Page 23 of Breaker

Now I notice where we are.

Everything is green and dark brown, with pops of orange and red in the leaves of the trees. A few bright spots of yellow scatter the foliage, like autumn is slowly creeping in. Not like at the school where this time of the year it’s already freezing at night, winter settling in, stripping the trees bare, and sometimes even snowing. This place, wherever this place is, looks similar, yet vastly different.

We’re in a small clearing, the forest around us creaking ominously. Little birds chirp. There’s a scraping sound, like the tall pines are rubbing their limbs together, excited we’re here. I’ve never seen any place other than the village and the school, but I’m reminded of the woods that lie beyond the range. There’s a mix of leafy trees here, but this place is missing the tall, thick trunk pines. There are a few scattered pines, but they are spindly, and the needles look different.

I lay my hand to the earth. The grounds still damp, not frozen over, the landscape more wet than dry. The forest circling the clearing is thick with underbrush and mossy rocks and lush greenery. Hills roll up to low mountains in the distance, lage jagged rocks in piles, pouring from the hillside.

“Where are we?” Striker says, standing on shaky legs. He turns away, taking a few steps toward a nearby tree and unzips, pissing on the gnarled roots.

I glance down to my shirt, and realize I’m still in my regular uniform, my arm and thigh wet with Viper’s piss. With a groan creaking from me, I stand and turn away to relieve myself before I’m covered in my urine too.

“Not sure,” Viper says from behind me, “but it’s no place I’ve ever seen before.”

“I don’t think we’re anywhere near the school,” Striker says, coming up behind me as I adjust my pants, trying to ignore the wetness on my thigh, my legs weak with relief.

“I wouldn’t have pissed myself if we were near the school,” Viper points out. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder to the trees and brush. “That’s not even local flora. The pines are different.” He gestures to the mossy rocks and thin leafy vines snaking along the ground. “And that’s not even something that resembles the same country.”

Striker’s brows rise as he takes in the surrounding woods, my gut growing oily with unease.

“You don’t think…” I let my voice trail off, fear skittering like mice down my arms, making me forget about my piss soaked clothes. All I can focus on are Viper’s words and the fact we’ve all been stripped of our knives. Striker doesn’t have his rifle like he usually does when we’ve gone for training outside the school, and we have no rucksacks full of supplies to get us through the day.

We have nothing.

Just like the stories we heard.

Three go out.

Only two come back.

A choice has to be made.

“Fuck,” Viper hisses, scrambling up to stand, eyes flashing in panic as his brows turn down. He glances around, chest heaving. “Neither of you have gone through training. You’re both too young. Hell,I’mtoo young.”

“There’s no way.” Striker steps closer to me, grabbing my shoulders to turn me to face him. “What do you remember?”

I shake my head, my gaze snagging with his golden eyes. My stomach dips at the obvious fear reflecting back at me. “Nothing. Just Maxim. Maybe in my room?” I shake my head, trying to remember. A flash of books, a long wood table, dusty moonlight filtering in through the grimy window. “No, I think I was still in the library after Maxim announced an early lights out over the speakers.”

“Why were you in the library?” Striker asks.

My eyes drift to Viper. “I was looking for Viper.”

Viper’s jaw tics, purposely not looking at Striker, and he licks his lips. “What else do you remember?”

“Maxim.” My face grows hot as I close my eyes, picturing the last moments before things when dark. I don’t want to tell Striker because I don’t want to embarrass Viper about why I was meeting him, but Maxim already found out. “He grabbed my shoulder scaring the shit out of me and asked what I was doing. I told him Viper needed help with vocab, and he laughed.”

“Asshole,” Viper snarls, his face growing red. “He knows I suck at French.”

“Go on,” Striker says, shooting a glare at Viper. “What else, kid?”

Kid.

Sometimes, most of the time, all the time, I hate being the youngest. I’m too young for real training, not yet fifteen like Striker. I can’t go to the yard or fight in the pit yet. I may be good with locks and languages, but I’m still too small, too young, and everyone treats me like I am.

Ihatewhen Strike calls me kid. He’s only two years older.

And I really hate it when Viper does.

The worst part is I feel like a kid.

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