Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(52)

“Nothing new.” Chase hesitated. “Lincoln’s name was Anthony Sullivan. I never knew that.”

The room silenced. Sean looked up from where he stood with Marco and Polo outside a small storage room across from the truck. From the look on his face, he, too, was surprised. Some people went by nicknames so we couldn’t get too close, but Chase had just torn that down. He’d made Lincoln more human, his loss even more devastating.

The mood, already tense, turned somber fast.

Tucker, hopping down from the back of the truck, lifted two bottles of whiskey. “Might as well make the most of being stranded.”

No one objected.

Cara, who’d emerged from the bathroom behind me, said, “You boys got any cups?”

Marco disappeared into the storage room and returned with a tower of paper cups. Tucker popped the top on a bottle of whiskey and poured a liberal amount into each. While we formed a circle behind the truck, I contemplated how the one and only drink I’d ever had was when Beth and I had snuck some wine from my mother’s contraband supply in the ninth grade. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage a half cup of whiskey on a nearly empty stomach.

“Someone should say something,” mumbled Sean.

The others looked at Chase expectantly. Not Cara, who had known Lincoln longer, but Chase.

Wallace’s voice echoed through my head. “You had it, Jennings. You had it, and you threw it away.” I’d thought at the time he was just disappointed to lose a good soldier, but it was more than that. He’d seen Chase as a leader.

I sloshed the amber liquid around the cup. Wallace was right; Chase was good in times of crisis. All the time I’d spent fighting him after he’d rescued me from reform school seemed like wasted energy now.

As Chase raised his cup, I felt a wave of uncertainty. What were you supposed to say at funerals? We didn’t even know if Lincoln had family.

“To Lin—Anthony,” Chase said, clearing his throat. “He was a good soldier in … in the fights that mattered.”

This is the only fight that matters. The one we fight today.

“To anyone else stuck in that building, too,” he added. “Cats included.”

Billy gave a wet hiccup, his shoulders rounding. Cara wiped her eyes on her sleeve and leaned against Sean, who patted her shoulder, looking grim. Marco bowed his head, lips moving in a silent prayer.

The air within the printing plant grew heavy. Loss after loss surrounded us, so that the space seemed to thicken with their ghosts. We remembered our loved ones—those we weren’t strong enough to name. We remembered why we were fighting back.

I missed my mother so much it hurt.

My gaze found Tucker’s across the circle. His shoulders were heaving, like he’d just run a mile, and all I knew in that moment was that I didn’t want to know what he was thinking. Anticipating the taste with a cringe, I brought the cup to my lips.

“Wait,” said Tucker. “While we’re on it. To … to the people we … the person I…” His head rolled back and he looked up, of all places, for inspiration.

I lowered the cup. A clock from the office ticked by each second.

“Tucker,” Chase warned. “Don’t.”

My whole body tensed in anticipation. Tucker stole a quick breath and met my gaze.

“I’m sorry, Ember.”

The peace and power of the moment shattered, and I was horrified. How dare you. That was all I could think. How dare you.

“You’re sorry,” I repeated. I saw him, only him, as a haze of red blocked the others out.

In one quick motion he downed the shot, hissing at the sting. I hadn’t realized I’d dropped mine until Billy bent down to pick up the cup.

“Ember.” I shook Chase’s hand off my shoulder. I was closer to Tucker now, though I hadn’t even felt my feet move.

“You want to apologize?”

I couldn’t have heard him right. He was incapable of remorse. I’m a good soldier, he told me after he’d admitted his crime. I did what needed to be done.

Tucker stepped back, tapped the empty cup against his leg. His cheeks were flushed.

“You want to drink to her, Tucker? Is that what you were thinking?”

“Easy, girl,” said Cara.

“Say her name,” I demanded. “If you’re so sorry.”

He didn’t.

“You don’t even know it, do you? You don’t even know her name.”

I pushed him hard, and he staggered into the bumper of the truck. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.

“That’s enough.” Chase was between us now, trying to block me from Tucker.

“Her name was Lori Whittman!” I shouted. “That was her name! That was my mother’s name!”

I saw Tucker’s face, sallow and shocked, for one instant before Chase caught me around the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder.

“Let go of me!”

“Cool off,” he said.

I kicked him and punched his back and only when my teeth sunk into his shoulder did he toss me down. We were in the storage room, surrounded by weak metal shelves holding tool boxes and printer paper and boxes of ink. He wheeled around and slammed the door shut.

“If you value your life at all, you’d better turn right back around,” I hissed, fists clenched.