Page 50 of The Infinite Glade
Frypan shook his head. “They would have swam away if they’d been on that. They’re survival-driven.” Frypan nodded to Isaac. “And Minho and Orange are protectors. They’re okay, somewhere down there.”
Ximena seemed determined to keep up the atmosphere of doom. “If they swam in these waters, they’d freeze to death. All the inlets are covered in ice.”
Isaac was one step away from complete insanity. He took a deep breath, one big enough for every single person he loved.
“It’ll be okay, Jackie,” he forced himself to say. Her eyes darted to him in doubt. “Whatever happens, we’ll be okay . . .” He hated saying the same words that others had said to him after his family died. All theit’ll be okaysfelt like such lies, and they were. Because the truth was, nothing would ever be “okay” again. But at the same time, things could never be worse.Whatever happens, we’ll be okay. How terrible had his life become, to think things like these?
Jackie looked away. “How are we ever going to tell their families? How can we go back there and pretend like none of this happened . . .”
Isaac felt the Berg start to descend. Cian and Erros seemed plenty happy to drop them off.
“You really want to land in all this?” Frypan asked Isaac.
He nodded. It wasn’t even a question.
Did they really have anything to lose at this point? There was a chance. At the very least, a tiny chance they were down there, alive.
And he’d rather die with his friends than live as a coward.
It was over.
The Remnant Nation’s Orphan soldiers grabbed Sadina and Trish first. Each one screamed and kicked as if the Orphans needed any encouragement to kill them right there. Minho felt like he was inside one of his nightmares, wishing his body were really just asleep along the coast and that soon he’d wake up from Dominic talking too loudly around the fire. But this was a living nightmare.
“Stay calm, don’t scream!” he shouted at Sadina and Trish just as five or six larger Orphans roughly grabbed Minho. He braced himself, knowing they would beat him, pummel him with punches and kicks on the spot. But instead, they just stripped him of his weapons, twisted his limbs into impossible holds, and carried him away.
His favorite gun fell to the floor. His shoulder blades pinched into each other as they lifted him up, swinging. He twisted then flipped his body, flailing like an Orphan being thrown from a cliff. But it was no good. They had him.
“It really takes half a dozen of you to take me in? They must not train you like they did us.” If he couldn’t hurt them with weapons, he’d at least annoy them. They carried him out into the cold. “What’s your name, soldier?” he asked the Orphan on his right. “You’ve got a name, I know you do! My name is Minho!” He shouted at all of them, referencing the fact that the Nation didn’t let them have names. “You have a name and a brain and don’t have to do this!”
“Shut up!” The Orphan on the left punched him in the eye so hard that Minho swore he felt a bone break. His vision blurred, and he knew a traitor’s death would only come after much more of the same. As they got him under control and carried him away, he tried lifting his head to look for Roxy and the others. It was still dark, but he saw two soldiers pushing a walking Pilgrim’s cloak. At least they had captured the coward of a Godhead. Minho could die happy knowing she would share his fate.
They dragged him to a Berg and Minho twisted his body as much as he could, hoping the soldiers would drop him. If he could break free for even a second, there was a chance he could grab a weapon from the dead on the ground and unload it on them. But they were too strong.
He saw a flash of Roxy, her feet on the ground being pushed and pulled toward the Nation’s Berg. And then he saw Orange, three soldiers carrying her. They locked eyes. He didn’t know what to say—nothing could make what they were about to go through less . . .final. He watched, helpless, as they lined up the islanders and Roxy, one by one. Orange closed her eyes. She was probably thinking about the same thing Minho was tryingnotto think about.
Hell. The lowest level of the fortress. The worst place on Earth.
Two soldiers ripped the back of her uniform as she struggled, revealing the long scars across her back from when she’d been beaten for singing.
They mocked her. “You’ve betrayed the Nation before, I see,” one of them said, and another kicked her in the back where her scars looked like an “X”.
“Stay still, Remnant!” one of the six soldiers holding Minho shouted. Clanking metal from inside the Berg made Minho wonder if he’d even make it that far. The soldiers were hungry for death, and they’d take it however they could. He kicked his legs and swung his body again to throw those holding him off balance; he got his right leg free.
“Be still, Remnant!” another one screamed. But Minho was no longer a Remnantanything.He kicked his foot out and connected with a soldier, right in the head.
“You piece of shit.” The soldier punched him in the same eye again.
His vision went black for a moment, then slowly phased to light and blurry. A warm sensation of blood dripped down his face. But it didn’t matter how many times they punched him in the same eye. They could carve out his eye and feed it to him like a grape, and he’d still make his capture as uncomfortable as possible . . . because he knew exactly where they were taking him.
Straight to the fortress. To the depths of Hell.
And even Hell had a special place for traitors.
PARTTHREE
WICKED is Wicked
WICKED is good. WICKED is good. WICKED is good.
