Shatter Me (Shatter Me, #1)(25)

Thousands of eyes snap up in my direction. I feel myself flinch.

“Juliette, come here, please.” 2 fingers bend in 2 places to beckon me forward.

I inch into view.

Warner slips his arm around me. I cringe. The crowd starts. My heart careens out of control. I’m too scared to back away from him. His gun is too close to my body.

The soldiers seem stunned that Warner is willing to touch me.

“Jenkins, would you step forward, please?”

My fingers are running a marathon down my thigh. I can’t stand still. I can’t calm the palpitations crashing my nervous system. Jenkins steps out of line; I spot him immediately.

He’s okay.

Dear God.

He’s okay.

“Jenkins had the pleasure of meeting Juliette just last night,” he continues. The tension among the men is very nearly tangible. No one, it seems, knows where this speech is headed. And no one, it seems, hasn’t already heard Jenkins’ story. My story. “I hope you’ll all greet her with the same sort of kindness,” Warner adds, his lips laughing without a sound. “She will be with us for some time, and will be a very valuable asset to our efforts. The Reestablishment welcomes her. I welcome her. You should welcome her.”

The soldiers drop their fists all at once, all at exactly the same time.

They shift as one, 5 steps backward, 5 steps forward, 5 steps standing in place. They raise their left arms high and curl their fingers into a fist.

And fall on one knee.

I run to the edge, desperate to get a closer look at such a strangely choreographed routine. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Warner makes them stay like that, bent like that, fists raised in the air like that. He doesn’t speak for at least 30 seconds. And then he does.

“Good.”

The soldiers rise and rest their right fists on their chests again.

“The second matter at hand is even more pleasant than the first,” Warner continues, though he seems to take no pleasure in saying it. His eyes are sharpening over the soldiers below, shards of emerald flickering like green flames over their bodies. “Delalieu has a report for us.”

He spends an eternity simply staring at the soldiers, letting his few words marinate in their minds. Letting their own imaginations drive them insane. Letting the guilty among them tremble in anguish.

Warner says nothing for so long.

No one moves for so long.

I begin to fear for my life despite his earlier reassurances. I begin to wonder if perhaps I am the guilty one. If perhaps the gun in his pocket is destined for me. I finally dare to turn in his direction. He glances at me for the first time and I have no idea how to read him.

His face is 10,000 possibilities staring straight through me.

“Delalieu,” he says, still looking at me. “You may step forward.”

A thin, balding sort of man in a slightly more decorated outfit steps out from the very front of the fifth line. He doesn’t look entirely stable. He ducks his head an inch. His voice warbles when he speaks. “Sir.”

Warner finally unshackles my eyes and nods, almost imperceptibly, in the balding man’s direction.

Delalieu recites: “We have a charge against Private 45B-76423. Fletcher, Seamus.”

The soldiers are all frozen in line, frozen in relief, frozen in fear, frozen in anxiety. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Even the wind is afraid to make a sound.

“Fletcher.” One word from Warner and several hundred necks snap in the same direction.

Fletcher steps out of line.

He looks like a gingerbread man. Ginger hair. Ginger freckles. Lips almost artificially red. His face is blank of every possible emotion.

I’ve never been more afraid for a stranger in my life.

Delalieu speaks again. “Private Fletcher was found on unregulated grounds, fraternizing with civilians believed to be rebel party members. He had stolen food and supplies from storage units dedicated to Sector 45 citizens. It is not known whether he betrayed sensitive information.”

Warner levels his gaze at the gingerbread man. “Do you deny these accusations, soldier?”

Fletcher’s nostrils flare. His jaw tenses. His voice cracks when he speaks. “No, sir.”

Warner nods. Takes a short breath. Licks his lips.

And shoots him in the forehead.





EIGHTEEN


No one moves.

Fletcher’s face is etched in permanent horror as he crumbles to the ground. I’m so struck by the impossibility of it all that I can’t decide whether or not I’m dreaming, I can’t determine whether or not I’m dying, I can’t figure out whether or not fainting is a good idea.

Fletcher’s limbs are bent at odd angles on the cold, concrete floor. Blood is pooling around him and still no one moves. No one says a single word. No one betrays a single look of fear.

I keep touching my lips to see if my screams have escaped.

Warner tucks his gun back into his jacket pocket. “Sector 45, you are dismissed.”

Every soldier falls on one knee.

Warner slips the metal amplification device back into his suit and has to yank me free from the spot where I’m glued to the ground. I’m tripping over myself, my limbs weak and aching through the bone. I feel nauseous, delirious, incapable of holding myself upright. I keep trying to speak but the words are sticking to my tongue. I’m suddenly sweating and suddenly freezing and suddenly so sick I see spots clouding my vision.