The Wounded

“All right, all right,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I get your point.”

I offered my hand, and he took it. “Good.”

We walked back to the car, the other men straightening and coughing as I passed them. I knew it was harsh, but I couldn’t lose him too. I needed him to understand what was at stake. This wasn’t some great adventure. We were about to start a war. I needed him to shake off some of his comedy and start thinking like a soldier, like a Survivor.

I swung into the back of the car, Joseph on one side of me and Rash sliding in gingerly on the other, sitting forward like he couldn’t bear to lean back on the seat. Joseph leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Not that I didn’t enjoy seeing him suffer, but what was that all about?”

I sat staring forward, too angry to whisper. “He needs to learn,” I snapped.

“Right you are!” Pelo exclaimed from the front seat.

And then I stared at my lap, refusing to talk to any of them. Because the truth was I really, really wished it wasn’t the case. I wished Rash could be Rash without consequences, and we could live freely. It was just another reminder of why this needed to happen.

Things always get ruined. You think you’re in control and that you have your hands on the reins. But I’m starting to think either someone else is driving, or the reins are attached to nothing. Just flapping and snapping in the breeze. What could be simple, never is.

We decided to stop for the night on the outskirts of what was left of a tiny town. It seemed so insignificant that it escaped the bombing. It was a husk. Dry and dull as the dust that clung to the simple brick buildings.

We parked the cars behind a water tank. Gus untied the sorry saiga he’d shot from the front bar of the car and threw it over his shoulders. We walked into the first building we came across. A modest brick home, with out-of-place, aqua-painted window frames. The door crumbled as Matthew pushed it open. We stomped over the pile of rotting wood and threw our packs down in what must have been the lounge. The night air poured through the roofless building, like a bucket of cold water.

One of the men kicked in what was left of a wood-framed sofa, breaking it into pieces and building a fire in the center of the room. I could hear Gus sharpening his knives and getting ready to skin the animal outside.

Joseph walked into the kitchen and turned on the tap, leaning down to drink as the water slowly turned from brown to clear.

Tonight we could relax, or at least try to. Tomorrow, it was a short drive, and then we would hike into thicker woods towards the Superiors’ compound.

Smoke puffed gently past the rafters and into the air. The moon was a cut C-shape, barely casting any light. Delicious smells filled the room as Gus fried large saiga steaks over the fire.

“That’s what you get for messing with me,” Rash said, staring at the steak between his hands. Gus leaned dangerously close to the fire and snatched the steak from Rash’s greasy fingers.

“That’s what you get for disrespecting your food,” he growled through his bristled beard.

Rash blinked in shock, fully expecting Gus to hand it back, which he didn’t. I searched through my pack and handed him a packet of crackers and some cheese.

One of the Survivor’s chirped up, his voice rough and cheery, “And that’s what you get for messing with Gus!”

We all laughed as Rash sulked and swore over his meager di

The Survivors’ faces were masked in firelight, smudging shadows under their eyes, which shone orange, like they were monsters. Kind-hearted monsters. They joked and jostled until the conversation turned to the mission. The laughs burned off their faces and the ready soldiers returned.

I let their talk transform into stories and fairytales. I knew my part. I would let my imagination shelter me tonight.

As evening changed to nighttime we all shifted and yawned, separating into the various rooms to sleep.

Rash whispered to me as we parted at a doorway, “Can I trade partners with you? That Gus guy and me have a personality clash. You know, we just don’t… gel.” He rubbed his palms together. He didn’t really mean it. And maybe we weren’t supposed to joke about this stuff but this was his way of saying ‘I’m sorry it has to be you.’

I shook my head, “And you and Joseph, you think you gel?”

He tipped his head and slapped my back, “Point taken Soar,” and sidled off towards another room.

We rolled out our sleeping bags, and once inside Joseph flipped onto his back and fell asleep immediately. I lay on my side with my arms close to my chest, thinking about Orry, wondering what part of the sky he was watching, what he was doing, and worrying. Apella pierced my thoughts in small snatches. She would always be a mystery to me. Images appeared of when we’d first met underground, her hair always a curtain hiding her from the rest of the world. She kept so much inside for so long, and now she was buried with her secrets. I sighed and rolled onto my back. Staring at the sky, I listened to the men and Olga snoring around me.

I blinked, and a shadow crossed my vision briefly, like a cloud that was there one minute and gone the next. Then something hit my face. My fingers grazed something hard and grassy. A coil of rope.

A black figure landed beside me with the lightest thump, covering my mouth with a leather-clad glove. His face was shadow, his voice light, melodic and almost cheery. “Shh! You don’t want to die, do you?” An accent I’d never heard before. I shook my head vigorously, my face stinging from his tight grip, my eyes trained on the sliver of silver I could see at Joseph’s throat. Black shadows tumbled from the sky, accosting every Survivor and clamping down on their faces before they had a chance to scream.

*****

The muffled surprise of Survivors bounced off the insides of their assailants’ hands. Some managed to get upright. Sneakers scuffled across the moldy carpet, making zooming noises. The Survivors strained and shoved against a solid, skilled foe. We were fighting shadows. The enemy darted, disappeared, and popped up behind you, always avoiding the punches. Some Survivors jumped out of their sleeping bags and fell forward, tangled by their own feet. Fists swung out and co

As we passed the door and were forcefully led down the path, I watched Matthew’s head forced to bow forward at the pressure of the hold. His teeth gritted, he slammed his head back in a flurry of golden brown and head-butted the person strangling him. The shadow let go, cursing, and holding their now bleeding nose, but we were so outnumbered that by the time Matthew had managed to stumble forward a few feet, someone else had a hold of him.

All the while, I was silent, my captors damp hand still tight over my mouth, my eyes bugging out as I watched my friends break free only to be caught again like flies in a web. It was a mess of scrabbling bodies and shadow. But the shadows were wi

One of them stopped and turned to us, all still fighting against our bindings and getting nowhere. “Hey!” He held a Survivor by their dark brown hair, jerking his head back violently, exposing his throat.

Joseph yelled, “No!”

Gus screamed, “Wait!”

But the silver edge nipped swiftly at the young man’s skin, a red line appeared, and then blood poured from the wound. He dropped to his knees and slumped forward, landing awkwardly on the ground with one cheek pressed to the pavement in a soundless prayer.