Page 14 of Trade
There are cracked slabs of grayish asphalt under my feet. Over my shoulder, a mountain rises into a blue sky. The bunker is under a mountain. I didn’t know.
Green trees tower to my left and right. The sky and grass and trees—everything is the vibrant, pure version of colors I’ve only ever seen in faded illustrations in books.
The sky is higher than I ever imagined. The horizon is impossibly far in the distance. I can’t see the sun, but I can feel the warmth of its shine on my face.
And oh God, the air, it’s sosweet.
For a split second, I forget why I’m here.
Then I notice the box truck parked two yards down the drive.
And the man standing next to it with a machete strapped to his thigh.
Waiting for me.
ChapterFour
“Go!” a guard barks at me as he swarms past me with three others, jogging in formation toward the truck.
In a matter of seconds, a guard swings into the driver’s seat and the others step onto the side running boards. They drive the truck past me, the fumes from its exhaust fouling the perfect, pristine air.
Metal grinds behind me. They’re shutting the bunker doors.
Panic wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes.
The man hasn’t moved.
Neither have I.
A muffled boom sounds. The doors are closed. I’m trapped out here, buttrappedfeels like the wrong word. It is sobigout here. I’m lost. Left.
Except for the man.
I can’t think about him.
The silence settles in my ears, and even that sound is strange. There’s no rush of forced air, no distant, muffled hum of electricity and machinery and voices and footsteps muted by concrete.
The air isn’t still. It rustles leaves and whispers in my ear, brushing my cheek and tousling my hair.
A squawk sounds from high in the trees. A bird. A real bird. I crane my neck to see, but there are a million green puzzle pieces fluttering and swaying on branches, and my eyes are too weak to focus on a single leaf let alone find something hidden among them.
I never thought I’d see a bird.
I guess I haven’t yet, but I’ve heard him. He caws again. What kind is he? When I was little, I went through a phase where I listened to all the bird call tapes in the audio library and quizzed myself, but that was so long ago. All I remember now are the names. Goldfinch. Waxwing. Thrasher. Bunting. Kinglet. Like fairytale creatures.
The man is still standing there. He didn’t look for the bird. He never took his eyes off me.
Part of me is worrying that I’m disobeying the guard’s order to go. They can see me through their camera, so they know I’m not following orders. They didn’t say anything about followingtheirorders, though. Only that I have to followhis.
He’s big. Taller than anyone in the bunker. Maybe over six feet. He’s broader, too. Muscular. He isn’t wearing coveralls. He’s wearing dark green pants with side pockets and a long-sleeved gunmetal-gray shirt. A jacket is tied around his waist. His clothes are worn and patched, but from here, they don’t look dirty. Except for his boots. Those are caked with mud.
I peek at his face from the corner of my eye, trying not to let on that I’m looking.
My breath catches.
He’s handsome.
Andyoung.
