Outpost

Edmund was working on a pair of shoes when I walked in. His face reflected surprise, quickly hidden. “Deuce! Good to see you.”



I chatted with him for a few minutes so he wouldn’t be hurt that I hadn’t come to see him specifically. “What are those?”



“These will be a fine pair of slippers when I’m finished. Did Doc Tuttle check you out yet?”



“He removed my stitches too. I’m good as new.”



Not quite. I hurt in ways I hadn’t before—the pain not physical—and I worried about the town, which had become my home. Not that it was my place to be concerned. The elders would solve the problem. I just had to find some useful way to occupy my time, now that I didn’t have to attend school, though I didn’t look forward to advising Mrs. James of my decision. Everyone in Salvation worked—and I didn’t want to apprentice to Momma Oaks and become a dressmaker. But I’d figure out a way to persuade people that I ought to be allowed to take over for Longshot, once the trade runs commenced … after they dealt with the Freaks outside the walls.



Not a small job.



Then Edmund proved he was more perceptive than he seemed. “Fade’s in the back, cutting patterns.”



“Do you mind…?”



“Go on. He’s welcome to take a break. Hard worker, that one … doesn’t talk much, though.”



He used to, I thought.



With an indistinct murmur, I brushed past Edmund into the work space at the back of the shop. Fade glanced up—and I could’ve sworn for an instant that he was happy to see me, but the look vanished so fast I thought I imagined it. He put down the tool he used on the leather and cocked his head in challenge.



“What are you doing here?” The unspoken meaning was clear: I told you to leave me alone, to forget about me. I meant it.



I ignored the pain, doggedly clinging to my mission, and flattened my palm on the counter. When I pulled my hand away, the key lay atop the half-trimmed leather. “I see that you’re unhappy … you feel trapped. But I can help.”



“What do you mean?”



“Longshot left me his house. I wouldn’t like living alone, and I don’t mind Edmund or Momma Oaks. So you can stay and take care of the place. It’ll give you more peace … more privacy.” I stared over his shoulder, wondering if he could tell how much this hurt me. “Nobody will bother you there.”



You won’t see me. You can lick your wounds and miss me until you come searching for me … because you’re mine, and I’m yours. But I left that part unspoken.



His throat worked. “I … really appreciate this.”



“Do you know where it is?” It was hard for me to be casual with Fade when I wanted so much to reach for him, to twine our fingers together and kiss his palms, and to tell him he was acting crazy.



He inclined his head. “Longshot had me over once.”



I hadn’t known that. But during those first few months in town, I’d hardly seen Fade. Given how Mr. Jensen had treated him, it was no wonder he’d spent as little time at the livery as possible. I imagined him looking for a different place to be every night, and how I wished it had been with me.



“That’s all, then.” I turned, determined not to humiliate myself.



“Deuce…” For a moment, for a glorious, bright, hopeful moment, I thought he was going call me back. But he only added, “Thank you.”



“Welcome,” I muttered.



I managed a wave for Edmund, busy again. Little wonder he enjoyed resting at home when he spent his days hunched over a workbench. As I hurried out, rifle shots rang out, one after another. Instead of going home, I went to the wall to see for myself how bad it was. More than once, I’d sought Longshot when he was on duty to complain about my problems. I couldn’t anymore. The guards might not let me come up, but the sentry recognized me—well, sort of.



“I know you,” he said, frowning.



My cheeks heated; the dress must be throwing him. I’d known him at first glance. It was, in fact, the man who saved my life.



“I patrolled with you all summer,” I reminded him.



“You look different dressed as a female.” His brow cleared, the question answered to his satisfaction.



Despite my mood, I smiled, pointing at the ladder that led up to the platform. “May I?”



“I probably shouldn’t, but after what you’ve already seen, it doesn’t matter. Come on, then.”



After I clambered up, I took position beside him, shading my eyes, because the sun hurt them a little. My skin was still peeling in places from the burn I took bringing in the harvest, but I had some color for the first time in my life. At last, I’d lost the total underground pallor and, secretly, I felt, part of myself too. I wasn’t the same Deuce—and it was too soon to tell whether that was a good thing. I felt a little wiser, maybe, less inclined to believe whatever people told me.



It took me a minute to focus in the daylight, and what I saw horrified me to the core. The horde had arrived, encircling Salvation like a dark cloud. The Freaks stood just beyond rifle range as if weighing their options. Eventually—though they weren’t lightning fast in the brain—it would occur to them that if they charged at once, we didn’t have enough riflemen to kill them all. They’d reach the walls.



In that awful, seething mass, I also glimpsed glimmers of brightness—our stolen fire—and Salvation was made of wood. I closed my eyes, overwhelmed. It didn’t matter how Fade felt, or where he lived. The town had a matter of days, and I’d seen no signs of an imminent solution, despite Elder Bigwater’s good intentions. He was a man with limited resources and infinite trouble.



“It’s bad.” The guard hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t recall your name.”



That made me feel better. I couldn’t be wholly hated, like those staring women had made me feel, if someone I’d served with could forget me. That sense of relief intensified when I recalled this man had saved my life and slapped me for being a hysterical idiot. I should’ve been memorable to him, even notorious. It was comforting that I wasn’t.



“Deuce.”



“I’m Harry Carter.”



I remembered the name being read on that fateful day during the initial lottery and wondered how he felt about being one of the few survivors of the summer patrol, if it weighed on him like it did me, and if he felt like he wasn’t worthy. But he was an older man, nearly of an age with Longshot, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking him such things. Not without the same connection I’d shared with the outpost commander, at least.



“Thank you for my life, Harry Carter,” I said gravely.



“You’re from Gotham.” It wasn’t a question, though it led to one, and as I nodded, I braced for the inevitable. Nobody ever asked anything clever. But Harry surprised me with a thoughtful silence. And then: “I’m sorry your people got left.”



That evacuation had been such a long time ago; I was surprised he’d give it a thought. That he did showed his kindness. “I guess they took everyone they could.”



“Maybe,” he murmured, lifting his rifle.



Another wave of Freaks charged the walls, and the guards fired desperately, dropping them, but more ran on, dodging, weaving, pushing closer. I touched my knives, hidden beneath my skirt, but they couldn’t help from this distance.



A few stragglers got close enough to slam against the wood, but they didn’t come bearing fire. Soon, though. Soon, they’d work it out. Harry leaned over and nailed one through the top of the head, a perfect vertical shot. Brains spattered against the walls, and I smelled its death, a stench fit to empty my stomach.



“You should go,” Harry said.



Because I couldn’t bear to stand there and not fight, I obeyed. I still had Miles’s rifle, but I didn’t want to cause trouble. Maybe, though, under the circumstances, the guards would take whatever help they could get. Momma Oaks could probably advise me. Alight with purpose, I ran home. I’d guard the walls and put my Huntress training to good use. Surely I’d get better using the rifle with practice, and standing on the wall offered endless targets. I’d aim for the fire-bearers too.



I burst in the front house, skirts flying, and startled Momma into dropping the dress she was hemming. “Are you hurt?”



“No, ma’am,” I said. “I just need to get my rifle.”



She stared as if I’d announced I intended to breed with Edmund. “What for?”



“They need me on the walls. Do you think anyone would mind?” To me, my gender seemed like a stupid reason to object if I could shoot—and I could. But for all I wanted to help, I didn’t want to enrage the general populace, either.



Brow furrowed, she thought long and hard on it before finally shaking her head. “If you go quietly and don’t draw attention, it should be all right.”



Well, I didn’t mean to run through town, shouting, Look at me, I’m a girl in pants, watch me shoot this gun. Leaving this obvious truth unspoken, I acknowledged her caution with a murmured “I’ll be careful,” as I ran past her up the stairs.



Before anything else, I put away the leather folio that contained Longshot’s legacy. Then I changed clothes and searched for my rifle. Someone had stored it beneath my bed and unloaded it as well. I found the rounds in my dresser and loaded my weapon. Feeling better than I had since Longshot’s death—as if I might prove useful—I scrambled into my soldier gear, plain brown pants and matching tunic. When I added Edmund’s boots, I remembered how proud he’d been, how carefully he measured my feet and tailored them just for me. The leather was soft and worn from a summer of wear, and they fit perfectly. I took the ribbon from my hair and exchanged it for a simple tie.



Today, I felt like a Huntress.



Momma Oaks kissed my cheek as I went out to fight, and I was careful to avoid the main avenue, circling the perimeter instead. Nobody gave me a second look. They might’ve even thought I was a boy, recruited young. That suited me fine.



Harry Carter was still on duty when I climbed up, this time without waiting for permission. He didn’t ask what I thought I was doing; I guessed he could tell by the rifle in my hand. And he looked so very tired. There weren’t enough guards to man the wall all the way around, and those who did worked incredibly long shifts.



He spoke as I checked my gun. “They’ve dropped back for now, but they’ll make another run. You’ll get your shooting in.”



As he’d predicted we didn’t wait long. I raised my rifle and aimed for the torso as Longshot had taught me. One jerked and fell. Mine. Another kill. Nobody was ringing the bell anymore; there were just too many, and it would create an unbelievable racket. The guns and Freaks were bad enough. In quick succession, I shot five more, and then had to reload from Harry’s ammo bucket. Miles’s rifle was nice enough with a smooth, black barrel and a walnut stock, but I wished I had Longshot’s—for sentimental reasons.



I had been fighting for a while when calamity struck. As disasters went, it was a small one, but tiny troubles had a way of swelling, like ticks grown fat with blood. At first I paid no attention to the voices behind me, focused on preventing the Freaks from completing their charge. Harry was a quiet companion, capable and composed.