The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) (35 page)

Pulling his hand away from the hole in the glass, he cursed and dropped one of the bags. He’d cut himself. I rushed to help him and was struck by the eerie silence of the street.

“Damn,” he muttered, handing me the other bag so he could wipe his bleeding arm on his pant leg. “Nothing fresh, of course. Still, not a bad haul.”

I peered into the bag and smiled when I saw the familiar snack foods: crackers, peanut butter, and Oreo cookies. Leading him over to the counter, I dumped out the plunder on the floor so we could admire the spread. The other bag was stuffed with blankets, which I thought was smart. It was going to be a cold night in the pharmacy without heat.

Max was at my elbow in a flash, grinning as he reached over me for the peanut butter and Oreos. We all settled onto the ground like kids and began to stuff ourselves with great zeal.

While Greyson was eating, I caught the arm he’d cut and disinfected the wound, checking carefully for any lingering shards of glass.

“Your junk food to real food ratio is very telling of your priorities,” I said, wrapping some gauze around his wrist.

“Hey, hey,” he said through a mouthful of pretzels. “I got healthy stuff, too.” He rolled a can of sliced pineapple in my direction. “Gotta ward off scurvy.”

Sitting there gorging ourselves on the sweet, salty snacks, I could almost forget we were in the middle of a war. For a moment, we were back at the farm, laughing around Ida’s table. Greyson was there, he was safe, and I was as happy as I could remember being since the Collapse.

We ate our fill and crumbled to the floor for a few hours of long-overdue rest. Despite our moments of ease and delight over dinner, I was still too on-edge to fall asleep. I curled up behind the counter between Logan and Amory and tried not to think about the PMC reinforcing its ranks, the murderous rebels who wanted us dead, and the horde of carriers loose in the city.

I don’t know if I moved or he moved, but Amory’s arm wrapped around me under the blankets and held me to his side. I rested my cheek on his chest and breathed in the scent of him: warm and woodsy and safe.

It seemed as if I’d only drifted off for a moment before someone was gently shaking me awake. I sat up with a start and heard gunshots in the distance. Logan was crouched over me with her face hidden in the darkness, her hair hanging over me like a golden curtain.

“Get up,” she hissed.

I looked over at Amory. He was still asleep, but the slight grimace on his face told me it was a restless sleep marred by pain from his wounds. Carefully, I lifted his arm to extricate myself from his embrace and got slowly to my feet.

Logan grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the labyrinth of the boys’ tangled limbs over to the door.

“Now’s our chance,” she breathed, looking out onto the street. “We need weapons.”
 

I nodded, fighting my reluctance. Those were definitely gunshots in the distance, which meant the rebels were probably occupied with fending off the PMC. If there was a time we might be able to slip back into their bunker and steal some weapons, this was it.

“Shouldn’t we . . .” I gestured to the others.

“No!” Logan hissed. “Amory will just sit here and worry, and I don’t want Max going into this with us! I wouldn’t even have woken you if I thought I could do this alone.”
 

I felt a slight pang of hurt that she would leave me out of the raid, but I knew I should feel gratitude that she would spare me from the danger if she could.
 

“We should at least wake Greyson.”

She threw me a dubious look. “I know he’s your best friend, but do you really think he would break into the rebel lair and help us rob them blind?”

I sighed. I had to admit I had my doubts. Miles’s torturing aside, Greyson still believed in the rebel cause.

“It’s a lot to ask of him,” she added with a note of kindness in her voice.

“What are we waiting for, then?”

She grinned and pushed open the door.
 

The night air had a chill that cut straight to the bone, and I was grateful for the inexplicably warm, lightweight material of Ida’s jacket.
 

Without slowing down for Amory, the trip back to Uprising Pub was much faster than the trek to the drug store had been. I suspected our nerves and our bellyfuls of sugar also contributed to the brisk pace of our jog back to the darkened block. The building was completely quiet, but I didn’t take that as any indication that the rebels were all gone.
 

As we walked around to the front of the pub, I was startled to see that the nondescript oak door was hanging off its hinges in splinters — most likely destroyed by the PMC’s battering ram. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as we walked slowly into the dimly lit bar, alert for any sign of movement.

Chairs and tables near the center of the room sat haphazardly pushed together. Some were upended completely as if the PMC had cleared a path marching through. We went through the door leading to the back of the building and stepped quietly down the steep flight of stairs to the basement.

The room that was filled wall to wall with rebels just hours ago was now completely deserted. My eyes raked over several dark stains that looked like blood, and I hoped some of it belonged to Troy and Miles. Surveying the scene, I wondered how many rebels were captured or killed and how many left under their own power.

Logan poked her head into a small supply closet near the stairs, searching for weapons while I went back to the old kitchen where they’d held us captive. I felt my throat constrict with panic as I examined the storage area and closet where they had locked us up. Nothing. Of course. It wouldn’t make sense to lock up prisoners where all the weapons were hidden.

My heart sank as I considered the slim possibility that the rebels would leave a stockpile of weapons just lying around. Perhaps the PMC confiscated all of them already, or maybe the rebels who eluded capture took them along.
 

After we swept the basement, Logan and I trudged back up the stairs empty-handed.

“I feel like we should have a beer since we came all this way for nothing,” she said in a flat voice.

I offered a half-hearted smile.

“They must have a place to store extra ammunition,” Logan muttered.

“It would be well hidden . . . in case of a raid.”

“They
hate
the PMC with a passion, but the officers hang out at this bar. I bet they love to think they’re thumbing their noses at them every time an officer comes by for a drink.” Now Logan was just thinking aloud. Her eyes lit up. “What better place to hide the ammunition and weapons than in plain sight?”
 

Logan crossed to the bar and began shoving the stools aside. She stomped down hard on the floor surrounding it, listening intently for any sign of a compartment hidden beneath the well-worn wooden boards.

I heard the crunch of broken glass underfoot, and I looked down to see what looked like shards of a shattered pint glass. There was a lot of glass, and the floor was wet in places, as if several drinks had spilled.

There weren’t any empty glasses sitting on the bar, so it didn’t seem as though they had been serving any patrons when the PMC raided. In fact, the bar was completely bare.

“Maybe they hid the guns in the liquor cabinets,” Logan mused, moving behind the counter and shoving bottles down the long mirrored shelf. The crash of breaking liquor bottles was loud enough to alert every PMC officer within a mile, and the stench of alcohol stung my nostrils.

“No! Wait!” I bent down until the lip of the bar was at eye level and examined the woodwork. The base of the bar was intricately carved oak worn smooth from years of customers’ knees rubbing against the wood. The surface was Formica, and the lip of the bar was a newer wood — shoddier workmanship.
 

I paced around behind the bar and felt underneath the surface of the counter. I lifted up, and the top came away in my hands. Logan saw what I was doing and rushed to help me hoist the heavy counter. We slid it off to the side.
 

There, inside the bar itself, was the rebels’ stash of weaponry. It looked significantly depleted, as though the rebels had grabbed everything they could carry, but there were still several guns and plenty of ammunition.

Logan and I exchanged looks and hastily grabbed five rifles. I chose a smaller one for myself that looked easy to use, but Logan’s eyes lit up when she saw a heavy, imposing rifle that looked as if it had maximum stopping power. We grabbed as much ammunition as we could carry and left.

Weighed down by the extra guns, we moved more slowly through the streets. We stuck to the shadows and moved cautiously from building to building. Although we’d never had so many weapons at our disposal, I felt incredibly vulnerable under our load. As we neared the drug store, I began to hear gunshots faintly in the distance. Logan and I exchanged panicked glances and quickened our steps.

Through the orange hazy light from the streetlamps, I saw the drug store come into view. Then, a figure I couldn’t discern stepped out of the store and strode toward us through the snow.

My blood ran cold.
Were we too late? Had the PMC come to round up the last of the rebels and discovered our hideout?

But as the figure drew closer, I recognized the silhouette of Max’s shaggy hair. Something was wrong. His face was contorted in anger.
 

“What the hell were you thinking?” he yelled.

“Shut up!” Logan snapped, glancing around nervously.

“Do you know how worried we’ve been that something happened to you?” Although he continued toward the both of us, he was addressing Logan now. I had never heard him raise his voice or look at her with anything but adoration, but he was furious.

“I heard gunshots, and I thought —” His voice broke, and he took two more steps toward Logan, almost falling into her.
 

Logan fumbled with the rifles on her shoulder and slid them onto the ground. Ammunition fell out of her hands as they wrapped around Max, who had her in a fierce grip.

“We found guns,” she murmured into his shoulder.

“Is that all you care about?” he grumbled. “It’s always guns with you.”

I thought he was angry, but a second later, he pulled her away from him and planted a kiss on her surprised mouth.
 

I looked away awkwardly, smiling at the ground. I scooped up the rifles Logan had dropped and backed away from them. Max was kissing her enthusiastically — all signs of anger gone — and Logan couldn’t stop smiling whenever they pulled apart for a moment.

I pulled the door open and was barely inside when Amory too fixed me with a glare from his spot on the floor.

“You shouldn’t have gone back,” he said, eyeing the weapons.

“We had to.”

“We thought something happened,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. In his distress, he’d yanked off the gauze.

“Correction,” said Greyson, emerging from the aisle nearest me. “
Those two
thought something happened. I knew you guys could handle it.”

Amory threw him a venomous look.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We wanted to be back before you all woke up.”
 

I jerked my head toward the window. “You should really have a look at that.” I held out my hand to help Amory to his feet. He took it and pulled himself up with a slight wince, peering out into the snow.

“About time!” he laughed, all traces of worry and anger gone.

“Nice haul,” said Greyson, relieving me of the rifles one by one and running his hands down the barrels. “You got these from the rebels’ hideout?”

I nodded.

“You could have taken me, you know.” His eyes met mine. “I’m with you. Always have been.”

“I know,” I said, secretly relieved to hear it. “But Logan isn’t quite convinced.”

Amory snorted. “Logan takes a bit to warm up to people . . . except for Max, come to think of it. She liked him weeks before she would be in the same room with me.”

“We have to go,” said Logan, appearing in the doorway with Max over her shoulder.
 

Each of us took up a rifle, and I wished I still had my throwing hatchet instead.

Trekking carefully through the thin carpet of snow to accommodate Amory’s slower pace, we headed in the direction Godfrey had told us. I knew Amory hated that he slowed us down, but the pale pallor of his face told me he was in too much pain to move any faster.
 

I felt slightly better walking the streets now that we were armed, but my chest still constricted with every gunshot that reverberated off the faces of the buildings around us. It was unnerving to be in a city surrounded by people who would shoot without hesitation. We had no friends there.

The gunshots grew louder as we approached the second bridge, and I found myself hoping we would have PMC and carriers to deal with instead of PMC and the rebels. As dangerous as the carriers were, they were sluggish and would not attack us if they were otherwise occupied.

We turned onto the street where we could get to the lower level of the bridge, and a horrific scene came into view.
 

PMC officers were spread out defending the bridge, pushing back against the rebels advancing from the side streets. In the darkness, the rebels looked even more intimidating — more shadow than human with their dark clothes and painted faces.
 

Between the rebels and the PMC stood a horde of carriers. Some were twisting around in confusion, unsure which faction posed the bigger threat. Others charged indiscriminately at the weakest lines of officers, sinking their bloody teeth into the necks of anyone they could reach. It was mass confusion and panic. Some officers broke rank and fled, only to be overtaken by three or four carriers at once.

Every few feet, dead bodies were strewn in the snow like broken chess pieces. Some were so badly mangled it would be impossible to tell if they were rebel or PMC without the stark differences in their clothing. Both sides were using grenades, shattering men and women into shards of peeled flesh and jagged bone that were utterly unrecognizable in the darkness. The snow was stained with blood.