

## From Dust Rising

by Cy Bishop

Copyright 2014 Cy Bishop

Smashwords Edition

With special thanks to:

God, my patient family, Google,

and Jessica Dodson for the fantastic cover

Journal Entry 1

I apologize for the poor handwriting. My wrist is bandaged, and I'm not too proud a man to admit that I still quake at every passing sound. I hope it's legible, as I record this for future generations.

What led us here is too complex to explain in detail. The post-World War III hostilities, the treaties forbidding atomic weapons, the whispers that China was building nuclear bombs for world domination.

The details are not so important as the facts: America struck first. China struck better.

We don't know what the Chinese bombs contained, but they weren't nuclear. The explosive substance within them started a chemical reaction beneath the first few layers of earth. It spread rapidly throughout the mantle to, as far as we know, every corner of the world.

We lost billions to the bombs. We lost even more as the gas emerged.

Outside, this odorless substance rises through the air, diluted enough to have only minimal ill effects, and those can be combated through a thick scarf wrapped over the nose and mouth. _(to be breathed just fine, so long's you're normal and all)_ But indoors, or under shelter, it condenses into a heavy, purple fog. This form of the gas is deadly. Gas masks are useless; the filters become clogged too quickly. If you inhale more than two, maybe three _(four or so)_ breaths, the damage begins, starting with immediate loss of consciousness and ending with death within two or three _(three or four)_ minutes of continued inhalation.

As we who remain struggle to survive, we've had to adopt a new style of life. Shelters can turn deadly in minutes. Even huddling under a tree is risky. We must sleep unsheltered, exposed to the heavens.

As bad as all that sounds, _(He thought it sounded bad to sleep outside? Priss)_ we learned that not all who breathe the gas are killed by it. It seems that approximately eighty-five percent die. Five percent survive the exposure, but lose their higher brain functions. Like toddlers, they act on base impulses for food, shiny objects or trinkets, and the like. While they are generally harmless, it is best to avoid them. _(They're called Dopers. Give them a piece of candy and they'll follow you anywhere, carry your junk, whatever. Good deal.)_

The remaining percentage is where the true danger lies. These people also lose their higher brain functions, but even more so. They become like pack animals; more than that, like wounded animals. I have seen men and women literally torn limb from limb. They make no attempts to hide their approach, so can be heard coming and avoided. And they must be avoided. They seem bent on destroying anything the bombs missed. _(Ragers. He got this one right. You see a pack coming, you run your legs off, or they'll tear them off for you.)_

One final note for this entry. Some people are particularly affected by the gas, even in its diluted form. While a filtering scarf is enough for most to breathe the gas without discomfort, _(Discomfort? Folks used to be real pansies)_ these people find relief from nothing short of a gas mask. A single breath of the condensed form is enough to render them unconscious, and death occurs in only a minute or so. However, they have a unique advantage: they detect a tangy odor in the gas and thus can smell it from a distance. _(Sensies. He got this stuff right, too. They gotta wear gas masks outside or they start choking on the stuff.)_

Chapter 1

For some reason, the sky seemed darker than usual today.

Ronan closed the journal and slid it inside his pack. He didn't have the first idea who the original writer was, some distant ancestor from generations back. He had only a vague understanding that the one who'd made the corrections and notes in the margins was his grandfather, or perhaps great-grandfather. The history of who wrote the book had never been that important to his family, so long as it kept being read.

Read it like the Bible, his parents told him over and over again. He'd once asked what a Bible was. His father backhanded him across the face and said, "It's a book you read every morning unless you want your hide beaten into the ground. Now sit down and read."

He was no longer a child, and his father was no longer around to beat his hide. But the childhood habit had become an adulthood routine years ago, though he could almost recite the whole thing from memory by now. The lessons in the journal had kept his skin intact more than once, and so he kept reading every morning, one passage a day, as if it were a ritualized spell that summoned good luck and kept him alive to the next sunrise.

He looked up again to the two wisps of clouds that drifted in the blue-gray sky above the walls of his tent. The heavy canvas walls were designed more for camouflage than shelter, painted on the outside to resemble the barren dirt landscape that made up most of the country, save the occasional swamp, sinkhole, or oasis. Good for staying hidden, unnoticed. Not that there were too many people traveling out here between the shanty-town cities built over the swamps and mudflats where the gas was mostly absorbed by the layers of water. But better safe than sorry.

Especially these days. Ronan rolled up his sleeping mat and stuffed it into his pack, leaving space on the side for the tent and its poles. A handful of baubles and an even smaller handful of coppers clinked in the bottom of his bag. Not nearly enough. He'd need more, a lot more, and he had to stay out of sight until he'd gathered it.

The ground rumbled and shook underneath him, only enough to rock him from side to side for a few seconds before it settled. The first mini-quake of the day, and not an impressive one at that. He finished tucking his mat away and dropped flat on the cracked earth, lifting the bottom edge of the canvas until he could see outside.

Dirt. Sand. Dust. A long-dead, dried skeleton of a bush. A long-dead, dried skeleton of a man beside it. A vulture in the distance, just about the only living thing that managed to thrive since the End came. Except for the bugs. And even those were fewer in number these days.

No signs of Ragers. No signs of Slavers. No solitary shadows testifying to a lone traveler like himself. And most importantly, no Overlords.

He repeated his scan beneath each wall of his narrow, rectangular hiding place. Satisfied that he was utterly alone, he stood, his head just emerging through the open top of the tent, and swiftly dismantled the structure, keeping an eye to the south as he did so. When they come after him, that's the most likely direction they'd come from.

Not that there weren't any Overlords to the north, or east or west, for that matter. The gang was the most unified and well-spread throughout the wastelands that were once called America, leaving him nowhere to run and hide from their wrath. Their inhumanly swift messengers would certainly have spread the word of his little incident by now. But the city where it had gone down, Cyber, lay to the south, and the Overlords there would've been the first to mobilize. He had to make sure he stayed ahead of them, no matter what.

It took some muscle to force the folded canvas into place in his bag, as always. He welcomed the chance to unleash some built-up steam. If the world were just, he wouldn't be in this mess. He hadn't even known the skinny punk at the bar was an Overlord. And he hadn't cheated the kid any worse than anyone else would have. The guy was just asking to be a mark with his loose grip on his bag of coppers and that dopey, innocent face.

Besides, the kid pulled a knife first. No one could blame Ronan for drawing in defense. Anyone else would've dodged. Anyone else on this entire planet, men, women, and children included, would've seen Ronan's strike coming and bobbed to the side, resulting in a nice warning graze across the arm, maybe the shoulder. But not this idiot. No, he had to lunge directly _into_ the strike. Ronan's blade was halfway up the kid's aorta before Ronan even had a chance to see what was happening.

And then it was all Overlords swarming the bar, screaming for blood. Ronan barely made it out with his own possessions in hand, never mind the bag of coppers which technically should have been his, thanks to the kid's stupidity.

Instead, he was on the run. Thanks to the kid's stupidity.

The last corner of tent finally submitted. He tied the bag's cover flap shut and slung the bag over his back. Checked the south. Headed north.

Any other gang, and they wouldn't chase him to the next city. Any other gang, and they'd have taken that bag of coppers and considered it a wash. Any other gang, and Ronan could throw a few baubles their way to make peace.

But the Overlords didn't let things go so easily. It was going to take a lot of coppers to get out of this one. And collecting the coppers was only the first step. Once he had a bag bulging enough to make even the strictest Overlord pause, he'd have to find someone in the gang weak and pliable enough to be bribed and with enough status to get his name cleared. Tricky, especially since most Overlords would rather knife him on sight than let him get the first two words out.

One step at a time. His feet continued one after the other, marking the paces across the desert terrain. He dug out a can of mystery food out of his bag and slurped down something sludgy that might have once been beans as he walked, keeping his mind focused on his goal. First scavenge, scrounge, trade, and cheat to get enough coppers to make a new friend. Then worry about finding that friend.

Nothing stirred as the early morning hours melted into early afternoon, same as every day. The ground rose in a gentle slope under his feet, the loose dust and sand thick enough to make each step sink a few centimeters. He'd get a good workout today if nothing else.

The ground shook as he neared the top of the rise, but barely enough to make his legs wobble. He didn't bother slowing his pace. There was no need. Not until he reached the crest and stood, surveying the area below him and swaying slightly in rhythm with the last grumbles of the mini-quake.

Buildings. He backed up a few steps and crouched. If anyone was down there, they'd see a bump on the hill, nothing more. As he scanned the decayed structures below him, though, it became apparent how deserted the place was. Not surprising. This stood far enough from the cities that he'd be surprised to find anyone still upright out this way. But the journal said to check building clusters for people before approaching, so that's what he did.

Like any remaining building cluster, the area was vaguely round, shaped by whatever terrain or miracle had protected the buildings from the bombs and ensuing chaos. The structures around the outside of the circle stood as charred, broken sentinels, reminders of the dying world they existed on. But closer to the center of the circle, the buildings grew more and more intact. He could count at least four in the middle that looked solid, though one had bright red Xs painted over every door and window. Breached. Filled with the gas. Deadly.

That still left three to search. He stood and headed down the hill toward the cluster, mulling over what he'd seen as he walked. Two of the buildings had massive windows all along the street side on the first level, then another level of brick wall set with occasional windows. One of the two had a third level, similar to the second level. That one had clearly been picked over already; he'd been able to see the damage to the windows from the hill. No point starting there.

The two-level showed no signs of being looted yet, but he'd seen some of those creepy, faceless, plastic human figures lying at random near the windows. The place probably once held clothes for sale. It meant he might find a handful of coppers, if he searched carefully, and possibly some shiny necklaces to sell to the brothel girls, but nothing much else. Not worth his time.

His feet naturally set a path to the third building. Four stories. Two glass-set doors on the street side. Lots of windows, some with narrow boxes hanging off the sides. Most likely one of those big buildings with many homes crammed inside. He'd always had luck with those. Even if someone had worked the building before, there were so many places to search, so many things to find, no one ever was quite thorough enough.

Before entering the building, he took a moment to walk around the outside. Bare walls to the south, more windows and narrow boxes. The backside was the same. The north face boasted a rusted metal walkway barely clinging to the side of the building. That was all he needed to know. The journal taught that a breach can be easier escaped by climbing the outside of the building rather than taking the risk of being caught in the fog. If the building breached while he was inside and he couldn't reach the front door, this would be his escape route.

He returned to the front and tugged on the handle of one of the doors. The hinges let out a grunt and stuttered open. He peered inside at a broad hallway. Frames hung on the wall, but the light from the glass doors only reached so far, and he couldn't quite tell what was in them. Didn't matter. No one much cared for wall decorations these days. He pulled out one of the tent poles and swept it back and forth in front of his feet as he walked down the inky hallway, letting it find all the discarded tripping hazards on the floor and notify him of any turns in the path. One hand ran along the wall until it found a raised chunk of wood. A doorway.

The door swung open without resistance, and light filtered through a dust-coated window to show a room that had already been dug through. He passed to the next room, a kitchen, in similar state. He poked into a couple bare cupboards before deciding that this home had already been searched too well. On to the next one.

The first room in the next home looked similarly tossed, but the kitchen proved that the last searchers had been in too much of a hurry. Ronan found three cans of food behind a bug-infested bag of flour, then a handful of small knives that had fallen behind a drawer, probably when someone yanked the drawer out too hard. The fridge only belched foul air at him when he cracked the door. No point in looking there.

He took his time with this one, checking the other rooms as well. Flecks of light dappled the bathroom ceiling, courtesy of broken mirror shards scattered across the floor. A handful of worthless junk rested between the shards, more likely courtesy of the home's former occupants than any scavenger. The rush to collect possessions and flee had left many floors decorated like this one.

He relieved himself down the bathtub drain and moved on. A bedroom contained a handful of necklaces and bracelets half-buried under torn blankets. Most of the shoes in the closet were in too poor shape to do any good, but a couple still had intact soles. He stuffed those into his bag along with the other finds and headed for the next home.

Several hours later found him with a slim collection of goods and trinkets. Nothing to jump up and down over, and certainly not enough to get him out of trouble with the Overlords, but it was a start. Besides, he'd hardly even begun the real work. The first floor had already been searched by scavengers, as he'd expected. But not many people took the time to check the higher floors. Most folks were too superstitious to stay in one place too long. Stay in one place and tempt fate, they said. The quakes will release the gas and kill you while you're still digging. The Ragers will come through when you aren't looking. Better to search fast, find what's easy to find, and move on before anything bad gets to you.

He didn't share these superstitions. He had the journal.

His tent pole struck a wooden note. He groped the air until he found a banister. Stairs. Good.

As he suspected, the second floor was a treasure trove. Jewelry. Canned food. Intact shoes and soles. And coppers everywhere, in little jars and under cushions and inside little pouches. Knives. Tools. If the rest of the building was like this, then step one would be complete in no time at all.

He slowed and looked around as he finished searching the fourth home on the second floor. He hadn't heard any signs of other people around. Maybe, once his problems were dealt with, he could return here. Quiet. Secluded. Safe. And he'd even seen a few intact mattresses. He could drag a couple up to the roof and have a proper bed to sleep on at night. Wouldn't that be a sight? Ronan the traveler sleeping in a real bed in a proper home.

Or _on_ a proper home, as the case may be. Couldn't sleep inside and risk the gas breaching and building up on him while he slept. Still, the thought of a mattress, a real bed to sleep on, just about had him drooling. The sun was starting to make its descent through the sky. Maybe he would field test his idea tonight.

_Thump_.

He dropped into a low crouch and scuttled behind a faded armchair, peering around one side to watch the door. His fingers slid around his favorite knife, a thick blade he'd found in a kitchen years back. Waited.

No signs of anyone in the hallway. No sounds from outside.

The sound came again, and he realized it came from above him. Not directly above, but above an adjacent home, the one he'd been set to search next. No wonder he hadn't heard anything before now. He crept to the hallway, listening hard.

Footsteps. Light and singular. One person, on the small side. Possibly a woman.

Not a Rager. The steps were too slow and deliberate for that. Not a Doper. They tended to stay close to wherever they breathed the gas and turned, and this building wasn't breached. Not a Slaver. They only traveled in groups. Not likely to be an Overlord, not alone so far from the cities.

Odds favored the mystery person being a traveler, a scrounger like Ronan. There were a few other possibilities, but the likelihood was too slim to be a concern. The key was, the person was alone and didn't seem to have noticed Ronan's presence. If they were hostile, he could easily get the upper hand and take them down before they could pull anything. And if they weren't hostile, perhaps they were in a trading mood.

He pulled his knife free from the straps that kept it close to his side. Felt his way to the stairs rather than using his tent pole as a guide. The sound of the metal pole hitting the walls might catch attention he didn't want. Stayed close to the walls so the stairs wouldn't creak as he climbed.

As he felt his way down the hallway toward the occupied home, the rustles of movement grew louder. Whoever it was carried on with whatever they were doing, oblivious to his presence. Good.

A faint glimmer of light showed between the door and a frame that had been jostled by too many mini-quakes to stand square any longer. Even better. He pressed close against the wall and nudged the door with one knuckle, encouraging it to open just a few centimeters more. One of the hinges let out a tiny pip of protest. He cringed, but the rustles continued uninterrupted. Oblivious was the right word, for sure.

He peeked inside.

Nothing looked right on the other side of the door. It was so foreign, so bizarre, that it took him a moment to muddle through his brain and find the word for what was wrong.

Tidy. Everything was tidy.

A table stood upright beside an armchair, a faded cloth draped over it. A glass bottle, only slightly cracked, held a similarly faded silk flower. Behind those, a set of bookshelves leaned against the wall, only a little crooked from the quakes. Books and cracked figurines decorated each shelf.

He shook his head and looked again, just to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks. The third floor was likely untouched by scavengers, but nothing could be this neat after all the destruction, all the chaos, all the quakes.

Whoever was in there had done this. What kind of loon plays house in this world?

He heard the rustling again. Whoever the loon was, they stood just out of his sight. Still unaware, apparently. He shuffled a cautious step closer to the crack, his feet only making the softest whisper on the floor.

It was a woman, her back to him. Seeing her made the order of the home seem almost normal. No dirt or dust streaked her clothes. Her black hair rested in a neat bun on top of her head, hardly a strand out of place. The aged-white shirt was lightweight but long, all the way down to her wrists and all the way up to her neck on top. It met a wide bow at her waist, the bow worn but still a brighter shade of blue than he thought possible for any cloth to possess after generations of use and wear. The two string ends of the bow hung long down the back of her skirt, which hung even longer, down to her ankles and barely showing a hint of the boots which covered her feet. He spied a discoloration on her boots courtesy of long travels. And the skirt appeared to be made of a similar canvas as his tent. Finally, something normal about her appearance.

She didn't look like she had any weapons, nor much of anything valuable. She turned slightly to pick up a book from the floor. Apparently she was still in the process of straightening the place. He shook his head again at the sheer ridiculousness of it, but refocused on what was important. A little flicker of light had reflected off a metal pendant around her neck. Could be some value there. He'd also spotted a gas mask hanging from a strap on her skirt. Other pouches dangled near the mask, probably holding basic essentials. Some food, a water skin, replacement filters for that gas mask. She had to be a sensie. Only one of those people sensitive to the gas would bother with a gas mask, keep it so close at hand, and make themselves at home indoors, away from the diluted gas outside.

A sensie, one who carries no weapon, plays house, and keeps tidy. Harmless.

Still, the journal dictated caution over assumptions. He tucked his knife into his belt rather than securing it with its straps so it'd be easy to grab if need be. He crept back to the stairs, then thumped his feet on them a few times before continuing along the hallway, making plenty of noise.

He heard a rapid flurry of movement as he reached the door. One hand wrapped around the handle of his knife as the other hand pushed the door open, his eyes searching and ready to spot her attack before it came.

None came. The woman was nowhere in sight.

He almost laughed out loud. Completely harmless. Probably an easy mark, at that. If she had anything of value.

"Hey," he called in a casual, friendly voice. "Someone in here?"

Silence.

He took a step in, holding his empty hands out in plain sight. "I know you're here. I heard you walking around while I was downstairs. I'm not here to hurt you. I just had a few extra supplies and thought, if you've got some coppers or something to trade, you might be interested."

Still no answer.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Here." He pulled the knife out and very slowly set it on the floor behind him before taking a step away from it, making each movement large and overly dramatic. "There, you see? I'm unarmed. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm just a trader." She wouldn't know about the other two knives he kept hidden on his body, or the gun nestled in the back of his waistband. No reason for her to know about those.

He saw the bun first, peeking up from behind the armchair like a blind vulture craning its neck to see. Then a pale forehead. Then two large, blue eyes, fear and caution reflecting from their depths.

He showed her his empty hands. "That's right. I'm not here for any trouble. If you want me to leave, say the word. I'll go, no trouble. I just thought you might be looking to trade for some supplies."

She finally stood the rest of the way, clutching a broken table leg like she might swing it at him. Her grip on it was terrible. He could snatch it out of her hands before she'd even get a chance to swing.

But that wouldn't help her think him trustworthy, and trust was the key. He smiled, doing his best to look non-threatening. "You need some supplies?" His brain worked quickly in the background, calculating. She must've been here for some time to have gotten those shelves straightened the way they were, but she couldn't have been here too long, as the second floor had barely been touched. Most likely she'd already found food and water in this home or the ones adjacent.

But she valued appearance. Maybe she'd go for the necklaces he'd found in the floor below hers. "I also have some pretty accessories, too, if you're interested."

Her eyes flicked to the knife on the floor behind him, then back to him. Her voice came out soft and almost melodic. "Are you a warrior?"

The laugh escaped this time. Warrior? Who used such words anymore?

She frowned at his laughter, and he quickly clamped it off, clearing his throat to cover it. "Can't say I've ever been called such before, but I've seen my share of trouble. I suppose you could say I'm a warrior."

She studied him as if evaluating him. "And you're looking to make some coppers?"

So she did have coppers. Good. Getting her to give them up would be the easy part. "Sure am."

The lady lowered the table leg and looked around as if checking for prying ears. "My name's Lily. I've been separated from my people. I'm part of the Order of the Righteous. You've heard of us?"

He shook his head and wished she'd get to the point.

"We have safe havens all around the land where we help those in need and maintain order, morals, and values, and provide a secure home for all who embrace those ideals. My people, my branch of the Order, used to live not far from here, but our home was breached, and we had to leave to join one of the other branches."

"So what is it you need help with?" he prompted, hoping it would hurry things along.

"While we were traveling to our new home, we were attacked by a pack of Ragers. I got separated. I..." She took a deep breath as if working up courage to say the next part. "I'm sure it's plain enough that I'm not equipped to travel alone. My people have warriors to act as escorts, to protect us and guide us, and that is what I need. A warrior to escort me to my people."

Finally. "I may be able to help. How much?"

A flash of uncertainty crossed her face. "I—I'm afraid I don't have any coppers with me, or much of value. But my people have coppers, and you'd be paid once you helped me reach them."

Ronan's hopes deflated. She didn't have any coppers. This was a dead end. Time to move on. "How much would they pay me?" Probably fifty, maybe seventy-five. He'd tell her that was tempting, but just not enough for the risk, and he was sorry, but she'd have to find some other 'warrior' to help her out.

"Five hundred coppers."

He choked.

The blue eyes widened. "We can provide more than that in supplies, if that's not enough. Water, food, filters, all sorts of things you can use or sell for more coppers."

His legs threatened to unseat him. His initial assessment of her was correct. An easy mark. She had no clue what things were worth. He'd have considered the deal for a hundred fifty coppers, taken it without hesitation for two hundred. Five hundred plus supplies? He could take care of his problem with the Overlords and still have enough left over to keep him comfortable for a long time.

"Yes," he said, almost too quickly. "I mean, I can do that. Escort you. Where are we going?"

Her face lit up with a relieved smile. "Thank you so very much, sir. I don't believe it's too much farther from here. The settlement is just a few hours north of the city of Adipose."

The elation vanished, dropping his stomach into a puddle on the floor. "Adipose?" It couldn't be Adipose. The Overlords lived everywhere, but nowhere so thickly as near Adipose. And it was only a little over two days' travel southeast of here, not far from Cyber. They'd have been the first ones informed of the target on his back.

"Yes, Adipose." Her smile faded. "Is something wrong?"

Opposing factions warred inside his mind. He couldn't go near Adipose. It was too close to the south, too heavily populated by Overlords. He'd be spotted for sure. And Overlords weren't the type to take an IOU, a promise that money would be coming soon. If he didn't already have the coppers in hand, then he might as well tie himself up with the lady's pretty bow and offer himself to them as a present. And her, too, since the Overlords would kill anyone with him. Guilty by association.

On the other hand, five hundred coppers.

"You said there are lots of your people around," he said.

"Yes."

"So there might be some of them living somewhere else, like to the north. What if I take you to that way?" That way, he could avoid the Overlords and still get all those coppers. Win-win for him.

Her eyes widened again, and she shook her head. "My people went to the Order near Adipose. I've studied under Singer Marcus ever since I was a child, and I need to continue my studies under him. I'm very close to becoming a Singer myself." She paused. "I'm sorry, you probably don't know what a Singer is. All of the old teachings were preserved in songs. The Singers are our leaders, those who have learned all the songs, always been kind, generous, and just, and who have avoided the greatest wrongdoings by never being deceitful or bloodying their hands."

He couldn't care less whether they were singers or whistlers. He just wanted those coppers without having to go near Adipose to get them. "But maybe a warrior from a branch to the north could escort you to your people near Adipose, right?"

She stared at him. "The nearest one to the north would take weeks of travel. The next closest one, besides where my people are, is at least twelve days away." The first traces of caution returned to her face. "Why can't you take me to my people? Is something wrong with Adipose?"

He cringed inside. A suspicious mark was a difficult mark. And the way things were going, she wouldn't be a mark at all.

The lure of coppers forced him to consider the possibility of insisting on taking her to the other nearest branch, but it just wouldn't work. Twelve days of crossing the wasteland with a helpless sensie on his hands? If the Overlords didn't get them, the Ragers or Slavers would. Too much risk and not enough chance of getting a payoff before getting gutted.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't go near Adipose. You'll have to find someone else." With that, he turned and picked up his knife to leave. He'd scrounge the best he could on the second floor, then leave. It was the best he could do for her, leaving the third floor untouched so she could access all the food and water until someone else came along to help her.

"Please." Desperation colored her tone. "I've already been here for three days, and you're the first person to come through. I think this must be too far from the main road between cities, or I'd have seen more people by now, wouldn't I?"

Not necessarily, but he didn't say so. He glanced back in spite of himself.

"Please," she continued, her blue eyes pleading. "If you don't help me, I don't know how much longer I'll be trapped here. I only have filters for a few more days. If no one comes by then, I'll die."

"It's a rough life," he said, quoting directly from the margin notes in the journal without thinking. The look of horror on her face at his calloused remark prompted him to say more. "I mean, it's hard being out here. But I just can't help you. You'll just have to find your way closer to the main road."

The horror faded only slightly, leaving behind a stricken expression, those eyes still begging. He forced himself to turn his back. Five hundred was more than he could dream, no question, but in the end, it wasn't worth the risk. A promise of five hundred coppers wouldn't do him any good if he was killed before he could see it.

"Please..."

"Good luck." He stepped into the hallway and reached to pull the door shut behind himself.

The ground shook, violent and hard this time. He quickly positioned himself in the doorframe, bracing himself against the sides.

The lady stumbled one way, then the other, letting out a sharp cry as she fell against the chair. What was she doing? Her eyes darted around in panic as if searching for safety.

"Get over here!" he barked as the bookshelf behind her began unleashing its tidy contents, spilling books and shattering figurines on the floor. The makeshift vase dropped sideways, rolled, and fell with a crash.

She scrambled toward him, covering her head ineffectively with her arms and weaving side to side with the rolling ground. She yelped as a harder shake hit, nearly knocking her off her feet.

He caught her arm and yanked her into the doorway with him. She clung to the frame, immobilized with fear.

"What?" he asked. "They didn't have any real quakes where you lived?"

She looked like she might have flushed if there was any blood left in her face to flush with. "Of course we did. But there were secure places for us to go so we were safe. There've been a few mini-quakes while I've been here, but nothing like this."

The bookshelf gave up its grip on the wall and crashed over. She gasped and cringed. "I heard the big quakes can make buildings fall apart." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"If nothing's knocked a building over by now, it's not gonna," he said, once again quoting margin notes.

She seemed to take some comfort from the clumsily worded statement. "How long do they last?" She shuddered and cringed again as more crashes and clatters came from inside the home.

"Shouldn't be long." He relaxed against the side of the doorframe and fought a yawn. Good thing he'd decided not to push for the longer trip. Twelve days of babysitting this ignorant, useless lady? No, thank you.

The shaking slowed, rattling the broken objects on the floor one last time, and finally gave up.

The lady remained tense, her knuckles white against the frame. "Is it... is it over?"

"Might be some light ones in a minute, but the big quake's done." He disentangled himself and headed for the stairs.

She gasped.

"Look, I told you, I can't help you," he said before she could press matters.

"It's coming," she said, her voice wispy with a new, deeper terror. "I can smell it."

Chapter 2

Ronan froze internally, though his feet already dashed down the stairs. The gas. The quake had broken something in the building's foundation. The gas had breached the building and was filling the lower levels. Had to get out before it condensed.

He fumbled at his side until he found his matches. Lit one. The landing between third and second floors was clear. The match burned down to nothing as he neared the next landing, and he lit a second match.

A light cloud of purple haze drifted up the stairs from the first floor with alarming speed. The first floor must already be full. How far was it to the front door? If he could make it in a minute or two, he could hold his breath, maybe take one quick breath along the way, without getting overwhelmed by the gas. But if it was more than that, better to climb the outside of the building than risk it.

The match burned out. He lit a third one. The gas was already starting to condense around him. Decision time. He backed up a few steps to where the air was clearer, took a deep breath, and plunged into the fog. He heard feet on the stair behind him. The lady was following. She'd have to run fast to get out before needing to breathe, but she must be confident she could make it. Otherwise, she'd be climbing outside the building instead of chancing the stairs. Right?

He pushed the thoughts aside and focused on his own route forward. His feet stumbled as he found the last step, and he tumbled forward into the opposite wall, almost losing his breath. His lungs began to grumble. Had to get outside.

He ran now, arms stretched in front of him, reaching blindly for a corner he knew was coming. How far? He couldn't remember.

His hands struck solid wall, and his elbows smacked into the surface before he managed to change direction. Now he could see a faint glow ahead, the light from the front doors. Almost there.

His lungs burned, ached. He could make it. He had to.

And there were the doors. He shoved the one open and tumbled outside, gasping in air. He was clear. He turned, ready to slam the door shut as soon as the lady came out.

Purple fog hovered thick on the other side of the door, starting to bulge at the frame. The edges of the cloud dissipated in wisps and floated upward until they vanished, too diluted in the air to cause trouble.

No lady.

He panted, staring, searching. She'd been right behind him, hadn't she? He'd heard her on the stairs coming down.

No sign of her now.

She must have changed her mind. Gone back upstairs. Climbed the outside of the building. The smart thing to do, especially for a sensie. He shut the door. Time for him to move on.

His feet wouldn't cooperate as he tried to walk away. He grunted crossly, but gave in and jogged to the north side of the building. It wouldn't hurt to double-check and be sure.

The rusty structure was empty. No lady.

He ran back to the front. The doors were still shut, purple fog pressed tightly against the glass, barely visible in the fading evening light. This wasn't his problem. He had nothing to do with her. He should just walk away, get on with his life.

How long had it been? Forty seconds, a minute? How long did a sensie last in the fog?

He sucked in a breath, yanked the door open, and ran inside. The gas had condensed so thickly now that he could feel it, cold and damp against his skin. No chance of lighting a match here. He ran slower this time, feeling with his feet. Found the corner.

He'd just started to turn the corner when his foot hit something soft. He crouched, feeling blindly, and discovered a hand. Still warm. He fumbled his way until he found one shoulder, then the other. Lifted.

His lungs burned already, overtaxed from the previous exercise. He struggled to get a good grip on her dead weight and dragged her back toward the doors.

His throat gave in to his lungs' demands without warning, and he coughed out his breath and sucked in a new one. The gas scratched and clawed at his insides all the way down, pressing him to cough again, but he forced the instinct back. If he coughed, he'd breathe in more, and before long he'd be dead.

His legs wobbled as he neared the doors, and his chest heaved, trying to force the cough that wanted to come. His shoulder hit the wall. He had to release her to upright himself, then grabbed her arms and dragged again. The ground swayed. Another mini-quake.

The glow of the doors reached him before he realized he'd made it. He shoved his way out, pulled the lady free, and slammed the door shut behind them. Slumped against it, finally letting his lungs have their way as he coughed and choked. A few gasps of fresh air recovered him enough to turn his attention to the lady.

She lay unmoving, eyes closed. Her face looked even paler than before, almost unnaturally white. A strangled sound accompanied each shallow breath.

He freed her gas mask from its strap. As incapable as she was, at least she knew enough not to bother with the gas mask inside the fog. He pressed the mask over her face.

The strangled sound continued for a couple of breaths, then softened. Her breathing deepened as filtered air cleared the fog from her lungs.

He relaxed. She would live. He fastened the mask in place and looked around. The buildings across the street were too decimated to be any good as cover, but the neighboring structure to the south still had two walls forming a solid corner beside the newly-breached building. If he tucked her in that sheltered space, she'd be invisible to anyone looking from the north or west, and anyone approaching from the east or south would have to get awfully close before they'd be able to spot her. A decent hiding place. He hefted her arms again and dragged her into the corner, pushing her as close to the walls as possible, then returned his attention to the building.

He jogged to the north face and climbed the ladders quickly, partly out of a need for urgency and partly because he was afraid the metal would fall apart under his feet if he stayed on it for too long. A lone structure with a door jutted from the roof. He hurried to the door and pulled it open, only to be greeted by a puff of purple fog. A few wisps emerged, but mostly the fog wavered like a wall in front of him. For whatever reason, the gas preferred to travel upwards rather than to the side. If only it were more cooperative, it wouldn't be so hard to clear a building that had been breached.

But that wasn't the case, and he was too late with this one. He shoved the door shut and used a piece of red chalk from his bag to mark a large X over its face. He climbed back down only a little slower than he'd climbed up and walked the perimeter of the building, X-ing out windows and doors until every entrance was clearly marked.

If only he'd been a bit faster, he might have ducked into the top floor and gather a few last valuables before the gas could condense. No chance for that now. Maybe if he'd moved faster down the stairs. Maybe if he'd made sure the lady was with him instead of just assuming she'd make it out on her own. Maybe if he'd checked the top floor for valuables before going back inside for her.

He scowled at his brain for even thinking such a thing. He was a cheat, sure, and if she'd had anything of value, he'd have made sure it ended up in his hands for minimal cost to him. But he wasn't a monster. He wouldn't necessarily go out of his way to make someone else's life easier, but he wasn't the type to walk away and let someone die when he could do something about it.

Besides, he noted as he checked the other buildings nearby, the other two non-breached buildings were still clear of the fog. He could search those. But that would have to wait for tomorrow.

He eyed the last glow of sunlight over the hills as he walked back to the lady's hiding place. Might as well bunk down for the night, and the secluded corner was as good a place as any. His tent wouldn't provide much camouflage here, but the walls should keep him hidden enough. Hidden meant safe, as the journal said.

The lady still hadn't woken, but that was no surprise. He hadn't encountered many sensies outside of the cities, but he knew from his limited dealings, as well as the journal, that they usually stayed out cold for a while after breathing the gas. And she'd probably gotten quite a bit in her, as long as she'd been in there. He felt a twinge of guilt that he quickly brushed off. He'd saved her life. Couldn't expect more than that.

At any rate, she'd be out for some time, possibly even until morning. And if he was going to be setting up camp here anyway, might as well keep an eye on her. He set the tent up with practiced speed, then struggled to pull her under the edge. If he'd been thinking, he'd have set up the tent around her and made life easier for himself. He sighed and absently brushed a smudge of dirt off her cheek before unrolling his mat and settling down beside her. He'd never really been that good at making life easier for himself before. Why start now?

* * *

A foreign sound jolted Ronan out of deep slumber. He bolted upright, knife in hand and at the ready.

The lady gasped, shrinking away from him with blue eyes wide above the mask.

He lowered the knife and tried to similarly lower his panicked heartrate with less success. The sound he'd heard was the lady waking up, that was all. No threat. "Sorry. You startled me."

" _I_ startled _you_?" she managed to say, her gaze fixed on his knife. Her voice was muffled by the mask, but surprisingly clear.

He put the knife away and showed her his empty hands. "I'm not used to having anyone else near while I sleep, that's all."

The fear didn't leave her eyes, but new question marks appeared in them as she took in him, the tent, the open sky above them just barely softening with morning light. "The building breached, and..." Her eyes flickered, searching for memories that wouldn't come. The question marks faded as conclusions dropped into place. "You saved my life. Thank you."

He didn't meet her eyes, instead pulling out his journal for his daily reading. "There are two other buildings here that haven't breached. You should be able to stay in one of those until someone else comes along to help you find your people."

Her expression changed, and he realized she'd had a glint of hope in her eyes which was now gone, replaced once more by the begging plea. "Please, if you could just—"

"Look," he broke in before she could get any further, "I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't. Either make your way closer to the main road that way," he gestured east, "or get in one of those other buildings. Goodbye." With that, he pulled the book closer to his nose, hoping she'd see that the conversation was permanently over.

She continued staring at him, but he pointedly ignored her until she finally gave up. Sadness on her face, she quietly adjusted her skirts, brushed a bit of dust off her shirt sleeve, and crouched to crawl out from the edge of the tent side.

A sound reached his ear. He caught her arm.

She turned back to him, smiling. "Oh, thank y—"

He clamped at hand over her mouth, or would have if she wasn't wearing a gas mask. She dropped back on her rear, looking startled, but at least was smart enough to keep silent.

His fingers tightened on the journal as he strained to listen, hoping it wasn't what he thought he'd heard.

Feet. Lots of feet, moving fast. Distant thuds, the sound of flesh hitting walls.

His muscles clenched involuntarily. Ragers.

He stuffed the journal back in his bag, scooped up the sleeping mat, mind racing. The sound came from the north, where the corner sheltered them. Maybe the pack would run past without noticing them.

But the tent's camouflage was no good here. All it'd take would be one Rager, just one coming around the corner and seeing the tent walls...

The sound drew nearer, louder. If he was going to move, it had to be now.

He jumped to his feet and yanked the tent down in seconds, throwing it over his arm with the mat. Pulled the poles free. Grabbed his bag in his already-laden hand, his knife in the other. Turned to move and found the lady staring at him.

Right. He couldn't leave her sitting here, in the path of the Ragers. He gestured for her to stay quiet and follow him. She nodded, and he hoped that she really did understand. Even the tiniest sound could catch the pack's attention.

He led the way to the edge of the breached building and checked the east face. The noise mostly came from the northwest. If he could slip along this side and get to the ladder on the north side of the building, maybe they could get to the roof undetected. Maybe.

He crept forward, ears alert. Like rumbling thunder that never stopped, never slowed, the Ragers' feet thudded on the layers of dirt covering the cement road. Trampling. Flattening. Charging.

He stopped at the corner. Almost there. As long as the north face was clear, he could reach the ladder and get to the roof. The thunder still growled some distance north. Far enough away he should be able to pass undetected.

He peeked around the corner.

A Rager screeched to a halt less than a meter from him, staring first with surprise, then fury. Its mouth opened in a twisted cavern to scream.

His arm moved on impulse, slashing the Rager's throat before the sound could emerge, curses flying through his mind. The ruckus of the main pack had masked the sound of the outliers, and he'd almost walked right into one.

Another Rager screeched, charging at him in a loping, broken run. At the same time, others turned his direction, joining their voices with the cry. The thunder of the pack grew louder, more eager, their attention caught by the shrieks of their brothers.

Ronan swore and bolted south. He caught a glimpse of the lady's horrified face as he passed her, barely remembering her presence in time to catch her arm and yank her along behind him. "Run!"

She stumbled a little, but regained her feet quickly and matched his pace. At least she could manage that much.

He dug his gun out, counting as he ran. One box of ammo in his pack, a full cylinder in the gun. He could afford three shots, more if it came to it.

The thundering feet and screeching voices nearly deafened him. He hazarded a glance over his shoulder.

Too many. Too close. The wave of bloodied, torn bodies swept around buildings and broken structures, pouring after him with singular focus. Kill. Destroy. Keep running.

One near the front looked more intact than the others, with only a couple of red scrapes along its cheeks and a gash down one arm. Must not have been a Rager for long. Once they turned, they didn't stop for injuries. They ran and battered and destroyed until their bodies fell apart and dropped them dead on the ground.

Ronan aimed. Dropped the intact Rager with a single shot to the chest. Hopefully it'd be enough damage to keep him from getting up again. The wave didn't slow much as the others trampled over their fallen comrade.

He turned his attention forward, weaved around the broken wall of what used to be a building, and emerged into clear terrain, leaving the copse of buildings behind. Easier for him to run unhindered, but easier for the Ragers, too.

He heard a wheezing sound beside him and automatically lifted the gun before remembering the lady. She'd kept pace remarkably well, though she was panting hard now. In truth, so was he. He angled further south, where the rise of the surrounding hill wasn't quite so steep. The hill wouldn't slow down the Ragers, but it would slow him and the lady down. Not good.

He took another peek. Fifty meters. He fired a second shot, aiming low this time. Caught a Rager in the leg. It didn't stop, but it moved slower now, its leg no longer working quite right. Other Ragers pushed past it, impatient with its decreased speed.

Ronan gritted his teeth. He had to slow the pack down, or he'd never reach the top of the hill before they got to him. He couldn't afford to go through so much ammo, but he had no choice. He fired again and again, aiming for legs. Slow down the front of the pack, force the rest of the pack to slow until the others could get past the injured front runners.

His lungs burned and side ached. The lady wobbled beside him, struggling to keep her pace up. At least they had nearly reached the top of the rise. He fired off his last two shots and doubled down, catching the lady's arm to keep her at his side.

Nothing on the other side of the hill. He knew that. He'd just walked this terrain the day before. Nothing but sand and dust and death. No buildings to climb out of the Ragers' reach. No city with walled defenses. No traveling caravan with armed guards.

Something inside of him wanted to give up, to give into his body's demands to stop running so he could at least get the comfort of breathing before being torn apart. But his legs kept churning out of instinct, driving him and the lady onward.

There. Darkness blotted out the horizon to the southeast, stretching gray fingers toward the sky.

A dust storm.

He changed directions again, angling toward the rising storm. Pulled the scarf around his neck up over his nose and mouth.

The lady gasped and wobbled harder. "I can't..."

"If you drop," he wheezed, "I'm not stopping."

She clutched his wrist and struggled harder to keep up. She was slowing him down, though, more so than his own body's exhaustion.

He glanced back. Twenty meters. A curse rang through his mind that he had no breath to voice. His legs lost their pace, windmilling awkwardly as his knees turned to rubber. He wouldn't last much longer.

Wind cooled the sweat on his face. The storm was almost on them. Just in time.

He closed his eyes and ran directly into the churning mass of stinging dust. It tore the breath from his lungs with a solid punch to the chest, but he pressed onward, counting. One second. Two. Three. Four.

Five.

He dropped flat, yanking the lady down beside him. The roars of the wind muted the thunder behind them. The Ragers were on top of them only seconds later. His grip on the lady's arm tightened. He hoped she'd be smart enough to keep still and silent.

A foot smashed his stomach, then another stomped on his head. He curled inward, moving slowly enough not to catch attention from the stampeding pack but fast enough to protect as much of his body as possible.

Most were nimble enough to jump over the lumps in the terrain, but not enough to save him from a few more punishing kicks and stomps. He clenched his teeth, focused on breathing, closed his throat more than once to keep any sound from emerging.

And then it was over.

The howling wind quieted. The thunder faded.

He hazarded a peek, shaking off a few layers of dirt in order to see. The storm had been small, thankfully, or he'd have been buried alive.

The heavy clouds of the dust storm continued on their way north. Smaller clouds of dust rose from the ground to the southeast, marking the Rager pack's continued charge. They'd lost sight of their prey in the storm, and instinct had taken over, the Rager instinct to run and keep running until they found something to destroy. Not enough brains left in their heads to think that the prey might still be around, somewhere behind them.

Adrenaline fled his body in a rush, and he sagged back against the ground. He'd made it.

A hand clawed at his arm, and he bolted upright with a new surge of adrenaline.

The lady struggled for air. She looked at him with fear and a desperate cry for help in her eyes. Dust coated the dark plastic mesh covering her gas mask filters.

He fought against his weak muscles to force himself upright, stuffing his gun back into its hiding place. The dust storm had clogged her filters. He hadn't thought about that part. She needed somewhere clear and safe to change the clogged filters out for fresh ones. A quick scan of the area showed they'd gotten quite a distance from the copse of buildings, and were further east from the route he'd originally taken. Not that there were any shelters along his original route, anyway.

His eyes caught a glimpse of angled structure peeking above a rise not far to the east. A building. If she was lucky, it wasn't breached.

He pointed. "Go that way. There's a building there."

She wheezed, the fear in her eyes changing to panic. She tried to get to her feet, but they wouldn't hold her.

"Here." He pulled off his scarf and shoved it at her. "It's thick. It'll keep the gas out until you reach the building."

She shook her head frantically, her hand gripping his arm again. "Please," she gasped. "I can't breathe."

So she was one of the more delicate sensies. Some of them could breathe okay through heavy cloth, but the delicate ones couldn't make it with anything less than a gas mask. He cursed.

Her grip on his arm tightened as she struggled to draw in air through the clogged filters, resulting in a choking, gasping sound.

He grunted and pulled her to her feet, sliding an arm around her to keep her upright. Her feet wobbled and staggered, and he half-dragged her toward the rise. That had better be a building, and it had better be clear, or this whole thing was just a waste of time. "How come you don't have a backup mask?" He'd only met a couple of the delicate ones, and they both had extra masks on them at all times, just in case.

"I did... with the guards..."

Right. She was part of some special group of the prim and pampered. She'd probably never carried much of her own weight in her whole life. When she'd been separated from her group, she'd been separated from her extra supplies, too.

She sagged against him, her legs making feeble attempts at walking.

He adjusted her weight. "Come on. We're almost there."

They reached the top of the rise to find a cluster of derelict shacks, each one barely large enough for three people to sit in, partially buried in the sand. One was missing a chunk out of the side, and another had collapsed inward on itself. Two more were marked with red Xs. But toward the far end of the cluster stood one that looked mostly intact. He hauled her to it and pulled the door open, hoping they wouldn't see purple clouds or a shiny blade greeting them.

The shack proved empty of gas and hostiles. He pulled her inside and shut the door. It was some small miracle the building hadn't been breached. The boards forming the walls gaped and dipped at random places, looking slapped together haphazardly, nothing like the building he'd searched yesterday. The journal said some people tried to build shelters using whatever they could scavenge from the destroyed cities. This must have been one of those attempts.

The lady crumpled to the floor and tore her gas mask off the instant the door shut, coughing violently until she could gasp in breath after breath of clear air. "Thank you," she wheezed.

A couple of rickety wood boxes formed the only furnishings in the place, aside from piles of dust and a few cockroaches skittering away from the intruders. He plopped onto one of the boxes. "Take care of your mask." He couldn't open the door until she had her mask back on.

She took another few moments to steady her breathing before she sat up and dug into her large pouch, pulling out three cottony disks. Clean filters. She picked up the mask and set to work. "Thank you," she repeated. "I don't think I'd have escaped those Ragers if I was alone. How'd you know they would just run over us?"

He didn't bother answering, but she didn't seem to mind as she continued talking. "I was afraid I'd be trampled under all those feet, but a lot of them jumped right over me. I thought they must have seen me, but they couldn't have, could they? They'd have stopped if they realized I was there."

He exhaled. "You about done?"

"Sorry." She wrestled with a rag over the plastic mesh. "It takes a while to get this part clear. It doesn't do much good to have clean filters in if no air can get past the cover. Otherwise, I could've just held my breath and changed the filters out there."

Of course. What a simple solution. "Hold your breath. I'm opening the door."

She looked startled. "Why?"

"I need to be on my way. You'll be safe enough here until someone else comes along."

She stopped working and stared at him, those eyes wide once more. "You—you can't leave me here!"

"I already told you, I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

"But..." She looked pained. "I had a bag in the other building with food and water, but I lost it in the breach. All I've got is my canteen and a little jerky. I'll die long before anyone comes along. Please, you have to help me. At least help me get to a city or somewhere I can find someone else to help me reach my people."

He reached for the door, but his traitorous fingers refused to close around the handle.

She dug at her pouch and produced a handful of filters, which she thrust at him. "I don't have much of value on me, but I know you can get at least something for these. They're all I have left. Please."

It's not my problem, he told himself. She's not my problem. Besides, he couldn't take her to the nearest city. That was Adipose.

Come to think of it, they'd already closed some of the distance in their run from the Ragers, and even more getting to these shacks. It might even be a little less than two days away now.

He glanced back at her, at the desperation in her eyes. Saw her try to hide a gag. The food and water weren't the only problems. Some of the gas was already getting inside the ramshackle structure. She really wouldn't last for long here.

No, he told himself. I can't go near Adipose.

But she'd said the settlement was north of Adipose. If they traveled more east than south, taking a longer, wider path instead of going directly there, they could avoid most of the city traffic. She'd already proven she could run well enough and follow directions. If he was careful, if he kept a close watch out and hid when needed, maybe he could get her to her people without being spotted.

And there was the matter of five hundred coppers.

"Fine."

Chapter 3

The lady's eyebrows lifted in question, as if she was unsure she'd heard him right.

"I'll take you to your people. Keep your filters. Just pay me when we get there."

A relieved smile split her face. "Thank you so very much, sir. I can't express how grateful I am. You are too kind and generous and—"

He waved a hand, choosing not to let on that he would've left her to her fate long ago if it wasn't for the promise of so many coppers. "Fix your mask so we can get going."

"Right, of course." She stuffed the extra filters back in her pouch and redoubled her cleaning efforts.

Might as well get himself back in order, since he had to wait around anyway. He plopped back onto the box and set to work getting his mat, tent, and poles back into his bag. He had to take the journal out first, setting it aside. Once he finished getting his gear stowed, he started to shove the journal back in place, but stopped. He hadn't read it yet today.

The lady looked up from her work. "What's that?"

He flipped it open to the day's passage. "It's mine." He made sure his tone discouraged any further questions.

She seemed taken aback at his tone, but returned her attention to her mask. "I'm almost done."

He didn't answer. Maybe this was a stupid idea. The trip would only take a couple days, maybe three with the wider route he planned. Could he put up with her prattle that long? With any hope, she'd get a clue and shut up.

To his relief, she didn't say another word until he closed his journal and tucked it away. She held up her mask. "I'm finished. We can go when you're ready."

He started to stand, but his stomach grumbled in protest. He hadn't eaten anything yet. He dug out a can of food and popped it open. Felt her eyes on him. Handed it to her and pulled out a second one for himself. "Eat fast. I want to get moving."

Thankfully, she didn't try to start any conversation, instead focusing on trying to get the sludgy meat and bean mixture into her mouth without making a mess of herself.

He finished, gave her another minute to mostly finish, and crossed to the door. "Put your mask on, but stay here."

She hesitated.

He grabbed the door and pulled it open without waiting to confirm she'd put her mask on. The southeast looked clear. No more clouds from the Rager pack. They'd kept on their way, as he knew they would. No signs of Overlords magically detecting his plans and coming after him. The usual emptiness filling the world around him brought some comfort. Maybe this really would work.

"Let's go." He started out to the east, widening his original planned route just a bit further. No sense in risking anything, especially with a Rager pack heading roughly the same direction. Who knew how far people would scatter to get out of its way?

She fell into step beside him, still adjusting the mask straps around her head. "I'm afraid I never caught your name."

He kept his focus forward.

"And it is...?"

"Ronan."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." She held out a hand, which he also ignored.

Blessed silence reigned for several minutes before she spoke again. "How did you end up coming so far off the main road? I'm grateful you did, of course. I was just curious. It seems that most people stay on the main routes."

He scanned the horizon. Still no signs of other people. Good.

Expectancy hovered in the air for a minute longer before she gave up. "Do you have a home in one of the cities, or do you usually travel? I can't imagine what it must be like to live as a traveler, not having a place to call home. But I understand many people prefer that sort of life."

His teeth gritted for a moment before he forced himself to relax. Saying anything might just encourage her to talk more.

Silence reigned once more, and he found himself genuinely relaxing. She'd gotten it.

"Do you have family?"

His teeth jumped right back to the edge. "I prefer quiet. So I can watch for any threats."

"Oh!" She looked surprised, but apologetic enough. "Of course. I'm sorry."

He returned his attention forward.

"Um..."

He had to apply every remaining ounce of self-control to keep from snapping. "I said—"

"I know, you prefer quiet, I'm sorry. I just, um, that is, I need..." She shifted her weight awkwardly. "Um..."

He sighed. Truth was, his own bladder was starting to gripe at him, too. "Fine. Make it fast." He turned his back on her, unzipped, and set to his own business.

A faint gasp came from behind him, accompanied by an immediate swish of skirts. He looked over his shoulder to see her with her back to him, shoulders hunched, hands up to shield her eyes.

He rolled his eyes, turning his gaze forward once more. "Just take care of your business."

"I can't here. I need..." Her voice trailed off in a helpless note.

"What, a toilet? A lavatory? A fancy-pants loo?" He snorted. "There's nothing like that out here."

"But..." It took a moment for her to formulate her next words. "I need privacy."

"I ain't looking. There's no one else here, either. Just go."

Frustration colored her tone. "But it isn't... it isn't proper..."

"Then hold it." He finished and zipped.

"I..." She fell silent for another moment. "Cover your eyes."

"I told you, I'm not looking."

"Cover your eyes. Please."

He sighed and put a hand over his eyes, keeping a crack between his fingers to watch the horizon.

"Covered?"

"Yeah, they're covered."

A soft padding sound marked her quick retreat from him. He was about to speak up and tell her not to go too far when she stopped, apparently realizing the wisdom of keeping within range of her bodyguard. "Stay put," she said loudly. "And don't turn around. And keep your eyes covered."

He rolled his eyes again. What a priss.

She made an awful lot of noise fussing with her skirts and such for someone who was so concerned with privacy.

"You finished?" he called.

"Don't turn around!"

After a short minute, the fuss with the skirts resumed, followed by the soft padding sound.

"We good?" he asked, lowering his hand.

"Don't turn around, I said!"

"You're done, aren't you?" He wasn't able to keep the annoyance out of his voice this time. "What're you so afraid I'll see?"

"Just stay put for a second." The footsteps came to a stop beside him. A couple of more rustles. "You don't have any soap, do you?"

He did laugh this time.

"A simple 'no' would have sufficed," she snipped. A little more rustling. "Okay. I'm done."

He turned, not to face her but to continue east. "Good. Let's go."

She fell in step behind him. "I suppose you think I'm too picky. I'm not used to this sort of... thing. Even traveling with my people, we had little tents for... That is, I'm just not accustomed to—"

"Still watching for threats."

"Oh. Right. I'm sorry."

It took an hour of silent travel before his muscles relaxed once more, certain that she finally understood. He was fine leading, even protecting. Talking? No, thank you.

A dead shrub appeared in the distance. He watched it as they neared, his practiced eyes watching for the signs of an ambush. No movement. No rocks that rested oddly or bits of terrain that didn't change perspective as his angle of view changed. Clear.

His eyes moved on to sweep the horizon. Barrenness met his scan, same as every day. Dust. Dirt. A few boards and rusted bits of metal rebar sticking out of the ground at random, remnants of the ancient cities that used to sprawl across this area. A few stubborn desert weeds that clung to piteous shreds of life. A few dried remnants of plants that had given up on life ages ago. Hours drifted past as he walked on, the time marked only by a gradual drift of shadows and the occasional desolate landmark.

The soft thumping sound of stumbling feet came from behind him. His hand flew for his knife a half-second before he remembered that he had a traveling companion now. He internally cursed himself. How many times would he be startled by her before he stopped forgetting he wasn't on his own now?

He glanced back at the lady, still trying to coax his heart to calm down. "Stay up here, beside me." If she was right next to him instead of behind him, she'd stay in his peripheral vision. Maybe he wouldn't forget again.

Her face lit up, and she scurried a few steps forward to walk at his side. "Thank you. It's awfully quiet out here, isn't it? I'm not used to that. There are always others around in the Order, and even when we're working, we chat to help the time pass. I can't imagine what it's like for you when you're traveling alone."

He tried not to let his cringe show. She'd interpreted his instructions as an invitation to resume babbling. How much would he have to endure before she shut up again?

"And out here, things are so... big, I suppose is the word for it. The Order always has high walls around it, so I'm not used to seeing so much of the land at once. The walls aren't very pretty to look at, but they keep us safe from anything outside. And the guards can make sure no one looking to do any harm can come through the gates. We're quite secure in there, but it makes the world so much smaller than this." She looked around. "I suppose it isn't entirely pretty to look at things out here, either, but there's a certain wonder to the vastness of it all, don't you think?"

A flash caught his eye. Movement ahead. "Shut up."

Her gaze snapped toward him, surprise in her eyes. "Excuse me. I forgot you prefer quiet. But that's hardly reason to be so rude, and—"

"Shut up. There's someone over there." He made a small, almost imperceptible gesture toward the movement.

She glanced over and fell immediately silent. Good.

She leaned closer to him after a moment. "Are they dangerous?" Her tone suggested she would have liked to whisper, but knew she wouldn't be heard through the mask if she did.

He exhaled, though he'd already been evaluating that exact question. He could see the general shape of a man ambling some distance from them, and the man didn't seem to have spotted them yet. Not a Rager, not a Slaver, not a Doper. Probably just another scavenger.

Or possibly an Overlord scout, seeing how close they were to the Adipose area. If the scout spotted him, he'd go back and collect more Overlords. Not good.

"Maybe," he finally said. He waved an arm at the distant shadow. "'Lo, friend! Looking to trade?"

The lady clutched at his arm. "You said he might be dangerous!"

"It's not too likely. We need supplies and aren't likely to find some for a while." If the guy was a harmless scavenger, as Ronan hoped, they might get some good trades in. If he was a scout, as Ronan feared... better to kill one scout than face a whole mess of Overlords.

The shadow crouched as if to avoid detection.

He waved again. "I got some shoes, some jewelry, and some extra coppers. Just looking for some food and water."

The shadow stayed put for a minute, then slowly stood. "Trades?"

The voice sounded pinched and a little too high. Frightened.

Ronan relaxed. "Trades, that's all."

The shadow approached with a darting, skittering sort of walk, and soon proved to be a slight frame of a man with long hair sticking in more directions than seemed humanly possible. His too-light eyes twitched back and forth between Ronan and the lady, moving in a jerky way similar to his walk.

He stopped a few meters away from them and held up a gallon jug of water. "It's clear. Haven't even opened it yet."

Ronan nodded and set his pack down. "What're you interested in?"

"Necklaces?"

Ronan nodded.

"Shiny?"

"Most of 'em. You could shine the rest up, if you like."

The man shifted from one foot to the other as if standing still was painful. A clinking sound came from around his neck, and Ronan spotted a glimmer through the folds of the man's scarf. The guy apparently liked jewelry.

"Let me get them out so you can see for yourself." Ronan slowly opened the flap on his bag, giving the twitchy man ample opportunity to see that he wasn't going for a weapon.

The pale eyes flicked to the lady. Twitchy shuffled closer, still holding out the water jug. "Necklaces. I like pretty things."

Ronan dug out the necklaces he'd collected. "I'd say you can pick two for that jug."

"Five."

He laughed. "You better have a lot more than just a water gallon if you want five."

Twitchy's lips contorted through a few half-baked thoughts before he nodded. He set the jug down and dug into his own oversized pack, emerging with two cans of food. He eyed the lady and shuffled another step forward.

"You got any more extra water?" Ronan asked. "I'll part with more than five for water."

Twitchy looked downright crestfallen. "No extra water. Uh..." He dug into his bag again, his head and part of his shoulders vanishing into the cloth. "Here." His voice came muffled from the bag a second before he reappeared. He thrust a fistful of cotton toward Ronan.

Bandages. Clean, from the look of things. Ronan nodded. "Seven."

"Ten."

"Seven, or we go back to our original deal of five."

Pale eyes once more darted back and forth between Ronan and the lady. Twitchy finally nodded. "Seven." He scurried forward and dug through the jewelry in Ronan's hands, speaking to himself as he dug. "Ugly, blech. No, too dark. Ah, shiny, yes, nice and shiny. Good good good. More, yes, red, I like red." His chain of babble continued on as he selected one necklace after another.

Ronan tried to hide his impatience. He'd thought the lady's prattle was bad, but at least she took breathing pauses. This guy didn't even seem to slow down that much.

After a couple minutes, his patience wore out. "Come on, make up your mind."

Twitchy looked wounded. "They're too many, too nice. Can't decide. I like pretty things." His eyes flicked toward the lady. "Her necklace is pretty."

Her hand covered the pendant around her neck. "This one isn't for sale."

Twitchy's lips contorted again. He grabbed his last selections from Ronan's hand. "Seven. Good deal, good deal."

Ronan chose not to correct the man. He'd be lucky to get two or three coppers per necklace from the brothel girls. Seven necklaces would have been barely enough to buy the jug of water alone. But Twitchy didn't need to know such things. "Yes, good deal. We'll be on our way."

"Wait wait wait." Twitchy vanished inside his bag again and emerged with his fists clamped around something. "Trade."

"What is it?"

He glanced around as if to make sure no one was watching, then cracked his hands open. He held a box of ammo. A large box of ammo with a clear enough top to show that almost all of the slots were full of bullets.

Ronan shoved the rest of the necklaces toward the man. "They're yours." The bullets weren't the right size for his gun, but that single box of ammo could get him a couple hundred coppers alone.

"More," Twitchy said.

"I have some bracelets—"

Twitchy pointed at the lady's necklace.

She took a step back, startled.

Ronan shook his head, though part of him wanted to turn and coax her to give up the pendant. But a box of ammo wouldn't be of value to her, and she wouldn't see the need to let go of something clearly precious to her. "The lady said her necklace isn't for sale."

"No no no. Her. Trade for her." Twitchy licked his lips. "I like pretty things."

Ice rushed over Ronan's skin.

The lady found her voice faster than Ronan found his. "I am not for sale! That is despicable. Take your necklaces and go." She looked at Ronan expectantly, waiting for support.

A voice whispered into the back of his mind that with the coppers he could get from the box of ammo, plus the other trade goods he'd already collected, he'd have enough to bribe his way out of trouble without having to take the lady any further and travel so close to Adipose.

He shot down the suggestion almost before the voice had a chance to finish speaking. He felt filthy for even thinking such a thing. It'd make him no better than a Slaver. "Get out of here."

Twitchy shook the box of ammo. "Bullets. Always need bullets. Lots of coppers."

Ronan shoved the man's hands away. "I said, get out of here."

Twitchy deflated. He stuffed the box back into his pack. Shoved the bandages, food, and water toward Ronan. Counted his new necklaces. Then grabbed the lady's arm and bolted.

The lady shrieked, flailing behind the man, towed along by his frantic momentum and unable to regain her feet enough to struggle. "Help!"

Ronan cursed and lunged after them. The skinny man was fast, but the lady had regained enough of her wits to fight, slowing the guy down. Ronan's legs hollered with every step, protesting the further abuse, but he dug in harder and gained ground. His practiced eye measured the distance until he was finally close enough to leap.

Twitchy glanced back just in time to see Ronan flying right for him. He shrieked much like the lady had moments before, a shriek that dissolved into a pained grunt as Ronan caught him around the midsection, driving him into the ground. The lady went tumbling to the side.

Ronan shoved himself upright and planted a knee on the man's chest, his knife already out and against his enemy's throat.

"I... I..." Twitchy squirmed. "You're right, not mine, I'm sorry. I just... I like pretty things. But not mine. Yours. None for me." His pale eyes turned pleading. "I leave now?"

Ronan's fingers tightened on the knife's handle. He ought to end this twisted, shifty punk here and now. Just about anyone else would.

"I go?" Twitchy tried again. "Please? I have food. You can have more food. You like food?"

Ronan sighed and stood up, releasing the man. He was too nice for his own good. Still, no point in walking away from this empty-handed for his efforts. "The ammo."

"Yes! Ammo, yes, of course." Twitchy dug the ammo box out and shoved it into Ronan's hands. "Take, take. I go now?"

"Get out of here." Almost as an afterthought, Ronan stepped to one side, placing himself between Twitchy and the lady. Just in case.

It proved unnecessary. Twitchy fled, able to run much faster without a struggling woman slowing him down.

Ronan tucked the ammo away and turned to go back for the goods he'd left behind on the ground. The lady still sat in a heap on the ground, hair disheveled and clothes dirty. He paused. "You hurt?"

She pressed a trembling hand against her chest and drew a couple of deep breaths through her mask before answering. "I'm not injured, no."

"Then let's get moving." He returned to the goods and shoved the food and bandages into his bag. The water jug he slung on his side with a length of rope.

The lady finally joined him as he finished. "Thank you." Her voice still shook. "I—I was so startled, at first I couldn't—"

Ronan straightened and pushed the water jug toward her. "It's fine. Have a drink, and we'll get moving."

She took the jug in one hand, held her breath, and pulled the mask aside. She chugged fast, then shoved her mask back in place, gagging slightly as she handed the jug back to him.

He took the water, amazed at the contortions she had to go through just for a drink. And even then, she'd still choked on whatever miniscule amount of diluted gas had gotten in from her mask being away from her face for a second. By some mercy of the universe, no one in his family had the sensitivity. He couldn't imagine what it would be like, trying to survive out here with such a weakness. "You want more?"

She shook her head. "Thank you, I'm fine."

"Good." He took a couple swigs. "Let's go."

She fell into step beside him once more. "I gather the ammo is valuable."

"There isn't much left out there." The journal suggested an early assumption that people would continue finding the needed components to keep making more, but he'd never found anyone who made ammunition. Everyone was too busy just trying to get by.

"You could have simply accepted his offer of food. He may have thought you were going to kill him unless he handed over such a valuable item."

He almost laughed out loud. Was she for real? Of course Twitchy thought he'd be killed unless he handed over the ammo. That was the whole point. "That's just how things are done."

She looked like she was about to say something else, but instead resumed silently walking.

Ronan adjusted his bag. The ammo would come in handy. If things didn't work out with this deal with the lady, he'd have a solid start on earning enough coppers to buy a friend. Or if they crossed paths with any Overlords, the ammo might serve as a suitable down payment, keeping him free long enough to collect his coppers. One way or another, he'd made a good call. She just didn't understand what life was like out here.

To his relief, she seemed to recall his preference for quiet. The familiarity of marching onward in silence resumed, stuttered only occasionally by a light shuffle of her feet or bob of her head, reminding him that he was no longer traveling alone. As the sun drifted its way across the sky into late afternoon, he felt better and better about this deal. As long as she remembered to stay silent like this, the two-day trip wouldn't be so bad after all.

The ground rose sharply to the north, and he angled that direction out of habit. He couldn't abide traveling blind, not knowing what was on the other side of a nearby rise. Besides, the journal warned about the dangers of such terrain. No telling who could be crouching in wait on the other side of a hill or dune.

The lady followed without question. If she knew a little more about survival, she might have questioned the change in direction, but he had a feeling she didn't even realize they were no longer traveling due east.

As they neared the top of the rise, he motioned for her to wait before proceeding at a crouch, moving slowly until he could peer over the crest.

Houses. A collection of suburban sprawlers, most of them nothing more than skeletal remains by now. Dead plants protruded from the layers of dry dust and sand that covered everything, evidence of what used to be landscaped and manicured lawns. Some of the broken walls still had patches of once-bright paint remaining on the wood. A few dust-coated driveways featured rusted-out cars. And in the center of the collection stood a handful of houses that looked remarkably intact. None sported red paint on the doors or windows. Either these buildings had miraculously avoided breaches, or no one had come this way in decades. Most likely the latter.

He took in the sights in an instant, watching for signs of movement at the same time. But the only movement was a faint breeze stirring the dust in the crater-like valley.

Saliva pooled in his mouth. Every scavenger dreamed of this exact moment. From the looks of things, he'd be the first one through these buildings since the End. The people who abandoned these houses would have been in a panic, grabbing only the things they valued and running. So much treasure left behind...

The dirt shifted beside him as the lady crept closer, crouched like he was, and craned her neck to see over the top of the rise. "What is it?"

"Come on." He stood and adjusted his bag. "We need to check those buildings for supplies."

She straightened, giving the buildings below a hesitant look. "Do we really need to? I'd rather just get to my people, if it's all the same. We'll pay you enough to make up for anything you may have missed here. And of course, you can always come back. After all—"

"How much water you got on you?"

She stopped, then lifted her canteen. "Just this."

He touched the new water jug on his side. "This isn't going to last us the whole journey. We need more water, and probably some more food, too." With that, he started down the other side of the rise.

It took only a moment before she caught up and resumed walking at his side. "Are you sure they're safe?"

"No one's down there."

"How can you be sure?"

Irritation flared, partly at the implication she doubted his word and partly at the reminder of how unobservant and helpless his charge was. "None of the doors are marked."

"Maybe none of those buildings are breached."

He bit back a laugh. "That's not possible."

She eyed the buildings they approached, still looking doubtful.

He sighed. "Look at the doors. See all the dirt piled up at the base?"

Her frown deepened. "There was a dust storm earlier today."

"It didn't come from here. Besides, you feel a lot of wind down here? The valley's too deep. Those piles built up over years." Just to be sure she'd made the necessary connections, he added, "If anyone had opened those doors, those piles wouldn't be there."

She still frowned, but didn't protest any further.

He reached the first intact building and flicked his lighter next to the window. Purple lazily waved back at him. He dug his red chalk out of his bag and tossed it at the lady. She fumbled twice before managing to trap it awkwardly between her hands.

"Mark every door and window," he said. "Big X's. I'll check the other buildings."

He didn't wait for acknowledgement from her before moving on to the next building. Also breached. He pulled out his backup chalk and marked the door, then moved on. The lady could get the rest.

Three and four showed more of the same purple swirls pressed against the glass, but five had promise. No signs of purple. He'd have to check it carefully before bringing the lady inside, just in case, but odds were good it was clear.

He returned to help the lady finish marking the breached houses, then led the way back to house five. "Stay put for a minute. I'll make sure it's safe."

She glanced around at the surrounding hills. The sun only peeked above the western hill, though it was still just barely evening. Deep valley.

"What if someone comes?" she asked, fear making her voice barely audible through the mask.

He stared. "No one's been down here in ages. No one's coming down here."

"We came down here."

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. "I'll be quick. I just have to make sure none of the inner rooms are breached."

She shifted her weight, still looking distinctively afraid.

Ronan exhaled and looked around. A car stood in the driveway, leaning on three rims and one tire that stubbornly clung to partial inflation. He pulled the lady over to the side of the car. "Stay low. No one will see you unless they come from," he pointed, "that direction. So keep your eyes that way. You see movement, you holler. I'll hear you."

She didn't look very reassured, but nodded and crouched down, her back against what remained of the passenger door.

Out of consideration for her, he made a show of taking one last look around the valley's walls before trying the door. Locked, but a pretty, decorative window fancied up the top half of the door. He smashed it with his elbow, unlocked the door, and let himself in.

Dust coated everything, but the place was amazingly intact. The furniture was faded, but not broken. Only an overturned side table and a few scattered items on the floor remained as proof of the previous owners' harried flight from the building. He moved quickly, checking behind each door for clouds of purple and moving on when he found none. Still, his eye caught more than a few items that would bring him plenty in trade. And he hadn't even found their stockpile yet. This place was a gold mine.

"Ronan!"

His heart jumped at the sound of the lady's voice. She had to be joking. There's no way she saw anyone out there.

"RONAN!"

Chapter 4

Ronan jogged to the front door and poked his head out. "What?"

She clutched her canteen in front of her like a miniscule shield, her eyes wide and face pale behind the dark mask. She pointed with a shaking finger.

Small puffs of dust rose from the valley's wall just to the north. Several dark figures moved at a relaxed pace down into the valley.

He pulled his knife and put a hand on his gun, evaluating the approaching travelers. Moving too slowly to be Ragers. Too directed to be Dopers. And there's no way they missed hearing the lady's shout. If they were Slavers or Overlords, they'd be coming straight at her instead of meandering their way along.

Travelers, scavengers. Possibly traders. Curses tore through his mind. Just this once, he'd found a gold mine all to himself. Just once he'd been the first to discover some intact, abandoned buildings. Of course the universe would see fit to steer some other people along right behind him. So much for taking his time to sort through the place.

"What do we do?" the lady asked in a thin voice.

He tucked his knife away, but kept his grip on the handle. Since the lady had already announced their presence, he had little choice. "'lo, friends!"

Several rowdy cheers answered his call. At least they were in good moods, whoever they were. A positive sign.

The lady cringed.

He motioned toward the house. "It's clear in there. Go inside and stay put. I'll deal with this."

"What if they attack you?"

"Then run. Now get inside."

His answer clearly wasn't the reassurance she'd been looking for, but she obediently ducked inside and pushed the door shut behind her. He saw one of the window curtains move a moment later. She'd be watching.

It took a few minutes before the group got close enough to begin a real conversation. Ronan waved. "Just so you know, I haven't checked all these houses yet. Some might be breached, so take a minute to check before you go flinging any doors open."

"Old territory," a man near the front of the group said. His grin suggested he knew what a treasure they'd found. Definitely scavengers.

"Sure is." Ronan motioned toward the house beside him. "I already got a start peeking through this one. Looks like quite a bit left inside." His fingers tightened on his knife, ready to gauge their response.

"Then today's our lucky day," the man said. He put a hand up as if realizing that he'd said something incorrectly. "That is to say, if your building there's got some goods in it, these other buildings might, too. You go on and get what you need from there. You found it first; we won't set foot inside until you're finished."

Ronan felt his grip relax immediately at the man's words. These folks weren't just any travelers. They were Caravaners. The caravans held to a strict code of honor. They'd cheat you out of your shirt if they thought they could get away with it, but they were always friendly, always hospitable, and always respected scavenging rights. If you got to a building first, it was yours to search at your leisure. No other travelers offered the same courtesy. The group was unusually small for Caravaners, but they could be scouts from their main caravan.

"Much obliged." He gestured toward the remaining unmarked buildings. "See what you can find. Maybe I'll have a piece or two for trading once I'm finished here."

"Sure thing. The name's Joshua, and these are my folk." Joshua glanced at the house beside Ronan. "Thought we heard someone else with you. They're not sneaking around for an ambush, are they?"

A laugh escaped before Ronan could hold it back. "No. It's just a lady I'm escorting back to her home."

Joshua settled into a relaxed grin. "Oh, good. You'll understand if we get a bit jumpy when we see people go into hiding as we approach."

"Trust me, you've got nothing to worry about from her." Ronan shook his head. "I'll be along in a few."

Joshua waved and started directing the people with him toward the unmarked buildings.

Ronan went back inside the house, finally letting his frown return. He almost preferred that they'd turned out to be hostiles. He'd only had time to give them a brief once-over, but he was confident he could've taken them on if it'd come to it. Shoot the two biggest guys, duck inside the house, make an easy ambush to take down three or four more. The last few would be the smallest ones, and he could handle them easy. Then he'd still have all these houses to scavenge himself instead of just the one.

"What did they say?" the lady asked. Her voice came out clearer now. She'd taken the mask off.

He shook off his thoughts and headed for the kitchen. Better to make this scavenge fast and move on. "They're traders. They should have some decent supplies. We'll make a couple trades before we leave."

She followed him. "I don't like it."

"What, trading?" Right. Last time they'd stopped to trade, a skeezy guy tried to take off with her. He poked through the cupboards, collecting canned food as he replied. "Don't worry. They're not like that other guy. They're Caravaners."

Her expression suggested she had no idea what being a Caravaner meant, but she waved it aside. "Not that. Them. Something seems off."

He looked up from the cabinet he'd just opened. "Off?"

"You said no one would find this place."

Oh. That was all. He shook his head and resumed his search. "It wasn't likely anyone would come along. We're pretty far from any main cities or roads. But the Caravaners are thorough folk. I'm not surprised they ended up finding the valley. It's just bad luck they happened to find it now."

"I don't like the look of them. Something's wrong."

He exhaled, trying without success to cover his annoyance. "They're fine. Trust me." He popped open one of the food cans and thrust it in her direction. "Here. Eat fast, drink some water, then help me find the goods." He glanced toward the back of the house. He'd caught a glimpse of a bathroom during his brief check. Might as well make use of it and avoid another drawn-out fuss like last time. "Use the bathroom while we're here, too."

She took the food, still frowning. "I don't think we should trade with them. We should find what we need and leave."

"I said, they're fine." He popped open a second can and took a slurp of something almost fruity.

"But—"

"Look!" He turned to face her squarely. "I know what I'm talking about. I know what it's like out here. I know scavengers. I know traders. I know Caravaners. You don't. You don't even know what a Caravaner is. So who's the better judge of character, a pampered sensie from a pretty glass tower who knows nothing of what it's like in the real world? Or me? I think it's pretty obvious."

She took a step back as he spoke as if he'd physically pushed her. Hurt echoed from those blue eyes.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He turned his back. "Eat. And go check the bedrooms. Look for jewelry or coppers. Meet me back out here."

The lady remained still for a moment, then silently turned and walked away. Ronan heard a door open moments later.

The bitter taste hadn't left. Maybe he'd been too harsh.

He shoved the thought away and chugged down the rest of the puce-colored glop from the can. She really didn't know what she was talking about. Besides, if she kept questioning his judgment, how would he keep her safe all the way to her people? Better to nip it in the bud and make it clear that he knew what he was talking about. If they came across hostiles, her hesitation could get both of them killed.

Refocusing on the task at hand, he finished collecting food and fit as much as he could into his bag. Once it was full, he found some large plastic bags to load their finds in. The lady would have to help carry the bags, but it wouldn't kill her to do a little real work. He found a door to the garage and hit the jackpot: an old cabinet stuffed with water jugs. The stockpile.

The lady found him while he was still loading up the water. She held out a fistful of jewelry in one hand and a ceramic pig in the other.

He grinned and took the objects. "Good work." He dropped the pig on the floor, shattering it. Coppers and a few tarnished, silvery coins spilled across the floor amongst the shards of pottery. He dug out some rope and handed it to her. "Load up as much water as you can carry."

She again obeyed without a word. The twinge of guilt returned, but he ignored it and worked on sorting the coppers from the worthless coins and ceramic instead.

She'd strung two jugs on the rope and was tying it over her shoulder as he finished. "Can we leave now?" she asked. She sounded subdued.

"We've got enough for some good trades." He might even get a pile of coppers for that box of ammo he'd taken from Twitchy.

A pleading look flitted across her eyes, but she didn't push the matter this time. He ignored her expression and loaded himself up, then pushed one of the food bags toward her. "Can you handle this, too?"

She took it without answering.

Part of him preferred her this way, even if he felt a little bad about how they'd gotten there. At least she wasn't always trying to talk now. He led the way out of the garage.

Three more houses had been marked as breached, but one had recently had its door open. One of the smaller guys from the group stood just outside the entrance, watching the surrounding hills. He gave Ronan a polite nod.

Ronan strode toward him. "We've got some goods we're looking to trade."

"We can give you some good deals." The man leaned back toward the house. "Joshua! We got business!"

By the time Ronan and the lady walked into the house, most of the traders stood around an impressively undamaged table in a small dining area off the front room. Joshua sat on one side the table, facing two empty chairs. Three glasses of water sat on the table.

Ronan grinned and dropped the bags and extra water behind his chair before sitting. Typical Caravaners. Always give some hospitality, mostly in hopes of making the target feel indebted. Indebted people take worse bargains.

"Thanks," he said, taking a deep drink of the water. It tasted cool, fresh. Delicious. And it wouldn't do a thing to change his bargaining strategies. He knew all their tricks. He often used them himself.

"Of course. Anything we can do to help you feel comfortable." Joshua took a quick swig and folded his arms. "Relax, enjoy. We don't have to start right away."

The lady quietly sat, tucking her gas mask back into its holder on her belt. She eyed the water in front of her, but didn't touch it.

"Don't worry, miss. We're just here to trade, that's all." Joshua gave her a reassuring smile.

She glanced at Ronan. "Let's make the trades and go."

He waved a hand to cover his mounting aggravation. If the Caravaners thought he was in a rush, they'd push for worse trades. She wasn't helping things. "There's no rush. Like he said, we don't have to start right away." He took another gulp of water to underscore his relaxed state.

Joshua chuckled. "We could probably dig up something to eat, if you're hungry. What can we offer you?"

"Nothing." The lady's voice had a hard edge to it now. "We need to be on our way. Show us what you have to trade."

Ronan put a hand on her wrist and squeezed a bit harder than necessary, hoping she'd get the hint. "Relax and let me take care of this." He turned back to Joshua, who was sipping his own water with an amused expression. "She's not used to this business. Like I said, I'm just escorting her back to her people." He put the emphasis on 'her people,' hoping to make it clear that he wasn't a thing like her.

The message seemed to make it through. Joshua set his water down, planted his hands on his legs, and shifted his weight to face Ronan more squarely. "It's no concern. Enjoy your water. We can start whenever you want."

Ronan released the lady's hand. "Drink up. I'll handle the trading." He took one more sip of the water, trying to drag out the moment. If he went straight for the goods now, the Caravaners would think he was rushing things for the lady's sake. He had to show that he was the one in control of the timing.

He smacked his lips in a lazy way before setting the glass back down. The movement turned out less smooth than he intended as the glass rattled unevenly. Must be another mini-quake. He'd hardly noticed. He reached behind himself toward the bags. "We got more canned food than we'll need. Suppose you found the same here, though."

Joshua folded his arms again in an easy, casual gesture. "Sure did, but we always take canned food. Can't say we'll be able to give you much for it, though."

Ronan inwardly scowled, but he'd already expected that the food wouldn't net him much. And letting them get the upper hand in the first couple trades would grease the wheels for when he pulled out the box of ammo. He smiled and set a can of food on the table. It tipped and almost fell on its side. "Whoops. Guess we got a little rattle here."

The lady was staring at him oddly. She put a hand on his arm and leaned in close. "What's wrong with you?" she whispered.

"Shut up and let me work," he hissed back. Something didn't sound right, like his words weren't clear. He tried again.

The Caravaner standing beside him reached down and planted a firm hand on his shoulder. Ronan tried to brush it aside, but his hand flopped uselessly against the man's arm.

"What are you doing?" the lady demanded. She stood, but seemed to sway. Or quiver. Or maybe swirl, like the gas.

One of the other Caravaners shoved her back into her chair. "She's too scrawny."

Adrenaline tried to assert itself in Ronan's mind, but everything was too cloudy to let it in. He tried to push the man away and again failed. They had to get away. These people were working with Slavers.

The man snorted and gripped Ronan's other shoulder. "And this one's too tough. There won't be much to go around."

Joshua waved dismissively. "There's enough. And they got nice goods on them. Besides, he's got a lot of muscle. Haven't had one like that in a while." He pulled out a long knife.

The edge of the knife bounced, and it clicked. They weren't working with Slavers. But there was a reason this group was so small instead of traveling with a normal-sized caravan. There was a reason Joshua had only taken quick drinks and kept his hands out of sight. To hide the trembling.

"Stop! Let us go!" the lady shrieked, struggling against the man who held her.

"She didn't take the water," a woman behind Joshua said. She licked her lips. "I haven't had a pure one in a while."

"I told you, cook it long enough and you can't taste the drugs," Joshua snapped. "Quit being so picky."

"Still, it'll be nice." The Caravaner woman stepped toward the lady.

Ronan's fingers dazedly cooperated with his brain's frantic commands. He yanked his gun free from its hiding place and aimed it at Joshua. The end bobbed and weaved as he struggled against the drugs' numbing effects to keep it level.

Joshua froze. Eyed the gun. "You're bluffing. That thing ain't loaded."

Ronan cocked the gun and said, "Try and find out." Or, he hoped he said as much. It seemed to come out a little too slurred.

"Ronan!" The lady's voice was sharp with warning.

The weight on his shoulder shifted. He twisted, putting the gun in the face of the man holding him. The man froze, knife still in hand.

"Drop it," Ronan grunted. The words came back to his ear in a jumble, but his meaning seemed to come through well enough. The man released his shoulder and backed off.

The lady pushed away the person holding her and tugged Ronan to his feet. His legs wavered in indecision, unsure if they were willing to hold him, and he leaned heavily against her, most of his energy focused on keeping the gun aimed at the Caravaners.

"Stay back," he warned. His eyes fell on the bags of food on the floor, but there was no way he could carry them in this state. At least they'd gotten some food and still had plenty of water on them. For now, the larger concern was getting away from these freaks alive.

A faint shuffling sound came from behind him. He jerked to one side just as fire tore through his shoulder. His legs gave out, depositing him on the floor. The gun went skittering across hardwood.

The lady shrieked as the front door guard reached for her. The other Caravaners leapt into action, some heading for Ronan and the others heading for the gun. Ronan fought to get back up, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

The lady slapped the guard away and dove to the floor, still shrieking. Gunshots tore through the air in wild cacophony. The Caravaners yelled and bolted, scrambling away from the mad woman firing at them.

The room was empty in moments. The lady scrambled back to her feet, panting. Strapped her gas mask over her face. Tugged on Ronan's hand. "We have to go. We have to get out of here!"

He tried to direct his body into movement. His right leg seemed to have a different plan in mind.

The lady strained, and he found himself mostly upright, leaning heavily against her shoulder once more. His feet followed a wobbling path toward the door as she half-dragged him out the door.

The streets looked empty, as best as Ronan could tell through the psychedelic swirls obscuring his sight. They reached the dry, cracked road and turned south. He tried to voice a protest to the direction, but no clear words came out.

A shadow crept closer at the periphery of Ronan's swimming view. "Watch out!" The words came out slurred, but clear enough in combination with an imprecise point in the shadow's general direction.

The lady braced him against her side and aimed the gun at the shadow.

"Easy, now," Joshua's voice gyrated into the chaos. "No need to get fussy."

"Get your people back inside that house. Every single one of them. If I see any of you step one foot out that door, I'll shoot to kill."

Even through his drugged haze, Ronan could hear the pitch of her voice rise a fraction on the word 'kill.' She was bluffing. He just hoped Joshua was less perceptive.

"Okay. We're going." The shadow retreated, melded into a dead tree, then reappeared by the door to the house. Other quivering figures danced their way past and vanished into the house.

The lady didn't move until the door slammed shut. She adjusted Ronan's weight and hurried onward, pulling him along faster than his body was prepared to allow. The ground crawled and dipped under his feet.

"Come on," she grunted, adjusting him again. She glanced back at the house from time to time as they struggled up the southern rise.

Ronan barely noticed their forward movement until waves of golden-gray dust and sand before his eyes turned into a fuzzy mess of grays, yellows, browns, and blues, like looking at the reflection of a sandscape in a rippling swamp pool. They were already halfway back down the other side of the rise before he connected that they were no longer in the valley.

"We have to find somewhere safe," the lady said. The fear in her voice set the swirling haze in Ronan's vision into a faster rotation.

He blinked hard, trying to fight back the haze. A fractured line cracked the horizon to the east. Clouds of brown vibrated at its base. Dead tree and shrubs. His arm flopped in that general direction. "There."

"Hide under the tree?" Her voice sounded strained.

He tried harder to get his legs working. She wasn't strong enough to carry him.

She glanced back at the rise, then adjusted his weight again and pressed onward.

Time floated through the swirls around him. He was startled when a large, brown shadow edged into his vision. The tree. They'd reached it.

The lady slowed and leaned against the tree, panting hard.

Ronan grunted. They had to get to the other side of the tree, to put it between them and the valley. He waved his rubbery arm.

"Right," she mumbled as if she understood. She pushed off the tree and staggered a little further, coming around the other side of the dead wood. The dry bushes scraped and clawed at their legs with every step.

She stumbled sideways before managing to brace herself with him against her. "Is this good? Here?"

He did his best to nod. "Yeah." His mouth missed the first half of the word.

She tried to lower him gently, but his dead weight was too much. He crashed to the ground, a dry root jabbing into his side.

She winced. "Sorry." She dropped to his side, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

It took his every last drop of strength to reach for his bag and tug at the tent poles.

"I've got it," she wheezed. She crawled closer and gently lifted at his shirt. A new wave of fire tore through the stab wound.

He clumsily pushed her hand away and tugged at the poles again. "Tent."

She hesitated, then followed his hand to the poles and pulled one out. "This? You want this?"

He tugged at the next one.

Understanding crossed her eyes. She opened his bag and pulled out the rest of the poles, then piled canned food beside him until she could reach the canvas tent.

The haze thickened around him, pushing reality further away. "You gotta... the poles first..."

She toyed with the poles for a moment, then studied the canvas.

He blinked to find the tent nearly set up around him and her busily making the last few connections. He was losing his hold on the world. At least she seemed to have figured things out.

The next time he blinked, the tent undulated in the swirls around him, fully set up. His bag lay beside him. The lady gently pressed a cool cloth against the wound on his shoulder, cleaning it. He winced as fresh pain swept through his body.

"Sorry." Her voice was quiet.

He shook his head. "No... 'sgood." It took extra effort to bring voice to the words now. "You... was quick thinking. Grabbing... the gun."

Silence wobbled in front of his eyes for a moment before she spoke. Her voice wavered slightly. "I know I'm just a 'pampered sensie,' but that doesn't stop me from acting when needed."

His cringe had nothing to do with the pain in his shoulder. He should say something. She'd been right not to trust those Caravaners. Somehow, she'd picked up a vibe off them he hadn't noticed. She'd been right, and he shouldn't have said what he said.

He was still trying to come up with the right way to say it when the pain and drugs swept reality away into darkness.

Journal entry 7

It's been months since my last entry. I'm afraid it's rare for me to find time to write anymore. We keep listening for news of official recovery, that some official agency is restoring order, bringing peace and food and clean water. What I wouldn't give for a drink of clean water!

Thomas insists there are humanitarian groups that will help us, but we're losing hope. How could any group have escaped the devastation of the last few years? We try to help others—those not trying to kill us—but that help is meager, at best. There's no reason to think that anyone else out there could do any better than us. The truth is clear: we're on our own.

Everything is dying. The gas chokes the plants. The animals have little left to eat. I have seen cats tearing into human corpses on the streets, rats feeding on the toes of one of those 'Child-likes,' as we call them. _(Dopers)_ But what happens next? No plants means the herbivores starve. No herbivores means the carnivores starve. I have not shared my thoughts with the group, but I fear others have drawn the same conclusions.

The bombs destroyed our world. It's only a matter of time before all the plants are dead, all the animals are dead, and then it won't be long until we die off, either from starvation or asphyxiation, as we will no longer have plants to provide the oxygen we need. If my fears are true, then we have reached the End of All Things. Earth is dead. It's only a matter of time before we are, as well. _(Well, the plants are dead, but we ain't. Guess something else is keeping us breathing. Maybe the gas changed something in the air.)_

But for now, we do what we must to survive. Old customs of funerals and respect for the dead have become archaic, even detrimental. Stopping for a funeral might get us killed. Refusing to scavenge from the dead is foolhardy. Pragmatism must take priority over sentimentality.

We have gained a rough understanding of the mechanics of the gas which dominates our lives. The condensed gas is denser than air. It fills the lungs and creates a false asphyxiation, causing a loss of consciousness. Then a neurological effect activates, killing first the cerebellum (the brain's higher functions) and then the stem (the lower functions). If a victim can be removed from the gas, the clearer air outside dilutes the gas within their lungs before the brain is damaged. Once I have finished this entry, I will write directions for CPR on the last page as a reference. _(CPR. Read it, learn it, know it. Make sure all you travel with know it, too. It sounds all fanciful and strange, but it's saved more lives than I can count.)_

I intended to discuss the political tensions which caused this, but I've had to disrupt my writing twice for near-misses with roaming packs of the violent ones. _(Ragers)_ These packs are not concerned with stealth. If you remain quiet enough, you will hear them coming. Listen for the sound of thundering feet. You'll also hear thudding. They are not cautious in their movements and run into walls, rocks, even entire buildings. If you hear those sounds, get away. Find a tree to climb or a building to hide in. Do whatever you must to get out of their path without catching their notice.

If they see you, the only thing you can do is run.

Chapter 5

Ronan blinked at the dust particles floating above his head, twinkling in the angled sunbeam lighting up the top of one canvas wall. Late evening? Looked to be. At least the world no longer presented itself in a swirling haze. The tent was a bit crooked, but set up well enough to present the camouflage. The lady sat beside him, her knees pulled up to her chest, clutching the gun in both hands.

He shifted his weight and winced at the twinge in his shoulder.

She set the gun down beside him. "How do you feel? Better?"

"Yeah." The word rasped against his dry throat.

She lifted a water jug and helped him sit up enough to drink. When he'd had enough, she put the jug aside and returned to her sitting position.

He rested back against the hard earth. The root that had jabbed into him was now beside him. She must have moved him so he'd be more comfortable. Considerate.

Which reminded him of his last thoughts. He really ought to say something to her.

She spoke before he had a chance. "Is it always like this?"

"Huh?"

She hugged her knees tighter, her eyes fixed on the tent wall in front of her. "Everything's so dead and empty. So desolate. Hardly anyone else out here. And the people who are out here, well, the first person we meet tries to abduct me. The next people we meet try to..." She swallowed. "Is that really what it's like out here?"

He stared at her, his brain taking a moment to comprehend her question about what was so commonplace to him. "Yeah, pretty much."

Blue eyes met his, thick with prolonged shock, like a dazed person holding a live grenade and unsure what to do with it.

"There aren't that many people left in the world," he said. "Those of us still around, we do what it takes to get by. There isn't much choice out here. You look out for yourself. No one else will."

She looked away again, but not before he saw the distress sharpen on her face. Obviously that wasn't the answer she was looking for.

He pushed himself to a sitting position, gritting his teeth against the stinging throb in his shoulder. "I know you said you live somewhere with big walls and guards to keep you safe. But you've never come across people like that before?"

"We..." She seemed to search for words. "Those of us in the Order stay inside, safe. The guards deal with the people outside. They give out supplies to those in need, but no one comes inside unless they qualify to join the Order. Good people. Righteous."

"Huh." He couldn't think of anyone he'd ever met in his life who would fit that description. Aside from her.

"Sometimes we hear gunshots. We have places to hide and stay safe when that happens." She pushed an unruly lock of hair aside. "I guess I'd always figured those were Rager attacks. I never thought any person with their reason left would try anything against guards who were giving away goods for free. But now..." She rested her chin on her knees. "I don't know what to think."

"Sounds like you've got a good place there." He picked up the water jug. His muscles still shook a bit, courtesy of the drugs' after-effects, but he managed to take a good swig before he had to set it back down. "I can see why you're so eager to get back to your people."

She glanced at him as if startled. She seemed even more disturbed now. Why? If he was her, with that sort of deal, he'd be thrilled at the thought of getting back to the safety of the walls and guards.

She looked away and didn't say anything. He decided to drop it. "Looks like we still have some day left. Let's try to get a few more miles behind us."

They took down the tent and packed it away in silence. He moved slower than usual, his body responding woodenly. Stupid Caravaners with their stupid drugs. His muscles warmed up with use, though, and he was moving a bit more naturally once they set out.

The lady didn't seem to mind the slower pace. Somehow, the silence felt heavier this time, though. Oppressive. Melancholy. The peacefulness he normally found in walking the dead earth eluded him.

"What's that?" she asked.

He glanced over and squinted. The setting sun behind them cast bizarre shadows across the land, and he had to watch for a minute before he saw the movement she'd noticed. A small cluster of people, a good distance south. They hadn't spotted him and the lady, as best as he could tell.

"Get low." He crouched and dug into his bag for the plastic toy he'd uncovered a few years back. The larger lens was cracked, but it still worked well enough in a pinch. He pressed the small end against his eye and got a closer look at the distant travelers.

Four men. Heavily armed. Little supplies. They didn't look cocky enough to be Slavers or Overlords, but it was hard to say for sure.

He did a quick mental inventory. They'd lost almost all the extra food they'd collected, as well as the extra water. Except the two jugs the lady carried. He still had a partial jug left. Two and a partial wouldn't be enough to last the rest of the journey.

But it would last for a while, long enough to find a place to scavenge or perhaps someone who looked more interested in trading. These men didn't look like they carried extra supplies, and they certainly didn't look inclined to stop for some trades. Better to let them continue on their way.

He stuffed the spy glass back into the bag. "Stay down. They haven't seen us, and I want to keep it that way."

She responded with a tiny nod.

They remained still, silent, as the distant men gradually passed them. Even after the men's backs were to them, Ronan stayed put, just to be sure.

"I hadn't realized how fortunate I was."

He glanced at the lady. "Huh?"

Her eyes remained fixed on the armed men. "That you were the one to find me. That you were willing to take me back to my people. If it had been any of those other people..." A delicate shudder crossed her shoulders. "I'm lucky there are still some good people like you left out here."

A new twinge hit his gut. If she only knew what kind of person he really was. Or that, if it wasn't for the coppers, he'd have walked away long ago and left her to fend for herself. He stood before the subject could continue. "It's clear. Let's keep moving."

The silence felt calmer now, less melancholy. He settled into his normal stride, feeling only a slight jab of pain from his shoulder. Miles floated past. The stars glistened above, tinged purple by the diluted gas around them, before he finally stopped for the night beside another dead tree.

When he unloaded the tent from his pack, the lady picked up one of the poles. "I'm afraid I didn't quite get it right earlier."

"You weren't far off." He showed her how to set the poles for proper tension.

Once the poles were up, she helped him hang the canvas in place. "How did you end up out here? Traveling on your own?"

He shrugged. That question made as little sense as her earlier question about what the world was like. "I'm not a Slaver. I'm not rich enough to run a casino or a brothel in a city and not toady enough to work for those that are. This is all that's left. Besides, it's what I've been doing all my life. I wouldn't know what to do with myself otherwise."

"But you run into so many bad people out here. Isn't it safer in a city?"

He did laugh out loud this time. "Not by much. Besides, you don't run into so many people. We walked all day and what, ran into people on three different occasions? That's a busy day out here. Most days I don't see another soul. Sometimes it's one or two. Mostly I just walk, find what goods I can find, try to make a trade when I can. When I get to a city, I get as much as I can, then move on. It's a pretty typical life."

She looked a bit dazed again, like she was having a hard time taking it all in.

He set his pack down and unrolled his sleeping mat. "Get some rest. I'll wake you when it's time to move on."

"I can't take your mat. I'll sleep on the ground."

He waved dismissively. "Sleep on the mat. I've only had it for a few months, anyway. I'm more used to sleeping on the ground." Before she could protest again, he added, "You won't be any good for traveling tomorrow if you're all sore from sleeping on the ground tonight. Use the mat. We'll get you back to your people faster that way."

She reluctantly accepted the mat. "Thank you. Sleep well."

"Sure." His brain gave him a little kick, suggesting there was something else he ought to say. "Uh, you, too."

She smiled her approval, then lay down and fell asleep in seconds.

* * *

Ronan awoke the next morning and stretched his sore shoulder. She'd patched him up well; it was nowhere near as painful as his wounds usually were the next day. He rolled to his side and peeked under the tent flap in the direction of the valley, angling his head to see between the tree roots and the dead brush. No signs that anyone had been out this way, not even the two of them. The evening winds had erased their tracks. The Caravaners must have moved on.

Satisfied that they were safely alone, he dug out his journal to read before waking her.

She stirred before he'd finished. His shoulders tensed, prepared for her to start her jabbering, but she politely turned her back and fixed her hair instead. The end result wasn't quite as prim as when he first met her, but still far neater than anyone else ever bothered with.

He finished reading the entry and tucked the journal away. "Let's eat, then I'll make sure the way is clear." He handed her a food can.

She hesitated. "I should wait until we find a building."

"Not sure how much we'll be stopping today. We lost a lot of time yesterday." They'd have to travel hard today to make up for it. The food cans he'd stuffed in his bag should be enough to cover the distance, just barely. But enough was all he needed, just enough to get him to those coppers so he could get himself out of trouble. "Eat."

Her fingers lightly brushed the bottom of her mask as she eyed the can, an awkward look in her eyes.

It finally clicked in his mind. Right. Eating presented as much a tactical challenge as drinking. "Look, we can watch for a building, but I can't guarantee we'll come across one anytime soon. It might be hours. Might take all day. It's hard to know for sure."

Displeasure flicked across her eyes, but she nodded. "It's okay." She drew in a deep breath, pushed her mask to one side, swallowed a mouthful of food, and quickly shoved her mask back in place. And promptly gagged.

He sighed. "I can try to find a building." How many hours would they lose hunting for buildings? This was ridiculous.

She waved a hand. "It's fine. I can handle it." She lifted the can, seeming to brace herself for the next bite. "That book must be important to you, the way you read it every day."

"Journal," he corrected.

"Is it your journal?" She took another bite and gagged again.

He took a slurp of his own food. Why was he telling her about this? She didn't need to know his family's business. "It's been in my family a while. That's all." He added a tone of finality to his voice. Topic closed.

"Did your family travel like you do? You said you've been doing this all your life, so I suppose they did." She eyed the walls of the tent as she took another bite. "Where are they now?"

"Dead."

Her eyes widened in mortification. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago."

"Were you an only child?"

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He took another hefty bite. "I wish."

Taken aback, she stared at him, then blinked in presumed understanding. "It must have been hard to lose your siblings. Even if it was a long time ago."

He shook his head, ire rising. "Just one brother. And I didn't lose..." He chomped down another bite. "Finish your food, will you? I want to get going."

A brief flash of hurt crossed her face, but she looked away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

He ignored her, chugging down the rest of his food and polishing it off with a long draught of water.

She responded by eating as fast as she could, but the constant gagging slowed her down.

He sighed. "What about you? You got family?"

"I grew up with other members of the Order. They're pretty much family to me."

"Your parents were in the Order?"

She shook her head and choked down a swig of water. "I didn't really know my parents. They gave me to the Order when I was just a toddler."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Gave you? They left you there?"

"That's how a lot of us ended up there. Our parents came to the Order for supplies and hoped to join themselves, but they didn't qualify. They left us so at least we'd be kept safe and raised properly."

"Didn't qualify?"

"Not many do. Entrance to the Order requires a fairly strict degree of innocence and purity. Not that you have to be perfect, of course. No one is. But you can't have stolen or cheated or lied or hurt anyone."

He'd have thought it impossible for anyone in this world to qualify if he hadn't met her. And even then, she hadn't been raised in this world. Not really. "I take it you don't get many new members. Aside from babies."

She took another bite. "True, but it has to be that way. Singer Marcus always says that it's like if you're standing on a chair and someone else is standing on the floor below you. It's very hard for you to pull them up beside you, but very easy for them to pull you down. One corrupt person can destroy the purity of many." She paused. "Not that we see others as below ourselves, of course. We just try to maintain certain standards. And we still help everyone we can. It's our whole purpose, after all. To provide help to others and be a shining example."

"Huh." He shook his head and took another swig of water. It looked like she was almost done, so he crouched to check outside the walls of the tent. "Finish up. We should be on our way."

His check revealed nothing abnormal, so he set to work packing his things away and taking down the tent. By the time he'd finished, so had she. He left his bag beside her and walked to the other side of the tree so they could take care of their respective morning business. It went much faster with her feeling a sense of 'privacy' from the plants between them.

It was later in the morning that he liked by the time they set out, but not by too much. The lady matched his pace in silence. The familiar peace settled over him as the sun glided toward the apex above their heads.

Darkness rose to the northeast. He glanced over to see an expanse of dust bearing down on them.

Dust storm.

He caught her arm and picked up the pace to a run, angling south.

She stumbled. "What..." A faint gasp revealed she'd seen it coming, too.

His eyes searched madly for any signs of buildings. Couldn't have her mask getting clogged like it did last time. He had to find some way to shelter her from it.

No buildings. No time. This storm was bigger than the last one, moving faster. It'd be on them before they could get much further.

He threw his bag to the ground and yanked the heavy canvas tent free. Shoved her flat on the ground and tucked one edge of the canvas around her. He dropped on her other side and pulled the canvas over both of them, holding it up a crack on the southwest side, away from the storm.

It hit like a million stampeding Ragers, thundering over them with an unending howl of pain and fury and hunger. The lady flinched against his back.

The trampling weight pushed at Ronan's grip on the canvas, trying first to tear the edge from his hands, then to force the edge down and seal them in. He struggled to keep his arm up high enough to keep clear. The sand piled above them, pushing harder and harder by the moment.

A foreign sound reached his ears, a sort of snuffling noise. The lady. She cringed closer to him, her breathing coming in ragged, terrified gasps. Of course she was frightened. Last time they'd been in a dust storm, they'd been stomped on by Ragers and her filters got clogged. And this storm was much worse than the last one.

The howl intensified. The bulk of sand and dirt pressing down on Ronan's arm finally won, forcing his arm down. Not that it mattered much; the storm had already piled up too much on the other side of the crack for them to slide out cleanly, anyway. They were buried.

A fresh gasp escaped her. She pressed tighter against him, shaking.

He had to find some way to calm her down. There was no space under the canvas to allow for hysterics. He struggled to move one arm back toward her. Found her hand. Gave it what he hoped was a comforting squeeze.

Her fingers latched onto his, clinging tightly enough to restrict circulation.

He almost retracted his hand, but her breathing grew steadier, quieter. It was helping. He did his best to ignore the tingling pain shooting through his hand and waited, counting seconds. The longest storm he'd been in lasted for five minutes, but he'd heard of others that lasted longer.

He'd just passed three and a half minutes when the howl turned into a moan, then a whisper. He gave it an extra twenty seconds to be sure, but no further sound came from above them. It was over.

"It's okay," he said, trying to flex his numb fingers. "It's over."

Her grip didn't loosen. "It's done?"

"Yeah. Let go."

It took a moment before her hand relaxed. Her fingers moved slowly, probably cramped from such a tight grip for so long. "I didn't think... There was just a storm yesterday. Is it normal for them to be so close together?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his hand against the side of his pants, already feeling pinpricks as blood rushed back into the abused area. "It's summer. The storms come whenever they feel like it." He paused. "I know you said you were somewhere with walls, but you couldn't have escaped the dust storms."

"Sometimes we hear them, but the winds usually blow around us. We might get a little bit of dirt and sand from a really high one sometimes, but that's it."

He'd underestimated how high her Order's walls must be. He'd imagined the walls around the cities, large and strong enough to fend off Ragers, but not much more. Her people's walls had to be huge. He hadn't realized how accurate he was being when he referred to her as living in a tower.

"So it's safe now?" She pushed upwards to sit. Nothing moved. Her breathing sharpened as she pushed again, still with no results. "Something fell on us!"

"Calm down." He caught her hand. "It's just the dirt from the storm. We'll have to work our way out of here."

Her breathing got even sharper, faster. "We're trapped?" Her voice rose to a squeak. "Buried?"

Chapter 6

"It's not that bad," Ronan said. "I've done this before. We just have to move the dirt..."

The lady didn't seem to be listening, instead gasping and shoving frantically at the canvas above her. "I can't breathe. I can't breathe!"

"That's because you're trying to breathe faster than your filters can handle. Slow down already."

She again didn't seem to hear a word he'd said, her movements growing more frantic. "Help! Get me out of here!"

He shoved hard at the canvas in a swift blow, giving himself just enough space to turn over and face her. He caught both her hands in one of his and pinned them against her chest. "Enough!" he shouted in her ear.

She stopped struggling, eyes wide, still gasping.

"I'm your warrior, right?"

She trembled.

"Aren't I?" he pressed, putting as much force in his words as he could.

She managed a feeble nod around another gasp.

"Then I'm the one protecting you. You trust me to protect you?"

Another nod.

"Then you have to listen to me. Slow down. Count while you breathe. In for two, out for three."

A tear escaped her frightened eyes and made a path through the dust on her face.

"Do it!" he ordered, making his voice forceful again.

She kept trembling, but after a moment, her breathing slowed. Grew quieter. After a few more breaths, she began to relax, the terror fading from her eyes.

He let go of her hands. "Good. Now follow me." He pushed the side of the canvas aside, unleashing a torrent of dirt. The lady cringed.

"Trust me," he repeated. He pushed upward with his fingers, wiggling and shoving the loose dirt aside. It had been a big storm, and they'd gotten fairly well buried by it. But not as bad as some he'd been in. He probably would find surface even before he fully stood.

Sure enough, he had only just gotten his feet under him when his hands broke through the surface. He shoved the dirt aside and dragged his upper half free.

A hand clutched his ankle. She was starting to panic again. He dug his hand back under the surface until he found her wrist, then pulled upward, clearing dirt with his other hand until she emerged. She'd covered her filters with one hand during the underground journey, and she released her hold immediately, slumping against him and gasping in air.

"Come on, keep moving." He tugged and pushed until she crawled the rest of the way out, then he dug his hand back in for the canvas. Couldn't lose his tent. But the weight of the freshly piled dirt kept it trapped.

"Try to dig the dirt away," he directed, motioning to the general area where the tent was buried. He dug at the layered sand and dirt for a minute before realizing that she wasn't helping.

He looked up. She sat on the ground, clothes dirty, streaks of sand on her skin, hair gritty and disheveled, eyes wide. Her shoulders heaved and shook.

Great. For all their caution, she'd gotten her mask clogged again. He reached toward her, but the plastic grating on her mask looked conspicuously clear. So what was wrong with her?

"Come on," he said loudly. "Give me a hand."

She didn't seem to hear. Her hands trembled. "I didn't... I thought..." A loud sniffle came from behind the mask. "I thought we were going to die under there."

He somehow managed to contain a groan and an eye roll all at the same time. Was that all that had her in a twist? In fairness, he reminded himself that she wasn't accustomed to sandstorms. She'd never been buried by one before.

But he wasn't interested in coddling just now. He shifted his legs within the sand until he could reach her while still gripping the corner of his tent beneath the surface. He caught her arm and pulled her toward him, not bothering to be gentle.

"We didn't," he said. "You're fine. Now help me."

She stared at him, her eyes even wider now. Obviously she'd expected him to offer some sort of consolation.

He gave her a light push toward the sand in front of him. "Dig."

She fumbled for a moment, but finally got back in control of herself and began gingerly poking at the ground.

He didn't restrain the eye roll this time. "That's not going to get you anywhere. Like this." He used his free hand to broadly scoop a mass of earth aside.

She hesitated, then cautiously used the flat of her hand to take a larger scoop. "Like this?" Her voice sounded quieter than normal, still a bit shaken.

He shoved another mass of dirt aside. This was going to take forever. A thought occurred, and he changed the angle of his next scoop. Sand and dirt cascaded across her lap and arms.

She yelped and recoiled, shaking the dirt off as if it was made of cockroaches. "What was that for?"

"There. Now your sleeves are already dirty. So get your arms in here and help me get this clear," he said.

She shot him an almost wounded look, which he pointedly ignored in favor of taking another swipe at the dirt, pushing it away from her this time.

Her hands slid into the ground in front of him, taking a clumsy but adequate scoop of dirt.

"Better. Keep going." The canvas budged a fraction in his hands, but the weight on it was still too much for him to pull it free.

It only took a few more tries before her digging became steadier and more effective. Loose sand and dirt piled up beside her as her sleeves grew increasingly darker.

The canvas moved a few centimeters, then more. He pushed harder at the dirt with one hand while pulling harder on the cloth with the other hand. The lady seemed to notice his increased pace and sped up her own, leaning into the growing hole to fling armful after armful of soil aside.

The tent shifted almost a full meter at once, almost knocking Ronan backwards. A full corner of the canvas emerged from the ground. "We almost got it. Help me pull."

"Okay!" She scrambled to her feet and crouched beside him, grabbing the corner beside his hands. She leaned backwards against it, straining to pull along with him.

The canvas shifted, wobbled, and finally slid free. The lady fell over backwards. Ronan would have done the same if his legs weren't still half-buried in the ground. As it was, his momentum flopped him on his butt at an awkward angle. He grunted.

The lady sat up, panting. "We did it!" Her eyes shone with accomplishment, framed by streaks of dust. She pushed herself up and offered him a hand.

He took it and let her help steady him as he wiggled his legs free. He released her hand, but her arm remained outstretched. She frowned at her grubby sleeve, dirt-streaked hand, and black fingernails.

"It'll clean up fine once you get back to your people," he said. He shook the canvas several times, unleashing clouds of dirt with each shake.

"Right. Of course." Her tone didn't sound entirely convinced or mollified. She set to work brushing as much dirt off her clothes and hands as she could.

He finished shaking out the canvas and returned it to his pack. He only had to brush a little dirt out of the top of his bag before stuffing the tent in; the bag had stayed shut tightly enough to keep most of the soil out.

They took a little time to eat and drink, then Ronan stood and shouldered his bag. "Let's keep moving." He glanced at the sky, then down at his shadow to reorient himself.

She looked one way, then the other, then turned completely around, her eyes searching the landscape. "Which way were we going? There were some bushes we were walking toward before, but I don't see them now." She sounded frightened and lost.

He pointed.

Those large blue orbs fixed on him. "How do you know that?" Her tone didn't question his ability; rather, she seemed in complete awe of his capacity for simple navigation.

"We're walking east."

Her expression didn't change. Apparently, that didn't mean anything to her.

"So I just had to see which way the sun's moving in the sky."

Still completely blank.

He'd known she was clueless, but this clueless? "You know which way the sun rises, right?"

Her expression finally changed, her cheeks above her mask showing red through the dirt. "It rises in the east and sets in the west." She glanced at the sky. "But it's right above us."

"Not completely." He gestured down at his shadow.

Blank again.

He sighed. "I can see my shadow. It's not exactly above us. It's a little after noon, so the shadows point east." He paused, unsure if he needed to spell it out any more than that. The hesitant expression on her face suggested he did. "We're traveling east. We're going the way the shadows point."

She looked a little hurt. His tone had been condescending, but he didn't really care at this point. He turned east. "Let's get going. We've delayed long enough."

It took a moment before she fell in step beside him. "I've never had to know such things before. I've never been out on my own. I suppose this lifestyle takes a very different set of skills than mine."

A chuckle pushed past his throat. "What sort of skills does it take to sit inside walls and be protected by guards?"

She stopped walking for a moment, taken aback.

He didn't bother slowing.

After a second, she caught up to him again. "We don't just sit around all day, you know. We work hard."

"Let me guess. Scrubbing and polishing. Great survival skills if you get attacked by a patch of dirt."

She folded her arms and shot him a sidelong glare. "Yes, we clean, but we do more than that. We cook. We sort the supplies that come in. We even repair the ones that are broken. We..." Her voice trailed off. "There's plenty we do."

He snorted again.

Her glare remained steady for a minute, then faded. "I suppose my way of living is as foreign to you as this is to me. I can't expect you to understand."

He'd heard similar statements from the brothel girls and casino owners, but those always came barbed with a snide or even superior tone. The lady sounded more musing, thoughtful.

They walked on for another kilometer before he spoke. "I probably wouldn't last long."

"Hmm?" she asked.

"You're right. Living inside walls, staying put in one tiny space, cleaning and—what was it, singing?—and repairing stuff all day. It's foreign to me, like you said. I couldn't imagine it. I sure wouldn't last."

"Have you never stayed in one place before? Not even once?"

He shook his head. "Thought about it once, though."

She tilted her head, her eyebrows raised in a gentle invitation for him to elaborate.

"I'm decent at trading." And getting fools to part with their coppers, but he decided against saying that. "I could get some good business in a city. I'd still have the freedom to come and go if I so desired. And cities have good enough walls to keep the Ragers out."

"So why didn't you?"

He shrugged. "Part of it was family tradition, I suppose." The journal warned time and again of the dangers of living in a building or staying put. The rational side of him acknowledged that those passages were written long ago, before people learned that swamplands reduce the risk of breaches. But old habits die hard.

"And the other part?"

"I dunno. I guess if I settled down in a city, people would start expecting me to be around. They might..." He straightened. "I just prefer things this way. It's a decent life."

She nodded as if she understood.

He glanced down at his shadow and was surprised by how much time had passed. It was almost as if time moved more quickly while they'd been chatting than it normally did. Bizarre. He took a swig of water and noted with some displeasure how loud the sloshing sound was. The water jug was nearly empty. The sooner they could find some more water, the better.

He put a bit more attention forward, watching for movement, shadows, signs of other people. Anyone who might trade, so long as they posed no threat. After a couple more hours slid past, he knew they wouldn't run into anyone anytime soon. Not unless they got a bit closer to a main road.

They weren't far off, he knew. He still didn't like the thought. Getting closer to the main road meant a higher likelihood of seeing people—all kinds of people. Traders with needed goods, like water, of course. But also Overlords and Slavers. He'd always avoided the main roads as much as he could.

But they needed the water. He mentally cursed those blasted Caravaners once more. The curse quickly turned on him. If he hadn't trusted them, he'd still have all those supplies they'd had to leave behind.

He shook off the thoughts even as he shifted their aim further north. It added time and risk, but he had no choice.

"We aren't traveling east anymore?"

Her voice didn't startle him nearly as much as it did the first day. He glanced over at her. She looked at him, then glanced down at her shadow as if to reconfirm what she'd said. At least she was learning.

"We have to get closer to the main road. We'll find someone who'll trade us some water."

She checked the water jugs at her side. "This won't be enough?"

"Not nearly."

"Oh."

It took about an hour before they topped a rolling crest to see the rough stretch of dirt packed hard from thousands of feet crossing it over time. No signs of people yet, to Ronan's relief. He'd rather see them coming before they had a chance to see him.

The lady looked down at their shadows and started toward the road to the east, but he caught her arm. "This way."

He led her back over the crest, moving low enough that he could still see most of the road, but wouldn't be as visible to anyone traveling on it. It'd be easy to crouch and vanish from sight entirely. They continued generally east, staying parallel to the road.

The shadows stretched into late evening before Ronan saw the first sign of life, a tent nestled close to an outcropping of rock on the far side of the road. A larger rock face sheltered the tent on the far side, and various jutting boulders and craggy protrusions sheltered the tent from view of the road on the other side. The average traveler on the road might not have noticed it. Even Ronan might have gotten closer than he was comfortable before spotting the canvas against the rock. But his higher vantage point gave him a better view of the sheltered hiding place.

He stopped and lowered his body, digging for his glass.

The lady crouched beside him. "What is it? Did you see something?" she fake-whispered through the mask.

He held up a hand for silence, not particularly interested in taking the time to answer her questions just then. If she couldn't spot the tent herself, that was her problem, not his. He found the glass and held it to his eye, getting a closer if slightly fractured view of the area around the tent.

There. A lanky man stepped into sight from the other side of the tent and crouched, working at something with his hands.

Not a Slaver; they never traveled so sparsely. Probably not an Overlord, but it was hard to tell. The man turned, giving Ronan a clear view of the knives strapped to the side of his leg. A gun handle protruded from the back of the man's waistband. Well-armed, prepared to fight. More so than the average traveler. Ronan's lip unconsciously lifted in distaste. People didn't carry extra weapons without reason. The guy probably had a tendency to steal or kill.

A high-pitched giggle carried through the evening air. He glanced over at the lady, startled and ready to scold her for being so loud, but she looked as startled by the sound as he was.

He returned to the glass to see two kids chase each other around the tent. The man quickly caught them, spoke a few sharp words, and kissed their foreheads before shooing them back to the other side of the tent.

Ah. The excess weapons suddenly made perfect sense: the man had a family to protect. Ronan tucked the glass away and straightened. The odds of getting a decent trade had just increased. Family men tended to be more fiercely protective than other travelers, but also a bit more generous. Once Ronan proved he was no threat, the man would either send him on his way without trouble or invite him over for some good trades. Either outcome was fine by Ronan.

The lady cautiously stood. "Did I hear a kid?"

"A couple of them. Come on." He led the way down to the road, being sure to make a bit of noise as he went. Best to give the man plenty of warning they were coming rather than catch him off-guard and get him defensive right off the bat.

As they drew closer to the outcropping, Ronan lifted his arms in a gesture that might look like a friendly wave but was more to show that he had no weapons in his hands. "Hello, friends. Sorry to disrupt your evening, but I'm in need of some water and was hoping for a good trade."

Silence came from the other side of the boulders.

Not a good sign. Ronan slowed his pace, measuring the situation. The lady stumbled on a rock beside him. A new approach quickly formulated.

"See, I've got a lady here who doesn't know much about survival, and I'm trying to keep her safe. But we ran into some trouble and lost most of our water. I won't be able to get her to safety without a bit more on hand." Family men had more of a protective instinct built up inside of them than lone travelers. And the lady fit the role of distressed damsel perfectly. If anyone could inspire protective instincts in a good-hearted stranger, it'd be her.

The man finally leaned into view, peering around a boulder to see them better, eyes narrow with suspicion and caution. He clutched a knife in both hands.

Ronan lifted his hands again. "We're just looking for some extra water. If you don't have any extra to trade, we'll be on our way."

The man's expression softened just a touch.

"Please," the lady said, apparently trying to sound polite, but a touch of desperation and worry colored her tone.

Perfect. It couldn't have been better if he'd coached her himself.

"Your weapons," the man said.

"What about them?"

"Leave them there."

Ronan let out an easy, relaxed chuckle. "You know that no one with half a brain left in their head would walk away from his defense. But if it'll help you feel better, I'll let the lady hold them for me."

The man evaluated the lady briefly, then nodded.

The guy was smart, then. He could tell who was a threat and who wasn't. Ronan had clearly fallen into the first category; the lady, the second. The man, for his part, didn't look like much of a threat with his skinny arms and gawky neck angle, but family men could become deceptively powerful when they thought their brood was in danger. Ronan had no intention of doing or saying anything that might trigger those instincts.

The lady accepted the gun and knife from Ronan with obvious dislike and inexperience with weapons, but he barely noticed, still focused on his new target. Smart meant that the man likely wouldn't be much of a pushover in a trade, so they'd have to make a moderately fair deal. But family man did mean a higher chance of generosity, so Ronan should still be able to walk away on top.

Lanky nodded, straightening and tucking his weapons away. "The name's Luke."

"Ronan. Lily."

The lady gave a polite but distracted nod in the man's direction. She was still trying to figure out a way to carry the weapons.

Lanky gestured them toward the other side of the tent. "Come have a seat. You can set those things down beside you."

"Thank you," she said with obvious relief.

They followed the man to the other side of the tent to find the rest of the family watching with caution, a portly woman with the two ankle-biters tucked behind her oversized pants barely cinched at her waist with a length of rope. Ronan politely waved at them before sitting down on the ground, maintaining a respectful distance from them. The lady sat beside him, setting the gun and knife down almost too quickly.

"Oh," Lanky said. "Why don't you go ahead and let Miss Lily hold your other knife, as well?"

Ronan instinctively glanced at his ankle, but his pants still covered the concealed knife. He looked back up to see the man smirking.

"Educated guess," Lanky said in answer to Ronan's unasked question. He nodded toward the lady and waited.

Ronan smiled the 'aw-shucks' smile of one who's been caught in a misdeed. "Guess I forgot about that one." He pulled out the knife and passed it to the lady, who dropped it beside the other weapons. "I'm sure you know how it is, traveling the wild with someone to protect."

"I'm sure." Lanky settled down across from Ronan. "My wife, Marta, and my boys, Jay and Remington."

"Good name," Ronan said with a nod toward the smaller, sandy-haired boy.

The mother's lips pursed in a way that suggested the boy's name hadn't been her first choice.

"You have a lovely family," the lady said. "Your boys are just darling."

Pride replaced the displeasure on the larger woman's face. "Thank you." She lightly shooed the boys into the tent.

"We were just making dinner," Lanky continued. "Marta, we've got enough for two more mouths, don't we?"

She opened her mouth, but Ronan held up a hand. "I'm certain your woman's a glorious cook, but we don't eat anything we didn't prepare ourselves. Personal policy." A new policy, one that could make trades more strained in the future, but that was preferable to the risks. As he'd so recently discovered.

The mother looked offended, but Lanky only seemed mildly surprised before nodding in understanding. "I take it you've run into some trouble."

"It's wise to be cautious." Ronan pulled his bag closer and untied the flap. "I gather you've got some extra water for trading. What sort of goods you looking to get?"

Lanky's face shifted into a more serious expression. Time to get down to business. "Don't suppose you've got extra clothes on you."

"Shoes?"

The mother's eyes lit up as she set a plate of food in her husband's hands. She gave him what was supposed to be a surreptitious nod.

"Let's see what you have."

The man knew enough to play it cool. Ronan nodded and dug out his finds. "I also have some nice pieces the lady might be interested in." He held up a fistful of necklaces and bracelets.

The mother's nose wrinkled. "I've no use for baubles. What I could use is twelve-gauge ammo."

Ronan had misinterpreted the couple's dynamics entirely. The man walked around with a pistol, but the woman carried a shotgun? He changed his focus as smoothly as a shifting breeze. "None of that size, I'm afraid. I've got a few decent tools on hand, though. And lots of food." He glanced at the tent. "Good protein for growing boys."

The woman gave another hardly surreptitious nod at the man.

"That's a lot of options. How much water were you looking for?" Lanky asked. "I'm not sure how much extra we have just now."

Ronan smiled. The man was trying to gauge how many items he should express an interest in. "Two or three jugs. Four, if you can spare it."

Lanky nodded slowly, picking up a pair of shoes and examining the soles before checking out a different pair. "Yeah, I think we might have four. Let's see what tools you have."

As Ronan found a few more items in his bag, he noticed a bit of movement near the tent entrance. Two small faces peered out of a side flap, one on top of the other, both jostling and wiggling to maintain the awkward position.

He set down a handful of tools, choosing to ignore the boys. It wasn't as if they were any concern of his. Besides, they'd most likely get in trouble with their mother if he called attention to their spying.

"What's the lady got on her face?" the smaller boy asked. It sounded like he was trying to be quiet, but his voice carried loud and clear. "Is she a bandit?"

The mother shot a glare in their direction. "Remington!"

The lady seemed amused, though. "It's all right." She turned to the boys. "It's a mask that helps me breathe so I don't get hurt."

The boy's face wrinkled as he tried to sort out what she'd said. "How come you need help breathing?"

"Some people just do," the mother said, her firm voice making it clear that the boy was to drop the line of questioning.

"I'll tell you more about it later," Lanky said, giving the boy a wink.

"I think it looks cool," the older boy supplied. "Can I get one?"

The lady stifled a chuckle.

"Hush and get back inside!" the mother barked in exasperation.

The two little faces vanished in a cloud of giggles and excited chatter.

The mother shook her head. "Don't mind them. We don't spend a lot of time around the cities or other folks."

Ronan nodded in understanding. "Good way to go."

"It's fine," the lady said. "I don't mind them. I think your boys are sweet."

"They have their moments, when they aren't pushing me to the end of my wits." The portly woman smiled and sat on a small crate. "Have you two ever considered having some of your own? You're a right handsome couple, if you don't mind me saying."

The lady's face turned an impressive shade of red. "I don't... we're not... I mean, we don't..."

"We're not a couple," Ronan said almost as quickly. "I'm just escorting her back to her people." Why did his cheeks feel so warm?

The woman looked surprised. "My apologies. You two just seem so nice together, I assumed you were—"

"Take a look at this," Lanky interrupted, placing a bent hammer in his wife's hands. "We could get some good use of that, don't you think?"

"Yes. Of course."

Ronan wished his face would stop burning. What did he have to feel embarrassed for, anyway? It was just a simple misunderstanding. He cleared his throat to cover for it. "You're going with that piece, then?"

He relaxed when the woman busied herself gathering plates of food to carry to the children and Lanky returned to the business of haggling out the details of the trade. The man proved shrewd, but as Ronan had predicted, slightly more generous than the common trader. They settled on four jugs of water for two pairs of shoes, the hammer, and a couple cans of food.

"Good trade," Lanky said, twisting to call back to the tent. "Boys, bring out four jugs and get these goods."

The boys scurried out with water in hand, but Ronan's attention was fixed elsewhere. When the man turned, the fading evening light had caught just the slightest glint of something shiny hanging off the side of his belt.

Ronan adjusted his position, trying to maintain a good view of the small, round object. His eyes told him what he had suspected, but his brain wouldn't quite believe it. The gilt paint was faded and chipping away in some spots. The edges were cracked, even chipping in some spots. But the red plastic base and glittery numbers proclaimed it to be legitimate: a casino chip. The only kind used in the city casinos. The kind that could be cashed in for coppers. It was the numbers on the side that almost took his breath away.

One thousand. It was an honest-to-goodness thousand-copper casino chip.

Chapter 7

Ronan couldn't stop staring for a moment. Too long. Too obvious. He dragged his gaze away from the chip, but it was too late. Lanky had seen him staring.

The man gave him a cautious look as if trying to decipher the odd stare. "Something wrong?"

For a moment, he couldn't answer. Plastic chips could be found just about anywhere there was an unscavenged building, but the red gilt ones, the rarest kind, were the only ones used and accepted in the city casinos. The family didn't show any signs of being well-to-do. And who walked around with a thousand coppers hanging in plain sight on their belt? It was like tying yourself up and presenting yourself at the feet of every robber and murderer wandering this wasteland.

"Ronan, what's wrong?" The lady sounded confused, concerned.

He shook off his shock as the only logical conclusion slid into his mind. The man didn't know the chip was legitimate. He didn't know the value of what he carried.

Perfect.

"Sorry," he said, ducking his head in what he hoped looked like genuine embarrassment. If only his cheeks would burn like they'd done so easily a minute ago. "I didn't mean to stare."

Lanky glanced down at his side. "I know, it's more blades than most carry, but I've got a family to protect."

Yup. Clueless. Ronan swallowed his glee and tried to look even more embarrassed. "Uh, no, not that. I just..." He looked up, to the side, down, then finally back at Lanky. "I apologize if this is prying, but I couldn't help noticing that bit of plastic hanging from your belt. Where did you get it?"

Lanky lifted the casino chip with a slightly puzzled expression. "This thing? I found it a ways off the road a few days back." His expression grew more guarded. "Why?"

"I... it looks an awful lot like one I've seen before." He shifted his weight. "You said you just found it? On the ground?"

The man nodded. "Half-buried in the dust, but I saw the shine on it. I saw the numbers on the side and thought, if I could get myself that sort of wealth, we wouldn't have to travel and hide anymore. I could set us up with a real house somewhere safe, with plenty of food and protection no matter what." His fingers lightly traced the edge of the chip. "I've been carrying it with me ever since, sort of a lucky charm."

Lucky until it gets you killed for your ignorance, pal. Ronan nodded as if understanding. "I see. Uh... Well, I hope it brings you luck." He straightened as if preparing to leave.

"Hold on there, friend. You seem like you've got something to say about this."

Ronan put on a pained expression that he quickly masked. Inside, he chortled, near to exploding. How perfect was this? He'd play these dupes straight to the end and walk away richer than anyone he'd ever met.

"I'm sorry. It's nothing, really."

"Come on, now," the woman coaxed. "What's troubling you?"

He hemmed and hawed as his brain quickly refined the perfect story. "See, my father had a chip just like that one. He always told us that if we worked hard and did our best, one day we could be as rich as that chip said. I guess he was a lot like you. Carried it around for luck. I didn't see him without it for even a day, all the way until he—" He broke off sharply and glanced away. "Anyway, I guess it just reminded me of him."

The lady was frowning at him. The frown was soft enough that it probably appeared concerned or sympathetic to the others, but he saw the confusion and suspicion in her eyes. He shook his head, managing to keep it far more surreptitious than the woman had in signaling her husband, hoping the lady would take the hint to keep her mouth shut.

"You lost your father?" the mother said softly.

Ronan drew in a shaky breath. "I was just about the age of your older boy there. We all got split up when the men attacked. I think they wanted my father's gun. When I came back..." A second breath, this one with extra shake. "I found my family, but..."

He shook his head. "The monsters even took the time to strip the bodies. There was nothing left. I had to figure out a way to make it on my own."

The woman's hand squeezed Lanky's shoulder in a reflexive move.

He had them right where he wanted them.

"I apologize. I didn't mean to unload my baggage on your front porch." He gave a brave smile. "I guess I just saw your chip there, and it reminded me so much of my father. He was always a real inspiration to me." He forced the smile bigger. "But we came here for a trade, and we've done that. Thank you again for a good deal." He stood, wiping his thumb across his eyes in a quick gesture.

"Hold on just a minute," Lanky said. He stood and fumbled with the string holding the chip to his belt. "Here, you can have it."

"Oh, no," Ronan protested. "I couldn't."

"Of course you could," the woman said. "Luke only found it by the road a couple days ago. It doesn't mean much to us."

"I know it probably isn't the same one your father had," the man held out the chip, "but if it gives you something to remember him by, then that's something, isn't it?"

"I really couldn't..."

Lanky clasped the chip into Ronan's hands, giving him a warm smile. "I hope it brings you luck."

Ronan sucked in a shaky breath. "I..." He blinked hard. "Thank you. I can't tell you what this means to me." He hesitated, then dug into his bag and pulled out a can of food. "Here. I don't take charity, but I take trades."

"That's hardly a fair deal for you," the man started to protest.

Ronan held up a hand. "I insist. You folks have been too kind to me. This means more to me than you could possibly know." It took some effort to keep from cracking a smile as he said that. They really had no clue how true his statement was.

The woman looked like she might argue the point, but the man took the can and solemnly shook Ronan's hand. "Glad we were able to help. You two take care."

"Same to you and yours."

The lady stood and pushed Ronan's weapons at him. Her eyes met his, conveying her thoughts as clearly as words in his journal. She suspected something was up, that he hadn't been entirely honest. She just couldn't quite figure out what it was that he'd been up to.

"We'd better get moving," he said, perhaps a bit louder than necessary. "We should be able to get a few more miles behind us before we have to rest for the night."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she turned to the couple with a polite, ever-gracious smile. "Thank you again."

Ronan led the way back to the road, over the rise on the other side, and settled into a generally east-southeast direction to put some distance between them and the road. He clutched the chip in his hand so tightly that some of the cracks bit his skin. Part of him kept waiting for the man to come yelling after them, but the rest of him just about vibrated in place with sheer joy. The find of a lifetime. Even if he didn't get the lady's five hundred coppers for some reason, he'd still be set for the rest of his life. No more scrounging in crumbling ruins for him. No more trouble with gangs. He could rule a gang, if he wanted. Or a whole city. The endless possibilities paraded through his head in a screaming mass of delirium.

"You weren't telling the truth about that chip," the lady said.

Her intrusion only slightly dampened the parade. He glanced over his shoulder and confirmed that they'd gotten far enough away to talk freely. "Trading involves a little deception sometimes. You wouldn't understand."

"That chip is worth more than just a lucky charm, isn't it." It was a statement, not a question. Almost an accusation.

He didn't care. He faced her with a broad grin that could no longer be contained. "You have no idea."

She stopped and folded her arms. "How much is it worth?"

He almost laughed out loud. He wanted to jump up and down, to whoop and holler. Instead, he held up the chip to show her the number printed on its face.

She stared for a long time before it sank in. "You mean..."

"Yup." He did laugh this time. "It's legit. I can take this to any casino in any city and walk out the richest man on the street!"

Something inside of him had expected the widening of her eyes, the reflection of shock and surprise. It also expected some sort of joining into his own celebration. She'd be impressed at his cunning. Overjoyed at the thought of such riches. Thrilled at the potential.

Nothing in him had expected those wide eyes of surprise to shift into a look of horror, followed quickly by anger.

"How could you do such a thing?" she demanded. "That man has a family to feed and care for, and you just cheated him out of the very thing that would have let him do so. What did he ever do to you? They traded us the water we needed, even offered to let us share in their meal, and you repay that kindness by—by robbing him blind?"

"Hey!" He scowled. "I'm not some two-bit thief. I stole nothing. You saw it yourself. They handed it over to me as a gift."

"Only because they didn't know what it's really worth. You took advantage."

He snorted. "I did nothing wrong. Those folks are in no different situation now than they were before I came along. He'd have just kept walking around with it hanging off his belt in broad daylight. Nothing's changed for them." He paused, irritation building his momentum. "In fact, I probably just saved his life. Because if I hadn't taken this chip off their hands, someone else would've seen it hanging there. Someone not as nice as me. Most people out here would be happy to kill to get their hands on this. Is that what you want? You want those nice people murdered at the side of the road because that man doesn't know what he's carrying? I did them a piece of kindness by taking it."

She shook her head for a moment as if unable to form words, disgust and shock written in those blue eyes. "Is that really what you believe, that you did them a favor by cheating them? You're acting like the only options were for you to lie and manipulate them into giving it to you, or walk away and say nothing. You could have told him what it's worth so they could tuck it somewhere secure and be safe. Did that never even cross your mind?"

It hadn't, actually. And why should it have? "If he didn't know the value of what he was carrying, that's his problem, not mine."

"But you did, and you manipulated the situation to take something that belonged to someone else. Did it ever occur to you that if you had told him the truth, he might have shared some part of the coppers with you?"

He snorted again, harder this time. "Yeah, right."

"Why not? They were nothing but kind to us. He'd have been overjoyed to learn the true value of the chip, and I'm sure he'd have been willing to offer at least some value to you for telling him the truth."

"Things don't work like that out here."

She folded her arms. "You have to give it back. You have to tell them the truth."

A laugh choked its way free of his throat. "You're joking."

"No, I'm not. Give it back."

He thrust the chip in her face, the last rays of sunset making the glittery numbers shimmer. "Don't you get it? This is my ticket to a better life. This is my one chance to make it to the top. You think I'm just going to give it away?"

"They did."

"They didn't know it was worth anything."

Her arms flung upward in exasperation. "That's my entire point! They didn't know, and you took advantage of that. You chose to lie and deceive and cheat them when all they had done was treat you with kindness." She shook her head, sparks of anger flashing in her eyes. "I was so shocked yesterday when I saw how horrible people were out here, but I understand now. Anyone who's kind gets taken advantage of."

She jabbed an accusing finger at him. "The people out here have to be awful because that's the only way to survive. Because of people like you!"

Heat boiled deep within his gut, rising to flash red in front of his eyes. Years of experience kept it instinctively trapped inside. His voice came out quiet, cold. "At least I'm not some prissy coward, hiding behind big walls, feeling so good about myself because I hand out little freebies to the poor slobs on the outside, but too terrified to step out and actually be of any real help to anyone because I might get my hands dirty. You can judge my life all you like, but I said it like it is before: you're nothing but a pampered sensie who has no idea what the world's really like. I don't need Miss Self-Righteous coming out of her pristine tower to tell me how I should live my life. That man agreed to the deal, fair and square. End of story. So get out of my face and take your stupid, childish ideas of 'right and wrong' to someone who cares."

Her expression made it clear that every barbed word had carried out their intended piercings. Liquid pooled at the bottom edge of her eyes, but fury swiftly replaced the hurt.

He folded his arms, glaring at her and daring her to retort. But instead, she spun and stormed away, back toward the main road.

A significant part of him wanted to let her, but he finally rolled his eyes and started after her. She wouldn't last long without his help. "Lady..."

"Go away!" Her shoulders shook, then straightened. Her voice came out more composed, nearly as cold as his had been. "Go find your casino and get your precious coppers. Then you'll have everything you wanted and won't have to burden yourself with a self-righteous, pampered sensie any longer. I'll find my own way back to my 'pristine castle,' thank you very much."

"Fine!" he snapped. She didn't want his help, then she could make do on her own. He spun around and stomped holes in the sand in a rapid stride away from her.

He heard a soft grunt behind him and checked over his shoulder. She'd stumbled as she worked her way up the rise that bordered the main road, but she caught herself and resumed marching away without even a glance backwards.

He straightened out and resumed stomping. Forget her. She'd said it exactly as it was: he had more coppers than he could spend in one lifetime clutched in a red plastic chip in his hand. He didn't need her or her coppers anymore. She was of no use to him. No more burden, no more hassle. Forget her.

He wasn't sure how many minutes had passed before the boiling inside finally diminished. His breathing leveled out, and he slowly exhaled between thin lips. He checked over his shoulder to see how far she'd gotten.

No sign of the lady.

So she'd made it to the main road. If she was smart, she'd return to that family and get help from them. Maybe she'd tell them about the chip, but that wouldn't matter now. He would be long gone before anyone could come chasing after him.

He kept walking, but his feet moved slower now. Would she be smart and go back to the family? He suddenly wasn't so sure. She'd been pretty mad when she stomped off, so she might not be thinking clearly about the likelihood of running into dangerous people on the main road. Had he ever really explained to her how dangerous the main road could be for solitary travelers? He couldn't remember.

She probably wouldn't tell the family about the chip, come to think of it. She'd probably feel guilty and partially responsible, since she couldn't talk him into giving it back. Maybe guilty enough to avoid the family entirely. What were the odds that the next people she came across would be willing to be friendly and helpful rather than just gutting her on the spot?

His feet stopped and refused to move further.

He gritted his teeth. She didn't want his help. And why should he care? She was nothing more than some random stranger he'd only met a couple days back. He'd always lived on simple principles, and one of those principles was that if someone wasn't smart enough to figure out a way to take care of themselves in this world, then they didn't deserve any special treatment. The only reason he'd agreed to help her in the first place were those five hundred coppers. And that was no longer important, now that he had the chip. He should keep walking and forget this ever happened.

He glared at his obstinate feet. Keep walking. Any time now.

They still wouldn't cooperate.

He looked back toward the small hill, barely lit by the stark moon overhead. The boiling was entirely gone now, replaced with an uncomfortable sort of pressure, poking and pricking at him. He experienced the sensation so rarely that he barely recognized it as guilt.

He tried to tell himself that he had nothing to feel guilty about, but he knew his words had been harsher than necessary. Her moralizing might be a pain, sure, but she didn't really deserve to be spoken to like that. And she was at least partially right. That man with a family to care for really could use the extra coppers. Some might argue that the man could use the coppers more than Ronan could. Especially given that Ronan had been set up to get more than he needed just for walking the lady back to her people.

And her words had sunk in more than he cared to admit. He was always on the lookout to protect himself from the people out here, from being attacked or cheated. Yet he went out of his way to cheat the first decent person he came across.

He shoved the thought aside. Of course he had. That's how life worked out here. Even if it wasn't for the directives in the journal, anyone who spent even an hour in one of the cities knew that was how things worked. Cheat or be cheated.

And yet his feet still wouldn't move.

He exhaled again, this time in irritation. He spun on his heel and walked back toward the main road, angling north and west this time. When he neared the top of the rise, he took a moment to eyeball the situation below. The dim moonlight showed only the corner of the tent nestled against the rocks, but it was clearly still there. No signs of danger or other travelers around.

He climbed down, moving quickly but quietly. Wove between the boulders and crept up to the tent. He started to set the chip down just outside the tent, but stopped. What he'd said to the lady was true: if the man kept walking around with that chip hanging in plain sight on his belt, someone would eventually kill him and his family for it. Ronan wouldn't be doing them any favors by simply returning the chip with no explanation of the need to keep it hidden and secure.

"Wha're you doing?" a sleepy voice said.

He jumped, looked up, and found himself face to face with a bleary-eyed Remington—the kid, not the gun. He took a deep breath to slow down his heart's frenetic pace. He'd been caught.

Then he realized how perfect this was. He shoved the chip into the kid's hand and kept his voice as low as possible. "Give this to your father when he wakes up. Tell him—"

"Huh?" the kid asked loudly. Too loudly.

"Who's out there?" the man's voice demanded from inside the tent, accompanied by a frantic rustle.

Ronan cringed and shoved himself back upright. He had to get out of there before—

The tent flap sailed open. The man stood in the opening, holding the flap with one hand and his pistol with the other, leveling the weapon straight at Ronan.

Ronan quickly lifted his hands. "It's just me. Don't shoot."

The man cocked his gun. "Remington, get back inside the tent, now."

"He gived it to me," the boy said, thrusting the chip toward his father.

The man eyed the chip, then returned his glare to Ronan. Confusion tented the middle of his brow. "What are you doing here? What's going on?"

Ronan kept his hands raised. "Nothing. I just... I made a mistake."

"I'll say."

The woman's fingers curled on her husband's shoulder. She looked at Ronan with caution and a desire to understand. "Why did you return the chip?"

"Like I said, it was a mistake. I shouldn't have..." He cleared his throat. "I think you should put it somewhere safe, where people won't see it. And, um, stop by a casino next time you're in one of the cities. I, uh, I think it might be worth something."

The confusion in the man's face deepened for a moment, then slowly faded into shock as he caught up with the implications. "You mean that chip is actually—"

"Just keep it hidden. On your person, if you've got the pockets for it."

The gun lowered. The man looked at his wife, then back at Ronan. His face told it all: amazement, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. He better avoid the poker tables, if he didn't want to lose all his coppers. The casino sharks would eat him alive.

The man quickly took the chip from his son's hand and stared at it in wonder.

The woman's lips tightened. "Your father's lucky charm, was that right?"

Ronan shifted his feet awkwardly, for real this time. "Like I said, I made a mistake."

The woman opened her mouth to speak again, but her husband squeezed her hand. "Seems to me that most people would try to take advantage if someone didn't know the value of what they had on them. Probably without even thinking twice about it. It takes a powerful good man to give up something he'd gained."

The words 'good man' rattled through Ronan's brain a few times in an uncomfortable, almost digging manner. He shook his head. "Nothing of the sort. I..." Words failed him. "I just made a mistake. That's all."

"You gave us some food for it," the man abruptly said. The shock had disappeared into a ball of excitement which gave his knees a bounce and his voice a buzz. "Marta, get that can and give it back to him. And more than that. If that thing really is... really does... if it has value, as you, uh, suspect, then..."

The man looked at the chip in his hand, his brain working furiously behind his eyes. He looked to his wife. "This is so much more than we need."

She nodded, already digging in a bag that clunked as food cans shifted.

The man turned back to Ronan. "Come with us. You deserve a share in this."

Bile stung the back of Ronan's throat. A tiny part in him screamed with excitement, but the sick feeling flooded out that part, drowning it under a mass of disgust. "I can't."

"Then let us give you what we have. Coppers, ammo, whatever you want."

He shook his head, stepping back away. "I've already been here too long. I have to get going. Just..." He sighed. "Just take care of your family." He spun and walked away quickly before they could press the matter further. Most of his brain joined in that tiny part, screaming that he was an idiot, that he should run back right now and take anything they wanted to give him, but his feet weren't interested in listening.

"But—" the man called, but then his voice quieted, talking in excited murmurs with his family. Then it rose again, just enough that Ronan could barely make out the words. "Jay, Remington, you listen closely. See that man? That's a good man. You make sure to be just like him when you grow up."

If the lady's insinuation that Ronan was solely responsible for all the horrible people in the world had been like a slap across the face, the man's words were like a hundred daggers to the chest. Bile stung his throat again. His head drooped as his legs pushed onward, carrying him farther and faster as if he could somehow run hard enough to take back time and make the day never happen.

The sting hardened into a new resolve inside. He'd find the lady, get her back to her people. That would be his only focus from here out until it was finished. And maybe he'd get lucky and cross paths with that family again, take them up on their generosity. But for now, he needed to find the lady before she ran into any trouble.

His feet quickened, this time less to run away and more out of a new determination. He aimed himself east along the road, not bothering to hide himself on the other side of the rise. If he ran into trouble, he'd deal with it. The important thing for now was catching up to the lady. How long ago had she stormed off? She had a good lead on him, but she'd need to stop and rest at some point. If he hurried, he'd reach her before too much longer.

The road twisted around a gentle bend, then sloped upward. He doubled down, stretching his lungs' endurance. Was he sure he was going the right way? Yes, she must have come this way. She didn't know much about the world, but she was a quick enough learner. She'd have remembered the general direction they'd been aiming and continued that way, roughly east. And as long as she was sticking to the main road...

Unless she'd learned too well from him and hidden off the road.

He shook the thought aside and kept pushing himself forward. The ground swayed faintly through the grumbles of a mini-quake, but he didn't bother slowing, his focus ahead. She was used to relying on people for help and protection, so it made sense that she'd seek out the area most likely to bring her near people—the road. He'd go a reasonable distance, and if he didn't find her, he'd go back and check along the sides.

He reached the crest of the hill. His feet came to a full stop before his eyes had fully registered what lay below him. A mass of people clustered at the base of the hill, lit by torches. Many of them clung tightly together in the middle, holding onto each other, looking down in defeated submission. The others stood around the edges, most looking up at him. A couple dragged a struggling figure toward the group in the middle.

His heart stopped as sharply as his feet had. They were Slavers.

The struggling figure spotted him and screamed, "Help!"

Frightened blue eyes above a gas mask.

The lady.

Chapter 8

Stupid. He'd been stupid not to pay attention, not to follow the prescribed caution of the journal.

Ronan's legs already pumped, carrying him down the hill, gun in hand, firing at the Slavers on the fringes of the group. The men and women shouted at each other, scrambling for some sort of cover. Most tried to duck behind the cluster of slaves, but the slaves had dropped flat at the first sound of gunfire.

He angled himself toward the two men still trying to drag the lady back, away from him. Couldn't shoot them without risking her. He squeezed off two more shots, aiming low and as far from the lady as he could. One of the men screeched in pain and went down hard, blood that glistened black in the torchlight spurting from his thigh.

The gun clicked.

A fresh round of curses flashed through Ronan's mind as he dropped the useless chunk of metal. No time to reload. He yanked his knife free, never slowing his pace.

The Slavers' strategy changed in the same instant. Their scramble for cover had been to get away from the firearm; now that it was no longer part of the equation, they no longer needed the same caution. A burly man barked out orders that Ronan barely comprehended. A few Slavers yanked the cowering slaves away from the fray while the rest pulled out their own knives and charged.

Ronan kept his focus on the one man still holding the lady. Ten meters left between him and them. To her credit, she was putting up a good fight, better than last time she'd been grabbed. Still not enough to break free, but enough to be a good distraction.

Five meters. His grip on his knife tightened in preparation. He'd slash the man, break the lady free, grab her arm, and just keep running. All before the other Slavers reached them.

A hand flailed at his arm. He slashed his knife behind him without bothering to look. It came back wet.

Three meters.

The Slaver yanked at the lady's arm, fighting to keep control. He ducked behind her. A blade flashed at her neck, stilling her struggles. "I'll kill her!"

Warble in his voice. Bluffing. Ronan didn't slow.

A leggy woman with no hair leapt in front of him, a long machete in her hand. He deflected the blow, darting sideways to get around her.

"I'll do it!" the Slaver holding the lady shrieked again, his voice tighter and higher now. Lying through his teeth.

Ronan's fingers twirled the blade, preparing for a downward stabbing motion, his plan only slightly modified. He'd have to get past the lady to get a clear shot at the Slaver.

Another hand flailed, catching his wrist this time and spinning him around. Too many of them, too close. His plans dissolved into dust, leaving behind only one option: fight.

The one holding his wrist lost a few fingers in the first slash. Ronan kicked him back toward three others, staggering them all and drawing more cries to blend with the screams of pain from the fingerless one. A blade glinted in the torchlight, aimed for his chest. He dodged and slashed in the same motion, drawing a line of blood along the wielder's forearm and adding more screams to the cacophony of shouting around him.

A fresh scream of pain and terror cut through the discord, slamming like ice into his chest. The lady.

He spun. The burly one, the leader, kept the lady's arm extended in a vice grip. Blood dripped from a gash on her forearm.

The leader smiled, seeing he had Ronan's attention. "Everything you do to them, I do to her."

The Slavers held their ground around Ronan, watching, waiting for his response.

His chest heaved as he clawed at the last vestiges of control. Instinct recoiled inside of him, pushing for him to ignore her, keep fighting. He couldn't be caught by Slavers. He couldn't.

Tears slipped down her cheeks. "Run." He almost didn't hear her voice through the mask. "Run. Get away!"

The leader tightened his grip on her arm, drawing a fresh gasp of pain.

The knife slipped from his fingers and landed upright in the ground. His traitorous arms raised in surrender.

A solid mass slammed into him from behind. It took all his strength to silence the impulse to drop to one knee and use the bruiser's momentum to send him flying, instead allowing himself to be tackled to the ground. Several sets of hands didn't bother being gentle as they yanked his arms behind him and clamped on handcuffs and chains so tight his fingers lost sensation within seconds. The same rough hands searched him, tearing away his pack, his water, his weapons.

Everything inside of him screamed in rebellion. A borderline unfamiliar feeling swelled like a bloating corpse inside his chest, making it hard to breathe and putting his muscles on edge, itching to act, to move, to fight and break free. It took him a moment to recognize the panic. He hadn't felt its mind-numbing touch since he was a kid.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to steady his breathing. Keep it together. All he had to do was bide his time. The opportunity for escape would come. And he'd make every last one of them pay when it did.

The chains rattled as the bruiser grabbed him by the wrists. He almost didn't have time to brace himself before the man yanked upwards, nearly tearing Ronan's arms from his sockets. He didn't make a sound beyond a grunt. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

The leader shoved the lady's arm away from himself. She pressed her other hand over the wound, fresh tears slipping down the tracks left by previous ones, her gaze on the ground. Terrified. He didn't blame her.

Burly sauntered forward, measuring Ronan with a long, slow look. "Looks like we got a live one, kids."

The other Slavers snickered in a round of self-congratulatory grunts and high-fives.

"Gut him, Bilk," one wheezed, clutching at a bloody hand.

"Nah. This one'll pay nice."

"He took my fingers!" the man protested, stomping forward with blade in hand.

Burly backhanded the man across the face, sending him tumbling flat on his back. "And I'll take the rest of 'em if you talk back again."

Fingers hissed and huffed for a moment before regaining his feet. He stayed put this time, shooting death glares at Ronan.

Burly ignored the minion. He gripped Ronan's chin and pushed sideways to examine him. Like a specimen.

Ronan's neck tensed, refusing to allow the movement.

Burly's face split in a grin again. He moved too fast for Ronan to brace himself before the man's fist slammed into his solar plexus.

The air rushed from his lungs in a painful surge as he landed on one knee, his midsection gripped in tightening iron bands that wouldn't allow his lungs to refill.

Another blow caught him from the side, knocking him flat and renewing the waves of pain keeping his muscles locked. A kick. Another. The iron bands turned into flames.

"Enough." Burly's voice cut through the glee.

Ronan had just managed to suck in a breath when he was hauled to his feet again and left to stand on legs that threatened to give out. Rage and stubbornness kept them from depositing him back in the dirt. He clung to those feelings, letting them give him the strength to ignore the reverberating agony rippling through his body and focus on drawing in steady breaths. Bide his time. Wait for the opportunity. Make them pay.

Burly gripped his chin once more, and this time Ronan let the man turn his face from one side to the other in examination.

"That's better," Burly said. He shoved Ronan toward a couple of the minions. "He'll do. Chain them with the others."

Ronan caught a glimpse of misery in the lady's eyes before she was pulled away, chained to the front of the group. One of the Slavers yanked on Ronan's chain, nearly spinning him around. He had to walk fast to keep up and avoid being dragged backwards. The Slaver gave one extra yank before attaching his chain to the back of the cluster. Burly had a few brain cells left, at the least, keeping them separate. And he most likely stayed close to the lady. Hiding behind her to keep Ronan in line. Coward.

"Look at what he had!" the hairless woman shouted, holding up the box of ammo from his pack. "This one's a real treasure chest!"

Burly snatched the ammo and pack out of her hands and shoved them toward one of the other slavers. "That's for the boss to sort. Anyone puts hands on this fool's things answers to me first—then to him."

The threat was apparently significant, as the other Slavers quickly tucked Ronan's things away without any further sorting.

Burly gave a long look across his minions, then jerked his head in a nod of approval. "Let's move."

Ronan trudged forward as the Slavers prodded the cluster off the road, toward the north. He kept his legs moving, but his mind wandered, relishing in thoughts of what he would do, what violence he would wreak, once he got the chance to face Burly on equal terms.

The slaves made little noise, mostly the occasional groan in pain or fear and sniffling sounds. The Slavers laughed and jabbered brashly, unconcerned about detection. For them, the only fear was Ragers, and even that was only a minor concern. No need to fear a Rager attack when you had chained captives to leave behind and occupy the Ragers while you escaped. They occasionally quieted so a scout could jog ahead and check for potential victims, but each search returned no results as the night dragged on in shuffling feet and clanking chains.

Ronan was savoring the mental image of every bone in Burly's limbs snapping under his hands when he saw the dim glow ahead. A city, his brain said, but he cast that thought aside. Slavers weren't welcome in cities. It must be their compound. He pushed the fantasies to the back corner of his mind and paid close attention as they drew nearer. He'd need to know the layout, the surroundings, everything. Any small detail could later become crucial in his escape.

Torches lined a long, stuttered fence, the chain-link material appearing and disappearing at random intervals, the metal posts rarely standing perfectly upright. Inside was a mass of small one-story buildings, most crumbled away to nothing but bare skeletons and the occasional disintegrating brick wall. A couple of the buildings were intact closer to the middle of the mass, and in the center stood a larger building, almost four times the size of the small ones and twice as high. Most of the activity in the compound focused around that building. Their headquarters, apparently.

Adjacent to the headquarters, solid chain-link fence sectioned off a large area, encompassing five of the smaller buildings. Guards lined the outside of the fence; slaves lined the inside. The pen, and an explanation of where the missing lengths of fence had gone.

Movement on top of the headquarters building caught Ronan's eye. A person on the roof bent over the edge to holler something to those below, pointing toward the incoming cluster of slaves. Spotters. That would add an extra layer of challenge to the escape, but he'd find a way around it. His eyes already traced paths between the buildings, gauging multiple escape routes. The fastest one. The one with the most cover. The one with the fewest intact buildings which might hold more guards to slow his progress.

They passed through one of the gaping sections in the fence. No signs of Slavers this far out. As the group drew nearer to the headquarters, Ronan got a better idea of the operations here. The outer buildings appeared empty and unused, even the intact ones. The intact ones closer to the headquarters housed supplies. All of the slaves must be kept in the pen, then, and the Slavers kept their housing and other business inside the headquarters. This was one of the smaller Slaver organizations. Ronan had made it a point not to get to know any Slavers up close, but from what he'd heard, most Slaver groups would have packed this compound out.

Smaller. Fewer guards. Lucky for him.

The slaves inside the pen watched as the group drew closer, all with the dead eyes of people who'd given up on life years ago.

All but one. A dark-skinned woman stood just a few paces back from the fence, watching with glittering, calculating eyes. While the other slaves drooped, she stood erect, her head high, as if ready for action at a moment's notice. A possible ally?

The Slavers herded them inside through metal double doors. Ronan almost gagged at the overpowering stench of sweat, blood, death, and rotten food. A few of the other slaves buckled, lifting their hands to cover their noses. Others continued trudging on as if accustomed to the reeking atmosphere. They'd been slaves before, apparently.

They turned left down a hallway, then right, then another right. Ronan noted each turn, each distance, each side passage, memorizing the building's layout.

The group stopped in front of another set of double doors. Burly messed with something at the front of the cluster, then shoved the lady back toward a greasy Slaver near Ronan. "Those two last."

The Slaver nodded and unlinked Ronan from the rest of the cluster, keeping one hand on the lady's chains while the other hand clutched Ronan's.

The double doors opened into a larger room. A short, stubbled man sat at the only piece of furniture in the room, a creaking desk covered with an odd assortment of broken items. He had a bowler cap perched atop his head and a tie neatly clipped to the front of his grubby tank top. He eyed the group as the Slavers jostled and shoved the cluster into the bare center of the room, the greasy Slaver pulling Ronan and the lady in at the back of the group.

Ronan glanced at the lady. She didn't meet his eyes. Still terrified. He should say something, reassure her that they'd get out of there okay. He leaned in close.

She spoke before he could. "This was my fault. I'm so sorry."

Startled, he shook his head. "I shouldn't have let you go off on your own. I..." I was being stupid, his brain said. I shouldn't have said those things. I was the one in the wrong, not you. His voice took its time agreeing to bring life to the words. "I—"

"Shut up," Greasy hissed, yanking both chains. Ronan had to stumble forward before he was spun fully around.

The boss shuffled a few broken items around the desk before standing and walking around the desk to face the group. His oddly clean boots made a sharp clipping sound on the floor. A gun handle protruded from the side of his belt. A line of grenades decorated the other side.

"Eleven," Burly declared, pride evident in his voice.

"So few?" The boss's voice rolled smoothly through a slight accent that made him sound cultured and slimy all at once.

Burly's eyes narrowed as he glanced back at the cluster. "It's a good haul. They're all solid, hardy."

Boss appraised the slaves with a slow glance. "Rat brought in twenty just an hour ago."

"We collected all we found. The road was quiet today."

"Of course it was." Boss waved a dismissive hand, already walking back behind the desk. "Put them in the pens. I'm sure you'll try harder tomorrow." His last sentence carried an unspoken threat of what would happen to Burly if he didn't live up to that expectation.

Burly shifted his weight, clearly displeased with his boss' assessment. "There's two in particular you need to see, sir."

"I'm sure Lenny can deal with it."

"With all due respect, sir, you want to see these two."

Boss spun, his eyes narrow. "You presume to tell me what I want?"

Burly backpedaled with impressive speed. "No, sir, of course not, all I meant was..." He faltered, then spun and waved sharply at the other Slavers. "Get this lot out of here. You." He pointed to the greasy one. "Bring them forward."

Greasy pulled Ronan and the lady aside while the other Slavers herded the cluster out the doors, then dragged them up to stand just in front of the boss' desk.

Boss glanced briefly at Ronan, then his eyes fixed on the lady. "A sensie. Good. We haven't had one of those since our last compound breached."

"Just what I was thinking, sir," Burly's head bobbed in a rapid cadence. "Knew she'd be valuable. That's why I had my men grab her the instant we spotted her on the road. She was walking all by herself, right in the middle of the road, and—"

"Take her mask off," Boss said, apparently already bored of Burly's explanation. Ronan was glad for the interruption, not due to boredom but due to the returning gnaw of guilt.

Greasy quickly yanked the front of the mask. The lady yelped in protest as her head was jerked forward.

Burly smacked Greasy's hand aside and tugged the mask straps free.

The lady gagged and nearly heaved as the mask fell away in Burly's hand. She steeled herself against the stench and looked up, fear in her eyes. "Please, I need my mask—"

"You don't," Boss corrected. "You won't be going outside again." He turned to Greasy. "Take her down to the basement and tell Chips to keep watch on her."

"But if there's a breach," the lady tried again.

"Then you'll let Chips know so we can clear out of here." Boss' voice was more cheery than it should have been. "If you're lucky, someone will have the time to find you a mask. Otherwise..." He shrugged. "We'll just find ourselves a new canary."

Heat poured over Ronan's skin. He lunged to the side, shoving Greasy away from the lady, ready to smash the man into the wall.

Burly caught Ronan by the neck and knocked him backwards over an extended leg. Ronan choked and tried to roll back to his feet, but Burly planted a foot on his neck, pinning him on the floor with his arms trapped beneath him.

Boss remained seated, hands steepled, watching with one eyebrow quirked upward. He shook his head. "This one's useless as a slave. Get her out of here. Kill him."

Greasy yanked on the lady's chains, dragging her back toward the doors. She resisted, looking first at Ronan, then at Boss with pleading eyes.

"No, stop," Ronan managed to get out before Burly pushed down with his foot, choking off the next word. The lady vanished down the hallway.

Burly lifted his foot and grabbed Ronan's chain, hauling him upright hard enough to again nearly unseat his joints. "Sir, hear me out on this one. We stand to make a fair piece off him if he can break. Remember how Ren in Adipose was saying he'd give anything for a solid-built slave? The guy's loaded. We can make a ton—"

"This one won't be broken. He's no good." Boss adjusted a few items on the desk again, rearranging their order in a carefully precise way as if there was some method to his organization choice.

"Breaker can do it. I've seen him work. It might take some time, but he'll get it. He always does."

Boss looked up from his work for a moment, squinting at Ronan briefly, then adjusted a stubby pencil between a broken jar and the chipped head of a hammer. "Take him."

Burly grinned. "You won't regret this."

"I better not."

Burly tugged on the chains, and Ronan followed willingly, plans already clicking into place. He wouldn't be put in the pen, so the slave woman wouldn't be of any use after all. But being turned over to a breaker offered new possibilities. He'd have to be careful, though. The boss looked ready to slit his neck and be done. If he pushed things too fast and was caught, he'd be dead before he could get the lady clear of this place.

Burly led him up some stairs, down others, and through too many turns and corridors for Ronan to keep track anymore, try as he might. Ronan made sure to give the occasional tug at the chains to keep the spirit of rebellion alive. If he turned docile too quickly, they'd become suspicious and realize he was up to something.

The walls became grimier the deeper into the headquarters they went, streaked with a mixture of blood and other bodily substances that Ronan had no interest in identifying, some fresh, some long-dried and caked on. Flies gorged themselves on the buffet and investigated the two passing men only briefly before returning to the cornucopia.

Burly finally stopped at a massive metal door that looked like it had been rebuilt and reinforced many times. He thumped a fist against it, sending multiple resounding thuds down the hallway.

A long moment passed before scraping noises indicated some sort of barrier being moved aside. The door opened just shy of a meter, and a mountain of a man with dirt-browned skin squinted out, glaring down at the two.

Burly thrust the chain toward the mountain. "A gift for Breaker."

Mountain laughed hoarsely and snatched the chain, yanking it hard enough to spin Ronan around and knock him off his feet.

Cursing loudly, Ronan scrambled for footing, but Mountain just pulled again, this time lifting upward and straining the extent of Ronan's shoulder sockets yet again. He didn't let up, instead dragging Ronan back through the door and giving him an extra kick toward the middle of the room on the other side.

Ronan pretended to be struggling for footing while he took in the room's layout. Small, almost cramped. Long hallways stretching in each direction with over a dozen men and women scurrying from one to another, with this room as a sort of central hub.

The door behind him closed with a bang. Mountain lowered a massive bar into place that probably would take two men Ronan's size to move on a good day. And there was no doubt they would make sure he wouldn't have any more good days. The cries of pain and misery echoing down the long hallways served to underscore that one truth.

In the center of the room stood one man who seemed to revel in the chaos of activity around him, standing in one place but waving his arms like a conductor, not so much directing the Slavers around him as enjoying and taking his own part in their rapid movements.

Ronan had seen plenty of oddballs in his day, but this man was beyond odd and straight into insane. Tall, not too bulky, but with solid muscles. The man's dark skin glistened in the bare lighting provided by only a handful of candles flickering on the walls. His hair nestled tightly against his skull in a close-shorn mat, as did a pencil-thin beard that ran down his sideburns and over the tip of his chin. He wore a crisp button-down shirt and tie, and looked for anything like a professional businessman from the waist up. It was the lower half that presented the man's true madness. A tattered but still fluffy purple tutu. Ripped fishnet stockings. Sparkly red stilettos.

Someone less familiar with the world might have laughed out loud at the bizarre appearance. But Ronan knew better. He saw the glint of madness in the man's smile, his calm, almost blissful expression, and knew this was likely the most dangerous men he'd ever come across.

His escape might be harder than he'd initially thought.

"Aren't you just a drink of water," the man cooed, stalking over with hips swaying broadly. His voice was deep but musical, almost feminine in its lilt. He caught Ronan's chin in one hand and pulled his face upward, angled just hard enough to be uncomfortable. "De-li-cious."

"He's all yours," Mountain said.

"Oh, goody. I haven't had any fun in ages." Breaker beamed and patted Ronan's cheek. "Go on and get those nasty chains off, won't you?"

Ronan stood, holding out his abused arms so Mountain could get the handcuffs off. He tried to look dumb while evaluating Breaker. It was a test, no doubt. And he had a feeling no one got sent to Breaker who would just stand there after being freed from bonds. If he didn't at least make an attempt at it, Breaker would know he was plotting. Better to play aggressive and dumb than let on that he was working at being smart. And it'd feel good to leave a few bruises on the man's smug face.

The cuffs dropped loose, and Ronan exploded in movement, lunging at Breaker and aiming for the throat.

And then he was flat on his back, his right arm twisted in an unnatural angle, one stiletto parked neatly on his throat.

Breaker tsked, waggling a finger. "That's hardly a way to say hello, darling. I can see I've got my work cut out for me." He giggled.

Ronan tried to hold back a shudder and failed. A giggle? This guy was worse than he'd thought.

The stiletto moved aside, and Breaker regarded him with a pert frown. "Come along, then. I haven't all day."

Ronan stood again, moving slower this time. Several of the rapidly passing Slavers eyed him, probably hoping to see him get knocked flat again.

Breaker gave a sharp nod of acceptance and spun on one of those towering heels. "Follow me." He stalked down the hallway to the right.

Ronan stepped after him, only briefly taking in the rectangular cupboard-like doors stacked two high at regular intervals along the walls before returning his full attention to the man in front of him. This was another test. He'd already established his approach; now was time to sell it. Even the thickest morons knew better than to try the same attack over and over again. He walked as if in obedience, drew closer to the man, then lashed out toward his feet, aiming for the unstable shoes and the vulnerable ankles just above them.

Breaker skipped to one side as if dancing, pivoting on the heel in the same movement. His fist smashed into Ronan's chin, sending flashes of light across Ronan's vision.

Ronan found the wall supporting him without a clear recognition of how he'd gotten there.

Breaker's hand wrapped around his neck, not to cut off breathing but firm enough to make his veins throb and his head swim. As if he was picking up a child, the man lifted Ronan off the ground.

The finger waggled once more. "We can't have any of that nastiness here, now, can we. You need to learn a few manners."

Ronan gripped Breaker's arm, tried to shove free, but it was like pushing on a metal bar. No give.

Breaker lightly patted him on one cheek. "But we'll get there, won't we." His face split in a grin again. "You just need a time out to sit and think about what a naughty boy you've been."

One of the Slavers passing by stopped and opened one of the lower cupboard-like doors.

Breaker's grip and grin never wavered. He dragged Ronan down the wall and through the narrow opening. Ronan's head cracked against the side, sending new sparks of pain across his vision, followed by a protest as his shoulder hit the edge of the opening.

"In you go. Be a good boy, now, and you might get a candy." Breaker shoved Ronan's legs inside the tiny space, then the door slammed, plunging Ronan into darkness. A locking mechanism clicked into place on the other side of the door.

It took a moment for the headrush to subside and the flickers of light behind Ronan's eyes to fade away. New pains asserted themselves as he worked to find a comfortable position. The room was too small to lie down in, but too short to sit up. His legs folded uncomfortably with his knees hitting the top of the box. His arms set to whining within minutes from half-supporting his upper body at such an odd angle.

He took a moment to thump on the door, but it didn't budge. He kicked and smacked every surface around him, testing for weakness while making it as loud as he could, shouting random threats of violence and curses. No weaknesses. The box was built solid. He spent another couple minutes on his dramatized tantrum, just to make sure he'd played the role properly, then gradually tapered it off.

Once finished, he exhaled and focused. Once Breaker returned, the real act would begin. Play nice. Act broken. That was the only way he'd get a chance to escape.

He counted the passing seconds in his head, but lost track somewhere in the four thousands. He kept having to readjust his weight as one muscle group, then another, protested to the odd contortion of his body. On top of that, exhaustion fought to assert itself, fogging up his mind and inspiring an increasingly painful desire for sleep. Even if it wasn't for the uncomfortable position, the constant racket of activity on the other side of the door held sleep at bay. Every time he managed to doze off, the louder footfalls of someone running or a fresh, sharp scream would jolt him awake, heart thumping against his ribcage. Did the Slavers never sleep?

No, he realized. They probably didn't. Or they did, rather, but in shifts so there would always be the same level of activity outside. No light, no change in activity, no way for their captives to keep track of the passing time.

He exhaled. How long had he been in here? How long would Breaker keep him locked in the box? Hours?

Days?

The thought almost unseated his tenuous grip on control. He couldn't stay in here for days. He couldn't take it. And he couldn't leave the lady defenseless in the hands of Slavers for so long. The things they would do to her—

He stopped the thought, burying it as deep in the back corners of his mind as he could before it could get any further. He wouldn't think about such things. He couldn't. He had to stay focused. Play the role. Let them think he was broken. It was the only way he'd see any chance of escape. He would do whatever it took to get that chance, even if it meant enduring this box for days.

How much time had passed now? Hours, it had to be.

Full days could pass walking alone in the desert without him hardly noticing, but in here, every minute seemed to drag by. A dry throat joined the list of complaints, but he doubted anything would be done about that anytime soon. Thirst and hunger were powerful motivators, often more powerful than pain. And Breaker's goal was to motivate him into obedience.

His legs ached. He tried to rearrange himself to ease the pain but only succeeded in making things worse. He thumped a fist against the door a few times before catching himself and forcing his arm back down.

New strategy. Stop worrying about the details. Stay focused on just one thought: play broken.

Time melted into a hypnotic swirl around him. The rushing feet and screams followed no orderly pattern, the sound increasing and decreasing in a senseless blur that sometimes seemed as sharp as pins in his ears and other times nothing more than a background roar.

Play broken.

Sleep never became more than a light doze, though it was hard to tell. His dreams were punctuated by sounds of people rushing and crying out, and only the occasional vision of white fangs in a dark mouth with a purple tutu floating beneath marked the difference between sleeping and waking. Unless he was hallucinating, which really wouldn't surprise him at this point.

Play broken.

Thoughts of the lady tried to intrude from time to time, but he packaged them all away in the same locked box in the back of his mind. Thoughts of the Overlords. If he was sold into Adipose, it wouldn't take them long to find him. Thoughts of the Breaker. Of breaking his fancy ankles, then his fancy neck.

Play broken.

A vague sense of shame and disgust pressed on him the first time his bladder gave up and released its contents, but after that he hardly noticed. The smell became just another part of the haze around him as sensations took their turns becoming sharp and evident or dim and bleary, one after another in an endless parade.

Play broken.

A loud clicking sound disrupted the parade. A crack of light hit his eyes and made him cringe before his foggy brain could make the necessary connections. The clicking sound was the lock. The door was opening.

Instincts, urges, desires flooded his consciousness. Fly out the door. Come up swinging. Take them down hard and fast. Make them pay.

He clenched his teeth. Play broken. Play broken. Play broken.

Instead of rushing, he oozed out through the opening. The pathetic movement was made all the more realistic by his cramped muscles which only faintly obeyed his commands. He slumped on the floor, stretching his arms outward toward the sparkly stilettos in front of him like a dying man extending gratitude to his rescuer. Bile churned inside of him at the thought of playing anything with this monster. He let the vomit come. All the more pitiful.

The stilettos danced a step closer, then Breaker crouched beside him, dangling a cup of water in front of his face. "Say please," he sang.

Ronan parted cracked, dry lips. It took a few tries to get his voice to work again. "Please."

"Say, 'please, gracious master, may I please have some water,'" Breaker continued.

Ire jabbed across Ronan's brain. He stuffed it back down. "Please, gracious master, may I please have some water." His voice came out wooden and weak. Good.

"Say, 'please, gracious master who is lovely and wonderful and far more kind than I deserve, won't you please find it in your heart to give me some water.'"

The ire made another play for dominance. It took an extra minute to push it back this time, but he managed to force it down and repeat the words, just as flat as before.

Breaker beamed. He spilled some water from the glass into his hand and held his hand out. "Drink."

The instinctual recoil and disgust battled only briefly against the need for water combined with the need to play along. Ronan only made a brief attempt at getting the water without touching Breaker's hand before he gave up and slurped at the liquid.

Breaker spilled more water into his hand, watched with a smile as Ronan swallowed it down, then placed the cup in Ronan's hand.

Ronan pushed himself partially upright and drank deeply, ignoring the new protests from his weakened arms. The water was gone entirely too soon. He held the cup out with a shaking hand. "More." He barely caught himself in time. "Please, master, more."

Breaker laughed with a child-like delight as he took the cup. "No."

Ronan's teeth ground, but he managed to fight the ire back again and remain silent.

"That's a good boy," Breaker crooned. He lightly stroked Ronan's hair. "Good boy." He straightened and thrust one glimmering shoe in front of Ronan's face. "Clean it."

Play broken. Play broken. Play broken.

He looked for something to clean with and finally lifted a corner of his shirt, reaching for the shoe.

Breaker stomped on his hand with the spike. A bone cracked. A shout of pain tore its way through his barely quenched throat.

Ronan's other arm swung without command, catching Breaker in the ankle and knocking the foot away. His legs pulled him upright and propelled him forward in a crazed, desperate tackle. A fading voice in his brain screamed at him to play broken, but it was already too late. Nothing left but to try to fight.

Breaker lost his balance in the tackle and landed heavily on the floor, Ronan on top of him. Ronan shoved himself up again and swung, one arm after the other.

Neither landed. Breaker flipped Ronan over his head in a clunky somersault that sent him tumbling against the wall. A punishing kick landed on the side of his head, then the stiletto point was on his throat once more.

"There's my feisty boy," Breaker said with a giggle. He wiped a bit of blood off the corner of his lip, then tsked. "But we can't have that, now, can we? Looks like you need another time out."

"No!" The word ripped from the depths of Ronan's being. He grabbed at Breaker's foot again, but it was already gone, then back, smashing into the side of his head once more. Strobes flashed in a dizzying array, and his body refused to respond to any commands.

Then the door was shutting. He was back in the box.

"No," he managed to gasp out. "No!" His fists pounded against the door to no avail.

He'd failed.

Chapter 9

A tutu-clad monster twisted Ronan's limbs to breaking point and beyond. Stilettos tap-danced across his skull. The desert poured itself down his throat time and time again. Voices rose and fell. He heard nothing at all, then everything at once. Bangs. Clangs. Stomping feet marching from the temple on one side of his head to the other. Screams. Never-ending screams.

Hands, feet, metal bars thundered against the door beside him, momentarily deafening him and driving spikes of pain through his brain. Then gone. Then back again. Regular, every hour. No, not regular. Sporadic. The fog told him that it was regular because the fog had lost its ability to track time. No, that was him. He'd lost his ability to track time. Still, the clanging kept him from dozing off this time. The lack of sleep addled his brain further.

Moments of lucidity pierced the cloud of delusions, and he clung to those moments as long as he could last. He had to get it right this time. Play broken. No fighting. Take whatever they dished out. It was his only chance.

But a new fear grew larger in the pit of his stomach every time lucidity intruded into the cloud keeping him pinned in place, frozen in time. He was losing it. And if he lost it, he might be broken for real. He'd never escape. He'd never rescue the lady.

The voices whispering in his ear told him that it'd be okay, everything would be okay as long as he made master happy. His lucid self didn't find those voices particularly reassuring.

Light. He spilled out into the hallway before fully comprehending that the door was open.

The cup of water dangled in front of his eyes.

"Please, gracious master who is lovely and wonderful and far more kind than I deserve, won't you please find it in your heart to give me some water." The words rattled out through Ronan's dry throat.

A giggle floated down to him. The cup pressed into his hand. He emptied it in a single swallow. Cool water smoothed the desert coating his throat for only a moment, then the pain reasserted itself. "Please, more."

Sparkling red appeared in front of his face. "Clean it."

Ronan's fingers numbly found his shirt and weakly swiped at the shoe. His muscles weren't working right.

"That's a good boy." A pat on the head. He was doing well. He was making master happy.

Breaker giggled again.

A spark flickered alive inside Ronan's chest at the sound. He'd forgotten. He wasn't really broken. Just playing it. He struggled his way through the fog in his brain.

"Keep cleaning, slave," Breaker ordered.

Ronan practiced the wiping motion, trying to keep it sloppy while testing to see how much control over his body he still possessed. The time cramped in the box hadn't done him any favors, but he felt reasonably confident he could attack when the time was right. Or so he hoped.

"Isn't he a good boy?" Breaker asked one of the men beside him. The man chuckled. "Yes, a good boy," Breaker continued, his voice rising slightly. "Did you hear he didn't come here alone? He came with a pretty lady. You know, the canary in the basement."

The spark in Ronan's chest flared, making his breath catch. He dug his nails into one hand while the other hand continued steadily working on Breaker's shoe. Couldn't let on that he was still in control. Had to play broken.

"Have you had your turn with her yet? No? Pity." Breaker drawled out each word slow and clear. "She's a true delight, that one. I've had two turns. I know, I know, no one gets to go back for seconds until everyone's had their firsts, but I just couldn't help myself. And the big guy owed me a favor."

Ronan couldn't breathe. His hand shook as he cleaned. Blood pooled around his fingernails in his other hand. Play broken. Had to play broken. He tried to block out Breaker's words, but each one pushed its way into the fog and stayed there, dancing through his brain in a gleeful circle, over and over again.

"We even have a favorite game, her and I. Well, it's my favorite game. I'm pretty sure it's hers, but it's hard to tell. She won't stop crying long enough to say whether she's having fun. You should try it when it's your turn."

Ronan had to clench his teeth to hold back the rage that stemmed from the blaze in his chest, clawing its way up his raw throat and fighting for escape.

When Breaker spoke again, his lips hovered only centimeters from Ronan's ear. "It involves a gas mask."

The rage broke free with a roar. His arms flew upward, his bloody hand grabbing for Breaker's neck while the other fist sailed toward his jaw. But the fury driving him didn't compensate for his weak, atrophied muscles, and Breaker easily swatted his arms aside as if he was swatting one of the ever-present flies.

"Back in he goes!" Breaker sang.

Ronan flailed madly at the hands grabbing him, but his arms and legs weren't working the way he needed them to. The door slammed shut. He was back in the box.

He pounded on the door for nearly an hour before exhaustion forced him to stop. Something stabbed into his legs, his arms, his back, his rear, and he instinctively recoiled. Dozens of rusty nails withdrew back into the walls, disappearing into tiny holes he hadn't noticed before.

The fog was stronger now, but trying to return faster by the moment. He fought it back, but it was a losing fight. Another jab of pain helped keep it at bay.

Of course. Escalation with each attempt. Simply leaving him in isolation hadn't broken him, so they'd added the clanging on his door to rattle him and keep him from sleeping. And now they'd added the nails, a new form of pain added to all the others. He doubted they'd come at regular intervals, continuing to deprive him of any way to track the passage of time.

The fog swirled in closer. The jabs in his thigh were Breaker's stilettos, working the cha-cha over his body.

He clenched his teeth. He was losing his grip.

He'd shoved aside thoughts of the lady before, fearing they'd drive him nuts. He clung to them now as the last way to hold his sanity. He had to stay together for the lady. He had to keep himself intact or she'd never be free. She'd die imprisoned otherwise.

Imprisoned. Like in her gilded tower.

A snicker escaped before he caught it. Losing it again. Couldn't do that.

The image of the tower remained solid in his mind. That's what he needed. A tower between himself and the outside. Let his body go through the motions of being broken while he remained safely inside, ready to break out and escape with the lady as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

The images that haunted him became bricks in the wall he built inside his mind. The lady's fearful, pleading eyes. Greasy dragging her away. Those sparkly red stilettos. Breaker's words piled the wall thicker, stronger. The irregular jabs became mortar holding the wall together tighter and tighter with each stab. The arrhythmic beatings against his door became a drumbeat, bolstering his resolution.

He realized this was nothing unusual to him. When he spent days wandering between towns, he spent hours at a time inside his own mind, only emerging at the sign of movement or buildings to scavenge. This was no different, except he had to wait longer, stay hidden until an opportunity for escape appeared. And if he emerged at the wrong time, he could get himself killed. Then the lady would have no chance, no hope for escape or survival. He couldn't let that happen.

He practiced. Sometimes he chose to step out of the wall, letting himself hear the clangs and feel the jabs. Other times he remained tucked inside. Something registered that time passed, that thunder shook the box, that spikes pierced his skin, but he didn't hear it, didn't feel it.

Then he nestled down inside the wall and waited for the opportunity to appear.

Red sparkles glistened in front of his eyes.

His hand wiped at a shoe. Words buzzed behind him, threatening to crack the wall. Too soon. Had to stay hidden.

He was upright, walking. Someone gripped his arm, keeping him upright as his muscles tried to remember movement. Too soon. Stay hidden.

Water cooled his throat, soothed his body. Someone scrubbed his skin clean. He caught a glimpse of fluffy tutu. Too soon. Stay hidden.

His feet trudged along a slow circle, his legs already holding him better than before. Breaker's shining teeth gleamed at him. Too soon. Stay hidden.

Warnings whispered through his mind. Something told him more time had gone by than he realized. Time outside the wall was passing too quickly. If he stayed behind the wall too long, he could be sold off and out of the compound before he even realized.

He peeked out from behind the wall. He was on his knees, scrubbing mindlessly at a large, empty floor with a brush that had lost most of its bristles ages ago. Sparkly stilettos rested beside his hands. The air seemed fresher, cleaner. It was a struggle to focus his eyes.

A pair of overly clean boots stopped in front of him. "You really did it. I'm impressed." A faint accent.

The spark flickered to life in his chest again. The boss.

"Isn't he a doll?" Breaker crooned. He lightly patted Ronan's head. "On your feet, slave."

Ronan stood, using every ounce of self-control to keep his eyes dull and unfocused, his movements numb. He could feel his muscles responding with ease. They'd built him back up, helped him recover his strength, before bringing him up here. How long had that taken? He couldn't be sure. But he was here now, and in control of his body. That was all that mattered.

Boss eyed him up and down, then nodded, looking pleased. "Perfect."

Perfect.

Ronan grabbed Boss' gun and had it leveled at the man's chest before anyone could react. A long moment passed in stillness, Boss gaping, Breaker looking first offended, then sour.

Ronan cleared his throat and found the sound came easily, his throat smoother this time. His muscles weren't the only thing they'd tended once they decided he was broken. "Tell your men to drop their weapons, now."

Boss' eyes focused on the end of the gun, then Ronan's eyes, then the gun once more.

"Boss—" a Slaver behind Ronan started.

"Drop them," Boss said, his voice tight. "Now."

Metal clanked against the floor.

A flicker of movement caught Ronan's eye. He sidestepped, keeping the gun tight on Boss, and gave Breaker a fierce glare. "Back off."

Breaker's hand paused in midair. He hovered for a moment, seeming to gauge the situation, then lowered his arm with a smile. "Well played, darling. Well played."

Bile churned at the honeyed voice. "Get out." Ronan jabbed the gun against Boss' chest. "Tell them all to get out."

"Do it."

Ronan stepped around behind Boss, keeping an eye on the others as they quickly exited the room. Breaker stayed put until the last one was gone, then blew Ronan a kiss and sauntered out.

Ronan took a step back, putting a little distance between himself and Boss. The journal said it time and again; if you've got a ranged weapon, then keep your range. A gun's no good if it gets taken out of your hands.

"I'm sure you're a reasonable man," Boss said, his voice slick with practiced sleaze. "I'm sure we can come to some reasonable arrangement here. You want coppers? We got lots of coppers. We—"

"Drop your weapons. All of them."

Boss quickly unlatched his belt and set it gently on the floor with all the grenades still attached. He pulled a knife from a pocket on the side of his pants, then another small gun from the side of his shoe. "There we go. No weapons, no trouble. Let me—"

"Hold still." Ronan gave the man a quick pat-down, fighting back revulsion at touching a Slaver. Finding no other weapons, just a jangling key ring and an assortment of broken, harmless junk, he loaded up the ones Boss had dropped, tucking the gun and knife at his side and draping the grenade belt over his shoulder. "I came in here with a lady. The sensie."

"Sure, sure, you can have her. We'll get her for you. Let me call one of my boys—"

"No." Visions of a bullet exploding the man's head overtook Ronan's eyes for a moment. He pushed them aside. Keep it together. He'd managed to salvage most of himself with the wall, but some had still been lost, apparently. Nothing but time would bring that back, if anything. He drew in a steady breath. "We're going to get her together. You aren't going to tell anyone anything except to stay clear. If you so much as give a signal—"

"Of course I won't. Wouldn't dream of it. You're a reasonable man. Smart, too. We'll go get your friend together. No need for trouble."

Ronan stepped forward and clamped one hand on Boss's shoulder, pressing the gun against the back of the man's head with the other hand. He'd rather keep distance between them, but couldn't afford it while walking through the halls of the headquarters. Too many opportunities for someone else to step in and cause trouble. He couldn't risk it. Besides, these men were a bunch of cowards at heart, perhaps except for Breaker. But even he knew where his money came from. None of them would risk interfering and getting their boss killed, disrupting the flow of coppers.

Boss cautiously started forward, then settled into a steady pace, his hands swinging casually at his sides.

"Keep your hands in front of you," Ronan ordered.

Boss obeyed. "Sure thing. Whatever I can do to make you feel comfortable."

Ronan had the feeling it was the same words and voice used when dealing with a difficult customer. He tasted acid in his mouth.

A few Slavers hovered in the hall just ahead, staring round-eyed at their captive boss.

"Put your eyes back in your heads and get out of the way," Boss snapped at them. "Can't you see we're busy?"

The men scurried away and vanished down adjoining hallways.

Ronan saw it now. Boss wanted to play it off like this was just a business transaction, probably hoping to decrease the adrenaline factor, put Ronan more at ease. Either he was plotting a trick, or he hoped to have Ronan walk out with the lady without losing any of his own people—or his own head. With Slavers, Ronan would usually guess the latter, but it was hard to tell for sure. With men like Breaker in his employ, Boss had the manpower and ability to pull a fast one and possibly walk away intact. Ronan would have to keep a close eye for danger.

They walked down a couple sets of stairs before coming to a shadowed doorway. Ronan tightened his grip.

"It's the lowest point of the building," Boss said. "It's where we keep our..." He cleared his throat as if catching himself. "It's where our friends who help us watch for breaches stay."

Images of the boss in a tutu strung up from the rafters floated in front of Ronan's vision. He blinked them away. "Open it slowly."

Boss obediently slid the door open.

The room was tiny, only about a dozen meters square. A man stood up from where he'd been sitting on a makeshift stool.

"Stand down," Boss quickly said. "No weapons. We're working on a business deal here."

Ronan barely noticed any of this, only seeing the figure lying on the ground, hands in cuffs in front of her, blood around her wrists where the metal had bit her flesh. A length of chain ran from the cuffs to a bolt in the ground next to a small, round drain cover. The lady. Grime streaked her skin. Her hair fell loose around her head, only a few locks still trapped in the bun. Her shirt was torn near the top, and her skirt was nearly in tatters. Blood caked her forehead, cheeks, neck. A purplish bruise mottled her jaw. Streaks of red and purple marked various other cuts and bruises on her skin where she'd been battered. Her eyes were open, fixed, staring in a glassy way.

The spark in Ronan's chest turned cold. They'd killed her.

Then she blinked, slow and numb. No. She was still alive.

His fingers tightened on Boss' shoulder. He pushed the man into the room before turning to the guard, ready to tell him to haul tail out of there, but a familiar voice cut him short.

"Ronan?"

He stared at the guard's angular, narrow face. Words failed him. Shock, anger, and revulsion vied for dominance as he stood face to face with his brother.

Eliot put his hands up. "What're you doin' here?"

"I see you two know each other," Boss said, eyeing Ronan.

The man was looking for an opportunity, Ronan thought. He jabbed the gun into the back of Boss's head. "Shut up." He eyed Eliot, old feelings of hatred resurfacing all too fresh and clear. "Get out of here."

Eliot's gaze flicked between Boss and Ronan. "They got you? Never shoulda happened. Family's off-limits. That's our first law." He faced Boss. "You shouldn'ta taken him. He's my brother."

"We already ascertained we'd made an error." Boss's voice was slick as wet plastic. "We were just remedying it, in fact, by letting your brother and his friend here go free. I'm sure we'll give them some coppers for the trouble, as well." He glanced back at Ronan as if checking for agreement.

Images of Eliot and Boss doing uncivilized things to each other intruded on reality, adding to the repugnance churning Ronan's stomach. He swallowed it back. Anger and hatred were distracting him from his main goal. Couldn't let that happen. He spoke between clenched teeth. "I said, get out. Now."

"Of course, of course. He's already going," Boss said quickly, giving Eliot a meaningful look. "Get out of here, Chips. We've got business to finish."

Eliot paused a moment longer, then cautiously stepped to the side.

Ronan shoved Boss further into the room, clearing an open path for his brother to leave.

Eliot stepped into the doorway, then looked back. "Look, bro. I know ya feel I did ya wrong, and this—"

Ronan shoved the door shut in Eliot's face with a satisfying clang. He saw a latch on the door and clicked it locked.

"There, that's better," Boss started, but Ronan cut him off.

"Free her."

"Of course." Boss reached for his pocket.

Ronan's grip tightened.

"The keys," Boss said quickly. "I'm just getting the keys." He slowly reached into his pocket and withdrew a jangling ring of keys. Half were broken, bent, or otherwise unusable.

Ronan slowly released his grip and took a step back, restoring a comfortable distance. "Hurry up."

Boss knelt beside the lady and swiftly released one hand, then the other. Her blank expression didn't change. There was no sign she was even aware of her freedom.

Pressure built inside, panic tinged with guilt. What had they done to her? This was his fault. He'd let her walk off alone. He'd failed to get her free. He'd failed to play broken. How long had she suffered at their hands while he fought Breaker's methods?

It took a moment before he could speak again. His words came out clipped. "Cuff yourself and stand in the corner."

"Wouldn't you rather—"

Ronan cocked the gun.

Boss slid the cuffs on his own wrists, tossed the ring of keys at Ronan's feet, and scurried to the corner.

Ronan kept his gun on the man as he crouched beside the lady. He shook her shoulder. "Hey. It's me. We're getting out of here."

The glazed look persisted for a moment, then her eyelids fluttered as if she was waking up. She blinked, then looked up at him. "Ronan?"

Relief eased the pressure in his chest at the recognition replacing the emptiness in her eyes. "Yeah."

She shoved herself up and clung to him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her body shaking. At first he thought she was crying, but she made no sound.

He put a cautious hand on her shoulder. Awkwardly patted her back. Then he pulled her to her feet. "Come on."

Her legs buckled the instant he loosened his grip on her. He caught her before she fell. She said nothing, clinging to him tighter.

Fury returned full-force. He returned his attention to Boss. "Our things."

"Of course. My boys will get them for you." Boss gave him a placating smile. "See, this was all just a big misunderstanding. We'll get your things, some nice coppers for the trouble, and you can be on your way, free and clear."

His anxious body language suggested that Ronan's second guess was right, that Boss really did intend to let them go free. He still couldn't discount the possibility of a trap. "We need extra water. And food."

"It's yours."

"Ammo."

"Done."

Ronan let his finger curl on the gun's trigger and was rewarded with beads of sweat on Boss' forehead. "No tricks."

Boss actually looked offended. "I wouldn't dream of it. My boys were clearly in the wrong, taking you and your companion here. I'm a responsible man, me. It's my job to set their error right."

Ronan eyed him a moment longer, then nodded and kicked the keys back toward him. "Then let's go."

The lady's fingers dug into Ronan's shoulder. Strained sounds came from her mouth, too faint for him to make out what she was trying to say.

"It's okay now," he said. "We're getting out of here."

She tugged harder, urgent.

He leaned closer to her mouth, straining to hear.

Her voice came out wispy, weak, but clear enough now. "There are others."

"They won't hurt us."

She shook her head. "Other slaves."

He withdrew, staring at her. Didn't she realize how lucky they were just to get the two of them a free pass out of this place?

Pain and misery dominated her gaze as she returned his stare.

The pressure of guilt returned as every cut, every bruise on her face pointed accusing fingers directly at him. Whatever these monsters had done to her, it was his fault. Her request was insane, but when he tried to tell her that, that they couldn't do anything about the other slaves, the words refused to come. He couldn't refuse her after he'd failed her so thoroughly.

He shifted his attention back to Boss, who was now free but maintaining a respectful distance, waiting politely for Ronan to direct the show. Ronan shifted the lady's weight against his side, his brain hard at work combating mad images that still pressed to intrude upon reality while also trying to form a new plan. His arm brushed against the belt of grenades over his shoulder.

A flicker of an idea slipped through his consciousness.

"Tell your people to collect our things at the door," he ordered. "All of it."

"Of course." Boss hurried to the door and spoke loudly through it. "Who's out there?"

A muffled voice responded.

"These two came here with some things. I want every single item back here at the door in two minutes, plus some extra coppers, food, water, and ammo. You got that?"

The voice spoke again.

Boss looked back at Ronan. "They've already gathered it all."

Ronan hesitated, unsure whether to believe him.

The placating smile returned. "I'm sure you already know Chips isn't quite the, shall we say, brightest one of the bunch. But he heard us talking about you leaving with some extra coppers, so he had the others collect your goods and some extra supplies."

Eliot. The sick feeling returned. But the boss was right. Eliot wasn't the sharpest guy around, and Ronan doubted he'd have come up with any sort of clever trap on his own.

Ronan used his foot to nudge the makeshift stool into the corner behind the door and lowered the lady onto it. "Stay put for a moment." He stood behind Boss again, gun against the man's head. "Open the door, but only a crack."

"Wise. Here, I'll put my foot to block it from opening too much." Boss deliberately placed his foot only a short distance from the door, then flipped the latch and pulled it open.

No one came rushing in. No weapons pushed through the crack. No hands grabbed for the Boss. Ronan gave it another moment, then cautiously peeked.

Eliot stood at the front of a cluster of Slavers. He and two others had their arms loaded up with items, most of which Ronan recognized as his things.

Eliot lifted his pile toward the door crack. "It's all here. I made sure."

Ronan planted his own foot and nudged Boss aside, letting the door open a bit further, but not too much. "Pass it in."

Boss obligingly accepted the items and stacked them behind himself. As soon as everything was in, Ronan shoved the door shut and locked it once more. He gestured Boss back toward the far corner again. "Face in the corner. Don't move."

"Of course, of course. And let me know if anything's missing, or if you need anything further. We're nothing if not generous."

Ronan almost choked on a laugh at that. He paused to make sure Boss stood unmoving in the corner, then dug into the pile of items. The first thing he found was the lady's mask, which he passed to her, then the rest of her meager possessions. Someone had done a sloppy job of patching the torn straps on his bag, but the patches held enough to keep the bag intact. He'd fix them properly later. The journal still rested securely in its place. He found his gun and tucked it into his waistband. Content that his most important belongings were back in their proper places, he rushed through a cursory inventory of the rest before loading himself up. Boss had been right about generosity; the Slavers had included plenty of supplies to supplement Ronan's belongings. He had to give the lady a bag to loop over one shoulder in order to carry it all. Some of the extra ammo proved to be the right caliber for his gun, and he took a quick moment to load it.

He held the grenade belt last, drumming his fingers on it, questioning the sanity of his plan. It must have hatched from the fog, the part of himself still lost from Breaker's work, the part which still tried to distort reality to its own preferences. He'd be mad to follow it.

But no other ideas came readily to mind. This was the only way to get all the slaves free.

He helped the lady up and supported her against his side once more. "When I tell you, unlock and open the door."

She nodded.

He then turned to the boss. "Come to the door."

Boss obliged.

Ronan put the gun against the back of his head once more, hopefully for the last time. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to have your men open the slave pens and let all the slaves go free. You and your people will all stay in here. No one at the windows, no one on the roof, all inside the building. Me, the lady, and all the slaves walk out of here, free and clear."

He lifted the grenade belt. "Either that, or I use every last one of these to blow you and your people to bits. Then me, the lady, and all the slaves will walk out of here, free and clear. So either way, we're all leaving. It's up to you if that happens with you and your boys all in one piece or not."

He nodded to the lady, then the door. She unlocked and opened it.

Ronan used the gun to shove Boss a step forward toward his men, not giving him any time to think or come up with a ploy around it. "Choose fast."

The Slavers outside the door backed up a step, staring at their boss and waiting for direction.

Boss shifted his weight.

Ronan gave a jab with the gun. "Now."

Boss spoke, the slickness of his voice barely covering a tight edge. "I've had a change of heart. Seen the light of my wicked ways. Chips, go open the pens. We're setting the slaves free."

The Slavers stared open-mouthed. Eliot was no exception. "Boss—"

"You heard me." Boss' voice came out sharper now. "Do it."

Eliot's stunned eyes shifted to Ronan. "I know ya got issues with what I do, but ya can't just take—"

"Shut up." Everything inside Ronan wanted to shift the gun to his brother's face, but he stilled the urge. He couldn't chance an opening, not now with so much at stake.

"You'll do it and do it now, or I'll give you to Breaker as a new toy," Boss ordered.

Eliot's face paled. He scrambled back up the stairs and disappeared around a corner.

Boss jutted his chin toward another one of the Slavers, a short woman with fiery hair to match the cold fury in eyes. "Crank, round up the rest of the crew. Everyone gathers in the office. No one on the roof, no one at the windows. We're going to sit tight while these folks get on their way."

She eyed Ronan with a look that suggested he'd gotten off easy with Breaker's treatment, then turned on her heel, gesturing sharply toward the others in the stairway. "You heard the boss. Move it!"

The others quickly obeyed. The passage emptied in moments.

Boss turned his head slightly. "Was there anything else you needed, sir, or shall I escort you to the door?" Slick, polite.

"The door."

"Of course. This way."

Ronan followed, more uneasy this time. He didn't like not having a hand on the man. Too much risk of someone trying to pull something. But he had no choice. He had to keep supporting the lady. He kept watch for movement, for any signs of danger, a trap, an ambush. It didn't help that the last traces of fog in his brain kept making shadows and flickers appear in every hallway they passed.

Aside from the false movements, the building was surprisingly empty. The Slavers worked fast, apparently, and valued their Boss' life and orders more than their collection of slaves. Good.

They reached the front doors just as Eliot came back in, a flash of late evening sunlight spilling in behind him before the door clicked shut. He caught Ronan's eye and quickly looked away. "I did as ya said, boss."

"Good. Go to my office and stay there."

Eliot's jaw clenched as he passed them.

Ronan's clenched as well, holding back venomous, resentful words that wanted to unleash in a torrent to flood his brother away. He instead pushed the boss forward. "Hold the door."

Boss pulled the door open and stayed aside, out of the way.

Ronan checked the outside, found it clear, and stepped across the threshold, walking backwards to keep the gun trained. "Now you go back to your office and stay put with the others. I'll be watching this building as I go. If I see even one movement at the door, the windows, the roof, anything—" He nudged the belt of grenades slung over his shoulder.

"Of course. We made an arrangement. I'm not in the business of going back on my deals." Boss turned and walked back down the hallway, vanishing behind the closing door.

Ronan hurried forward as fast as the lady could manage, half-carrying her to keep the pace up. He didn't trust the Slavers to keep to the deal for a second. The more distance he could put between himself and the headquarters, the better.

Movement to the side caught his eye, and he turned the gun in that direction. A few slaves stopped, hovering just outside the door of the pen, looking confused and uncertain.

"Get moving!" Ronan barked out. "Hurry it up!"

Blank stares answered him.

The woman he'd seen the first night emerged from the frozen group. "Go," she ordered, her voice clear, cool, and heavily accented. "We are free."

Her words broke through the hesitation. The slaves bolted. Ronan had a bit of a head start, but was quickly outpaced, having to move slower for the lady's sake. He glanced back at the headquarters and saw no signs of Slavers coming after them. It would be okay, he told himself. They wouldn't dare screw with the guy carrying all the grenades.

He focused on his route through the smaller buildings. The fastest route he'd identified before. Just keep moving straight, swerve around a slightly larger mass of broken walls, then due south past the stuttered fence. They were going to make it.

The slaves at the front of the pack neared the fence. Shouts of jubilee rose, cries of joy for their newfound freedom.

Then terror. Pain. Shots rang out as the Slavers appeared from behind the smaller buildings, firing and slashing their way through the unarmed slaves.

Chapter 10

Ronan backpedaled just in time to avoid running headlong into a Slaver leaping out at him. His finger curled on the trigger instinctively. The boss' gun jerked in an unfamiliar way. The Slaver dropped without a sound, but another appeared just behind him.

Curses flowed through Ronan's mind. He'd been watching for an attack from behind, not in front. There was another exit, a way for the Slavers to sneak around and get ahead of the slaves. He'd been stupid not to consider that possibility, not to keep the boss hostage until they were all clear of the compound. And now the grenades were useless. He couldn't use them without risking the slaves.

Stupid.

Two more bullets. The second Slaver fell bleeding to the ground, screeching. Ronan wove around him, not slowing, focused ahead, gauging where the most Slavers were, modifying his escape route. He pulled the lady along a side path between two crumbling buildings. She stumbled, almost tripping them both. He adjusted his grip, taking on more of her weight.

They passed an alleyway alive with frenzied screams and fighting. Two Slavers pummeled a man on the ground. Ronan took aim and fired, dropping one of them. He aimed for the second one and was rewarded with a click. The boss' gun hadn't been fully loaded. A new flood of curses sprang to life as he dropped the useless gun and pulled the lady to cover.

The Slaver charged, firing madly, but Ronan already had his own gun in hand. The instant the Slaver appeared around the corner, Ronan fired. The man fell with a spray of blood decorating the wall behind him.

New shouts met Ronan's ears. He glanced back to see more Slavers charging his direction, coming from behind. This he could handle. He released the lady, pulled a pin on one of the grenades, and threw it toward the approaching group. Grabbing the lady again, he pulled her around the corner. She staggered after him, falling into him as he dropped low. He barely heard her startled grunt as he pulled her close and covered both of their heads. A cry of warning came from behind them just before an explosion shook the building they crouched against. A downpour of dirt showered over their heads.

He pulled her up and ran without bothering to check the damage behind them. She seemed to be regaining her legs some, still not quite able to keep up, but enough to be more of a help than a hindrance now. He ducked down another side passage between crumbling buildings, then took another corner, putting a couple of buildings between them and the heart of the battle.

"Ronan!" she gasped.

He saw the man coming from the side and dodged, taking aim with his gun. Eliot stood on the other end of the barrel, panting, his own gun leveled at Ronan's chest. Neither man moved for a long moment.

Eliot spat out a foul word. "Yer thick, Ronan. Thick. Ya always said I was the dumb one, but this? Ya had to know Boss Mac wouldn't just sit quiet an' let all his stock go free."

"It's not right, taking slaves, and you know it."

The lady clung tighter to Ronan's side, staring with large eyes.

"We already had all the words we're gonna have on that." Eliot shook his head. "Ya coulda just walked away. He was gonna let ya."

"So now you're going to shoot me?" Ronan kept his eyes on his brother's eyes, waiting for a sign, an indication of Eliot's next move. He'd have to be fast. His brother had always been a better shot.

"I got loyalties now."

"You used to be loyal to your family."

"And where'd that get us?" Eliot snapped. He spat on the ground. A shout came from a couple buildings over, the sounds of fighting drawing closer. He flicked a rapid glance toward the sound. "We ain't got time for this. Just shut up and shoot me already."

Ronan blinked. "What?"

"It's gotta look like I at least tried ta stop ya. I'd take it a kindness if ya aim for the leg 'stead of the head, but can't say I'd blame ya either way. Just hurry up and get it over with."

Ronan couldn't stop staring, For the first time in his life, he stood before an enemy and couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. His arm lowered slightly, feeling as if the gun was suddenly too heavy.

Eliot fired, kicking up a blast of sand centimeters from the lady's feet. She yelped and stumbled backwards.

Ronan's finger responded without command, triggering the gun.

Eliot dropped, clutching his side with a cry of pain. He panted, then looked up. "Get moving, idjit."

Ronan met his brother's eyes. Nodded. Turned and hurried onward. They'd almost reached the fence. The lady remained blessedly silent, to his relief. He wasn't entirely sure what had just happened himself, and the last thing he wanted was her commentary on it.

The gunshots faded. The sounds of fighting slowed. Fewer shouts. Ronan saw figures in the distance, a couple dozen scattered slaves disappearing over the far hill. Some had escaped, at least. Hopefully more. Either the rest had defeated the Slavers and were now proceeding at a calmer pace, or the Slavers had beaten down the fighters and were rounding up the runners. Either way, the fight seemed to be over. If it was the latter, though, the Slavers would sweep this way before long. Ronan picked up the pace, again taking more of the lady's weight when her weak legs stumbled and staggered. He might need the rest of those grenades after all.

An empty, bent fencepost loomed just ahead. Almost there.

A solid mass slammed into him from behind. The lady screamed as she fell. Hands clawed at Ronan as he tumbled across the dirt, scrambling to bring his gun up, but tearing pain in his wrist forced his hand to surrender its grip. He landed hard, heavy weight on top of him, his right wrist pinned to the ground.

Breaker leered down into his face. "Hello, darling."

Something broke inside of Ronan, unleashing all the fury, all the madness that had drilled its way into his mind while trapped in that box. His legs twisted sharply and jerked up and sideways, flinging Breaker aside, then carried the rest of the way through the motion, landing on top of Breaker with arms swinging in blind rage. Someone was shouting, screaming, but he hardly noticed as his fists connected with flesh and bone time and time again.

Fire struck his side, making him catch his breath. Breaker grinned through a blood-smeared face, still gripping the small blade in Ronan's skin. "Feisty, feisty." Breaker punched the knife's handle, burying the entire thing inside Ronan's flesh with another burst of fiery pain.

Ronan grunted, trying to fight back the momentary paralysis the pain brought, but it was too late. Breaker's fist slammed into his throat, knocking him backwards. The man lunged at him, aiming a second strike. Ronan managed to coil and release one leg in a fierce kick, pushing Breaker away, and scrambled back to his feet, still choking and struggling for a clear breath of air. He fumbled at his side for his knife, but it had fallen free somewhere in the fight. He dug at the knife handle buried in his side, but couldn't get a grip on it.

Breaker giggled, his white teeth looking all the more garish through the blood dripping from his nose, his mouth, cuts on his cheeks. He moved fast, almost faster than Ronan could track, aiming low. Ronan deflected the kick, blocked a punch aimed at his wounded side, got in a punch of his own, just missing the man's solar plexus.

Breaker caught his wrist before Ronan could withdraw the punch and twisted Ronan through a contorted dance which sent disabling sparks of pain the full distance of Ronan's arm. He found himself on his knees, his arm locked behind him. Every movement brought fresh daggers of pain through his body that cut off his ability to think, to breathe.

"Fascinating, isn't it? One tiny hold can keep such a big man prisoner." Breaker leaned his face closer, white teeth flashing between flickers of red. "You played the game well, darling. But now it's time to see my real game. I—"

The lady landed on Breaker's back with a scream, pummeling with her tiny fists and screeching in his ear over and over again.

Seeming entirely unconcerned, he caught her by the neck and threw her against the crumbling wall of the nearest building. She slumped to the ground and didn't move.

But it was enough of a distraction to loosen Breaker's grip on Ronan's wrist. Ronan tore free and swept Breaker's feet out from under him. Ronan scrambled up and spotted a glint of metal ten meters from his feet. His knife. He lunged for it, feeling the blade still embedded in his side tear through more flesh but not caring. Had to get the knife.

Hands caught his ankles. He tried to use his momentum to pull free, but he landed hard on his stomach. Another fiery shot of pain lanced through his midsection, blinding him with flashes of white and red lights before his eyes.

Breaker's necktie dropped around Ronan's neck and pulled tight, joined by a sharp stiletto point square on his back, pinning him to the ground. He clawed at the silky material as it cut off his air, sending his lungs screaming and head throbbing. He pushed hard at the ground, but his limbs weren't cooperating anymore, shock from his injuries overpowering the rush of adrenaline.

Breaker leaned closer. "There, there, darling. Just relax. It'll be over soon." He tugged harder on the tie, his eyes glittering with the insane fire of bloodlust.

Panic and spasms gripped Ronan's body. He struggled to turn, to grab, to kick, to do anything that would release the noose and bring air again. White and black pressed into his fading vision.

Breaker giggled.

Then choked. His foot jerked in a violent spasm, jabbing the point of the heel harder into Ronan's skin. Then it was gone. The tie fell loose.

Ronan coughed and gagged on his effort to suck in air. His body curled to one side to assist his battered lungs, the sting in his other side fading into background noise as the haze thickened before his eyes. He dimly saw Breaker fall to his knees, a stunned look on his strangely waxen face. The lady tore Ronan's knife free from the man's back and plunged it in again, then again, tears streaming from terrified, frantic eyes.

Ronan's world slipped away into darkness.

* * *

Flickering light and the faint smell of smoke intruded into the black. Ronan blinked up at stars only faintly tinted by grey clouds. Not clouds, smoke.

Fire. He jerked upright and was rewarded with a cacophony of pain throughout his body, mostly centered on his side. He dropped back with a grunt, but not before he caught a glimpse of a small, tidy fire pit. A controlled fire. He'd have felt more heat if it was uncontrolled. He should've figured that one out himself. Stupid.

He gingerly explored his side and found a tight bandage wrapped around his midsection. His shirt was conspicuously absent, probably removed to treat his wound. His eyes took in the surroundings as he tested his muscles, finding other injuries and complaints from bruises, strained muscles, and battered joints. He lay at the side of a square tent almost three times the size of his own and nearly twice the height. The canvas looked thicker, too, which explained the small fire burning in the center. The thick, high walls would keep the small light from showing outside. Or maybe the tent's usual occupants simply relied on greater numbers for protection rather than aiming to avoid detection, as he did. His pack rested beside him, along with his weapons. The knife and grenades he'd taken from the boss were missing, but all the extra supplies were still there.

The lady sat beside the fire, hugging her knees and staring into the flames. He tried to sit up again, awareness returning in a rush. Questions stumbled over each other on his tongue, but the words were held back by a fear of what the answers would be.

A flap slid aside, and the dark-skinned woman, the leader of the slaves, stepped inside. She eyed the lady, then Ronan. "You convinced the Slavers to release us."

He nodded.

She studied him a moment longer, then crouched beside him and checked the bandage on his side. "This was the worst of your wounds. It will take some time to heal. Rest tonight. You should be able to travel by morning, but you will have to move slower and give your body space for healing."

He nodded again. That answered who the tent belonged to. He'd heard that escaped slaves traveled together in hidden caravans, protecting each other and helping other slaves find freedom, but had never crossed paths with one before. The slaves must have known where to find one and had taken him and the lady with them. "Thank you."

She leaned back on her heels, studying his face once more. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"What?" He didn't catch himself in time to temper the surprise in his voice.

"The Slavers would have let you free and counted their losses, I am certain. But you had to know they would not let us go without a fight. Why take the risk?"

He didn't have an answer. His mouth moved as if to jolt his brain into activity, but it remained blank. Finally, he simply nodded toward the lady. "It was her idea."

The leader turned luminous eyes to the lady.

The lady said nothing for a long time. Ronan began to wonder if she'd heard the question or was even aware that anyone else was present. Then she spoke, barely audible. "It was the right thing to do."

The leader shook her head in disbelief. "It was dangerous and risky. You both were nearly killed." She paused, examining both of them. "You have our gratitude."

With that, she stood. "We cannot stay here long. Boss Mac and his highest Slavers were all defeated, but many others fled when they saw they were losing. They may return with others to track us before long. A large group of slaves is a great temptation. We will divide and travel in different directions. If you wish to join us, whoever you travel with will see to your needs. Protection, food, water. You will be taken care of."

The foreign concept caught Ronan off-guard. He had never traveled with any group but his family, and that was decades ago. He did better on his own. He started to say that, but his gaze flicked to the lady, making him hesitate. Perhaps the added protection of a group would be for the best. "Thank you. We're trying to get to her people, near Adipose."

A sour look crossed the leader's face. "I do not believe any group will travel toward Adipose. There are too many Slavers in that area. Most will be traveling west or north." She paused. "Some may be traveling northeast. If so, that will get you closer to your goal, at least. I will see what I can find. For now, rest."

He nodded as she left. The tent flap dropped back into place, rippling for a moment before hanging still. He was alone with the lady again.

He worked his way into a partial sitting position, using the movement as an excuse not to speak. Every time he looked at her, all he saw were the bruises, the cuts, the torn clothes. Some of the worse cuts had been bandaged, probably by the same person who treated his wounds, but aside from that, she looked just like he'd found her in the basement room. Hair hanging limp around her head, the neat bun a distant memory. Dirty. Wounded. Eyes staring empty.

Guilt thickened his lungs and made it hard to breathe. He had to say something. But what? 'Are you okay' sounded like a dumb question, even inside his mind. The answer was obvious, anyway. She wasn't. Asking what they'd done to her didn't seem right, either.

The guilt pressed harder, demanding he say something, anything.

"Hey."

She didn't look his way.

Feeling even more pathetic, he cleared his throat. "I... are you... I mean, did..." He gave up, exhaling in frustration. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes lowered. A tear slid down and pooled against the top of her mask.

"Did they... uh..." He cringed, knowing it was awful of him to ask, even as part of him craved the answer. He'd chase those Slavers that escaped and cave their skulls in if she just said the word.

But she shook her head, seeming to understand. "I didn't let them."

He stared at her blankly. What power could she have possibly had to prevent the Slavers from doing whatever they wanted to her?

She caught his look. Her cheeks lifted above the mask in an almost rueful smile. "If any of them tried to..." Her voice caught. She spoke again, quieter and flatter. "When they tried, I pretended to smell the gas and pass out. They almost cleared the building twice before they figured it out." A soured tone of amusement made her voice a bit stronger before she continued. "They beat me, but their boss got sick of the false alarms and told them to leave me alone." Her fingers lifted to her neck, and he saw the dark shadow of a bruise there.

The guilt threatened to suffocate him. This was his fault. Every bruise, every cut, everything she'd gone through, it was all on him. He tried to speak, but couldn't.

"Thank you."

Her voice startled him. What was she thanking him for? What had he done except gotten her caught, abused, and nearly killed?

Her eyes remained fixed on the fire. "I was afraid I would never... But then you came for me." The rueful smile returned. "That woman was right. We probably could have walked out of there free if I hadn't convinced you to help the other slaves."

Words failed him again, and he resorted to repeating her own back to her. "It was the right thing to do."

"It was." She lapsed back into silence for a minute. "Still, you were almost killed because of me. You'd never have gotten caught if it wasn't for me. And that..." A faint shudder crossed her body. "That man..."

Breaker. "It's okay. We made it out alive." He remembered the last thing he'd seen before passing out. "You saved my life."

The shudder turned into a violent tremble. Pain and terror flickered across her eyes.

He saw traces of blood still marring her hands. Realization struck. "That—that was the first time you'd killed anyone."

Her head lowered. The trembling persisted.

"You did the right thing," he said, though it sounded so obvious to his own ears.

Her chin quivered.

"You had to," he pressed, wanting with everything in him to find the right words to make it better. "It was him or me, and if he'd killed me, he'd have come for you next. You did what you had to do."

Nothing he said seemed to sink in. He pushed himself the rest of the way up and scooted closer to her. Put a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay. None of this was your fault. You did the right thing."

She crumpled against him as the tears flowed freely, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs. He froze up, but managed to coax his limbs into movement after only a couple seconds. He wrapped his arms around her, gently holding her close.

The two of them remained like that until his side sharpened its complaint and demanded he lie back down. He nudged her upright, meeting her eyes. "You understand? You did what you had to do."

She nodded, giving a couple of last hiccupping sniffles as she brushed the tears away.

He started to ease himself back toward the mat he'd been lying on, but stopped. Caught her eyes again. "Don't let on that you were upset you killed that man. The others wouldn't understand." And any hesitation to kill would be seen as weakness, as the journal so often reminded him. Show weakness, end up dead.

Her voice was small. "Okay."

Something felt missing, like what he'd said was inadequate, but he finally lowered himself back down on the mat. Heaviness settled over him. Exhaustion. The weight of the wounds slowing down his muscles. "Try to get some rest."

If she said anything else, he didn't hear it as sleep claimed him once more.

Journal Entry 23

We lost another five yesterday. An attack from a band of slavers. Rita and I have begun discussing if we should part ways with the group. Staying means remaining near more fighting men, but perhaps fighting would become less necessary were we not burdened with so many who cannot maintain a quiet level of travel and thus avoid detection. Perhaps a smaller group could easier avoid trouble. Or perhaps merely the two of us, alone. It may be the wisest course of action.

It would also help if we wasted less time picking up every stray we come across. I fail to see the wisdom in expending our valuable, limited resources by giving them away to any random person we cross paths with. Or worse, allowing them to join the group, especially when they offer no skills useful to our defense. What good is it to bring in an injured boy who will only eat our food, drink our water, and do nothing to help should trouble arise? These strays only slow us down and deplete our needed supplies. I have spoken at length with Thomas on this matter, but he remains resolute that we must help those 'in need.'

What a laughable term. Everyone left alive in this accursed place is 'in need.' We must be pragmatic about our approach if we are to survive. Thomas simply will not see the wisdom of this. I am certain others grow weary of his foolish, naïve style of leadership. Rita believes that I would be a better choice to command the group, but I have no ambitions for power. My only concern is survival.

If only the same could be said of Thomas.

We discovered more stockpiles this week, though, so for now the supply stock is adequate. It is near ironic that the supplies so many had gathered and stored in their homes in the pre-WWIII panic are now our best source of survival. So much water and food has been stored, in fact, that I now question my earlier estimates of extinction. Fresh water and food may be more plentiful than I initially assumed, even if plants and animals die off—as seems to be the case. It still leaves the question of oxygen, but I suspect the gas may alter something in the nature of our lungs. We have already experienced a change in our ability to tolerate the dissipated gas, for instance. I can breathe for nearly a full minute without a scarf before the gas irritates my lungs. Perhaps future generations will be even hardier and more capable of tolerating the gas's effects. Perhaps this will make a difference in the body's oxygen needs. Or perhaps not. It's impossible to say at this point, and I have little time to waste philosophizing on what might become.

Growing tolerance aside, the condensed gas remains as deadly as ever. Just three days ago...

Chapter 11

"Could I hear what it says?" the lady asked.

Ronan looked up from his interrupted reading, a bit startled at her voice. She sounded much better today than last night, and looked better too, sitting up with bright eyes and her hair mostly returned to order.

He hesitated, looking back down at the page. He'd never shared the journal with anyone outside the family. But then, he'd never travelled with anyone outside the family, either. And if anyone could use a bit of the journal's wisdom, it was the lady.

He cleared his throat and picked up where he'd left off. "The condensed gas remains as deadly as ever. Just three days ago, we were nearly killed in a building that breached while we were asleep. We had nested in the higher levels, further from detection from raiders, and did not realize the breach until the lower levels of the building had already filled.

"We were unable to escape via the stairs; the ground floor exit was too far for us to reach without succumbing to the gas. There was no fire escape on this building, either. We had to climb out the windows and scale the walls. It was difficult, but doable. So long as we continue hiding in upper levels of buildings, I shall remember to check for possible climbing routes along the outside of the building. If the gas breaches the building and reaches too high to escape from the inside, the outside is the only viable course of escape."

He turned the page. "Thomas, of course, sees no harm in our near-fatal experience. He..." Ronan skimmed the rest of the passage, then shut the journal. "The rest is about some argument between people. It's not important."

She rested her chin on her knees. "It's quite a story."

"It's a lesson," he corrected. A lesson that she could use. "Watch for ways to escape on the outside of buildings in case of breach. Climbing along the outside isn't easy, but if it's the only way to escape alive, then do it."

She nodded. "So that's what the journal is? Stories with lessons?"

"Sort of. Yeah."

"It's like our songs. In a way. Except yours are about survival, and ours are about how to live right and pure." Her voice caught, and she looked away.

He turned and got a sharp sting in his side to remind him that quick movements were no longer encouraged. Wincing, he pressed a hand over the bandage. Some of the Freed had brought them food and water as soon as the sun rose, and one had changed his bandages, spreading an oily, vile-smelling salve over the puncture before wrapping it once more. Whatever it was, it dulled the pain some, but not quite enough. If they ran into a Rager pack today, he could be in some trouble. He just had to hope they managed to avoid any significant issues.

She scooted closer to him. "Your side? Do you need the medic again?"

"It's fine." He started to ask what had upset her a moment ago, but the tent flap opened before he could speak.

The leader gave them both a respectful nod. "There is one group traveling east. If you wish, they will care for you and protect you until you must go south to your destination."

The lady glanced at Ronan.

"We'll do that," he said. Part of him still rebelled at the thought of traveling with a group, but he'd decided in the early hours this morning that all other concerns took second place to getting the lady to her people safely. If that meant staying around other people who would be able to help protect her, so be it.

"Thank you." The lady gave the leader a grateful smile.

"You two are crazy," the leader said, "but we owe you our lives. We will do what we can to help you." She turned. "We depart soon."

Ronan tucked his journal back in his bag and fished out his shirt. Someone had patched up the garment and properly repaired the torn straps on his bag. Probably one of the Freed. They obviously took their perceived debt to him and the lady seriously.

The lady stood and brushed off her clothes, and he noted that the larger tears in those had been mended, as well. "You look better."

A flush battled a flicker of pained memory on her face. She ran her hand over a dirt-stained spot on her arm. "They helped me clean up as much as possible." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "It's better."

He worked his way to his feet, wincing as his muscles and side engaged in a screaming contest. "Can you carry a few things?"

She accepted a few water jugs strung together and looped over her shoulder, then lifted a small bag of food on her other side. He didn't miss her slight stumble as she started toward the tent flap.

"You took too much," he said, reaching for the food bag.

She shook her head. "I didn't get to move around much when we were..." She hesitated. "My legs are still regaining their strength."

A fresh blossom of guilt unfurled. He still wasn't sure how many days had passed in captivity. It had to be several, at least, a week or maybe longer, as they'd built his muscles back up enough for him to walk before presenting him to the boss. He felt sick. Part of him wanted to ask how long it had been, to know how thoroughly he'd failed and how much penance he had to pay, but he doubted she'd had much way to track time either, secured in that small basement room.

Her brows pressed closer together. "What's wrong?"

He lifted his bag on his back, mindful of the vines of pain snaking through his body with each movement. "Nothing. These people will help keep us safe, and we'll have you back to your people soon." That would make things right. Get her back to her tower, back amongst her own people, safe from everything vile and horrible in this world. She'd heal soon enough back in her secure, sheltered environment.

An odd light flickered in her eyes, a shadow of the emptiness he'd seen before. He'd expected her to be pleased, maybe even excited at the prospect of returning to safety, but her nod seemed almost resigned. "Good."

Questions sprang to the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them down. Of course she wasn't quite herself. She'd been traumatized, beaten, terrified. She might not recover until after she'd been safe for some time. She might not ever fully recover. But she wasn't used to the brutality of the outside world; he couldn't expect her to bounce back and carry on the way he did.

He led the way out of the tent, moving slowly to accommodate his wounds. The less he strained himself now, the more energy he'd have in case a threat appeared later.

The instant he and the lady left the tent, four men swept in and began taking the tent apart. A couple other tents were halfway down, and he saw at least three others being packed away. The mass of people collected in the area startled him at first. He'd never seen so many people in one place outside the cities. Men and women of every color, body type, and nearly every age milled about, chatting in low tones and directing the last steps of packing up the caravan.

A broad-shouldered man with flushed red skin lumbered up and clapped Ronan on the back so hard, he almost tumbled forward. "Heard you'll be chopping out with us. Shame we can't get you all the way where you're going, but you know how Adipose is." He grinned, showing several gaping holes in his mouth. "We'll get you as close as we can, though. And it ain't too far yet. Little over a day's travel? Bit longer, depending on how much we got dawdlifying us down." He gestured with his head toward a woman limping past with a dirt-colored bandage covering much of her leg.

Ronan felt himself cringing inside at the man's loudness. Paradoxically, his voice wasn't actually that loud, but something about his mannerisms and the way he spoke brought a completely different type of volume to the picture. Loud. Big. How could these Freed caravans remain undetected with men like this as members?

Red barely seemed to notice, turning instead to the lady with an exaggerated bow. "But ladies first, of course. The name's Digger, and it is a most egregious pleasure to make your acknowledgement."

A smile twitched in the lower corners of the lady's eyes. She dipped in a polite nod. "Lily, and the pleasure's all mine. This is Ronan."

"Nice to meetcha, nice to meetcha." Red clapped Ronan's hand and pumped his arm a couple times.

Pain shot across Ronan's shoulders, and he quickly extracted himself from the man's grip. "We'll be moving out soon?"

"Soon as everyone's musterable," Red replied, clearly taking pride in his questionable vocabulary.

"It's a big group," Ronan said, looking across the mass of people once more. "How do you—"

"How do we stay hidden? The caravans keep to secretous routes. No one knows 'em but us." He abruptly turned a suspicious eye on Ronan. "You ain't going to go blackering our secrets to no one, are you?"

"No blackering," Ronan promised with a straight face.

The gaping grin returned. "Terrifical. You folks got all your needs on you?"

"We're ready to go."

"Then keep an eye out for my signifier. You'll see it when it's time to move out." Red lumbered away, tossing out a few directions as he went.

Ronan had no doubt they'd see whatever signal Red used. He was having second, third, fourth, and fifth thoughts about traveling with a group.

The lady smiled widely now. "He seems nice."

"He seems loud. Great way to attract attention."

She raised an eyebrow. "He wasn't talking any louder than you were."

Ronan shook his head. He didn't really expect her to understand. "This way." He led her a few steps to the side, out of the way of the workers.

The bustle of activity soon faded as the rest of the camp vanished into bags on people's backs. The mass differentiated itself into smaller groups. The dark-skinned leader gave a solemn wave before vanishing over a northern hill, just over a dozen people following close behind her. Other groups headed the same general direction, but veered slightly west or slightly east. Several other groups set off to the west.

Red waved a hand in large circles over his head, then pointed east.

"I'm guessing that's the signal," the lady offered, sounding amused again.

"We can only assume." Ronan led the way across the emptying camp space to meet up with the group trailing behind Red.

To his relief, the group only gave them subdued greetings without feeling a need to speak in the boisterous manner of their leader. A man directed Ronan and the lady to the center of the group.

Tension pressed against Ronan's throat at the thought. Traveling with a group at all was far from his comfort. Being stuck in the middle of a bunch of people, people who might react in various, unpredictable ways if danger arose, was too far. "We'll stick to the side," he said, finality deepening his tone.

The man paused, but nodded and waved them on. "If trouble comes, remain behind us," he instructed. "It's our job to keep you safe."

The thought was similarly foreign. He wasn't sure how he felt about someone else taking responsibility for his safety. Whatever the feelings were, they weren't pleasant.

"Thank you," the lady said, accepting the situation with far more grace than he could.

As they walked, Ronan felt his mind trying to slip into its usual traveling pattern, but failing each time as the Freed around him talked quietly amongst themselves. He couldn't very well demand they stay quiet so he could focus on his surroundings. Partly because they were already doing him a favor by helping him keep the lady safe as they traveled. Partly because he had no place to ask such things. He wasn't leading, so he didn't need to watch their direction. And in their eyes, he wasn't to be concerned with threats, so he didn't need to watch for danger. Thinking back, the last time anyone had expected him to be this free from concerns and responsibility, he'd been wearing diapers.

The lady thrived on it, though, and easily fell to chatting with the others, mindful to keep her voice as low as theirs. Even Red had toned himself down as they traveled on, his gestures and mannerisms slightly more subdued as his eyes continually roamed the countryside ahead.

Ronan tried to refocus his attention. At least he didn't need to worry about keeping such a close eye on her now. The Freed were watching out for her. And that was the whole point of traveling with the group, wasn't it? He'd continue watching for any threats and ignore the others. If trouble came, the lady would be kept safe. That was the part that mattered. He would put up with the irritation and discomfort for that reason.

As his mind gradually adjusted to the dim noise, the hours began to melt past. He barely noticed as the ground rumbled through a minor series of mini-quakes while they walked on. Background twinges and pains accompanied each step, but thankfully had the mercy to remain as nothing more than minor complaints. He only had a vague idea of where they were, and nothing stood out to distinguish this area from any other patch of land out of sight of the cities and main roads.

A small note of curiosity pricked his mind, wondering where they were, trying to think of how far away from main roads they'd have to be in order for this to be a secret route, undiscovered by Slavers in all this time. They had to be pretty far from any buildings, scavenging grounds, paths, or anything else where other people might chance spotting them.

The thought caused him to glance at the lady. What would that mean if something happened to her mask? Or if she needed to change the filters? It had been some time since she last changed them; how long did her filters last? Anxiety prickled his limbs.

Red brought the group to a stop. "Good place to pause for a nice repasture."

The Freed stopped and set down their bags, digging out cans of food and continuing the friendly chatter as they dug in.

Ronan turned to the lady to ask a few pertinent questions about her mask, but Red had tucked her arm in his like a gentleman and led her to the middle of the group.

"We'll get you settled comfy here," he said, waving to a couple others. A woman handed the lady a can of food, and a man stepped forward, unfolding an oddly shaped tarp, black in some spots and see-through in others.

The lady's eyes lit up. "You have a gas tent? Wonderful!"

The man set the base of the tarp on the ground, and the lady stepped onto it. Red and the other two Freed worked quickly to secure the rest of the tarp to some framework. The whole process only took a couple minutes, and in the end, the lady sat on a base of black tarp, surrounded by translucent walls, like she was in her own little room. She waited a little longer, then reached up and unfastened her mask, drawing in a deep breath and smiling.

Of course. The heavy plastic of the tarp kept the rising, dissipated gas away from her. The open top guaranteed any that might get in couldn't condense. A portable, secure tent just for sensies.

"We had us a couple of your kind some time ago," Red said, dropping cross-legged beside the tent. "We don't see too many of them among our kindred, if you understand. They found new homes, but left this piece behind with us in case we encounseled any others. I didn't know your type until this morning when they said you'd be on your way with us, or I'd 've pulled it out last night so you could get some relievement."

"This is fine, thank you." The lady took a bite, luxuriating in the ability to breathe freely while outdoors.

Someone pushed a can of food into Ronan's hand, and he almost forgot to give them a nod of thanks before crossing to the lady's side and sitting down on the other side of the tent. "That thing really works?"

"They're wonderful, really," she said. "We had one while traveling, but one of the guards carried it." Her smile faded slightly, but she returned her attention to her food.

"How are your filters?" If they needed changing, this was the perfect time for her to see to it.

She looked a little surprised. "Well enough, thank you."

"Do you need to change them while you're in a safe spot?"

A laugh bubbled from her, sweetening her features. "You sound just like Singer Marcus." And then the smile faded again. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine. I'll know when the filters need changing, and I'll take care of it then."

"This isn't about fussing over you," he clarified. "You might not have noticed, but we're traveling far from any buildings. It keeps the travel route secret, away from any other travelers, but it also means that tent is the only relief you're going to get out here. And it takes a little while for them to get it out and set it up. I just don't want to see something happen and you being stuck until they can get this contraption put together."

"Oh. I see." The look on her face made it clear she hadn't considered that.

"Besides," he added, "I know it's been some time since those filters were changed."

She looked down at her food. "Most of that time, the mask wasn't in use. So the filters aren't actually too used."

The spike of guilt pierced him once more. "Yeah. I guess not." He waved his hand. "Do what you need to do. Just know that we won't likely be coming across any buildings out here should you have any trouble with your mask."

She didn't answer as she finished her food, but he noticed her pull fresh filters from the bag on her side.

"How'd you two come to travel together?" Red asked with a full mouth.

"I'm just escorting her back to her people," Ronan said.

"He saved my life, first from a gas breach, then a bunch of Ragers." The lady worked at switching the filters out, her smile back. "I'd been separated from my people and was trapped in a building in the middle of nowhere, and he agreed to help me get back. Not 'back,' that is, but to our new home. He's been keeping me safe all the way. I get the impression most people out here would've taken advantage of my position. I'm lucky he was the one to find me."

The spike of guilt, which had never quite withdrawn itself, grew in size and intensity with just about every sentence she spoke. He set the last third of his food aside, no longer interested in eating. "The lady offered me a job, protecting her in exchange for coppers. I took it."

"He's being modest," the lady started.

"I'm going to take a look around," Ronan said, standing. "Make sure you drink plenty of water while you're in there."

She got that startled look again, but only said, "Okay," as Ronan walked away.

He was glad to see the Freed finishing their food and collecting their bags up again as he wove his way back to the edge of the group. They'd be moving on soon, and he could go back to ignoring everyone around him. With any fortune, that would be enough to silence the nagging guilt chewing on his insides.

How did people keep ending up with this idea that he was somehow a decent person?

Chapter 12

Red made the others wait long enough for the lady to finish up some water, adjust her possessions, and get the gas mask back in place before they dismantled the tent and packed it back away.

Once the plastic tent was packed, Ronan returned his attention forward from where he'd been studiously examining their surroundings, ready to move on.

"Care to walk by me, miss?" one of the Freed offered the lady, extending a polite arm.

"Thank you, but I'll walk by my escort." She made her way back to Ronan's side.

He kept his eyes on the horizon as they set out, though he felt her gaze on him.

"I'm sorry if I said something which offended you," she said quietly. "It wasn't my intent."

"You didn't say anything wrong." His voice came out more clipped than he intended.

She walked in silence for a minute. "I truly do appreciate everything you've done for me."

"You hired me to do a job." He tried to convince his tone to sound casual instead of stiff.

"And you've done it well." She gave him a cautious smile. "Even saddled with a 'pampered sensie' who doesn't know the first thing about staying safe out here."

He snorted, but couldn't stop the muscles tugging the corners of his lips. "Don't sell yourself short. I think those Caravaners will think twice before assuming a sensie's no danger again."

She laughed. "I'd never used a gun before. I'm amazed I didn't hurt myself."

"That's because no one ever taught you the right way to handle one." He pulled out his gun and offered it to her. "Here, I'll show you."

She put her hands up, leaning away from the weapon. "Thank you, but I have no intention of handling one ever again, so far as I can help it. Besides, only the guards use guns. We have some knives inside the compound, just in case, but that's it."

"Then you'll have to learn to handle one of those." He put the gun away and dug his last resort knife, a modest-sized flip blade, out of his bag. "Any of them like this?"

"Some." She eyed the knife as if he was offering her a Rager's discarded arm.

"Take it. This would be the best kind for you. Tuck it inside your belt, and no one will ever see it until you bring it out. It's a good thing. Most people are going to assume you're fairly helpless, you know, with your nice clothes and all, so might as well let them keep thinking that. Then, when you pull a knife on them, they'll realize they've made a mistake. They'll be more likely to back off and not mess with you than if they'd already assessed you as some level of threat." He gave it a little wave, coaxing her to take it.

She accepted the knife with the same level of distaste, holding it between two fingers.

"No, you need to hold it like this." He adjusted her fingers around it. "Now hit the button."

She gave him a dubious look.

He nodded her to proceed.

She reached for the button with her other hand.

"No, same hand. Use your thumb," he corrected.

She worked her fingers around to get her thumb down to the button. Before he could stop her and readjust her grip, the blade popped free with a click, barely missing three of her fingers in the process. She squeaked and dropped it.

Ronan sighed and retrieved it, blowing the loose dirt off the blade before releasing the catch and folding the knife back up. "Try again."

"I don't think this is a good idea." She didn't take the knife.

He caught her gaze and held it. "You've already seen what people are like out here. It's good that you're somewhere safe with guards protecting you, but what happens if someone who intends to do you harm finds their way in?"

She walked beside him in silence for a few more meters, then reached over and took the knife. "How do I hold it again?"

He showed her how to arrange her fingers. "Press the button while you hold it like this, then adjust your grip on the handle."

It took her two tries to get the button to activate. The blade again swung out and sailed cleanly out of her hand.

"Sorry." She scrambled to retrieve it, holding the handle limply with her fingertips, the blade pointed downward. "It comes out so fast, and it startled me. I don't want to get my fingers cut."

He took it and folded it once more. "Watch." He flicked the blade open, his fingers easily and naturally sliding to grip the handle in the same motion. "See? You won't get your fingers cut."

Her eyes were wide. "I can't do that. That was too fast."

He folded the knife and put it in her hand, but kept his hand over hers. "Move your fingers like mine. Ready?" He repeated the motion. She jumped as the knife blade popped out, but her fingers stayed tight under his.

"See? As long as you hold it like that, you won't get cut." He let go of her hand. "Now you try it."

She fumbled pushing the blade back in, her cheeks a bit pinker than before. "Like this?" She arranged her fingers carefully on the handle.

He nodded.

She pressed the button and managed to keep her hold on the knife this time. She looked up in pleased surprise. "I think I got it."

"Now slide your fingers into a solid grip on the handle."

She wrapped her hand around the handle.

He reached over and plucked the blade from her hand.

"What?" she asked, looking confused.

"Don't let me take it." He handed it back. "Hold it like your life depends on it." Because it someday might, he chose not to add.

She gripped it again. He plucked it free again.

"Hey," she protested.

"Try again."

She made a face at him, then turned slightly away from him to adjust her grip. "Okay."

He only managed to pull the knife a couple centimeters this time. "Better. Try wrapping your thumb instead of resting it on the top."

This time her grip was solid. She grinned when his hand came back empty. "Like that?"

"Just like that."

"You learn fast," one of the Freed women commented, sounding pleased.

The lady flushed. Ronan wasn't sure if it was because she was embarrassed by the praise or because she hadn't realized the Freed were watching her progress.

As the afternoon faded, he had her practice closing and opening the blade until she could do it in one nearly smooth motion. "Much better. Feels better?"

She nodded. Her eyes took on a joking glint. "Maybe I should trade one of these jugs of water for a blade of my own."

"A blade like that? You'll need a couple jugs of water, at least."

"Two?"

"About." He shrugged as he sidestepped a withered bush. "Depends on which area you're in. Some of the cities have a harder time getting fresh water, so jugs are worth more there."

"Which areas are those?" Red asked, his face attentive.

Ronan raised an eyebrow.

"We occasionamently have to send out a scout to make some trades. Seems sometimes we end up on the short end of a deal." Red shifted his weight awkwardly. "Or more than sometimes."

"The south tends to be driest. There's one city in the north, Lilith, that sometimes has trouble with quakes blocking up the nearest fresh spring, and the surrounding area's been scavenged dry. But you'll know it when it happens. They'll come out asking you if you've got water to trade."

"But that would mean you shouldn't ask too much for it, if they're having trouble getting water," the lady said.

A few of the Freed burst out laughing before they realized she wasn't joking. They quickly shut up, apologetic expressions on their faces.

"So weapons are usually worth one or two jugs of water?" one of the Freed asked, quickly redirecting the conversation.

Ronan eyed the questioner and saw that the other Freed were waiting with curious expressions. These people didn't know how to value things much better than the lady did. It seemed strange, but he supposed that he had more exposure to society and trading than any of them ever had. The Freed traded out of necessity when they couldn't scrounge for what they needed. Ronan, on the other hand, had built his whole life around it.

"Type of weapon makes a difference." He gestured to the flip blade. "There aren't too many of those around that still work right. That makes them more valuable." He patted the larger knife at his side. "These can be found in just about any kitchen that's still intact. Easy scroungers, easy to replace. They're still valuable, but less so."

Three other Freed asked questions at the same time, their voices clanging together in brief discord. Ronan suddenly found himself the center of attention, the Freed all but tripping over themselves in their eagerness to get personal items appraised or ask about hypothetical trade situations.

"Here's one," a Freed woman said. "We ran into a guy a while back, offered to travel with us and give us protection in exchange for water and food while we traveled and five jugs of water and two bags of food when we parted ways. We don't generally let strangers travel with us, but we'd run into trouble recently, and it made us wonder if we should take him up on it. But Jay-Jay said he might be taking advantage, so we said no. Was that a good deal?"

"Depends on how far he was willing to go with you. One or two days, even three days, probably not so good a deal unless you were running into constant trouble. Five days or more, sure. A week? Great deal."

Red brought the group to a stop, and Ronan realized for the first time how dark the sky had grown. The last rays of sunset were barely visible behind them.

"We're just about duly north of the Adipose area," the large man said, sounding almost disappointed. "This is where we part ways. I hope you'll let us offer you some dinner?"

The lady turned to Ronan, brow lifted in hope for a yes.

He eyed the sun. They wouldn't get her home today even if they rushed, though they could still get a bit of distance covered before they needed to stop and sleep. But no harm in pausing for a brief meal.

The Freed squeezed in a few more questions while the safe tent was set up for the lady, and the conversation continued around mouthfuls of food as they ate.

"It'd be nice if we had someone like you with us," one of the Freed men commented. "Most people out there take advantage when someone doesn't really know the value of things."

The lady kept studious attention on her food, but Ronan still felt his cheeks warm. "Yeah. Lot of people like that out here."

"Or if only there was someone you could go to, maybe pay a little something to hear what everything's worth," another Freed suggested.

"Like an appraisamenter?" Red asked.

"Sure, like that," the Freed replied, clearly having no idea what Red was talking about. "Hey, I forgot." He dug a small handful coppers out of his pocket. "Sometimes we come across these, but we don't deal with them much. We'd rather trade goods for goods. At least we have some idea of what a jug of water's worth."

"Collect them when you find them. As many as you can. They'll get you a lot further than a jug of water."

"How much further?" Red asked.

"Ten to fifteen of those make a jug, more in the drier areas. They're smaller to carry, too, so easier to get around with. Some folks won't even trade for anything but coppers."

He suddenly had all of the Freed's attention again as their brains worked through the math.

"So a knife like that," one indicated the flip blade, "would be..."

"About thirty. Again, it varies, but it should be somewhere in that range."

"So how many coppers would it cost to employicate a fellow like you?" Red asked. "You said she's paying you in coppers, right?"

Ronan's throat abruptly turned as dry as the ground he sat on. He glanced at the lady. She'd heard everything he told the Freed about the value of things. How much had he revealed? Enough for her to put two and two together? He was gripped by the sudden fear that he had.

"It's not polite to pry," one of the women said, jabbing Red with an elbow.

"I was only articulating—"

"Jewelry," Ronan said, perhaps a little too quickly. "Jewelry's the other thing you want to watch for. It's lightweight and easy to carry, too, and when you find someone who likes it, you can usually get some decent goods out of them. Six or seven will get you a jug."

To his relief, the others followed him down the new conversational direction. He stole another glance at the lady. She was quiet. More quiet than before? Figuring out how badly he'd taken advantage of her naiveté? Or was he just imagining things?

He had to be imagining things. He repeated it to himself several times, but the hollow words didn't settle the unease in his stomach or lessen the guilt spike that had become ever-present in his chest.

They finished up, but took their time cleaning up and taking down the tent, trying to squeeze in as many more questions as they could.

Ronan finally had to bring a stop to it. They had to get moving if they were going to get any further distance before they had to stop for the night. "Sorry, but we best be on our way," he said, standing and adjusting his bag.

"If you can wait just a momentous, we'll pack up the tent for you to take," Red offered as he helped a couple others dismantle the contraption.

"No, you keep it," the lady said. "I don't think we have much further to go." She glanced at Ronan for confirmation. At his nod, she continued, "And you might come across another like me who needs it while you travel. Thank you for the offer, though."

"Then let us give you this." Red dug out a hammer and held it out. "As our way of showing our gratitudinous."

Suddenly Ronan and the lady were surrounded by hands offering all sorts of items, jewelry and shoes and food. All items he'd appraised, and all among the most valuable items the Freed had with them.

"We couldn't," the lady protested. "You've already done so much for us."

"You helped free most of us, and you gave us some good tips on how to get fair deals," one of the Freed women replied. "If we can't travel with you and take care of you, then at least take these."

"We'll be offended if you don't," another warned.

The lady gave Ronan a helpless look.

He stared at the items being offered, feeling the spike of guilt dig its way deeper into his flesh. If it'd been up to him, he'd have just taken the lady and left these people in the hands of the Slavers.

"Very offended," Red said, pushing the hammer closer.

Ronan finally dipped his head in polite acknowledgement and accepted the items. "Thank you."

Red tipped an invisible hat. "Safe ramblifications to you both." He waved a hand, and the Freed marched on along their eastward route.

Ronan stashed the new items and turned south. He checked the stars. They were only a bit further north than where he'd traveled before. Red was right; they weren't too far from the Adipose area, but it'd still be at least ten hours of walking. "Let's go."

The lady paused, then fiddled with the water at her side. She pushed two jugs toward him.

"Too heavy?" he asked, taking them.

"No, it's a trade." She tucked the flip blade in the top of her belt.

He laughed. "Trade? Technically, those water jugs are mine."

"I'm the one carrying them. From what I can figure out of your rules of possession, that makes them mine." She gave him a look that was halfway between a tease and a challenge.

He paused, then shook his head. "Can't argue with that. But..." He snaked a hand out and returned with the flip blade in his hand. "Now it's mine again."

She gasped. "I traded for that fair and square. And... how did you get it? I thought it was secure."

"Here." He stepped to her side and slid the knife under her belt, rearranging the folds of her clothes to fully hide it from view. Her cheeks turned pink again. "There," he said. "Don't let people see you have it."

She poked at the folds of cloth. "What if I have to get it out fast?"

He gestured toward the bottom edge of the belt. "Slide it out from beneath."

"Oh." She made a couple of false attempts before figuring out how to make the action swift and smooth. "That is easier."

"And safer."

She practiced a few times as they moved on. "That was decent of you, helping those people figure out how to value things."

He turned his attention back to their surroundings. The unease mingled with the guilt spike and tap-danced on his stomach, making him feel ill. "They were helping us out."

"Still, I know it's not the sort of thing you're used to."

They walked on in silence for a little longer.

He kept sneaking glances her way. Was she waiting in hope he fessed up first? Or had she really not figured out how badly he was ripping her off by taking the offer of five hundred coppers? That couldn't be the case. She was naïve to the world, but smart enough in her own way. She must have worked out the math. So why wasn't she saying anything?

The silence crushed in against him tighter and tighter until it finally squeezed the words out.

"I know you heard all that talk about what things are worth."

"It was informative."

Not the answer he was looking for. He looked away. "Two fifty."

"What?" She sounded confused.

"Anyone else would've escorted you for a hundred. I didn't want to go near Adipose because... because I've got some trouble there I'd rather avoid. That's why I wasn't going to help you at first. But when we were stuck in that shack, and there wasn't much choice but to help you..." The momentum gained from the strained silence escaped in a rush, leaving him hollow once more. "I'd have said yes for two hundred fifty. It would've been fair, with the amount of help you needed, the length of the trip, and my reasons for wanting to avoid the Adipose area."

She didn't answer.

He stole another glance, a little afraid of what he'd see on her face. She looked stunned. Her brow flickered through a series of thoughts she chose not to share.

He felt like he should say something else, like there were some other words that needed saying. For all the words that wouldn't stop flowing a moment ago, none would come now.

"Five hundred is what we agreed on," she finally said. "So that's what we'll pay you."

"No." Something inside him rebelled at the words, called him insane, told him to shut up. His mouth wouldn't obey. "Two fifty is fair. That's all I'll take."

She put a hand on his arm. A strange warmth tingled outward from the spot. "You didn't have to tell me that. I know it took a lot. I respect that."

The awkwardness returned. He bobbed his head arrhythmically a few times.

She withdrew her hand, and they continued forward. The silence no longer felt oppressive so much as uncomfortable.

"Well," she said, her tone a bit lighter, "at least you've gathered some things of value along the way to supplement. Like that ammo, and the gifts, and the chip—" She caught herself. "I mean, I don't believe it was right, but I understand that you have to make your own decisions about your choices, and I hope that it gains you what you hoped to get from it. That's all I mean."

The pressure returned. Words came out in a purging rush. "I gave the chip back."

She snapped her head toward him, genuine shock filling her eyes. "You what?"

He kept walking without answering.

She maintained pace beside him. "You didn't have to." She sounded faintly embarrassed. "I shouldn't have said those things. I was out of line. As I said, I didn't think it was right to take the chip, but what you do is your choice, not mine. It was inappropriate of me to act like it was my job to tell you what to do."

"Yeah. Well." His brain had chosen to disengage from the mess his mouth had made, leaving him with the eloquence of a Doper.

Her fingers sent another tickle of warmth across his arm. "That was very generous of you, choosing to go back and return it to them."

He cleared his throat. "It's pretty late. We should stop for the night." He eyed the area and spotted a small copse of dead trees, split trunks skewering the earth from various angles. "Over there."

The silence hung heavy and awkward as they set up the tent. He glanced at her, pressed by an odd desire to make things better. He looked up to the sky and found his answer there. "I know where we are, more or less. You said your people are north of Adipose? We'll have you back to them before midday tomorrow."

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, ready to see the relief and happiness on her face. Instead he saw a flash of devastation followed by emptiness. She turned her face away from him as she stepped inside the tent.

He followed her in and sat down beside her. "What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" Her voice sounded strained.

"I thought you'd be happy to get back to your people. They're your family, aren't they? And you'll be safe there, with all the guards. With everything that's happened," the guilt spike gave a quick twist to remind him of its presence, "I guess I just assumed you couldn't wait to get back to safety. That's how I'd feel."

She looked away. The moonlight reflected on a glimmer in the corner of her eye. "It's nothing."

"I know it's been a rough trip, but..." Then it hit him. She blamed herself for them getting caught by the Slavers. "You know what happened with the Slavers wasn't your fault. It was my fault, if anyone's, for letting you walk off on your own. I was supposed to be protecting you." Unless there was something more that happened with the Slavers she wasn't telling him.

Or something that happened with the Freed camp while he was unconscious. A flash of anger filled him at the thought. "Did something happen with those slaves? I swear, I'll track them down and—"

"I bloodied my hands," she blurted and burst out crying.

He blinked, staring. "You... You mean, when you saved my life? I told you, you didn't have a choice. You did the right thing. No one would say you did wrong."

She struggled to speak between gulping sobs. "I know... and... I'd do it again. I don't regret saving your life." She sniffled. "I had no choice."

He hesitated, unsure how to proceed. If she didn't regret it, then what was there to cry about? His father always said women were crazy folk who liked to cry over nothing, but he couldn't help feeling there was some meaning here he simply wasn't grasping. He carefully touched her cheek and turned her face toward him. "Tell me what's wrong."

She hiccupped out a few more sobs. When she spoke again, her voice was dull. "I can't be a Singer now. Singers can't have ever killed anyone."

He blinked. Is that all? he wanted to ask, but something inside of him silenced the thought. Obviously this meant a lot to her. "But you didn't. I mean, it wasn't like you just walked out and killed someone for no reason. You had no choice, like you said. You saved my life, and most likely your own as well."

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Singers have to be held to a higher standard than everyone else. I can still be part of the Righteous, but I can't be a Singer." New tears leaked. "I was so close."

"You can't even defend yourself if you're a Singer?"

She shook her head again.

"That's stupid." This time, the words came out before the thing inside could stop them. "I mean, it seems kind of ignorant of the real world. Sometimes you have to kill before someone else can kill you."

"That's why we have the guards. They take care of protecting us so the Singers can stay pure." She sniffled and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm just..." She sighed. "I'd always dreamed of being a Singer. And now..." Her head drooped.

"Maybe I can put in a good word for you," he offered, still feeling the need to make things right. Though it seemed laughable, the idea of someone like him putting in a 'good word' for someone like her. "I mean, they've got to understand—"

She put a hand on his, triggering that warm sensation again. "It's okay." She straightened her shoulders, regaining her composure. "Like I said, I don't regret what I did. And I can still be part of the choir. Maybe I could help the community in other ways." One of her cheeks nudged upwards in a half-smile, and she touched the bulge on her belt where the flip blade rested. "I'm well on my way to becoming one of the guards."

The joke fell flat, and both of them let it lay where it dropped.

The right words finally found their way to Ronan's mouth. "I'm sorry."

She gave him a sad smile. "We should get our rest."

"Right." He unrolled his mat for her, then lay down beside it.

It took him an abnormally long time to fall asleep.

* * *

Ronan had finished his day's reading from the journal before the lady woke. He'd been unable to fall back asleep after waking up to find it still mostly dark and had finally given up on the attempt. Now, the first rays of sunlight brushed the top edge of the tent above him, suggesting that the sun had cleared the horizon. Time to go.

He lightly tapped her shoulder. "Hey."

She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking hard to chase the last traces of sleep away. She looked calm this morning, almost happy as her eyes rested on him. Good. She must have gotten over the bloody hands thing. Maybe she realized that being a Singer wasn't all that important, or that the rules were pretty stupid. Either way, she looked a lot better.

"Let's pack up and get moving," he said, watching for the happiness in her eyes to spread.

Instead, it vanished back into that emptiness again. "Right," she said softly, sitting up.

Maybe his father was right. Women were crazy. Ronan pulled food from his pack, choosing to focus on the things he understood instead.

She sat up and gave a quiet groan, rubbing at a spot on her shoulder, but Ronan heard something else barely masked by the sound.

He put a hand on her arm, the swift movement startling her into frozen silence. He tilted his head, listening. There it was again.

Voices.

He put a finger to his lips, then dropped flat and peered under the bottom flap of the tent.

Seven men walked together about quarter kilometer away, walking almost directly toward them. Heavily armed. Chatting and laughing loudly, almost excessively so. The morning light glinted on something silvery and metal clipped to their arms.

His heart clenched painfully inward. Overlords.

Chapter 13

Ronan thought fast. The Overlords didn't seem to have spotted the tent, but that wouldn't last for long. The camouflage paint really only worked at a distance. The dead trees provided little in the way of cover to duck behind.

"What is it?" the lady whispered, crouching closer to him.

He looked at her, brain still whirring in a panicked, frantic rate. One thought came through clearly. Get her back to her people safely. He had to make sure she made it, no matter what.

He gathered up his bag and pulled it on his back, last grasps of ideas springing to life as his brain desperately sought some way to get both of them out of this intact. Each one fell dead to the ground in the face of logic. Only one course of action remained.

"There are men coming. Stay here and keep quiet." His voice was terse. "Not a sound, not a movement. Watch under the tent flap until all the men are distracted. Then," he pointed to the opposite tent wall, "slide out under the wall and straight into the trees. Get around behind them as low as you can. Keep the tent between yourself and the men, and stay low to the ground. Get underneath something if you can. Stay out of sight, you understand?"

She looked uncertain, but she nodded.

"Once the men are gone—all gone, not even a hint of them left—you head south. Keep the sun to your left. If you move fast and quiet, you should find your people before too long without running into any trouble."

"What?" she protested. "Alone? But you—"

"Quiet." He clenched his teeth, silencing the doubts and fears rattling his brain. This was the only way. "I'm sorry." He ducked out under the tent flap and stood, striding away from the tent as fast as he could. Focused, confident, long steps. He had to make sure the men's attention stayed on him and not on wondering where he'd appeared from, at least long enough for the lady to get clear of the tent.

It worked. The men slowed at the sight of him marching straight for them, their voices lowering, apparently trying to sort out what they were seeing. They most likely were used to seeing people cower or run from their presence. A man who walked straight at them had to be either a danger or a lunatic.

Ronan could help a smile. Lunatic. That summed it up. He kept his head high and didn't slow his pace for a moment.

The Overlords drew their weapons, braced for a fight.

"Back off," one said, standing just a bit shorter than the others but with the authority of someone who frequently had to fight for their place on the pecking order, "unless you want us to cut you a new hole."

Ronan lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Just out for a morning stroll." He adjusted his angle to a wider path around the far side of them. They would have to turn their backs toward the tent to keep eyes on him. Unless they decided to cut him down before he got that far.

"I said, back off!" Shorty barked.

Ronan shrugged. "Sure thing. I'll go over this way." He widened the path a bit more. The sense of impending doom lightened slightly as he continued, though. Was it possible they hadn't recognized him? Every experience he'd had with Overlords said that all members were equally attentive and watching for those who'd wronged the gang. He'd all but expected them to rush him as soon as he got within a hundred meters. Perhaps his unusual approach had distracted them enough that they didn't notice who he was.

If that was the case, maybe he could walk away from this intact after all.

The Overlords slowly turned to track him as he began to pass the group, maintaining a respectful distance to the side. He had to fight the impulse to glance back at the tent. This was the perfect moment for the lady to make her move. He just had to trust that she'd do so. Looking would only attract the men's attention. He had to keep them believing he was alone, and that meant acting like he was alone. Eyes forward. Wide stride. Never slowing.

"Hey," one of the men said in the thickened voice of one who didn't bother with brains very often. Still, a trace of intelligence hovered beneath the surface of his tone. Almost like recognition. Ronan picked up the pace.

"Hey," the thick one said, more urgently this time. "Isn't that the guy who killed Nicky?"

Ronan bolted.

But the men were too fast for that. One of them leapt into his path at the last moment, sending both of them sprawling. He scrambled back to his feet, reaching for his gun, but they were already on top of him. He lashed out, bobbing, weaving, kicking and punching. Too many. A fist slammed into his side, and the wound sent explosions of pain across his consciousness. By the time his vision, he was on his knees, his arms firmly in the grasp of the two largest men. He tried to tug free with no success. He spotted a few swelling bruises and a split lip among the group. At least he got that much.

Shorty glared into Ronan's face while one of the other men relieved Ronan of his weapons. "Yeah, that's him. I remember the ugly nose from the sketch."

Ronan spat at the ground in answer. Instinct told him to keep his mouth shut or try to offer a deal, but that wouldn't hold their attention. He had to keep all of them focused on him until he was sure the lady had enough time to hide herself. "Prettier than your sorry face."

Shorty backhanded him with a crack. Ronan tasted blood.

"Where'd he come from?" Thick asked.

A couple of them started to turn to where Ronan had approached from.

"Your mother," Ronan blurted out.

They turned back to him with blank or perplexed expressions.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shorty asked.

He didn't really have an answer. He'd heard the phrase used as an insult once in Lilith. Apparently, it was one of those local expressions that didn't travel well. He decided to shift the focus. "You guys want to walk away from here rich? Check out my bag. I've got coppers, ammo, tools, jewelry, anything you could want. It's all yours if you want it. I bet none of you even knew that guy..." He blanked on the name. "Uh... Nixie? I bet none of you knew him. What do you care if some random guy you didn't know turned up the bad end of a fight? But you let me walk, you can have it all."

Shorty's eyes narrowed. "You mess with one Overlord, you mess with all of us. Doesn't matter if we knew him or not." He leaned closer. "And his name was _Nicky_."

Ronan cursed inwardly. Names were stupid, anyway. But what would it take to convince these guys to take a bribe? "Accidents happen. And you're right, I did you wrong. But I'm willing to make up for it. You guys could turn me over and get a pat on the head from your boss. Or you could take that bag off my back, sell everything in it, and walk away rich. Up to you."

"Do you have any idea what the reward is for bringing you in?" Shorty grinned, then gestured toward two of the others. "Check the area. Make sure he doesn't have any pals hiding out."

Something in him wanted to quickly say he had no one else with him, but he clamped down on the urge. "Sure, I got pals. More than a dozen, just over the hill." He gestured northwest with his head. "You hurt me, they'll tear you to pieces. Just a friendly warning."

The Overlords laughed.

"Right. A dozen men," Shorty sneered.

To Ronan's dismay, it wasn't enough to work. The two men still walked back the way Ronan had come from. "I know where you can get a ton of coppers," he tried, but they stayed focused on their orders. "Over a thousand, I swear." Not even a flinch. They were sure he was lying and had stopped bothering to listen.

"Hey!" Thick called back. "A tent!"

"Check it out, moron," Shorty snapped. He eyed Ronan. "What're they going to find in there?"

"Ten men."

Another backhand.

"Nothing."

Shorty looked like he might strike again, but looked back and waited for the report from his men instead.

Ronan's chest tightened with every second, hope that the lady had escaped warring against the hovering fear that the call would come any moment now, the cry that they'd found someone else in the tent. Any second.

"It's empty," Thick reported.

Ronan's muscles nearly gave out on him. He barely managed to keep it together. If he showed relief, they'd want to know why.

"Grab it," Shorty said. "Let's bring in our catch."

The men released his arms one at a time to yank the bag off his back, then tied his hands behind him. One tied a loose rope around his neck like a leash as the other two rejoined the group, dragging Ronan's half-collapsed tent with them. Shorty didn't bother directing them to take it apart for easier travel, letting them struggle with it instead as he led the way southwest.

Ronan trudged along in the center of the group. He tested his guard by slowing down, but the men made it clear they weren't shy about yanking on the rope if they disliked his pace, and he gave up on that. As the copse of dead trees fell further and further behind, he fought back the urge to look over his shoulder. He just had to trust that he'd instructed her well enough. She'd escape. She'd make it back to her people. She'd be okay.

At least she'd made it out alive. The same wouldn't be said for him. He found it strange how easy it was for him to accept that fact.

The practice with the Freed made it easy for him to slide into his usual walking style, letting the time pass unheeded as he walked on, even with the noisy chatter of the Overlords around him. His state was intruded by the occasional jab or shove from around him, but the gang members weren't all that interested in doing much harm to him. They were content to mock and gloat. Simple enough to ignore.

They'd been walking for more than three hours before the building came into sight. Like the Slaver compound, a chain-link fence surrounded it, but this one was mostly intact. The building itself towered, windows stacking five high in a dirty gray face. A sign centered on the front said something like "Co nty ail" in faded lettering. A few guards patrolled the fence, but there didn't seem to be much movement inside or on top of the building itself. Less need for guards when no one would be stupid enough to mess with the Overlords.

As they got closer, Ronan heard thudding of flesh on wall and fence. He spotted a heavier-fenced area sandwiched between the perimeter fence and the side of the building. Boards and scrap metal reinforced the chain link, but he could see movement between them. Scuffles. Snarls. No running, but he still recognized the sounds of the movements. Ragers.

An unwelcome shudder crept between his shoulder blades. They kept a pack of Ragers trapped here? Insane.

"We got him!" Shorty hollered, leading the way through the fence. "We got the punk that dropped Nicky!"

The guards let out a few cheers in Shorty's direction and laughing sneers in Ronan's. He ignored the attention, focused instead on the building. The face didn't look like much for climbing, but the side had potential. He'd have to see the back to know if there might be a way in there, but—

He stopped the line of thought and almost laughed at himself. He wasn't going to climb out of this building. He was walking in to die. There was no use evaluating the area, looking for escape routes. It simply wasn't going to happen.

The lady was safe. That one thought made the rest not matter so much and kept his legs moving forward.

Two large doors loomed ahead, set into the front of the building, but they were marked with red Xs. Breached. Instead, the Overlords took him to a side door he hadn't noticed at first. It opened into a small, clear stairwell. A door at the landing led further into the building. A large window set into the top half showed nothing but darkness. So the marks on the front doors were false?

He didn't have time to dwell on the question as the men herded him up the stairs. Each floor had one of those windowed doors, each dark until they reached the third level. Thick held the door, and one of the men hurried through to open a second one.

Ronan couldn't help but admire the layout. One door usually wasn't enough to stop the spread of the gas, but two might be. If the two-door setup was on each floor, then logistically, each floor could be kept separate from the others in the case of a breach. Maybe that was why the first floor was marked as breached.

They continued through a winding hallway and finally entered a spacious room. The floor looked a bit cleaner in here than anywhere else in the building. The walls were decorated with faded, torn flags, objects that appeared to be trophies, and a few items that were bloody enough to make Ronan uninterested in trying to identify them. In the center of the room, a meaty man sat in a chair almost like a throne, greasy hair hanging to his shoulders and thick stubble decorating his chin. Other Overlords scurried around, apparently seeing to his needs or orders that had been given before Ronan entered the room.

A wiry man at the boss' side took a step forward, glaring at Shorty. "You were sent out for a reason, if I recall. What are you doing back so soon?"

Ronan couldn't see Shorty's face, but he could hear the grin in the smaller man's voice. "We found a present."

The men parted, and the one holding the rope jerked hard enough that Ronan lost his footing and landed on his knees at the front of the group, wincing. Shorty grabbed Ronan's hair and yanked his face upward for display.

Wiry's eyes turned nearly white in how wide he stretched them. Meaty, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes, his fingers lightly scratching at his chin stubble as the first traces of a smile marked his lips.

"It's him, isn't it?" Shorty pressed. "Eight hundred coppers, you said. First man to bring him in. That's us."

"Where did you find him?" Wiry asked. His eyes had returned to a more normal size and roved over Ronan like he was a trade object in need of evaluation.

"What's it matter? We brought him in, so we get the coppers."

Wiry flashed a glare at the smaller man. "You'll get your coppers once this vermin is dealt with. Now answer the question."

"He was just walking. Almost walked right into us. He'd set up a camp just a few hours north of here." Shorty waved at the others, and Ronan's tent and bag were deposited in an unceremonious heap on the floor at Meaty's feet. Thick dropped the weapons on top of the heap.

"That's all he had with him," Shorty continued. "Idiot tried to offer us his goods to let him go, but we were too smart for that. See, because we could take his goods and let him go, or we could bring him in and have his goods anyway." He leered in Ronan's face. "Didn't think about that one, didja, smart guy?"

Ronan kept his gaze fixed on Meaty, waiting. Shorty was nothing but bluster. Wiry was a puppet. The only one who he needed to be concerned with was the silent man on the throne.

"Fool," Wiry chuckled, giving Ronan a look of disdain. "What, you didn't think you'd get caught coming so close to our territory? Camping, even!" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "How generous of you to make our jobs so much easier. You—"

"Why were you camping there?" Meaty asked. His voice rumbled low, and it held a command beneath the question. Answer me, and I'd better like your answer.

Shorty instantly smacked the back of Ronan's head. "Answer the boss!"

Ronan ignored the man and the stinging pain of the blow. He kept his focus on Meaty, taking his time answering. "I had an opportunity to make some good coppers near Adipose. Too many to turn my back on. Figured I'd make the money and buy myself a friend in your gang."

The others looked to Meaty, waiting, but he simply resumed scratching at his stubble. Ronan's answer had passed.

"You thought you could buy your way out of trouble?" Wiry snorted. "Overlords are more loyal than wasteland scum like you. There isn't a single Overlord who would've taken a pittance and let you get away free after you killed—" He paused, glanced at Shorty.

"Nicky," Shorty supplied. "You remember, my cousin? Skinny guy?"

Wiry nodded. "Nicky."

That explained why these guys hadn't even considered Ronan's bribe. Blood relations. Any other Overlord would have at least examined the bag contents to see if it was worth their time to bother. Ronan's attention still remained on the boss. "Story might've been different if I'd had a few hundred coppers and ran into someone who wasn't related to the guy. Seems your boys have a misguided faith in your gang's loyalty."

Meaty looked almost amused, but Wiry's face twisted in fury. "How dare you?"

At the same time, Shorty spun, his fist flying and slamming into Ronan's jaw. Ronan rocked backwards. Before he could catch his balance, one of the others struck him on the bad side, flattening him. He gasped for air through the stunning array of lights and pain crackling through his entire system, refreshed every few seconds with new punishing blows.

"Enough." The boss' voice barely rose above the sound of fists and feet on flesh, but it brought the others to immediate stillness.

Ronan struggled for air, blinking to clear the spots from his vision.

Meaty planted his hands on the arms of the chair and stood. "Judgment."

Shorty crowed, hauling Ronan to his feet.

Blood rushed to Ronan's head, muting the world around him for a moment. When it cleared, he was being hauled down the hallways again. Meaty led the procession with Wiry all but dancing along behind him. Shorty and his crew whooped in rowdy celebration of what was to come.

Ronan caught a glimpse of sunlight and sandy horizon through the window. It struck him as strangely beautiful. He'd walked the desert all his life and never paused long enough to appreciate its simplicity, to admire the way the tan sands contrasted with the too-blue sky above.

He'd thought that when his time to die came, he'd go out fighting in a furious and terrific flare of glory. His last thoughts would be to kill or be killed, to enact as much violence and pain as he could before his body succumbed. Instead, he found his thoughts turning oddly introspective.

For all the dangers, the world really is beautiful.

Maybe I should've done something more with my life. Found a family of my own.

That lighter blue in the sky, the one higher above, is just like her eyes.

His feet slowed, holding onto that thought a moment longer.

Rough hands shoved him from behind, and the windows vanished as he entered the stairwell. Shorty glared at him. "What are you grinning about, punk?"

He hadn't realized he was smiling. "Your mother," he said, because it was the only thing that came to mind.

Shorty gave him a fierce push. "What's that supposed to mean? You're gonna die, and all you can do is blabber nonsense!"

"Keep moving." Wiry gave Shorty a look. "He'll get his soon enough."

They walked up one level. The door off the stairs opened to a hallway lined with barred cells facing a bank of heavy windows looking out the back side of the building, some with bars still on them, others only featuring a few broken shards of glass in the corners. The doors on all the cells stood open in a morbidly inviting way.

Shorty hauled Ronan inside the fourth cell down and shoved him to the floor. Then he stepped back into the hallway to join the other Overlords.

Meaty pointed to one of Shorty's crew. "Go tell Dopey to seal up the fourth floor cells. And you make sure he doesn't touch the vent controls until we give the say-so." His tone suggested that a grievous error had been made before, and the man would pay personally if it was made again.

The man vanished through the two doors to the stairway.

"This is what happens to people who mess with the Overlords," Shorty said, grinning triumphantly.

"Every time," Wiry added. He gave Ronan a look that dared disagreement.

"For what it's worth," Ronan said, "I wasn't aiming to kill."

Wiry spat and started to say something, but Meaty spoke first. "Let the condemned say his last words."

"He attacked me. I aimed for his shoulder. He turned right into the blade." Ronan shook his head. "Anyone else would've dodged it."

Thick chuckled. "Yeah, that's Nicky. Never was much for smarts."

Shorty punched Thick. "Shut up!"

Something whirred above Ronan's head. He took half a step back as the door to the cell rattled shut.

Wiry grinned. "Nice, isn't it? All sorts of gears running through this building. You just have to know which wheels to turn on the controls down on the bottom floor."

The breached first floor. Dopey. They had a Doper running the controls for them.

"But that isn't the best part." Wiry drummed his fingers on the barred door, barely restraining his glee. "See those vents above you? They go all over the place, down to the bottom floor and up to the roof. So, let's say Dopey closes up the vents leading to the roof and opens up the vents leading to this floor from his floor..."

Ronan wanted to play dumb, but his brain was already working it together. Open vents from the ground floor would let the condensed gas in. Closed vents to the roof would keep it from dissipating out.

Wiry's grin widened as he saw the understanding on Ronan's face. "And it's all reusable. Close the vents to the bottom floor, open up to the roof, and it clears itself out. See, because—"

"You killed one of ours," Meaty said, his voice even. A neutral judge delivering justice. "So now you die." Apparently, that was all the prescribed ceremony, because he then turned and walked out, Shorty and his crew trailing behind him. Shorty gave one last sneer before crossing between the doors.

Wiry lingered a moment longer, trailing his fingers across the bars.

"Come on," Thick called. "We gotta clear the building. Everyone's gotta be outside before Dopey messes with the controls. Just in case. Boss says."

"I'm coming," Wiry snapped. "Go on. I'll be right there."

Thick shrugged and walked out, leaving Wiry alone in the hall.

Wiry faced Ronan, an unpleasant gleam in his eye. "Most die, of course. Some turn Doper and get to spend the rest of their stupid, incapable little lives waiting on us hand and foot. I'm okay with either of those." He leaned closer. "But my favorite is when they turn Rager. If we get too many caged up in our pen, we get to have us some target practice." He laughed, slapped the bars to make them ring, then flounced down the hallway.

"Good luck!" he shouted behind him, his laughter echoing in the hall as the door shut behind him.

Ronan exhaled and adjusted his fingers to work the knots on his wrists free. A clicking sound came as vents slipped shut above him. He picked up the pace and managed to loosen the rope enough to work one hand free. He pulled the other rope off his neck and grabbed the barred door, shoving with all his might to get it to slide open again.

It didn't budge.

He put his whole weight into it, straining with everything he had, but the metal remained locked in place. He had the feeling he could've had ten men pushing with him to no effect. It had to be opened through the controls below. That's why they were so confident to leave him unguarded. There was literally no way out.

Movement by one of the glassless windows caught his eye. He looked up and found his jaw dropping as a swish of long skirts preceded the lady. She fumbled at the window frame for a moment, lost her grip, and wobbled before landing on the floor with an ungraceful crash.

He grabbed the bars. "What are you doing? Get out of here!"

She scrambled back to her feet, excitement in her eyes. "I did what you said. They didn't see me. And your journal was right. About the 'climbing the outside of buildings' part. There was a ladder on the side, behind the Rager pen, all the way to the roof. No one was watching. I heard them talking to you and climbed down to this window. I don't think they even knew I was here."

"Get out of here!" he repeated, flinging a finger toward the window she'd come through. "If they find you here—"

The lady ignored him, crossing to the door and tugging on it. "How do we get you out?"

"You can't. The controls are all on the first floor." He eyed the windows, trying to see how far away the Overlords had gone in clearing the building. If she left now, would they spot her? Or had they gathered at the front of the building? He could only hope. "I told you, get back to your people. They can't be far from here."

"First floor. Got it." She turned.

He caught her arm. "You aren't listening! You can't go down there. It's breached." He glanced upward at the vents and saw a fine purple mist just beginning to form. "You can't stay here, either. Just get out of here. If you hurry, they won't find you."

She followed his glance and flinched at the sight of the gathering cloud. "But—"

"Go. Now."

She looked at him, then the mist, then him again. She abruptly reached between the bars and pulled him closer, used her other hand to yank the gas mask to the side, and kissed him, hard. Stunned, he stared as shock mingled with an odd sense of warmth.

The mask dropped back in place. She spun and bolted down the hallway.

"No!" he shouted, but it was already too late. The door swung shut behind a flurry of skirts.

He pounded on the bars with his fists, tore into the door, fought against whatever gears and mechanisms held it shut. Neither his muscles nor his rage could convince it to budge.

The mist thickened as it spread, but he hardly noticed, all his focus on the cell, on trying to find a way out. She couldn't go down to the bottom floor. She'd never make it. She couldn't hold her breath long enough to find the controls and figure out how to work them. The gas mask would clog in the face of the thick, condensed gas, and she'd have to either breathe the gas or suffocate. Pain reverberated through his hands as he pounded on the bars yet again.

His next breath brought a terrible scratching sensation that made him gag and cough. He dropped lower, trying to get under the growing gas cloud, but it was too late. He closed his throat tight, refusing to let more of the gas in, though his lungs screamed in protest at the action. A moment ago, he'd been ready to accept his death, to give in to the fact that his luck had run out. But now he couldn't die. He had to find a way out. Had to reach the lady before she got herself killed.

Something above him clicked. The vents.

He looked up, but couldn't see through the heavy fog. She'd made it? Impossible. Even if she'd found the controls, how could she have known which ones to manipulate? He found it hard to believe the Overlords would have everything neatly labeled.

The cough he was holding tried to force its way out. He clenched his teeth.

Another clicking sound. The fog grew lighter as the gas found a clear path upward.

A rattle. The door lurched and slowly rolled open.

Ronan bolted through the gap the instant it was wide enough for his body to fit. Filtered sunlight tempted from the nearby open window, but he ignored it. Had to get downstairs. Had to find the lady. She couldn't survive in the breached floor. It was only by some bizarre miracle she'd stayed conscious long enough to get him free.

His legs threatened mutiny along with his lungs as he raced down the hallway, but he forced them onward. Found the door. Yanked it open. Barely remembered to make sure it shut behind him before he went through the next door. He burst out into the stairs, finally releasing the cough that pounded at his ribs. He didn't let his legs slow down for a moment even as he hacked and choked, letting the clear air in the stairwell dilute the gas he'd breathed in. But not slowing, not stopping. Down the first flight of stairs. Second.

His eyes searched ahead of him as he ran. Partly watching for the Overlords to return. Would they see that something had gone wrong? Would they come back inside to investigate? He had to get to the first floor before that happened.

But his searching eyes sought in vain hope for dark hair, blue eyes, long skirts, a mask. Perhaps whatever miracle had allowed her to get him free had also seen her back outside of the fog before she breathed any of it in and passed out. He could only hope. She'd come up the stairs and meet him. They'd find their way to the roof and escape together.

As he passed the next level, the hope grew more painfully intense even as reality overshadowed it. She was a sensie. There was no way she made it back out of the fog.

He reached the bottom landing. Sucked in a deep breath. Pushed his way through the doors into the breached first floor.

The fog pressed cold against his skin, swirling lazily around his movements as he rushed onward, his way dimly lit by light filtering in through the windows. Where would she be? Near the controls. Where were they? And how had she found them so quickly?

A shadow loomed ahead of him, moving closer through the purple. Too big to be the lady. The Doper.

Ronan slowed, his hand going to his side where his knife usually rested. No knife. He'd have to fight with his fists.

No, a voice inside screeched. No time. And no way he could fight in this fog. He'd have to breathe. Then he'd die, and the lady would die, and all of this would have been for nothing.

The Doper materialized, a cross look on his moon face. "You no Overlord."

Ronan's brain raced. He had to find a way around this guy. There had to be a way. How had the lady done it?

A glint of metal answered Ronan's question. The lady's necklace swung against Dopey's chest.

Ronan pointed to the necklace, hoping with all his might that Dopey would understand.

The man looked down at the necklace. "Mine."

Ronan nodded and pointed again, more emphatically. Fire crackled at his lungs.

"Mine," Dopey said again, clearly not quite understanding.

Ronan tried to lift the necklace, desperate for some way to make the Doper understand.

"Mine!" Dopey stepped back, putting a protective hand on the trinket. He scowled at Ronan. "Bad!"

Curses flew through Ronan's mind at lightning speed. His lungs added a few of their own. His control almost slipped. He had to think, had to figure this out. How could he convince Dopey he was a friend?

It clicked. He fumbled desperately at himself, searching for something he could give, and finally pulled off one shoe and held it out.

Dopey eyed it suspiciously.

Ronan spared a fraction of his lungful. "Gift."

"Gift." Dopey inspected the shoe. "Mine?"

Ronan nodded, his hunger for air making his movements jerky.

Dopey beamed and took the shoe. "Mine. Friend."

Ronan bobbed his head again, then pointed to the necklace, sparing a bit more air. "Friend?"

Dopey blinked. "Friend?" He touched the necklace, and his eyes lit up. "Mask friend."

Ronan's legs wobbled. He nodded, struggling to stay upright. "Where?"

"Sleeping."

Everything inside Ronan turned cold, even colder than the gas pressing in on him, trying to find its way into his lungs. His lungs, for their part, seemed all too eager to let it. His vision blurred, and he gave in and sucked in a breath of the thick fog. It tore at his insides all the way down, but he closed his throat behind it, refusing to cough and breathe in any more. "Where?" The word came out ragged.

Dopey turned and ambled off into the fog.

Ronan followed close behind, stumbling into boxes and chairs that appeared out of the fog at random intervals. He almost ran into Dopey's broad back when the man came to a stop and pointed.

A panel of wheels and levers were barely visible against the darker side of the room, jutting from the wall. Just below the controls lay a crumpled figure.

Lily.

Chapter 14

Ronan's heart jolted painfully in his chest. He fell to one knee and scooped her up in his arms. Struggled back to his feet. Had to get out of here.

The air tore free of his lungs without warning as his chest gave in and forced a violent cough. He stumbled sideways and hit the wall hard, sending a fresh reverberation of pain through his system and almost breaking his grip. He drew in another gasp of poisoned air before he managed to get his throat closed again. His body shook, rebelling against the toxin.

"What you doing?" Dopey asked, looking perplexed.

Ronan fought his legs into cooperation. Stumbled onward, back toward the doors. Had to reach the stairs. Had to get clear of the gas.

His legs struck something solid, one of the chairs. The world tipped. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he was still upright. Flecks of light danced through the purple like sparks rising from a fire, taunting him. White blotted out half of them as his vision faded.

Dopey appeared in front of him again. "What you doing?"

Ronan's legs wouldn't work anymore. "Out," he managed to gasp. "Help."

Dopey regarded him as if trying to sort out a complex puzzle. The whiteness grew. Ronan's lungs were ready to let go and just suck in breaths of the gas, accept the death it brought. It took everything in him to keep from giving in to their demands.

And then his shirt was tight, and he was flying. No, not flying. The ground sailed past beneath his feet as Dopey lumbered along, his fist balled in the back of Ronan's shirt, ambling to the doors as if his burden weighed nothing.

Ronan's brain dimly registered movement. He was losing his grip. He tightened his arms, clinging to her. Couldn't let her go. Couldn't lose her again.

A wash of warm, dry air poured over Ronan's head, then his shoulders.

"Out," Dopey said, sounding proud as he let go of Ronan's shirt.

Ronan barely managed to get his knees and one hand down to prevent himself from crashing to the floor. The poisoned air tore free from his lungs in a rush of coughs, but what replaced it was clearer, cleaner. He was in the space between the two doors. Sucking in air, Ronan struggled back to his feet. Dopey had retreated back into the breach and closed the door behind himself, but he stood as a vague shadow within the swirling purple fog, waving.

Out. Ronan's legs, fueled by the fresher air, finally resumed cooperation. He shoved his way through the second door and spilled into the stairwell, crashing to the floor as the door peacefully swung shut behind him. More coughs and gasps gripped his chest, but now that his brain was no longer starved for air, it refocused. He shoved himself upright and turned to Lily.

She lay crumpled on her side, skin ashen above the dark mask. He pulled her onto her back and fumbled with the mask straps. Thick, purple goo coated the mesh over the filters. He had to get them clear.

Something whispered that he was too late. She's already dead. Just look at her. You took too long. You failed.

He rejected the voice. It couldn't have been more than a minute and or two since she went into the breached level. It felt like longer—everything felt longer when your lungs are dying for air—but it hadn't been too long. He could still save her.

The mask came free. He fumbled with the little bag hanging off her belt, found the rag and the last of her fresh filters. His fingers seemed too big, too clumsy, an after effect of the oxygen deprivation. He yanked the old purple-stained filters out of her mask and worked the rag over the mesh. The goo reluctantly gave up its hold.

Why had she worn her mask? She had to have known it would only clog. She had to have.

The last traces of purple goo surrendered to the rag. He tried to cram the new filters in. The first one tore under his heavy-handed work. He cursed and tried again, slower this time.

It clicked. She wouldn't have made it as far without the mask. It spared her a few breaths, at least, before it clogged beyond use. And even then, she'd chosen to leave it on. She'd suffocated rather than breathe in the gas. Lasted longer that way.

The second filter mushed itself in his hand, but he struggled and worked it around until it fit into place. One left.

Horror at the thought of her choice blended itself with a new sense of hope. Some of the gas would have made it in, but not much. She could still be alive.

The third filter slid home. He slapped the filter cover shut and shoved the mask over her face.

Nothing.

He searched her face for some sign of life, but she didn't move, didn't breathe. Panic crept in at the edges of his mind. He held it at bay, the journal's last pages at the front of his thoughts. She needed air. Clean air.

He lifted the mask to his own face and sucked in a breath. The air crackled down his throat, overly sweet and dry. He almost choked on the foreign sensation, but he clamped down on the impulse, holding the scratching air tight. He bent over her and forced the air into her lungs, then shoved the mask over her face again.

Nothing.

The panic reasserted itself. He was too late. She was dead.

Determination—or desperation—compelled his arms to move. She can't be dead. Not after all they'd been through. Not for his sake.

He pulled the mask over his mouth, sucked in another breath of the parched air that nearly made him gag. Forced it into her lungs. Pushed the mask over her face.

"Come on, Lily." His voice came out in a harsh rasp. "Breathe."

Her chest twitched, jerked. She coughed weakly, then harder. He grabbed the back of her head to keep the mask from sliding free. The coughing subsided into weak, steady breaths.

His muscles turned into something akin to the purple goo. He caught himself before he could collapse in relief. She wasn't out of danger yet. They were still right there in the Overlords' home base. It was only some miracle that they hadn't come back inside and discovered him and her right here in the stairwell. Likely they had to keep the building clear for some time to make sure Dopey did his job right before they returned, but it couldn't be much longer before now.

He strapped the mask to her head, working gently but fast. Her eyes fluttered, then flew open in alarm. Her hands flew to push his away.

He caught her wrists. "It's me. You're okay." He wasn't sure why he felt such a powerful need to repeat it, but his mouth gave in to the compulsion. "You're okay."

She blinked, coughing again, confusion and wonder in her eyes. "But I..." Her voice was weak. "You—"

He pulled her to her feet before she could say more. "We have to get out of here." They couldn't go out this level without being spotted, since the exit here was the main way the Overlords came and went. They'd have to go further up and find another way out.

She swayed, her hands fumbling at his arm as she fought for balance. He wrapped an arm around her side and pulled her close, his legs already propelling them up the stairs. She clung to him without complaint at the less-than-gentle hauling.

His brain worked rapidly as they rushed upwards. He knew the entrance to the fourth floor ran along the back wall of the building, but had it been long enough for the gas to dissipate? Neither of them were in any shape to face the condensed substance again. His lungs still ached and pleaded for rest. She was moving stronger at his side, now, but still tripping and leaning heavily on him. And the filters in her mask were the last ones she had. He couldn't let anything happen to compromise them.

The roof. "You said you climbed down from the roof," he said between panting breaths.

She bobbed her head.

"There's a ladder up there?"

"On the side," she gulped out.

Behind the Rager pen, she'd said. No wonder no one watched that area closely. If they could get to the roof, they could climb down the ladder and slip away. And if they were very lucky, they'd be long gone before the Overlords had time to realize anything was amiss.

A clattering sound caught his ears as they passed the third floor. He froze, chest heaving, listening for the inevitable rush of Overlord feet storming up the stairs after him.

Silence. He'd been imagining things. He pushed onward, faster.

Lily struggled to keep up, still clinging to him but putting more weight on her own legs now. "What? Did you hear something?"

He shook his head. "Hurry." How long would the Overlords stay clear of the building? Not much longer. And once they found the fourth floor deserted...

They reached the fourth floor landing and kept going. Ronan didn't even bother checking the windows to see if the gas was gone. She was moving stronger now, but better to aim for the ladder and be sure of a safe climb down. His wounded side ached, not healed enough to handle such strain. He ignored it.

Another loud clang from below. He paused. Heard voices and feet thudding on the stairs.

Lily gasped.

He tightened his grip on her and sped up. They were so close. There had to be some way to get onto the roof from the top floor. And then it was just a climb down the side, and they'd run free, putting as much distance between themselves and the building as they could. They were going to make it.

The sounds continued to echo from below, but there was no indication of pursuit. The Overlords still didn't realize they were there. It wouldn't be long, though.

The stairs ended on the fifth floor landing with two doors, neither of them with windows. He tried the first one. It didn't budge.

Pressure built in his chest. Tactically, the landing was the worst place for them to be trapped, especially with no weapons.

The second doorknob twisted freely, to his relief. The door opened onto a stairway. The way to the roof. He pulled her onto the stairs and shut the door carefully behind them, trying to keep it from making any noise. They'd made it. They were clear.

"It's going to be okay," he said without really realizing he was speaking out loud. He hurried her up the stairs to one final door, thick and windowless. The door onto the roof. As long as it wasn't locked...

He gripped the knob. It turned readily beneath his hand. He let out the breath he'd been holding and pushed the door open.

Wiry sneered in his face. "He's here, boss."

Ronan grunted in surprise and tried to backpedal, but hands already caught his arms, yanked him out onto the roof, tore Lily away. She cried out, reaching for him.

Rage pounded through his veins. "Let her go!" He lashed out at the men holding him, kicking and swinging to try to break free, but one blow to his injured side left him on his knees, fighting to stay focused through the pain.

"Stop, please!" Lily's voice cut through the pain haze gripping him.

Ronan caught a glimpse of Shorty's gloating face as the man raised his fist again.

"Stand down." Meaty's voice rumbled, once again barely audible above the scuffle, once again met with immediate obedience.

Ronan blinked his vision clear as the boss walked slowly forward, studying the two captives. The roof was expansive, flat, and surprisingly clear of debris aside from the occasional broken board or chunk of metal scattered near the edges. The sounds of Rager snarls and thuds drifted up, louder now, most likely attracted to the sounds of people on the roof.

Two men held Ronan's arms in a tight lock, keeping him from rising from his knees. Shorty stood beside them, looking ready to slice Ronan's throat open at a single word from Meaty. Another man watched from Ronan's other side, face so still and sedate that it almost hid the eagerness for blood in his eyes. Wiry hovered close to the boss, a triumphant smirk on his face.

Two more Overlords held Lily, keeping her arms twisted behind her back no matter how much she squirmed. Ronan felt a new blend of fury and fear wash through his system. Fear won out. "Let her go. She's got nothing to do with this."

Shorty smacked him. "Shut up, punk. Dead men don't get to talk."

Meaty gave Lily a longer, slower evaluation, then turned to one of the men holding Ronan. "You were right. Someone was up on the roof. Nice work."

Ronan cringed. An Overlord had seen her when she climbed on the roof. Doubtless the back of the building was being watched, too. They would've been caught regardless of which way they'd tried to escape.

"You're going to have to have another word with Dopey," Meaty continued, addressing Wiry now. "Or maybe it's time for him to entertain the Ragers. We've got another couple Dopers who could handle his job." He finally faced Ronan. "But we have some trouble to deal with first."

"She's no threat to you," Ronan tried again. "Do what you have to with me, but let her go."

"Don't hurt him," Lily said, her protest ending in a squeak of pain as one of the Overlords yanked her arm further in the twist, silencing her.

Ronan stiffened, the sound of her pain like a knife in his flesh.

"We're not in the business of letting prisoners go." Wiry clearly relished every word.

Meaty looked bored. "Take her below."

She struggled, trying to break free as the men hauled her toward the stairs.

"Her people are loaded," Ronan blurted.

Meaty's hand flashed upward, stopping their departure. His eyes remained fixed on Ronan, waiting.

He spoke fast. "The Order of the Righteous. They aren't far from here."

"Those high and mighty freaks?" Wiry snorted.

Meaty cast a disapproving look in response. "We have no quarrel with the Righteous."

Fragile hope fluttered alive. The Overlords not only knew where her home was, but were on peaceful terms with her people. "They were going to pay me five hundred coppers for bringing her safely to them. I'm sure they'd do the same for you. Get her home unharmed, and they'll reward you for it, I swear."

She looked like she wanted to protest, but seemed to understand the danger she was in well enough to stay silent.

"She tried to help him escape justice," Shorty whined. "No one crosses the Overlords and walks away. No one."

Meaty scratched at his chin stubble. "I said, we have no quarrel with the Righteous. No harm done in shooing one of their lost lambs back inside the tower."

"But—" Shorty started.

Meaty cast him a deathly glare. The smaller man fell immediately silent, his expression angry but unwilling to challenge his boss.

The fear that had kept Ronan frozen in place vanished. He sagged against the arms holding him. She was going to be okay. The Overlord boss had been smart enough to see the facts for what they were. He'd gain nothing from killing her, nor risk anything by sparing her. She wouldn't be spreading news of Overlord mercy, after all, while tucked safely away within her walls. But he stood to gain plenty from her safe return. Meaty wouldn't let any harm come to her.

Which still left him in their hands, but he didn't much care. He was even less concerned now than he had been when they first caught him. Before, he hadn't known for sure if she would make it safely back to her people. Now he did.

"As for you," Meaty continued, his focus back on Ronan. "You're proving to be more trouble than you're worth." He nodded to his men.

Ronan closed his eyes, ready for the bullet or blade or whatever they saw fit to use. It was over.

Instead, he was shoved forward. His now-free arms swung down to catch himself before he did a face plant on the roof. He looked up to see Meaty handing over a gun and knife to Wiry. The other Overlords backed up, waiting expectantly.

He cautiously got to his feet, watching the boss' face carefully. What was he up to?

The answer came as Meaty handed one last knife to Wiry. Wiry stepped back, and Meaty shifted his feet and fists into a fighting stance.

Ronan almost laughed out loud. A fight? They had to be joking. "Just kill me and be done with it."

"Ronan!" Lily protested.

"You defied the Overlords by killing one of our own. You defied us a second time by attempting to escape your justice," Meaty intoned. "Anyone who defies us dies. Anyone who attempts it a second time faces me."

Meaty's muscles rippled as he spoke. Control, Ronan realized. This was less about some melodramatic display of bravado and more about control. Knowing that crossing the Overlords brought death would be enough to deter most people. Knowing that pressing matters brought the humiliation of defeat followed by a slow, agonizing beating to death at the hands of the giant of a leader would be enough to prevent anyone with thoughts of rebellion from stepping out of line.

But he wasn't interested in playing that game. He shook his head.

Meaty's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe I should just toss you to the Ragers. Along with your pretty friend there."

Ronan couldn't stop himself from glancing back at Lily's pale, frightened face. His jaw tightened. Message received. Give the boss a good fight, or she dies.

So be it.

He lunged with a roar, big and loud. Meaty grinned and shifted his stance, one arm moving to deflect the incoming attack while the other lifted in preparation for counterstrike.

At the last moment, Ronan ducked to the side and came up with a solid elbow to the other man's chin, staggering him backwards. Ronan pressed the attack, following him with a second blow, a third.

Something solid hit him from behind, setting off sparks in his brain. He staggered sideways, turning to face his new opponent. Wiry lunged again, hands stretched toward Ronan's throat.

Meaty caught Wiry by the back of the collar and sent him flying three meters across the roof, almost right off the edge. "Keep your ugly nose out of this!" he thundered. He paused to wipe a smear of blood from his lip, giving the other Overlords that same death glare he'd given Shorty before. "Any one of you interferes, I'll throw you to the Ragers myself."

The gang members all took another step back, widening the fighting space.

Lily looked at Ronan with those fearful eyes. He opened his mouth to reassure her it'd be okay. He'd put up a good fight, and then Meaty would make sure she was returned safely to her people. But the roof trembled beneath his feet, alerting him of Meaty's charge.

He spun, lowering his weight. He took a hard strike to his good side, but managed to unbalance the larger man. Meaty stumbled, and Ronan took advantage of the opportunity for a sharp blow aimed for the man's head.

Meaty caught his fist and delivered a crushing strike to Ronan's ribcage, then a second one in succession. Ronan blocked the third blow, twisting. The grip on his fist was like iron. He barely saw the kick coming in time to dodge it and lost his footing, sagging into the man's grip. A finger snapped as Meaty tightened his fist.

Pain strengthened Ronan's next blow, catching Meaty in the solar plexus and loosening the grip. Ronan tore free and staggered backward almost to the edge, regaining distance between himself and his enemy. Fire seared through his ribs, and his wounded side screeched. He wouldn't last much longer.

Meaty swung wide. Ronan deflected with one arm while backing up further, trying to maintain that distance. Meaty's blow sent pain reverberating up Ronan's arm and through his body, drawing a grunt of pain. The snarls of the Ragers increased, driven by the sounds of the fight above.

Ronan barely had time to regroup himself before the next blow came. Another block, another wave of pain rattling his whole body. Meaty held nothing back now, pummeling in a maddened frenzy that left Ronan struggling to keep up.

"No!" Lily cried out. "Stop, please! Stop it!"

Ronan clenched his teeth, but his strength waned. Meaty's next punch blew right through Ronan's block and slammed ringingly into the side of Ronan's head. He dropped to one knee, hardly able to keep himself upright, his arms flailing in weakened attempts to stave off the furious attacks. Soon he wouldn't even be able to manage that much. It was over.

Chapter 15

"Please!"

The anguish in Lily's voice struck something primal. Ronan lunged forward in one final, desperate attempt at a counterattack, aiming low for a sweeping strike. The explosive movement from his fallen opponent caught Meaty off guard. The big man staggered sideways. His feet hit a twisted chunk of loose metal.

Someone shouted behind them as the giant man tumbled, pitching face-first toward the edge of the roof. His hip slammed into the side. His fingers scrabbled for surface as his body flipped over and vanished off the edge.

More shouts. Ronan pulled himself forward to see over the side. Meaty clung to the metal gutter as it dipped and groaned under his weight. The Ragers below writhed in their struggle to reach for the man, eager for him to fall, eager to receive his body and tear it to pieces.

Ronan's hand was on Meaty's wrist before he really knew what he was doing. He could hear commotion behind him, loud cries, rushing feet, but it all seemed to blur into the background. Meaty's fingers slipped, and the big man yelped as he lost a few centimeters. Terror filled his eyes, washed his face of color. It didn't matter how big or strong you were. Fear always came at the end.

Everything seemed to be going too slow and too fast all at once. A faint voice in Ronan's mind screeched at him to let go. It's what Meaty would have done. It's what anyone would have done. The journal itself spelled out the plain truth: if you get a chance to end an enemy, take it, or the only thanks you'll get is his knife in your back at the first opportunity.

Another voice spoke at the same time, quieter, calmer, almost alien. No one deserves to die like this.

Meaty slipped another few centimeters. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable.

Ronan's grip tightened on the man's wrist, and he pulled with all his might, hauling the man upward, using his other hand to push against the roof as a counterweight. His side unleashed a torrent of agony that blotted out the sun, but he only clenched his teeth and pulled harder. The weight eased as Meaty found a grip on the side and pulled, dragging himself up over the edge, flopping and scooting in a frantic rush.

Ronan dropped to his side at the release of weight, closing his eyes and panting. He should open his eyes, get to his feet, brace for attack, but his limbs no longer accepted his commands. Pain throbbed through him, keeping him paralyzed, helpless.

It seemed a long time passed where all he could sense around him was his own pulse thundering through his skull. He finally pried his eyes open and saw the black abyss of a gun barrel hovering over his eyes. Wiry stood over him, glaring down with a twitching expression, as if he wasn't sure whether to be furious or surprised.

Meaty sat less than a meter away, fussed over by a few of the others. He waved them aside, chest heaving through the last aftereffects of his exertion.

Ronan wanted to close his eyes again. Here it came. Either Meaty would kill him or order Wiry to finish it for him.

But Meaty only stared as if Ronan was some sort of freak of nature. "That was the dumbest, stupidest, most idiotic thing I've ever seen in my life," he finally said.

Ronan nodded, not really able to do anything else.

Meaty leaned forward to spit over the edge of the roof onto the Ragers below, then settled back, chuckling.

Wiry glanced at his boss, uncertainty coloring his face. He stepped back away from Ronan, extending the gun's grip toward Meaty. "He's all yours, boss."

Meaty nodded, taking the gun. He hefted it in his hand a couple times, then waved it toward the men holding Lily. "Get your greasy paws off her. You," he pointed to one, "go get their things and find someone to escort them to the border."

No one moved, staring at Meaty in unmasked shock. Ronan's mouth worked as he struggled to sit up, trying to find words and failing.

Shorty recovered first, his voice coming out high-pitched with fury. "You're letting them go? You can't! What about Nicky? This punk killed Nicky!"

Meaty snorted. "Nicky was a putz. Besides, from what I heard, he drew first. Any idiot who draws on a better fighter over a few coppers isn't smart enough to be an Overlord." He gestured to one of the others. "Go send out the messengers and spread the word. This guy's clear."

The men still didn't move.

Meaty's eyes narrowed. The gesture broke through whatever held the men frozen in place. The men released Lily and disappeared down the stairs to carry out their boss' orders.

Lily rushed to Ronan's side and clutched his arm, pressing a hand against his side. He hadn't realized until then that it was bleeding again. She didn't say anything, seeming afraid that any spoken words would wake them and prove this reprieve nothing but a dream. Ronan felt the same way.

"You can't let him go free," Wiry protested. "No one messes with the Overlords and gets away with it. Everyone knows that. If you let him—"

The death glare shifted to him, shutting him up. Meaty held the gaze there for a moment, then eyed Ronan. "You plan on blabbing?"

Ronan shook his head.

"Good enough for me." Meaty lumbered to his feet and dusted off his clothes.

"But—" Wiry started again.

Meaty scowled. "You challenging my decision?"

Wiry's face turned an impressive shade of scarlet. He didn't say anything further.

Lily helped Ronan stand. His numb mouth finally worked again, albeit stilted. "Thank you."

Meaty shook his head. "You're all right. Now get yourself and your friend out of here before I change my mind."

The Overlords parted, still seeming too shocked to respond, as Ronan and Lily crossed to the stairs. He found himself leaning more on her than he intended. Muted footfalls came behind them as the stunned Overlords followed.

They ran into the other Overlords on the third floor landing, one whose arms were loaded with Ronan's things and the other who led one of the armed men who'd been watching the perimeter before.

"I got most of it," the one puffed, shoving the items at Ronan. "Some had... gotten misplaced." He cringed away from Meaty.

Meaty kept walking past them to the doors leading into the third floor, apparently confident that his men would carry out the orders without further supervision. "I'm sure he understands a few things getting lost."

Ronan nodded quickly, accepting his things and only taking a brief moment to reassure himself that the journal was still there before he painfully slid the bag on his back. Lily quickly took a few things and helped him settle the rest.

The first door slid shut behind Meaty. Wiry turned to follow, then leaned in closer to Ronan. "I know your kind. It won't be long before you cross us again. I'll be waiting." He gave one last glare, then vanished after his boss.

The look Shorty gave Ronan echoed that sentiment, but the others looked less concerned. Evidently, Nicky hadn't been too popular.

The guard turned back toward the descending staircase. "Let's get moving."

The other gang members stayed put and watched as Ronan and Lily followed the guard down the stairs. The two of them remained silent through the trek. The guard led them out of the building, around behind it, through a gap in the fence, and over the next rise.

"Keep going this way," he directed them, gesturing east. "You'll see the tower before long." He looked almost bored, ready to get back to his normal duties.

Ronan didn't question the man's lack of fuss over Meaty's decision, instead accepting the luck and trudging onward, still leaning against Lily's shoulders. The guard turned and disappeared back over the hill.

Lily immediately stopped and pushed Ronan down to sit on the ground. "We need to take care of your side before we go any farther."

He opened his mouth to protest, to point out that they really should put more distance from the Overlords just in case Meaty changed his mind or Shorty got any ideas of personal vengeance, but she gave him an almost comically fierce look. "No arguing. I can't have you passing out on me, can I?"

He closed his mouth and let her push his bloody shirt and old bandage up, revealing the ugly, torn wound. She dug through his bag and emerged with bandages and water.

He winced a couple times as she worked, but the pain didn't seem so bad now. He was still amazed to be alive at all. Alive because she'd come back for him.

"That was so stupid," he said before he could stop and think through his words. "You could've gotten yourself to safety and been fine. You almost got yourself killed saving my life." The ridiculous nature of the words jarred and clogged in his mouth, silencing any further utterances.

He'd expected an outburst in response, but she only smiled. "Then I guess we're even, because you almost got yourself killed saving mine."

A powerful desire to kiss her gripped him. He took a few deep breaths, shaking it off, and took the bandages from her. "Let me finish up. We need to get you back to your people."

Her face fell.

"I know you're worried about the whole bloody hands thing, but you'll be safe with them." He quickly wrapped the wound and pushed his shirt back into place. "I promised I'd get you back to safety, and I intend to do so."

She looked down. Nodded.

He pushed himself back to his feet and struggled forward. His steps seemed to drag a bit.

Lily appeared at his side, her shoulders under his arm again. "You need to rest."

"I'll do that after we get you back to your people." He pushed onward, reluctantly letting her help him.

The guard hadn't been lying. They crested a hill to the sight of massive, towering walls ahead, at least seven stories high. Ronan had never seen anything so tall in any of his travels.

A flicker of relief passed Lily's eyes at the sight. "That's it."

Ronan shook his head in amazement. How did they get the materials to build so high? It was nearly as large around as some of the smaller cities, too. Massive. These people were clearly dedicated to the task of keeping the world at bay.

As they got closer, he began to see the people milling around the bottom of the tower. Mostly guards, armed with multiple guns and sharp eyes watching for trouble. A handful of ratty travelers, accepting handouts at a massive set of gates in the metal wall and then scurrying away, investigating their gains.

Lily walked a little faster, looking exhausted and relieved all at once. One of the guards eyed them with suspicion as they passed, but said nothing. A pudgy man with clean, officious clothes stood at the gate, watching them with a cool expression. "I gather you've come for medicine," he said, glancing with distaste at Ronan's side.

"Yes, but—" Lily started.

"We have no more spare medicine to give out today," the man sniffed. "We'll give you some food. Adipose isn't far. You can trade it for the help you need there."

"But—"

"It's hardly our responsibility if someone gets himself into more trouble than he can handle. I've told you what we can do to assist. Either take it or move aside so others can reach the gate."

"She's one of yours, moron," Ronan said, his voice coming out as more of a growl than he'd intended. "Let her in."

Lily gave him a sharp look. "What he means to say is, I am from Singer Marcus' choir. I was separated—"

Pudgy narrowed his eyes at her. "What's your name?"

"Lily."

"Stay here." He spun and vanished behind the gate, which clanged shut behind him.

"Hospitable," Ronan commented loudly enough for the nearby guards to hear. They shot him cold looks.

Lily's cheeks colored. "They have to be cautious of people trying to infiltrate," she said, but her tone of voice suggested even she recognized what a lame excuse that was.

Pudgy returned. "Singer Marcus is on his way. I know one of his choir was lost on the trip. We had sent out guards to search, but they were unable to find anyone."

Ronan's mind flicked back to the first evening he'd traveled with her. They'd seen four armed men in the distance and avoided crossing paths with them. Those might have been the guards. He cringed internally. Just another in the long list of mistakes he'd made. At least now she was back with the people who could actually keep her secure.

The gates opened once more, and a tall, thin man in draping robes rushed out, arms wide toward Lily. "We feared you were lost, my child."

Ronan shifted to bear his own weight and nudged her forward. She rushed into the man's arms, embracing him tightly.

The man wrapped her in his arms, then took a step back to study her, taking in the dirt, the bruises, the torn clothes. "What has happened to you?" His gaze shifted to Ronan, filled with distrust. "And who is this?"

Lily quickly stepped back to Ronan's side. "This is Ronan. He saved my life and protected me. He needs medical attention, and I promised him payment for his help."

Marcus' face had a remarkable ability to look gentle toward Lily and aloof toward Ronan at the same time. He turned to Pudgy. "Give him medication and commensurate supplies."

"He needs care and rest," Lily said. "Let me bring him inside."

Marcus made a faint choking noise. The gentleness slipped for a moment, and he looked at Ronan like he might look at a dying insect on the road. Then he cleared his throat, composing himself. "My child, you know that the Order is a place for the pure. Men like this certainly could never set foot inside."

"Then let me get supplies to treat him out here, and let the guards watch over him so he can regain his strength. And I promised him coppers as payment, not supplies."

The man's smile looked stiff now. "I'm afraid we cannot hand out coppers to any ruffian who does a good deed on our behalf. After all, any good man would be glad to offer his assistance to those in need without any demand of recompense."

Lily's eyes flashed, and Ronan thought she was about to yell. But her voice remained steady. "Doesn't the eighteenth song say that the worker is worth his keep? And the song about the workers in the vineyard shows that a man should be paid as he is promised for his work." She lowered her head slightly as if in deference. "Without this man, I would be dead. And I did promise him coppers for his help. Am I to break my word?"

The strain was evident on Marcus' face. But then he relaxed and smiled down at Lily. "Forgive me, my child. I did not intend to distress you. Though it is advisable for a member of the Righteous to never make promises unless certain that promise can be carried out."

She looked startled, but Marcus continued. "As I said, we cannot bring that which is impure within the walls. But Samuel will see to it that he receives the treatment he needs and can rest as long as he desires here before it is time for him to move on. And yes, a payment in coppers for his aid." Marcus looked at Pudgy. "A hundred should suffice."

"I promised him—" Lily started.

"A hundred is plenty," Ronan interrupted, uncomfortable being the target of an argument between her and her leader. Now that he no longer had to scrounge up enough to pay off an Overlord, the amount was less important. He just wanted her to get inside the safety of the walls, and that wasn't happening while she was arguing with her leader. "Thank you."

Marcus gave him a cool look. "Thank you for your assistance. Lily is precious to us. You have our gratitude for returning her to us safely."

Lily looked like she wanted to protest further.

"You're safe now," Ronan said. "Just like I promised. Go on. I'll be fine."

Marcus wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her back through the gate. She looked back with sad eyes, then was gone.

Ronan felt a pang inside, but pushed it back down. This was for the best. She belonged inside her gilded tower, safe from the bad people of the world. Bad people like him. This was as it should be.

Pudgy delivered some orders to someone behind the gate, then shoved a pill at Ronan. "This will ease the pain. Take it and have a seat."

Ronan complied, though he probably would have sat whether invited or not. His head felt thick, as if condensed gas had invaded his skull and kept his brain afloat and distant from the rest of his body. He swallowed the pill and closed his eyes.

A woman with a hard face and business-like demeanor cleaned his wound, smothered it in salve, and re-bandaged it before having him swallow a thick, unpleasant liquid. "Don't strain yourself, and you'll be fine," she said, then turned and disappeared back inside the tower.

Pudgy handed him a small bag that rattled and clinked and a larger bag with water and other supplies.

"Time for me to move on?" Ronan guessed.

Pudgy smiled. "Smart man."

Ronan stood. He swayed a little on his feet, but they held, bolstered by whatever was in the medicine he'd been given. He shouldered his bags and set out to the south. Adipose wasn't too far, and he no longer had any need to avoid it. He'd exchange the coppers for a place to rest for a few days, use the time and security to regroup, figure out what he had on hand, decide which way to go next.

He found some of his energy returning as he walked on. Whatever the liquid was, it had some kick to it. The tower gradually diminished in the distance behind him. He hoped Lily was doing okay. Had she told them about her bloodied hands yet? Ronan had meant to say something to Marcus about that, to explain that she shouldn't be penalized for saving his life. Maybe he should go back and try to talk to the man.

Ronan pushed the thoughts aside. Marcus didn't seem interested in anything Ronan might say. Besides, all that really mattered was that Lily was safe again. No need to worry about her any further. He just needed to focus on himself again. Where to go next. What to do with himself now.

He wouldn't linger in Adipose, he decided. A couple days, maybe three tops, then move on. Wiry and Shorty would be too eager to find him in trouble with the Overlords again, so keeping some distance from their favored city would be the wisest course of action.

But there were plenty of other areas. And why shouldn't he just go back to what he was doing before he'd gotten himself in trouble? Travel the land. Find unscavenged buildings and strip them of goods. Make trades. Make sure to get the upper hand in trades.

Something about the thought left a bad taste in his mouth. The idea seemed oddly empty, though he wasn't sure why.

Besides, what else would he do? Settle down in a city? Run a casino? Rig games to take advantage of those compelled by visions of big luck? That thought was even less appealing.

The words of the Freed sprang to mind unexpectedly. If only there was someone you could go to, maybe pay a little something to hear what everything's worth. Ronan smiled. An appraisamenter, as Red had termed it.

Despite his humor at the memory, the thought stuck. How much would people be willing to pay to know the value of their things in order to get good trades? At least enough to make it worth his time, he was sure. More if it turned out they unknowingly carried something of great value. Like the lanky man with the chip. And there wasn't anything saying he couldn't do a little trading at the same time. No cheating, though, or word would spread. But someone guaranteed to give an honest appraisal and a fair deal? Word would spread just as quickly.

He almost laughed out loud. After spending his life making money off of the naiveté of others, after all the journal taught about getting what you can before others take advantage of you, here he was, contemplating making a living by being honest.

He thought he heard something and glanced back, but saw nothing but dry dirt and a few dead shrubs. He resumed his pace onward. The idea was ridiculous. Still, he couldn't shake it. As empty and wrong as it felt to think about going back to his old ways, this new thought felt strangely natural. Strangely right.

So where would he go? Not Adipose, of course. One of the other cities. Further north, perhaps, where things were a bit cooler. He'd only visited Gelf once or twice, but it seemed like a nice enough little swamp town, close enough to the main roads to get trading business while far enough away to avoid too much of the trouble. Might be worth checking out.

He heard it again. Stopped and turned.

Lily ran toward him, waving. Calling.

He froze. What did she think she was doing? What had possessed her to leave the safety of her tower? Fear lodged into the pit of his stomach. Had something happened? He turned and jogged to meet her. His side complained, but it was a muted, drug-dulled complaint that he barely noticed.

She didn't look worried or afraid. She looked happy, actually. The fear subsided as he drew nearer, but he still wasn't sure why she'd come after him. Maybe she'd put up a fuss until her leader agreed to give up more coppers. Or she'd forgotten to say something she wanted to say. Leave it to her to drag out a goodbye. Still, he couldn't deny the little jump in his heart at the sight of her.

He slowed as he came within a dozen meters. "What is it? What's wrong?"

She didn't slow by much. She reached him, yanked her mask to the side, and fell on him in a passionate kiss.

He caught her and found his arms wrapped around her without any real direction from him.

She broke free, put her mask back in place, and gasped in a breath. "I've been thinking. I know you prefer to travel, but you might find it less offensive than you think to settle down in a city. You could continue trading, if you like, and I can make goods for trade or sell. In all our traveling, you didn't really get to see it, but I'm actually quite skilled with a needle. I can make clothes, tents, all sorts of things. Or repair things. I'd have repaired our things myself, but those people, the slaves you helped, they insisted on doing it themselves, and I was still a bit too shaken to argue the point, and—"

Ronan finally managed to recover enough to interrupt her high-speed prattle. "What are you doing?"

She broke off, looking surprised.

"I got you back to your people. That was what you wanted. What are you doing here?"

She looked down as if unsure how to answer. "I... I realized I'd rather be with you." She straightened in a bracing way. "But I can go back if you don't want me. I mean, if you'd rather I not... If you prefer to go back to traveling alone, that's what I mean. I know you prefer quiet and being alone. I just thought maybe... But it's okay if you prefer to be alone. I understand. I can go—"

He put a hand on her cheek, not sure how it was that he could feel lost and found in those blue eyes all at the same time. "Hold your breath."

She blinked, caught off guard, and sucked in a breath.

He lifted the mask aside and lowered his lips to hers, pulling her close, then breaking off quickly to put the mask back in place, not wanting to make her hold her breath too long.

Her eyes lit up with twin sparks. She sucked in another breath, yanked the mask aside, and threw herself on him once more.

His fingers found their way into her hair, and he was so lost in the kiss he almost forgot about everything else until his side's complaints grew sharp enough to get his attention. He gently broke it off, panting almost as much as she did once the mask was back in place.

She wove her fingers with his and turned, walking beside him as if they'd been traveling together all their lives. "Anyway, like I was saying, we don't have to stay in a city if you really don't want to. But I think we could make a good living there. I don't know how it works, being a trader in a city, but if that doesn't work for you, maybe there's something else you can do. Remember the slaves you freed, and how they didn't really know what things were worth, and you helped them? I bet people would pay for that sort of service. Maybe you could do that. Was that word Digger used? It wasn't quite right, but I thought it was cute. But like I said, we don't have to stay in a city if you feel strongly about traveling. I'm a fast learner. You can teach me how to find valuable things, and I'll keep things in good repair."

As she continued her jabber, hand firmly in his, walking at his side, Ronan couldn't help the smile that spread across his face.

For some reason, the sky seemed brighter than usual today.

THE END

About the Author

I enjoy life with my life-mate and little sprout in the Pacific Northwest. I obtained a degree in Counseling Psychology from Northwest University in Kirkland, WA, which I use to create fully dimensional characters with unique personalities and quirks. In fiction, I'm a huge fan of all things speculative: anything where the rules of reality need not apply. My books include traditional fantasy, space fantasy, post-apocalyptic, and more. When not writing, I can usually be found reading, watching movies, or wasting entirely too much time on the internet.

Connect with me at

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**The "Pay What You Want"** **Quarantine Deal**

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In light of this (and the increased need for entertainment options it has presented), I am offering a new payment structure for my books during this time. All of my ebooks are now available at no up-front charge. That's right; you can now download any of my ebooks completely free.

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