Page 8 of Chaos

Twenty-nine days ago

BEN DRAGS ME FROM THE CARhis fist in my hair, my hands tied behind my back. I can’t get my feet under me.

It’s all a swirl.

Blinding pain, snow and leaves and angry faces.

Guns. Clicking and shifting, eyes squinted down barrels aimed at me.

Voices raised in anger.

Renata pleading.

Ben shouting back. Fucking Yorke. That fucking Yorke. I’m going to kill him.

Some people I recognize, Renata, Sebi, Ephie, and Ben. Always so many guns. And Raiders—so many of them. Thirty. Forty?

In the car, dividing up, the Raiders going to Roanoke with most of Ben’s people.

Renata’s fingers, gentle at my neck as she unclasps my necklace while Ben rants and rants and rants.

“Sssssh,” she whispers, her breath fast with what I swear is genuine fear.

She slips the necklace into her pocket, my golden archer and scorpion, a gift from Yorke for a birthday that feels like it happened in another universe.

Sharp turns, as we drive farther and farther, deeper into woods, trees whipping past the windows until finally we stop. My frantic brain grasps at random details—a stone house in the trees, a door, cracked window frames the color of sage, and a chimney made of crumbling brick. Overgrown winter vines, broken stairs in an empty wood, inside a rough dusty flight of stairs.

He shoves me, and I fall.

All

the

way

down

to

the

bottom.

My arms still bound and useless, things are foggy and slushy, my vision overbright and blurry, my head pounding.

The blindfold is off. It must have fallen off on the way down.

Ben grabs at my shirt, his motions jerky, screaming at me all the while. “I’m going to kill Yorke and the little one with the hair. Audrey? Arben? Something like that. And the big one too. I should have smashed his fucking head instead of his hand. Fucking flattened it.” He leans in close, spit flying. “I will kill your overgrown asshole fucking boyfriend, you hear me?”

That’s when the knife comes out, sharp and jerky with his rage. He hacks through my sleeves, the straps of my bra, yanks off my boots, my pants, my underpants.

I kick and scream and fight armlessly—it’s ugly.

He traps me with a knee at my back and performs a cavity search—it’s uglier.

And has me screaming into a hard floor

I don’t have anything on me.

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