Three (Article 5 #3)(13)

He stood, wrung out the shirt that he’d dipped in the water, and scrubbed it over the back of his neck. The muscles of his shoulders shifted, rolled, made winged blades as he lifted his arms. A raised scar cut from the side of his ribs to his spine. The light that filtered through the trees glinted off the metal handgun tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

Before I could stop myself I was moving forward, shocked back to reality by the sound of the splashing water around my ankles.

He turned to face me, his emotions guarded. I swallowed, aware of how his eyes moved between my eyes and my lips.

A beat passed. Then another.

“How’d you get that scar?” I asked.

One brow arched.

I flattened my palm over his back. At my touch he siphoned in a sharp breath and twisted away, shaking out his shirt. It couldn’t have hurt him. Was he embarrassed? Of the way he looked? It seemed impossible.

I placed my hand on it again. This time he stilled.

“I know it’s from the MM.” I felt the rough skin, the ridges, tracing the map of his body. And waited.

“Two months in I tried to run.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “There was this girl at home. The kind that made you want to try.” His smile melted. “I got caught in a fence. Then I got caught by a guard.”

My chest tight, my fingertips rose climbing his back, drifting over his shoulder to the puckered scar on his bicep, where he’d taken a knife in my defense outside a sporting goods store. He shivered, watching my hand.

Lower. Goose bumps raised the dark hairs of his forearm. I lifted his knuckles, tracing the cuts and indentations, following the half circle around the back of his thumb.

“And here?”

“My first fight in the FBR,” he said, voice strained. “The guy bit me.”

“Like this?”

Gently, I lifted his hand to my mouth. And bit down on the calloused flesh of his thumb.

His eyes shot to mine, so dark I couldn’t see his irises. There was one weightless moment, the suspension just before the fall. And then a voice rang out through the woods.

“Over here!”

It was Billy—not too far away. A flush crept over my skin as Chase twitched in surprise, then shoved his shirt back over his head. My feet had sunk into the silt and pebbles, making it hard to move. It took some time to get our shoes back on, but after we did the seconds caught up, and we raced upstream to where Billy and the guys from Chicago had gathered.

At first I just saw the animal—a dark, filthy mutt. Pulse spiking, I scanned the area, ready for an attack from the rest, but they were nowhere to be seen. This one was probably an outcast. Closer, I could see its mangy fur, and how its belly was only half the circumference of its rib cage. It was clearly starving.

The dog had managed to step though a can, getting its paw stuck on the sharp, clean edge of the lid as he’d attempted to pull it out. It hurt him; he whined pitifully, then growled, and then whined again. I watched with a cringe as he tried to chew off the trap and found the metal barely rusted. It hadn’t been here long.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Chase told Billy when he crouched down and whistled. A low growl emanated from the animal.

“You’re not me,” Billy returned, fire in his glare. “I don’t walk away when something needs my help.”

Chase dragged a hand over his jaw but remained silent. I wondered if he could still see the flames tearing down the roof of the Wayland Inn, swallowing Wallace whole.

Rat chased the dog away before Billy could approach it, and crouched to pick another recently opened can off the ground. He tossed it to Jack.

“Let’s keep moving,” I said.

“They’re close,” said Billy. “They’ve got to be close. Why do we have to be so quiet? They probably think we’re an FBR tracking team or something. We need to call out to them, let them know we’re on their side.”

Jack was turning in a slow circle, eyeing the bushes as though something might pop out at any moment. The hairs on my neck prickled.

“You ever met the kind of people that live in the Red Zone, Fats?” he asked. “They’re not the type you invite to dinner.”

Billy groaned. “This is a waste of time! If the survivors don’t know we’re here, they’re just going to keep running!”

“Keep it down, kid,” said Rat dismissively. But part of me agreed with Billy. If there were survivors, they were either running from us scared, or not aware that we were pursuing them.

Billy pulled the gun from his belt.

“No,” he said. “I’m sick of you all acting like I’m some stupid kid. Wallace and me were running Knoxville while you guys were still in your pathetic blue uniforms.”

My pulse was pounding. “Billy, put the gun down. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Shut up, Ember.” His voice cracked. “Stop telling me what to do!”

Chase stepped in front of me. A sudden image of the young soldier in the rehab hospital flashed in my mind. Harper—scared, unable to decide whether he should turn us in or let us go. Billy was close to tears, his eyes were tinged with red, and his shoulders were twitching.

“What do you think we should do?” Chase asked. “Tell us, and we’ll talk it over.”

“This.” Billy tilted his chin up and shouted. “Hey!” He swallowed a deep breath. “Is anybody out there?”