Page 135 of Chaos

One of them is an archer, a tiny blade, not all that sharp, but I grab it up, and hold it tight, just like the shard, swing it up.

And connect, right beside the terracotta shard.

“Fuck,” he blasts up, still pinning me with his legs, releasing my neck to clutch at his own.

It was a tiny stab, but enough to disrupt him, and enough for me to suck more air into my lungs and torque my body around, using the thigh muscles that failed me at first, but aren’t truly gone.

I snag him by the torso with my lower legs and twist us around so I’m on top. That’s the move I learned, finally working. Perfectly. Venus and Shasta would be so proud.

His eyes widen, and then I’m above him, over him, he’s the one on his back, and Shane is there, standing over him, the gun held tight in his once-mangled hand, the other holding it steady.

“Shoot him,” I say, rearing back to get out of his line of fire. “Do i—”

Shane squeezes the trigger.

The sound is deafening.

Duane goes still beneath me.

Shot right between the eyes by a boy with a recently-smashed dominant hand.

Before I can even shift off him, there’s an explosion behind us, with a roar so loud the building shakes the doors to the greenhouse loose so they spin on their hinges.

“We need to go.” Ephie grabs at Shane.

I scramble off Duane, struggling to move, my body clumsy, my head dizzy, my thoughts hazier than the smoke around us.

I still have the necklace, bloody, but both signs are there, clutched in my hands.

Cold air is gusting through the broken glass leading to the patio.

The pigeon cage is open.

Ben is gone.

Ephie and Shane drag me to my feet toward the doorway.

The seeds.

All my seeds.

The impulse is there to grab them. Some of them came with us from DC. Others have been added by the scavenging crews, bringing back seeds from nurseries and grocery stores, the avocados and lemons carefully salvaged from pits or seeds or plants that were half dead when they came to me.

They’re irreplaceable.

I nearly say it out loud, and then I don’t. These two kids would stop, they’d help me. They’d risk their lives.

We’ll find more seeds.

We’ll figure it out.

We’ll live and we’ll find another way.

I send a final, mournful glance at all that gorgeous green, swallowed up in veils of smoke, and run.

We make it outside and into the gray day swirling with smoke and cold air just in time to see Ben on his knees with a pigeon in his hands.

“Don’t!” I shout.

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