***
In the morning, Jonas is gone when the rest of us wake. I wonder how he managed to sneak out without me noticing. I clean Apollon's wound, dressing it with a fresh pack of Neveah's herbs, and breathe. It's late morning by the time that Oscar and I start out. We say we're going to hunt rats, and I'm sure that Oscar believes we are. But instead of heading to the back alleyways, we walk toward the Rustler.
As we turn the corner onto the main road, we see her immediately. Hanging. Oscar and I stop in our tracks and stare. At the intersection in front of the corner store, dangling from some sloppily constructed contraption attached to an old metal pole, is Sarah's body. Her eyes are open, bulging, her tongue thick and protruding. She's clearly been there for a while. A Sentry stands in the intersection, but it must not have been there when Sarah was hung. Clearing up after a murder— not its job. Either it has caught and swiftly punished the culprit, or it's missed its chance and focused on other things. I stand there and gape at the picture of dysfunctional justice before me. Sarah hanging. So I didn't like her, but I want desperately to cut her down. I wonder what the Sentry would do if I did. I wonder what Matt would do.
Oscar's fingers, thin and cold on my wrist, stop me from moving. "Don't," he says softly. "Eden, don't."
I remember him, and I'm clamping one hand over his eyes and hugging him to me with the other.
"It's OK," he mumbles into my stomach, making me realize that he's calmer than I am. How much death has he seen to be this calm?
In the intersection, the Sentry turns its blank face, then takes off down the side street. I let Oscar go, but turn his face away from the horror with a swipe of my fingers on his cheek. "Don't look at that." I catch his hand and run for the Rustler. We duck inside the door. I wipe my hands through my hair as we walk to the stools. There are no card games, and even if there were, I don't have the money to play.
Arthur sets a drink down by me. I ignore it. If I take it, I'll need another twenty after that. Instead, I try to breathe, and scan the room for Jonas. He's not here. And if not here, then where? Panic rises in me. I know he's gone to see Matthew today. That's why he left before any of us were up. Now, I need to stop him. The panic swells larger. I'm probably too late. I have to stop him.
"C'mon." I turn toward the door, just as it opens. I fall short.
Eight of Matthew's men walk in, eyeing the room, followed by Matt himself. Behind him is another five of his crew. They all wander in slowly, like they own the place. They group at two empty tables, except for Matt, who sees me.
"Have you seen Jonas?" I ask as he walks toward me, before he can even greet me.
His eyes narrow briefly, and he shakes his head. "No."
I look down at Oscar. "Run home," I tell him. "See if he's back yet."
Oscar nods and does as I ask— I think. He has defied me before, after all, but this is the best I can do. I need to know where Jonas is— and if he didn't go to Matt then where is he— but mostly I want to get Oscar out of here. Out of this bar. Out of this Outpost. I remember Jonas' promise, that we'll leave, and I manage to find some vestige of calm inside myself. I look Matt in the eye and say the only thing that comes to mind, glancing meaningfully toward the door. "Nice decorations."
Again his eyes narrow a touch, but he shrugs and leans back against the bar. "Makes a statement, anyway."
He's not even going to deny it. I turn away before I can say something that'll end up with me and Sarah hanging out together. I never liked her. I cross my arms and clamp my jaw.
"Don't pretend you didn't know she was flirting with death," he says, casually. I'm not looking at him, but I'm sure he's studying his nails.
As I turn back, I see he is. "She was desperate," I say, trying to hold back the confrontation in my voice. My words come out carefully, even though I'm fuming inside. "This whole Outpost is desperate."
He looks me up and down. "That so?"
Try as I might to hold it back, my fingers squeeze into fists. A hot rush colors my cheeks, darkening like the sky.
He shifts, turning toward me. "What I meant," he says, his voice soothing, "is that if you need help..."
"These people need help," I snap, before he can finish his offer. "How long are you going to let them—"
"Not very long," he says, straightening suddenly and closing the distance between us. He puts his hands on my hips and looks down into my eyes, murmuring to me like he's saying something entirely different. "It takes a while to put together an attack," he says, in a low voice as smooth as cream. "A few more days and things will be better. You'll see."
I blink up at him, start to shake my head. He responds by moving his hands to my face, brushing his thumbs along my cheekbones, smoothing my hair back with his fingers.
"What will you do?" I whisper.
He tilts his head in the tiniest shrug-like gesture, then gazes down at me with half-closed eyes. "Take back what's ours," he murmurs. "I'm sending armed escorts for the supply shipments. After that, we'll deal with Grey himself."
The feeling of panic is worming its way out again. I consider telling him that Grey has been plotting this for years. That his armed escorts will probably be slaughtered. But instead, I say, "Grey?" He can't know that I know anything. I can't trust him with that. I can't end up like Sarah.
He dismisses my question with a little shake of his head, and leans toward me.
I close my eyes.
A shout from the door makes him pull away. I look past him toward one of his men, who has stepped in from outside. I'm not sure what he's said, but Matt moves suddenly away from me, toward the table. He's putting his back toward the wall. Heavy footsteps trample outside the front door. I jump onto a barstool and hoist the untouched drink that Arthur left for me, spilling a little of it down my front. I hunch over the bar and let my hair hang into my face. The footsteps slow as they come inside. I don't look toward the door, but in my peripheral vision, I count at least fifteen large bodies passing through the opening.
"What the hell is this?" says a voice behind me. It belongs to Colton, Matt's right-hand-man.
"The answer to your negotiations," says a voice that has stopped right beside me.
"And?" says Matt impatiently.
It makes me wonder how he's survived so long. I close my eyes and make myself breathe. Be very still, and get out of here alive, I think. Just be still. Pretend to be some drunk. This is not your business.
"Grey doesn't negotiate," the voice next to me says. At first, the clicking sound is foreign, then I recognize it as a hammer being cocked.
Don't. Don't. Don't. I fall drunkenly off of my stool. All hell breaks loose.
My fall comes close enough to distract the guy next to me— the one with the gun. He sidesteps to avoid me. A bullet hits him in the shoulder, sending him stumbling. I recover myself and kick the gun out of his hands. Gunshots explode around the room, making my head hurt, my ears ring. Blood spatters in every direction.
Two men behind me, locked in battle over a knife, knock into me. I almost lose my footing. Almost, because the guy who had the gun is on his feet, grabbing me, and slamming me into the bar. My ribs crunch against the wood. This time, there is a definite crack, and a sharp, throbbing pain. I can't breathe. My head is an overinflated balloon. Spots swirl around in my vision. He presses me up against the bar and reaches around my belt for my knife.
The pressure eases up. He gurgles. I manage to spin around to see the blood dripping out of his mouth, splattering onto my jacket. He clings to me as he falls, and more blood, like a fountain springing from his stomach, rains onto me, until my whole front is slippery and red.
Matt kicks him away, wet knife in hand, and says, as the light goes out of the man's eyes, "Don't touch her."
The last of the bodies are falling around the room. Four of Matthew's men are still standing. Blood runs freely between the
floorboards. Grey matter peppers one wall. We all wear a uniform of sticky, dark liquid. And we are far from safe.
Matthew grabs me by the arm and hauls me around the end of the bar. I stumble to keep up with him, but I can barely breathe or think. Our survival will only last seconds. Sentries will burst through the door soon. But Arthur Adner is hiding around the other side of the bar. He jerks a dirty rug out of the way and opens a trap door into the floor. Matt shoves me ahead of him into the darkness below.
I roll as I hit the bottom and scramble to my feet. It's dark and cold. I can't see. Everything that has happened so far is nothing compared to this. I scream.
Matt grabs me from behind and clamps his hand over my mouth. I bite down, making him swear. I kick and thrash, trying to get away from him. Trying to get away from the darkness. He manages to hang onto me and drags me deeper into the tunnel. I strain against him, clawing, scratching him, hurting myself. My nails dig into his arms, making long, warm gashes. Parts of me twist in haphazard directions as he restrains and drags me. My lungs and head will burst any second. I know it. I will die. I can't wait to die. I only care about getting away from this— from him— because he has become the darkness itself. He has become the box.
"Somebody get a fucking light," Matt grunts. It's something far away that has nothing to do with me. I've returned to primal instinct. To chemical fear. He slams me up against the wall— hard— and the light comes on.
I stare at it, small and flickering, and freeze.
Matt lets out a long, frustrated sigh. He looks into my eyes, eyebrows quivering with restrained rage. His hand slides away from my mouth. He glances down at it as if he might be missing some fingers.
All of that happens in my peripheral vision. I'm looking at the light. One of Matt's men holds up a small flashlight. Its blue aether glow, instead of illuminating, makes everything else seem to fade away to nothingness.
Matt releases me entirely now, and jerks the light out of the man's hand. He places it in my palm and holds my whole arm out so I can see. "Go that way," he says. "There's a door at the end."
I start running into the darkness. I don't care that I might trip, twist an ankle, or break a leg. I don't care about the things that rustle away from my oncoming footsteps. There is a door. I will get to it. My whole body shakes as I run, bouncing the blue light around on the rough-hewn corridor. My knees are not enough to hold me up. I have to get out of here before I collapse. I run faster. My chest aches all the way from the bottom of my ribcage up into my throat. I can barely hold the light, but I cling to it as if there's nothing else to keep me in this world.
The corridor stretches on, and I begin to think that it's a trick. I'll never get out. I have run into my own grave where no one will ever find my body. I have run the passage to my own hell. If I ever find a door, it will only lead into a box. The blue light grows dimmer, its color thickening like a dying star. I am lost. I slow to a stop, and sob, even though the motion of it makes my chest feel like it will break apart. I hold out the light in my palm and watch it fade. This is what death looks like.
I'm standing in black. I want to scream. It's building in me. But there's no energy left to release it, so the anguish turns itself inward. The scream works itself noiselessly into my soul, teeth biting down, squeezing, crushing, tearing. I'm falling inward. Turning to dust.
My shoulders slump. I hang my head, stare at the toe of my boot. I stare. I study the way the line of it curves around. Like it exists in another dimension, away from here. A thin ribbon of brown lies across it. My boots aren't brown. I narrow my eyes. It takes bending down. Touching it. Trying to feel a difference between the brown and black. Trying to decipher it like a code.
Light. A narrow band of light. Now, surrounded in this strange calm, I look up. The door. I feel the wall and find a ladder. I climb it. The pain is now so far away from me. Am I really in pain? Or was it someone else? I push the door open. It makes a deep creaking noise, heavy until I get it past halfway. Then it crashes open with a bang. It bounces and splinters break off of its half-rotted frame. The sound, though, is far away. Everything is far away.
I emerge into a shed made of wavy metal panels fastened together at the corners. Gaps of light leak through the edges. I look out and see no one. A quiet yard with weeds cracking through the pavement. I close the trap door, and open the one to outside. In the street, I recognize this place. I'm only a block from home.
My hands are shaking as I push our door open. I stand on the threshold. Everyone gapes at me.
"Blood," Miranda shrieks, and leaps toward me. She yanks me inside and slams the door behind me.
Jonas is at her side. "Where are you hurt?" he's asking, his voice dead calm.
I shake my head. It's all I can do. Tears start to spill down my face.
Apollon, struggling to sit up, grunts, "the fire."
Miranda has her knife out. She slashes into my jacket, my shirt, and starts pulling my clothes off. Jonas helps her. The humiliation is a thin and distant thing behind the horror of what's happened. Oscar runs to the wood stove and throws the door open. They form a line, passing my clothes from hand to hand, until they end as food for the flames. I stand there sobbing, and let them.
"Get the pump going," Miranda barks at Oscar. Apollon has made it off the couch and to the stove. He takes over there, poking everything down into the embers. As he closes the stove door, Miranda pulls me toward the bathroom.
I climb into the tub and she hoses me down with water so wintry it should be in solid form. I hunch over in the tub, teeth chattering, as she blasts me with coma-inducing coldness, and watch the water run red, then blush, then clear. It's clear for a long time before she stops. I think I actually have frozen there because I can't seem to get my body to move. She throws the towel over my back and half-pulls me out of the tub. I manage to make my legs go along with her plan.
I'm still dripping and shivering when we stumble together into the main room. Jonas takes one look at me and pulls the quilt off the bed, wrapping it around me. I'm not sure if it's the quilt, or the warmth of his arms, but I start to feel, in the tiniest bit, alive. He leads me to the bed and sits me down, tucks the blanket around my feet to seal out the air. I close my eyes, and try to breathe. It takes too much effort, so I give up, and fall over sideways, thinking I'll pass out.
It is then that the Sentry throws open the front door.