile of firewood. In the kitchen, the gray-bearded man who came when Kevin captured me is pouring cans of something into a massive cast-iron pot. As if he can feel my stare, he glances over his shoulder and our eyes lock.
“Why does he keep looking at you?” Bowen whispers. “All of the other raiders seem to have forgotten us. Except him.”
He’s right. It is as if the raiders are so confident in their invincibility, they’ve forgotten we are here. Even Kevin is standing with his shoulder against a wall, spitting on a whetstone and dragging a knife across it—my knife. He doesn’t so much as glance in our direction.
“I can’t believe he did this to us!” I whisper, trying to kill him with my glare.
“Who?” Bowen follows my gaze. “Kevin? What are you talking about?”
“Turning us over to the raiders! That’s got to be where he got all of his food.”
Bowen and Jonah share a meaningful glance. “Don’t be too hard on him,” Jonah says. “He probably wouldn’t have let them take you if he had a choice, but a raider spotted you running down the foothills. They sent him to intercept you. I don’t think he could have done anything differently.”
As if he can hear us, Kevin glances in our direction. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to look at him. If I never see him again, it will be too soon.
“Grub!”
The lone word has the power of a vortex, sucking every single raider into the kitchen—eighteen in all. They’re each given a bowl of food—chili by the smell of it. Most of the raiders don’t bother with spoons, instead opting to scoop the chili into their mouths with their filthy fingers. Within less than three minutes, the food has been devoured and the raiders are throwing their dirty dishes into the sink and wiping their hands on their clothes or the walls. Except Kevin. He’s still standing with his shoulder against the wall, dragging the knife across the whetstone. I suppose, since he’s a raider, he needs a really sharp knife. I stare at his profile, the way his nose leads to his lips, and my blood speeds up a bit—which makes me want to slap him, and then slap myself twice as hard. He betrayed you, I tell my body. Stop liking him!
Striker lifts both his hands above his head, and the raiders fall silent. “Anyone not stationed here, let’s get back to the compound!” He struts over to us and kicks at me until, with Jonah’s help, I stand. “Go.” He nods toward the garage and I go.
The door leading into the garage is open, and the exterior garage door is still up. Wind stirs the air, gusting into the garage and erasing the man smell. I gulp clean air into my lungs, then something hits the back of my knees hard enough to send me toppling down the garage stairs. At the bottom, I smack my head on the cement floor and the world goes fuzzy. Someone laughs, but only for a second. Even in my dazed, hurting state I recognize the sound of fists contacting flesh. I can’t help but wonder if Kevin is standing up for me, so I look up.
Striker is punching someone in the face, over and over. I can’t tell who the other person is because his face is already covered with blood. “Don’t hurt the kid!” Striker yells as he punches. “He’s my contribution to the neck-tearing pool!” No one moves to stop Striker—not even the guy who’s being punched to a pulp. When the guy falls to his knees, Striker stops and wipes his bloody knuckles on the battered man’s shirt. “Let’s go.” He steps past me without a backward glance.
Cold, clammy hands ease my head up off the floor, and I am staring into eyes the color of the morning sky. Kevin’s fingers probe my skull for a brief moment, and then he lifts me to my feet, drags me to the closest four-wheeler, and takes my—his—hat off of me. He pulls a black wool beanie onto my head and down over my face, and the world goes dark. I’m hoisted up onto the back of a four-wheeler and strapped down. More people climb on, making the vehicle sink and bounce. The engine revs and we speed away.
Direction is meaningless. The belt strapping me to the four-wheeler digs into my hips as the driver of the vehicle takes turns too fast. With each turn my stomach becomes more and more unsettled. Finally, after what feels like hours, the driver slams on the brakes and the four-wheeler skids to a stop.
“Hastings is in charge of the animals. Bring the dog treat to him,” someone says.
Still blinded by the beanie, I feel the strap holding me to the four-wheeler—the only reason I stayed on it—being removed from my hips.
Hands wrap around my waist and I’m thrown over someone’s shoulder, my head the lowest point on my body. My throbbing head and motion-sick body can’t handle the shoulder pressing into my stomach. Vomit shoots out of me with enough force to make my entire body recoil, and then it gets trapped in my beanie and I can’t breathe. My entire body goes taut as I try to lurch away from the beanie, try to spit vomit out of my mouth and blow it out of my nostrils, so that I can suck air into my lungs before I suffocate.
The shoulder no longer presses into my stomach. For half a second I seem to be floating, and then something hard collides with my head, making an audible crunch. Whatever hit my head slams into my body, and I am conscious just long enough to realize I’ve been dropped.