CLAUDIA

Once the skies are silent and the smell of fire is no longer so thick on the air, the crowd slowly disperses. The dragon’s gone. For now.

The guards grab my arms and take me down a hall in the opposite direction of the mayor’s office.

"Where are you taking me?" I suspect they won’t answer, but I have to ask.

The two exchange a look, but no one speaks up.

I remain silent, intent. If they try to take me outside of the barrier, I’m going to make a break for it, handcuffs or not. The militia escort me out of the mall and down a metal-covered tunnel that loops around the edge of the barrier. A small concrete building with a reinforced roof serves as an outpost, and the gun-toting guards nod at each other as they drag me inside.

The interior is much nicer than any place I’ve been in a long time. Off to one side I can see a room full of orderly cots with clean, neat blankets. Soldiers play cards on a table in a kitchen area, and as the guard drags me back, I hear laughter and even a female voice coming from the barracks.

They pull me into a new room, one that looks like it belongs to someone in charge. One of the soldiers escorting me is about my age, but extremely unpleasant and smirky. Of course he’s the one that sticks around. He smirks at me again before he moves forward and opens a trunk, rummaging for something. He finds a small package and tosses it to me. “Here. Change.”

It smacks against my chest, and I feebly try to catch it with my cuffed hands. “What is this?”

“A dress. You can’t wear that.”

I frown and look down at my clothes. I’m wearing worn jeans and a ratty T-shirt that I’ve scavenged from someone in exchange for a few expired cans of food. One of the sleeves is burned and crispy around the edges, and the knees in my jeans are both torn, but for Fort Dallas, I’m wearing perfectly acceptable clothing. At least I have clothing. Some people are resorting to home-spun stuff now that clothing from Before is getting harder and harder to find. All my private bits are covered, and these clothes have plenty of good years in them. “Why would I wear a dress? What’s wrong with my clothing?”

“You need to clean yourself up,” he explains. He nods at his buddy, and the one holding my arm turns and drags me out of the room. I stumble after him, about to protest until I see the metal bathtub sitting on the concrete floor.

Oh. A bath.

The tub is completely filled with fresh water; they must have used one of the nearby wells to get so much, because the plumbing no longer works anywhere. Next to the tub I see a cake of soap and a thick brown towel. This…this is luxury. Add this on to the dress and I’m more than a little worried. “You guys gonna make me go whoring?”

The soldier snorts and gives me another shove forward, then produces a key. “Hold your arms out.”

I do, and he unlocks the cuffs and then moves to the door. I rub my wrists and consider running, but I’ll never get far in a barracks full of soldiers, and I like not being riddled with bullets. “What’s the dress and the bath for, then, if not whoring?” Not that I want to whore, mind you. It’s just…the most logical conclusion.

He ignores my question and gives me a pointed look. "Use the soap. A lot of it. Make sure you wash off your smell."

“Wash off my…smell?” I smell—everyone does now that deodorant is a thing of the past—but I’m not rank. He smells, too. Everyone does. I tilt my head, curious. “I don’t understand.”

"Yours is not to question. Yours is to do."

“And…you’re not going to pass me around?” Because I’ve heard stories of pretty girls disappearing into barracks and never returning. And while I wouldn’t call myself pretty, I’m here and being told to bathe, so I’m freaking out a little.

The fear must be showing on my face, because the guard shakes his head at me and gestures at the tub again.

“We’re not going to hurt you. Just clean up and get dressed and we’ll explain.”

He shuts the door, locks it, and then I’m alone with the tub. I stall for a little bit, uncertain, rubbing my wrists as I stare longingly at the water. I’d love a bath, but I can’t get over the feeling that there’s some sort of trick that I’m not aware of. Like the moment I undress, a dozen guys will storm in the room or something. Why are they insisting I bathe? It doesn’t make sense.

But…the water smells so clean and fresh, and the soap has a hint of herbs to it. I pick it up and sniff it. Lavender. Oh wow. It’s an old store soap. And I’ve been stuck in a sweaty, musty jail cell for two weeks. I stink of ash and sweat and god knows what else.

Fuck it. I pull my clothes off, toss them aside, and slide into the tub. If I’m gonna be raped, I might as well be squeaky clean.

I sink in the water up to my neck and groan. It’s utter bliss. It doesn’t matter that it’s lukewarm. It’s a bath. My last one was Before. Ever since, it’s been a scramble to get enough food and water, much less bathing. Most days I settle for a quick wipe-down with a wet cloth, and a lot of people don’t even do that. But all this water? This is luxury. Amy would freak out if she knew…

Amy. I fight the urge to cry. Please be all right, Amy. I’m going to get out of this and then I’m going to come back to you.

The tub loses a bit of its charm once I think about my sister. I soak for a minute longer, and then use the soap to methodically scrub at my limbs and hair. I wash several times, until my arms no longer streak with dirt when the water runs down them, and my hair feels tangly and squeaky with cleanliness.

By the time I finish, I can hear the guards outside the door talking in low voices, as if they don’t want me to hear. I wrap the towel around my body and tiptoe forward to listen at the door, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Crap. I want to know about the five other girls. The bait thing.

I want to know what’s going on.

I fold my filthy clothes as delicately as I can, because I want to take them with me when I go home. I refuse to allow ‘if’ to creep into that statement. I will be going home. I examine the ‘dress’ I’ve been given and have to turn it over twice before I figure out which way it goes. It’s an odd piece of clothing, little more than a square of fabric with arm holes and a neck cut into it. Why on earth would they want me to wear it?

This entire set-up reeks of weirdness.

With nothing else to do, I sit on the edge of the tub and wait, staring at the door.

With my hands free of cuffs, I could escape. Maybe. Providing I can get past the dozens of guards that seem to be swarming the barracks…where would I go? Fort Dallas is small, and someone would be all too willing to sell me out again for a bit of reward money. I can’t go back home with a price on my head.

But what’s my other option? Leave the city? Let them exile me like they want? I’ll die for sure. The Scavenge Lands are empty for a reason—no one can survive there any longer without protection. Sometimes protection comes in the form of a group, sometimes a building. I’ve been told there are maps that can show you a safe route between forts…for the right price. Without it? You’re on your own, and the dragons are especially bad in the north, or so the rumors say. I’ve never gone farther than Fort Dallas. No one does. You find a place that’s safe, and you stay. Plus, I’ve always had Amy to worry about, and now my friend Sasha. Poor Sasha. Trouble seems to follow her even more than me.

I’m stuck, like it or not. I can’t abandon them. I hate that I’m being screwed over for something everyone does. Do they think no one scavenges but me? Bullshit. Everyone does, because there’s never enough food to go around, and the only job that a woman with no connections can get is on her back. I won’t do that, so I scavenge. It’s so ridiculous to be arrested for it that it almost feels like a set-up.

After a moment, there’s a polite knock at the door. I stand, my clothes tucked under my arm.

The guard pops his head in, and he glances around the room, then at me. “You done?”

I bite back a sarcastic retort. “Done.”

He nods and enters the room. “Hands back out, please.”

The cuffs again? Damn it. I set my clothing down on the sink and then obediently hold my arms out. “What’s going to happen to my clothes?”

“You can come pick them up later.”

That…was not the answer I expected. “Really?”

“Yup. Captain’s orders. After tonight, you can go.”

That sounds too good to be true. I gaze up at him, but he won’t look me in the eye, and that gives me a weird feeling. “What happens tonight?”

He says nothing. Not good. Whatever it is that’s going down with me and bait girls? It’s bad. That’s why they won’t talk to me. I lick my dry lips and nod toward my folded clothes, even though I’m getting the sinking suspicion that I’ll never see them again.

The guard takes my things and tucks them under his arm, and the moment we go into the next room, he dumps them on a table…next to five neat little piles of clothes and shoes, still waiting for their owners.

The knot in my throat feels huge.

He looks over at me and sees my gaze is fixed on the table. A look like shame crosses his face, and then he grabs my arm again. “Come on. Captain’s waiting.”

The guard leads me along through the warren of the Fort Dallas Militia barracks. The captain’s talking to one of his men near the door, both of them kitted out in old riot gear, including helmets and vests. They look at me as I arrive, and the captain nods slowly.

He’s staring at me a little too hard. It’s uncomfortable, so I try to make light of the moment by pretending to curtsy in my stupid shift dress. See? I’m not all bad. Sure, I may be a no-good thief, but I’ve got a sense of humor.

“Red hair,” is all the captain says. “That’s…interesting.”

Self-conscious, I run a hand through my messy snarls of hair. I guess I keep it pretty dirty. Not exactly like there’s a spa in Fort Dallas that I can lounge at all day and give myself makeovers. “Why does my hair color matter?” They did say I wasn’t going to be whoring for the soldiers. I hope that hasn’t changed.

Then I think of those five sets of clothing and shudder inwardly. Maybe I should hope it has changed.

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter.” The captain’s tone is curt. He nods at the man behind me. “Gear up and let’s go. We’re leaving.”

“Do I get gear?” I ask.

“No. But I do ask that you put your hood up.”

Lovely. “I’m sure it’ll be plenty of protection,” I say sarcastically, staring pointedly at his helmet. Fuck being nice to these jerks. “So where are we going?”

He gives me a thin smile. “To a place you’re very familiar with.”

Uh oh.