Page 89 of Chaos

“Been spending a lot of time with him.”

I don’t answer. There’s no point. I can’t deny it. Shane comes on supply runs with me most days, or we work together, unpacking the items that come in, wheeling foods to the kitchen, detergent and bleach to the laundry, separating safety pins and sewing kits and first aid for the infirmary.

Shane is easy company, undemanding, funny and lighthearted, even if he always finds a way to ask me annoying questions.

Why did Renata and Ben fight?

Is he in touch with DC?

Where would the pigeons go if we released them?

I don’t know, I say to every single one.

Though the only thing I’m sure of, is that the pigeons go nowhere good for the people here.

Duane sucks food off his thumb. “You two getting hot and heavy?”

“Gross.” I set my fork down on my empty plate. Dinner was maple-glazed butternut squash, horseradish mashed potatoes, and chicken in a dark red wine sauce with rosemary. By far the best thing I've had since the world ended. And honestly, maybe before it ended too.

Duane smirks. “Blushing.”

“With anger that a grown man would ask what two teenagers are doing. Fuck off.”

He leans closer. “You’d have had a better chance with the son of the US president before the plague. That’s Thornewood royalty, right there. They’re not going to let him be with a girl like you. Not for long.”

Like me.

He’s right.

Girls like me, always on the wrong side, we don’t end up with golden boys with sweet, gentle hearts.

I gather my plate, leave the table without acknowledging the other people sitting there, and stomp toward a dish cart.

It’s only when I turn back to take one last look at Shane that I realize Duane’s followed me. And he’s standing close enough to snag me by an elbow.

He steers me toward the exit.

“In here.” He ducks us into the shadows outside the war room and presses my back against the wall. His grip isn’t hard. He’s not hurting me, but I don’t like anything about the situation. Not his hand on me. Not his body so close to mine. Not the way I can smell his dinner on his breath or under that, the sharp acrid smell of deodorant overlaying underarm funk.

I could protest, kick up a fuss that would upset the soldiers, but I’m pretty sure he won’t actually touch me. And I’ve been trying hard not to burn bridges since I got here. My only goal here is to get Ben out of the basement, and making an enemy of Duane is counterproductive.

So I keep my face neutral, push his hand off my hip and say in the laziest voice I can manage, “What do you want?”

“Everything is in place.”

“For what?”

“You know.” He touches my hair, winding a tight curl around his finger. “It’ll happen the same time there’s a riot in the lobby. Smoke will get everyone all abuzz. Colleen’ll sound the alarm and the soldiers will all come running. It’ll leave the basement open.”

“Ben’s still locked up. How are you going to get him out of that cell?”

“This place is no fucking Leavenworth. The lock’s no problem. It’s a standard cylinder.”

I double check we’re really alone in the shadows. “You’re a locksmith, now?”

He smirks. “I can pick that lock.”

Goosebumps rise up my skin.

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