The Wanted

Gus flashed a warning stare in our direction as the flask flew around. “Take it easy, men. We still have a mission to complete.”

Olga stood up, flask in hand, and pushed it at Gus’s face. “Just one drink, Gus. It won’t kill you.”

She was braver than I was, but then, that wasn’t hard. We held our breaths. No one talked to Gus like that. He stared up at the patch of sky above us, the branches encroaching on the view, and swore. Snatching the flask from her chubby hand, he gazed into the opening. He sniffed it once, and his face relaxed. Raising the flask, he said, “moy syn,” and took a large swig. I watched him roll it around in his mouth and swallow it like it was a spoonful of honey. Man, he was a tough guy.

I leaned towards Matt and asked, “What does moy syn mean?”

Matt glanced down and I noticed he was flexing his injured hand, testing his fingers. They seemed sluggish.

“It means my son, Joe,” Matt whispered sadly.

“Oh.”

When the flask came to me, my head was already dark with memories: Cal’s crazed eyes when I’d burst into his hospital room, ready to tear him apart, a fan of perfect, dark-brown hair, blood. But I also thought of Gus. Most of the time, I forgot he was a father too, that he had lost both his children. He was just Gus, strong, gruff, and unemotional. I didn’t pause for long before I placed the flask to my lips and drank. The harsh liquid burned down my throat like charcoal-flavored acid. I coughed and spluttered while the older members of the group laughed at me.

I wiped my mouth and let myself smile, my eyes stinging with tears from the burning fluid. The alcohol pooled in my stomach and created an unfamiliar, warm sensation. The darkness got darker, shrouding my memories in a wavy fog and putting me in the present. I liked the feeling.

I passed it to Matt, and he declined. “Not a path I can go down again,” he muttered, still staring at his hand. I shrugged and took another small sip. It didn’t taste as bad the second time. Elise watched me from across the circle of Survivors and Spiders, curiously, with a small smile playing on her lips.

Matt stood. “Now as you know, poor Ansel was supposed to be the accompanying Survivor for the Palma mission.” Everyone bowed their heads. It seemed so long, though it was only weeks ago that Ansel was killed by those brutal men on our journey to the Superiors’ compound. Matt cleared his throat. “I would volunteer but… my hand…”

I jumped up, the sudden movement causing me to sway a little. I forced my body to straighten, to look confident, competent.

“I’ll go.” I was desperate to keep that distraction going, focus on the action outside of my brain, not the destruction going on inside.

“But you’re wounded, Joe,” Desh said, shaking his head as he hugged his body against the cold. That’s never going to change, I thought.

I made eye contact with Gus. “I’m fine, I feel perfectly fine,” I told them and myself. Moving closer to Gus, I talked in a hushed, pleading tone directly to him. “Please, let me do something.”

He groaned, and then his head fell into a begrudging nod. “All right, boy,” he conceded.

I clenched my fist and pumped it at my side. This would be a good thing for me. I blinked up at the stars, peeking out between branches that looked like spidery veins tangling across the air. A door was opening, but I had to close one first.

The Palma Spider stood and held out his hand. “My name’s Nafari,” he said, his strong handshake out of proportion to his small size. He looked up at me with almost black eyes like buttons and gri

I shook his hand and returned his smile. “Ok Naf, where do we start?”

He threw his head back and laughed, his voice was deep and roaring, like an engine.

“I said my friends call me Naf.” He poked my chest with his brown, scarred finger, which hurt. “We are not friends… yet.”

I shrugged and forced a smile, which gradually became less fake as I stared into his strong, rebellious face. “By the end of this mission, I’ll be calling you Naf.”

He slapped his leg. “Oh, I hope so!”

“So Nafari,” I said, a

His eyes were as round as the moon, but more intense, brighter. “We are not going to place the bomb on the outside. We are going to stroll right in and we’re going to blow the gates open from the inside.” He swung his elbows dramatically and raised his legs up high, doing his strolling impression while he laughed.

My face froze in disbelief, which made him laugh harder.

“Don’t worry. Trust me,” he said through giant, white teeth. One tooth was missing, a black square punched through his mouth. He grabbed the flask and licked his lips before drinking. “This is going to be fun!” he garbled with a mouthful of alcohol.

The others didn’t argue. We had let the Spiders run each mission. They were the experts on their own towns after all.

The videodisc seemed heavy in my pack. Even though it only weighed about two hundred grams, its importance and my responsibility dragged me down until I felt like my feet were making deeper impressions with every step. Now that the alcohol had worn off, I felt less brave and more nervous. Nafari slapped my back, his springy steps making me even more tense, and began to push me through the gap in the blackberries.

“Let’s go, big man!” He laughed as he threw me a colored shirt to pull over my camouflage one.

Pelo and Desh waved me good luck as I turned around one last time. Matt and Gus had already told me to be careful a dozen times and were now packing.

We were swallowed in thorns and rustling leaves.

“Now, you remember what we practiced?” he whispered as we moved through the briar.

I nodded my head more times than necessary. “Yes.”

We burst through the other side and made our way to the dirt road that led right up to the gates. Our feet un-quiet, strolling casually or, in my case, trying to look casual and looking more stiff and edgy.

Nafari’s head swung from side to side like he was looking for something as he sauntered towards Palma under the light of the cloud-shadowed moon. Suddenly, his upper body darted down and he snatched up a discarded basket. It was rotted and crusted with dirt, a large hole worn through its side. He pressed the hole against his body and poured the frozen berries we had collected into it. He did it swiftly, never breaking his gait, brushing the dust off as we moved.

The cloud cover made it hard to see the road, but above the gates, two lights streamed over the opening, giving us quick illumination as they flicked on and off when the guards walked in front of sensors. I slowed as we approached. Those giant guns slung over their shoulders would make a hole in me the size of Nafari’s basket.

Nafari clipped the side of my head and yelled, “Hurry up! See, they’ve already closed the gates. Idiot!” He smacked me again, almost having to jump up to reach the top of my head. I flinched and ducked as his palm slapped my skull.

“Ouch,” I growled.

“It has to look realistic,” Nafari murmured under his breath as he grabbed my shirt and dragged me towards the gate.

I held my breath as they raised their guns and one of the guards shouted, “Stop!”

Nafari ignored him and kept walking. And I braced myself for a bullet.

“Stop!” the guard screamed, his voice peeled of aggression, sounding afraid.

A warning shot fired at our feet, dirt and gravel spitting at our knees. I leaped into the air like I could avoid it.

Nafari shot me a glare with his moon-like eyes and then turned to the guards, swearing at them, waving his fist around in anger while I tried not to gawk in horror. “Is this what I get for spending my outside time collecting berries for Ursra?” He cursed again, and the guards lowered their guns in confusion.