The Battle Within Read online

  “No ma’am,” Ceyonne says. Wu is only able to nod.

  “Normally, we wouldn’t let anyone in here without strict supervision, since this is where we keep all our supplies that aren’t our weapons. However—I imagine that the three of you aren’t looking to steal, so I’m going to trust that you’ll take clothes, and only clothes.”

  “Where will you be?” I ask.

  “Right here,” Patrice says. She extends the lantern toward me with a nod and says, “Mrs. Cross.”

  “Patrice.”

  “We will discuss your involvement with us come time you return.”

  Though I nod in response, the action is automatic and without true intent: born of following orders and taking commands. Because of that, I don’t think much of it, and as such, turn and begin to lead Wu and Ceyonne into the boutique.

  The shorter girl is upon me almost as soon as we are out of earshot. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Wu asks. “Why are you siding with them?”

  “I’m not siding with anyone,” I reply, turning to glance back down the aisle of boxes, at the end of which Patrice stands looking out into the depths of the tunnel. “Keep your voice down. They might hear.”

  “Keep my voice down?” Wu laughs. “You think I’m the one who’s going to get us into trouble?”

  “Wu—”

  “She has a point,” Ceoynne replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “We are in this situation because of you.”

  “What situation is that?” I reply, turning to face Ceyonne. I wait a moment for her to respond before adding, “Surely you wouldn’t rather be out in the dark?”

  “I don’t know where I’d rather be, Kel.”

  “We could be captured by the North,” I stress, “and have only God knows what happen to us.” I wait for the words to sink in before adding: “Do you seriously think I had any other choice? I had a gun pointed at my head. I wasn’t about to risk letting the two of you get shot.”

  “That still doesn’t excuse it!” Wu snaps.

  Sighing, I reach up to brush my hair away from my face and set the lamp down on a nearby box—hoping, with everything I can muster, that Patrice, if she can hear, will understand the girl’s concern, and not take it as anything more than fear.

  But you don’t know, my conscience is quick to offer. You have no idea what they’ll think.

  Either way, I can’t dwell on it; and for that reason, turn and begin to skim the racks of clothing.

  Wu starts, “I think we should discuss this.”

  I reply with, “I don’t know what there is to discuss.”

  “Of course you do! You’re the one who got us into this mess!”

  “I—” I start, then stop before I can continue.

  The gravity of the situation is only just beginning to settle in. Weighing on me like a boulder, and pressing me to the earth, I struggle to hold myself together in the face of what is undoubtedly the greatest persecution.

  It isn’t taking much to realize that they both think I had a role in all of this.

  Did you, though? Did you really?

  I swallow the lump in my throat and sigh before saying, “I’m sorry.”

  My response disarms Wu. The anger from her face disappears almost immediately, and the tightness in her jaw dissipates soon after. “Kel,” she starts.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” I reply, trembling, now, from the weight of it all. “I thought I was doing the right thing by helping them. By going to the Rita Blanca. By journeying to the Divide. I thought… I thought that, if I could just help them, something would get better. But now?” I ask. “Now, I think I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life, and people have died because of it. My father. My people. My husband.” I inhale a deep breath and say, “I’m sorry, you guys. I wish there was something more I could say or do.”

  The I let out a long, low sob, and collapse to the floor.

  The flood of emotions comes barreling at me.

  The Procession—

  The journey—

  The war outside—

  The battle within—

  My father’s death—

  My husband’s murder—

  My friends’ lives, shattered—

  There is no amount of relief that could be spared for me at this moment, at this great and horrible time; and like a banshee waiting to release her ungodly scream, I struggle to keep everything together.

  Ceyonne is on her knees next to me in seconds, Wu shortly thereafter.

  All I can say, in the end, is: “I’m sorry.”

  And then I weep.

  Two

  We remain in the boutique for as long as we can without drawing suspicion. Drawing clothes from racks, checking to ensure they will fit our frames, testing, then pulling them over our heads and up our legs—it is an effort measured in the time my friends take so I can recover, or at least recover as best as I can.

  By the time we are dressed and ready to go, a number of minutes have passed, and Patrice is getting antsy. “You girls almost done in there?” she asks.

  “Yessum,” Ceoynne says as we step into the area of lamplight. “We’re done.”

  Patrice glances us over with cautious, and judging, eyes. Though we are dressed in simple shirts and jeans, we wear jackets or bear shawls around our shoulders to stave off the unbearable cold. This in itself wouldn’t have been an issue up above, for if it were truly cold, clothes would be provided to us. Here, though, and now, we have to consider that we are taking from others, and not having things willingly provided to us.

  The woman doesn’t seem to mind what we have taken—or at least if she does, she is not saying anything. Rather, she nods, lifts the lantern into her hand, and says, “Follow me.”

  So we do—down the row of nearly-vacant shops whose interiors are lit only by the lanterns in their possession. I try not to allow guilt to harbor within me, but at the same time, I can’t help but think of what has come as a result of our actions.

  Daniel.

  His blood, like my father’s, is now on my hands.

  Just how much can one person take?

  You’ve grinned and bore more, my conscience is quick to offer.

  Besides, it then adds. He was just temporary.

  Temporary? I think. How could Daniel have just been temporary? He was a living person—a young man with his whole life ahead of him. How could my conscience, even as devilish as it happens to be, say that he was temporary?

  I shake my head to dispel the thoughts from within and find Ceyonne glancing over at me, a questioning, unsure look in her eyes.

  The gaze doesn’t last long, however. Her attention is abruptly jarred to the world before us as Patrice stops before a lonely shop that used to resemble a small diner.

  “This is where you will rest for now,” Patrice says.

  “Why are we so far away from the others?” Wu asks.

  “Because—we are still unsure how to proceed now that we have you in our possession.”

  “What’re you—” Ceyonne starts.

  Patrice’s sharp gaze cuts the girl off. “We do not know how to proceed,” she says, “because we are in a precarious situation. We have three Beautiful Ones, one of whom is undoubtedly your most infamous, in our possession.”

  “Can’t you just give us back?” I ask.

  The woman shakes her head. “No. We can’t.”

  Her statement makes my blood run cold.

  “Why?” Wu asks, her voice soft.

  “Because, dear: we are an outlying faction who opposes the government. If they even so much as caught wind of where you might be, they’d storm this place and kill everyone here, no matter their involvement.”

  “How do you—” Wu starts.

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Our fates our sealed.”

  “See? Mrs. Cross understands the severity of our predicament.” Patrice turns and gestures to the inside of the diner before offering me the lantern. “Go inside and rest. We�
��ll discuss this further once you’ve had some sleep.”

  “Thank you,” Ceyonne offers in a short, low voice, then turns and steps into the diner.

  Wu follows next, I shortly thereafter.

  I’m not surprised when a metal gate is lowered to block us in.

  “Why—” Wu starts.

  “Insurance,” Patrice says, then locks the gate into place before turning and stalking off.

  There are several moments of silence in the moments following the woman’s departure. Unsure what to think, and even more unsure what to say, I set the lantern atop the bar and turn my head to regard the thick quilts that have been arranged along the floor, then the metal gate dividing us from our escape.

  Wu is the first to say, “This was a bad idea.”

  To which I respond with, “It could’ve been.”

  Ceyonne doesn’t bother to offer her comments on the matter. Rather, she settles down on the floor, closes her eyes, then expels a long, pent-up breath before finally offering, “At least we’re safe.”

  But for how long?

  This is the thought that bothers me the most as I contemplate our situation. Knowing, beyond any measure of a doubt, that we are at least hidden for the time being, offers me a small shred of comfort. However: it also leads me to believe that our reveal, as stunning as it will eventually be, will be met with intense scrutiny.

  Why didn’t you run, they will ask, when you had the chance to flee?

  Why did you go with a gunman, they will question, when he was pointing his rifle at your head?

  Why did you go with them when they declared themselves The Southern Saints?

  I could say we didn’t run, I think, because we could not; that we went with a gunmen because he guaranteed safety; that we went with them only because the enemy was at our backs. Fleeing, on the other hand, would have been impossible, because behind a metal gate we were held prisoner, if only to shelter the people whose lives we were not responsible for.

  I shake my head as I seat myself beside Ceyonne and Wu—and try, without success, to dispel the imagery from my brain. It isn’t surprising to me when it just keeps coming, and offering more than I could’ve ever anticipated.

  “You okay?” Ceyonne asks, turning her head to look at me.

  “I’m responsible for people other than myself,” I reply. “I don’t know how I can be okay with that.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that. I mean… Daniel.”

  Daniel.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath before opening them to look at Ceyonne once more. “I don’t know what would have happened if he’d’ve come along,” I reply. “They… don’t look like they’re much better off than we are. He could’ve bled to death and nothing would’ve changed.”

  “I just can’t believe it.”

  “He was so stupid,” Wu says. “He could’ve run with us. He didn’t have to push Ceyonne out of the way.”

  “It could’ve been me, though,” Ceyonne returns. “I can’t fault him for making sure we were safe.”

  “He’s right,” I say. “You know what the North does to girls like us.”

  Wu doesn’t say anything. She merely trembles and spreads out along the large quilt.

  After taking a long, deep breath, I, too, lie down, and curl into a ball to try and fight off the dull chill that permeates this place.

  “You gonna be okay?” Ceyonne asks after a moment.

  “I don’t know,” is all I can respond with.

  I close my eyes and submit myself to sleep, knowing all the while that, within hours, I will be facing a new obstacle.

  I will be facing the Southern Saints.

  I sleep for what feels like hours, though is likely only a few. During it, I dream of our flight, and of the events that occurred during it.

  The rumble—

  The explosion—

  The fire—

  The fear—

  The way the SADs had burst through our door—

  The way they’ d told us to run.

  Run.

  As fast as we can—

  ‘Cause fire can’t hurt you like the North can.

  There’d been a brief moment of disbelief, I know, as we’d run—as through the tower and onto the ground floor we’d emerged. There’d been me, Ceyonne, Wu, and Daniel too.

  And finally, the shot that ended it all.

  Daniel’s had snapping forward—

  Colliding with the glass—

  His brain as it splattered across the pane—

  I wake with a start, jarred forward by the inevitable pull of panic, and blink back the tears that course down my face.

  Trembling, now, in the thick of it all, I inhale a great breath and then expel it with the tiniest sob.

  Thankfully, neither of my friends are awakened.

  Unfortunately, someone standing outside the gate tuns to acknowledge me.

  “You okay?” the man asks.

  I blink, stunned, still unsure where we are or how we got here. Then it comes rushing back to me, and I’m saying, “I… I think I am.”

  The young man named Ashton sighs as he leans forward to snare his fingers through the metal, and says, “I’m sorry, but I’m not supposed to let you out.”

  T.S.S.

  The Southern Saints.

  The words strike me accordingly—each punctuating my conscience as if they are bullets lodging into an unfortunate man’s brain—-and cause me to reel in discomfort. I find myself taking another deep breath, then reaching up to wipe the tears from my eyes.

  Ashton doesn’t comment on my tears. Rather, he sighs, turns to look out the dark corridor, and says, “Patrice said—”

  “I’m not worried about getting out,” I reply.

  “You’re not?” Ashton asks.

  I shake my head. “No. I’m… content, I guess you could say, to stay here—at least, for now.”

  “You’re safer behind bars.”

  “Why?”

  “Because some people are concerned that you might try to leave. That you might talk.”

  “I’m not going to talk,” I reply.

  “But are you going to leave?”

  To this, I have no reply. Instead, I simply shake my head.

  With a nod, Ashton turns his head to regard the empty space once more and says, “Patrice went to go get Dusty. He’ll be back to discuss the situation with you soon.”

  “Who’s Dusty?” Ceyonne asks from beside me. I turn my head just in time to see her eyes crack open to examine the world in front of us.

  “Dusty McGee’s our leader. He’s… the one who helms the Southern Saints, and makes all the shots.”

  Nodding, I cross my arms over my chest and rise to stretch my arms and legs, then approach the gate cautiously, much to Ashton’s discomfort. The young man is nervous. Hiding behind his hair, he looks at me with a gaze not unlike a hurt dog, and likely expects me to say something completely out of the ordinary.

  But what?

  Does he think that I think I’m better than him? That I shouldn’t be here? That I’m being held hostage? What, exactly, is on his mind?

  I’m just about to question him when the sound of footsteps start to echo down the corridor.

  “Get up,” I say.

  “Why—” Ceyonne starts.

  I shake my head to cut her off.

  Ceyonne rouses Wu quickly, much to her displeasure. Then they rise and come to stand beside me as Patrice’s short figure and a tall, lanky one approaches.

  “Ashton,” a man’s deep voice says. “I take it everything’s fine?”

  “They… woke up,” the young man says.

  The man approaches. With cloudy eyes not unlike Daniel’s, and silver hair to match the coming storm, he watches me with an intensity of a wolf—knowing, likely, that I am just as much a force to be reckoned with as he likely is. “Kelendra Cross,” he says. “A pleasure.”

  “I’m not sure I can say the same,” I reply.

  He laughs—a col
d, harsh sound—and smiles to reveal well-tended teeth. “I see you’re just as they say you are. Fiery. Headstrong. Determined. All things that could get you killed.”

  I frown.

  “And yet, haven’t,” the man says, and smiles once more. He comes to stand before me to look into my eyes, and leans forward until our faces are mere inches apart. He then asks, “Tell me: were you honest when you said you stand with us?”

  “I don’t know who you are.”

  “Why, we are The Southern Saints. The champions of the people. The last bastion of the free will. The leaders of the resistance against the Great South’s tyrannical government.”

  “I thought that was the Fanatical?”

  “The Fanatical are terrorists, dear girl. We are peacekeepers.”

  “So… you aren’t the ones who bombed my wedding. Who killed all those people.”

  “No. We’re not.”

  I sigh my relief.

  “However,” the man continues, “we aren’t above doing whatever it takes to make sure that the people are safe.”

  “What does that mean?” Ceyonne asks, drawing forward. Wu pulls up alongside her to join the procession.

  “Ah. Ceyonne Marsden and Wu Dao. A pleasure.”

  “You know who we are?” Wu asks.

  “Of course we do. We knew who you were the moment you set foot in this place.”

  “But… how—”

  The man lifts a device whose surface glows with blue light. He points it at Wu like he would a gun, and shortly thereafter, a blue beam of light crosses her face. A voice then says, Target: Wu Dao. Birthplace: Gladberry. Parents: Lee and Van Dao. Designation: Beautiful One.”

  “What is that?” Ceyonne asks while Wu looks on, a mixture of shock and horror on her face.

  “This, Miss Marsden, is what you’d call an I.L.D.—otherwise known as an Individual Locator Device. It can tell you everything you want to know about everyone who’s been entered into the city’s census.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “Does it work on you?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Cross.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’m afraid that’s something I can’t divulge,” Dusty McGee says. “At least, not until we’re sure that we can trust you.”