Page 49 of Trade
“I can write a letter. Let everyone know that I’m fine. That it’s my choice.”
Gary’s lip curls, his familiar face shifting into a nasty expression I’ve never seen before. I’d call it contempt, but even contempt is an emotion you feel toward a person. He looks at me like I don’t even rise to the definition. Like I’m meat stuck in his teeth or a clump of dirt stuck to the bottom of his shoe. My blood runs cold.
“You’re going to tell everyone that in person. If you don’t want me to put a bullet in your boyfriend’s brain right in front of you, get dressed. Now!”
I whimper, my gaze flying to Dalton, but for once, he’s not looking at me. He’s staring Gary down. Dalton’s back is ramrod-straight, and his shoulders are squared, his superhuman self-assurance not betrayed by the smallest twitch. He’s at least ten years younger than the youngest guard from the bunker, but he’s more of a man than any of them.
I can’t let them hurt him. I quickly struggle into my coveralls and shove my icy feet in my boots, bending to tie the laces with fumbling fingers.
“Remember what I told you when you were up in the tree?” Dalton says to me, his gaze never wavering from Gary. “What parts to aim for?”
“Shut up!” Gary barks.
Aim? Aim for the soft parts, he said. Eyes and throat. Dalton is going to fight.
I shout, “No!”
But Dalton is already leaping up, tackling a guard, spinning as he takes the man down and using his body as a bludgeon, slamming it into Eugene. It’s a melee. The bunker guards fight like they’re taught—the same as they do in their annual exhibitions—slinging their rifles over their shoulders to execute practiced punches and kicks like it’s a sparring match, and Dalton moves twice as fast.
He’s a whole other animal. Now that Eugene is flat on his back, Dalton goes for his machete, tearing through bodies to get to it. He drives an elbow into someone’s face and headbutts another while he kicks in another guy’s kneecap. He’s so much faster and stronger that even though he’s so outnumbered, he’s gaining ground.
One man drops to the ground, curling into a ball. Another reels away, blinded by his own blood, holding his face and wailing. The men who remain standing shrug their rifles off their shoulders, and my heart stops.
“Dalton, stop! I’ll go with them. Stop.”
I don’t think he hears me. The men swing their rifles at him like clubs, and he ducks and blocks, but there are too many of them. He takes a blow to the shoulder and stumbles, and a guard takes advantage by aiming a strike at Dalton’s knee, but Dalton is still too quick for them. He jumps over the rifle like it’s Double Dutch.
“Dalton, please! Stop!”
The men are forming a loose circle around him, and he doesn’t dodge the next few blows. He’s tiring. Staggering. Gasping for air and holding his side. They got his ribs.
A man swings his rifle, and Dalton’s too slow to even block it. He absorbs the entire impact with his forearm.
“Dalton! Please!” I can’t stand it. He can’t die. He’s the only good thing, the best thing in the world. He’s mine.Mine. “They’ll shoot you!”
“No ammunition,” Dalton gulps through ragged breaths. “That’s why . . . not shot already.”
Eugene hauled himself back to his feet at some point, and now he squares up with Dalton, fists raised and feet planted shoulder-width apart like this is a demonstration match. His beady eyes are gleaming.
Dalton is flagging fast, an eye swollen shut, lip split, barely able to stay upright, his right arm limp at his side.
“You should have listened to the bitch,” Eugene sneers. “Now you’re gonna get it.” He rotates his torso and draws back his arm.
Dalton drives his left fist into Eugene’s face, and he falls straight back, landing on the ground with a resounding thump. He’s out cold.
In the silence that follows, a soft, metallic click echoes through the clearing as loud as a clap of thunder.
I glance up from Eugene’s limp body. Gary is aiming his rifle at me.
“That’s enough now, young man,” Gary says.
Dalton immediately freezes, cradling his side. “You don’t have bullets,” he gasps. “We don’t trade you for bullets.”
“How sure of that are you? How sure are you that none of you will trade?” Gary steps forward, closing the distance between us, and levels the rifle’s muzzle at my forehead.
My hands rise into the air in front of my face as if my palms could block a bullet. Blood pounds in my ears.
“Glory,” Dalton says, his voice torn. His eyes find mine again. Everything I feel in my heart is burning in them. “I’ll find you again.”
