his arm while threatening similar treatment for the next one who doesn’t behave.
“I guess we could sic the babies on them, if it came to a fight,” I offer.
It’s weird to realize this is the first time I’ve laughed, but it’s true. There’s not a lot of call for humor when you’re sandwiched between the probable massacre of one people and the possible extermination of another.
“Outfit them with flashlights and we might have a shot,” Tobin says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh, too, but it doesn’t last long.
A rolling tumbler and the click of a lock stops everyone short.
We all stand, braced for whatever waits on the other side of our door. Anne-Marie leans over Jove’s body; the upper-years form a defensive line to guard the babies. Tobin angles himself in front of me, one arm out to hold me back and away from the unknown.
The door opens slowly, allowing a foreign scent to flood the room with a metallic bite that brings cool, fresh air behind it.
“Cordite,” Tobin says. “From fresh rounds. Stay back, we don’t know—”
“It’s not the Fade,” I say, tapping my ear. The Fade don’t wear boots like the ones marching through the hall outside.
Our personal alarms switch from blinking red back to blue—not safe, but not danger, either—and Tobin drops his arm.
“Looks like you were right. We’re not dead after all,” Tobin says with a tired smile.
No one survives the Fade, but I’ve done it twice.
“Get a head count,” Lt. Sykes orders one of the men who entered with him. He looks terrible, with his hair plastered to his face like sandy mud. “Make sure they’re all here.”
That’s not as easy as it sounds. Parents rush the room, searching for their children; children run to their parents. No one stays still long enough to be counted. Those like me and Tobin hang back; we don’t have anyone to check on.
Mr. Pace shuffles through, kicking spent shells down the ramp. His face is drawn. The butt end of his rifle hits the ground with a hollow thunk when he spots Jove, and his whole frame slumps.
“Do I want to know what happened?” Mr. Pace asks, looking straight at me.
He kneels beside Jove, presses a hand to his throat, then passes it over Jove’s mouth and nose to make sure he’s still breathing. He snaps his fingers, and a man and woman in rumpled fatigues come to carry Jove to the hospital.
“It’s not as bad as you think,” Anne-Marie says. “We tried to clean him up—Marina, Toby, and me.” She makes a circular motion with her finger in our general direction. “But we didn’t have enough water and the dispenser wouldn’t give us bandages.”
What’s left of Tobin’s shredded jacket litters the floor beyond the rust-colored spatter left behind when Jove’s taken up.
“Don’t be mad, please.” Anne-Marie goes quiet, which tells him more than if she’d kept yammering. “He and Toby . . . It was an accident. Sort of. ”
Sure. Jove accidentally painted a bull’s-eye on his face.
Everyone still inside the bunker listens to hear if she’ll recount the whole story. No one has to tell me they’ll gladly let me take the blame if Anne-Marie turns on me.
“Tell me the truth, Annie.”
“He said something about Toby’s dad,” Anne-Marie says, gnawing on the fingernails she just fixed.
Tobin slips out from beside me, coming forward to answer for what he’s done, but doesn’t get the chance.
“Annie!”
Her mother runs toward her, with Trey right behind. She starts tugging at Anne-Marie’s uniform where it’s stained with Jove’s blood.
“Mom, stop it.” Anne-Marie swats at her hands.
Trey rescues her with a bear hug that has her off the ground and out of their mother’s reach.
“You look awful,” he says. “What’s all this blood?”
“It’s not mine.” Anne-Marie dissolves into tears, hugging him. “I thought I lost you.”
“Not a chance.”
Trey looks the perfect imitation of Mr. Pace, standing next to him with a rifle hung over his shoulder. The same posture and resolve in the set of his jaw; he’s even shaved his hair down the same way. A week ago, Trey was a kid like the rest of us; now he’s one of those determined to make sure we live long enough to call ourselves adults.
“You should have told me.” Anne-Marie punches him in the arm as she lets go of him.
“Are you okay?” her mother asks.
“Can we use the showers?” Anne-Marie asks in return.
“Honoria told us to switch over to our individual generators until noon, but the water should be warm in twenty minutes.”
“Then I’ll be fine in twenty minutes.”
The whole family heads off in a clump, while I’m left behind without anyone to take me home or worry if the blood on my face and hands is mine or not.
Halfway to the door, Anne-Marie shrieks “Mom!” as her mother resumes her attempt to strip her in public.
“Do you need any help?” Tobin asks Mr. Pace once they’re gone.
“I think you’ve done enough.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You never mean it, Tobin. But that doesn’t make the damage any less, and it doesn’t deal with what you refuse to. Deal with it! I’m tired of cleaning up what happens because you won’t.”
“Jove attacked her, and no one made a move to stop it, so I did.” Tobin meets our teacher’s accusation without flinching. This time he wins over the rage; his hands never quite make the transition into fists. He stomps up the ramp and out of sight.
“You, too,” Mr. Pace says to me. “Get out of here.” He twitches his head toward the exit.
“He wasn’t lying,” I say. “Jove snapped. He was about to choke me.”
Mr. Pace takes a quick look at my throat, drawing in a hiss when he touches the cord marks left from my inhaler. He inspects my arm where the burn’s spread from under my alarm band.
“Get yourself checked out before you turn in for the day.”
“It’s not bad,” I protest. “Doctor Wolff has his hands full without me taking up space.”
Mr. Pace straightens into his “lecture” posture. Then he sighs, and lets it go. He’s not in the mood for another argument, and he knows there’ll be one if he tries to force me into the hospital. I’d hate that place even if Jove wasn’t there to remind me of what happened last night.
“Go straight to your room, and don’t tell Honoria I did this.” He overrides the code on my wristband, unlocking it, before pulling a small tube out of one of the pockets on his vest and squeezing cold, blue gel onto my skin.
“It tingles.”
“Good. That means the burn didn’t damage your nerves.” He caps the tube and hands it to me. “Keep the alarm in reach, on the other wrist or in your pocket, but not over the burn. If it bleeds or goes numb, promise me you’ll get it looked at.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now get out of here.