The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(28)

I drop my pack and my knife, and with my last ounce of energy, I collapse onto the flat metal roof, curl my body into a ball, and close my eyes.





AVA

There’s a fire burning somewhere in the distance.

My nose is filled with the scent of smoke, but I can’t see the flames. I want to find people gathered around a hot meal—or maybe it’s just a brushfire—and ask them what to do. Find people and not be so alone, so frustratingly helpless.

I tear myself away from studying the route to Arlo Chapman and analyze the starving beasts still at their post below. They probably haven’t eaten in days; I bet their bellies don’t even know what it feels like to be full. They’ll stay here for hours, days maybe, at the possibility of food.

“We should sleep in shifts. There’s nothing to do but wait them out,” I say, turning away from the roof’s edge. A waiting game of who is more desperate: them or us.

Mira has already placed her long vest over the chipped metal solar shingles to act as a sheet. “We need to eat first,” she says and holds out a piece of smoked meat.

I take a last look at the lifeless houses that surround us and join my sister on the makeshift bed. When we were children we used to love sleeping on pallets we made together underneath a castle of blankets. Sometimes we could even persuade Father to join us in our imaginary kingdom. There was something magical about sleeping on the floor as a child, away from your bed. But that magic is lost on us tonight.

“Give me your arm,” Mira says.

I rest my head against her shoulder and let her drape my microchipless wrist across her knee. She removes my bandage and dabs a clear liquid to encourage the cells to regrow without stitches over the raw skin where I cut out my chip. I stare at her skilled, careful hands as they work. Hands trained to heal. I study my own hand on her knee, following the thin lines etched into my palm like interconnecting rivers on a map. But all the lines lead to nowhere.

Just like that, it hits me how I’ve been severed from every anchor I was tied to my entire life. My father is gone. I have no home. I don’t even have a microchip—my identity. Everything I’ve ever known floats farther and farther away as I continue to drift unmoored into the vastness like a lifeboat lost at sea. I’m going to drown.

“We need to try and rest,” Mira says, rescuing me from the water with a tight squeeze of her hand.

“I’ll take the first watch,” I say, but Mira stands before I can get my legs out from under me.

“I was able to sleep briefly on the rail. It’s your turn to rest.” She removes a knife from her pocket, no longer holding it like a healer but like someone ready to defend—to hurt—if necessary.

The purpose of her hands has changed.

“Wake me in two hours,” I say.

I pull my sleeve down over my freshly bandaged wrist and settle onto the improvised bed. Scared and bloodshot, my eyes remain open. I tighten the grip on my own knife, and my heart jumps every time a noise breaks the silence.

Mira startles awake and is on her feet the moment the first crash of thunder explodes across the sky.

“It’s just a storm. We’re okay,” I say, my eyes never leaving the dogs that stalk the yard beneath the house. A deep whine pulsates inside their throats, and their heads turn in agitated, aggressive movements.

Mira joins me at the roof’s edge—now using her vest to block out the wind instead of as our bedsheet—and observes the thunderstorm in the distance. Dark clouds hang heavy with moisture, but because the air below them is so dry, most of the rain will likely evaporate before it can quench the parched landscape.

Another loud thunderclap sets the dogs into an onslaught of barking, and they snap at one another viciously. “They’re terrified,” Mira says.

A thunderous boom vibrates the ground, and the pack breaks into a frenzy of high-pitched yelps. Their conflicting urges to fight for food or fly to safety are driving them into a blind panic.

This is our moment.

“They’re distracted. We can divert their attention,” I say.

“Our food,” Mira says, reaching for her rucksack.

I turn my back on the dogs and scan the roof. With the giant tree in the front yard dead and the roof littered with debris, it doesn’t take long to spot the Y-shaped piece of wood I’m looking for.

“What can we use as tubing for a catapult?” I ask Mira.

She slides her hair tie off her wrist and tests its elasticity. “We can cut this in half and use a thick cloth as our barrel.”

I carve a notch with my knife into each forked prong of our makeshift slingshot while Mira severs a corner of her shirt with a pair of scissors. Cutting a slit on each side of the cloth, I slide the pouch across the hairband and tie the ends into place, then walk to the edge of the roof.

“Aim high to get the distance,” Mira tells me.

She loads a piece of leftover steak from the dinner party into the barrel, and I fire straight into the pack. An all-out brawl for the scrap of meat ensues.

Mira reloads and I launch two more shots, each one aimed farther away from the house. The dogs race for the food, clawing and biting each other’s necks in their desperation.

“It’s working,” I say.

Mira and I quickly shoulder our packs and move toward the opposite end of the roof facing the backyard, but we discover the rainwater tank has been knocked to the ground. The dogs must have tipped it over in the night.