Page 36 of Chaos
It has me knocking harder than is probably necessary on the door to Wendell’s room in the infirmary.
Gus opens the door, his face immediately tightening into a filthy glare when he sees me.
I catch a brief glimpse of Wendell asleep on a cot in the darkened room and a whiff of antiseptic before Gus pulls the door closed behind him.
“How is he?” I ask.
“You’re going to get him killed.”
“That’s not the plan, Gus.” I breathe through my frustration. I’m not mad at him. I’m mad that my gun isn’t jammed halfway down Ben’s throat. “I just wanted to see how he is before I go down to the interrogation wing.”
He scrubs a hand through his sandy-brown hair. “I don’t pretend to understand your friendship. I’ve never tried to get in the way. This isn’t jealousy. It’s a fact. He keeps putting himself at risk for you.”
I jam my hands into my pockets to keep them still, my fingers tangling with the chain and pendants of Frankie’s necklace, finding the sharp point of the archer’s arrow. More people taking risks for me. “I’m sorry.”
“‘Sorry’ doesn’t un-fucking-shoot him.”
“No. How is he?”
He crosses his arms over his Fleetwood Mac shirt. “The medic did a good job with the tourniquet. Sheila said it kept him from losing too much blood. She stitched him up.”
“Does he need blood?” I ask. “I’m a universal donor. I could—”
“She says he’s fine, and the antibiotics are still good. But that won’t last. In six months, they won’t be good anymore. People will start dying of infections when they get shot or their hands get smashed. And he will, too if this keeps up. What then?”
He’s right.
As bad as things are now, they’re going to keep getting worse for a while as the old stuff that keeps our lives semi-tolerable expires or gets used up. Like gasoline and batteries, medicine, sugar, alcohol. There’s only so much we can growhere in mountain soil. We’re going to need to trade at some point—and have something to trade.
I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing.
He shakes his head scathingly, like I’ve only confirmed his worst opinions about me. “You can come back later. I’m sure he’ll want to see you. And he’ll want an update on the wall starting without him.” He pulls open the door behind him, but lingers, fidgeting with something in his hands, almost like a talisman, small, dull gray. He follows my line of sight to it, and with a glare, he extends it toward me. “I never want to see this fucking thing again. Take it.”
I tug my hand from my pocket and hold my palm out flat. A soft round weight lands in it.
“I’ll let you know when he’s awake.” Gus slips back inside the darkened infirmary room and closes the door behind him with a heavy thud.
I look down at my palm. It’s a bullet, presumably the one they shot Wendell with.
I stare down at it. It’s hard to believe something so small can do so much damage. When you look at machine gun caliber rounds it makes more sense, but this tiny thing?
Wendell is thickly muscled and highly trained, and this tiny bullet nearly killed him.
And Frankie, all skinny neck and thigh gap of her, stood in front of Ben and Ephie and however many guns and decided the best fucking move to keep me sane was to be their hostage rather than wait for me. How many guns have been pointed at her in the last month?
A shudder runs through me, and the urge comes on strong to walk away, just leave it all, the bullet shortages and people looking for me, the disgruntled townies and the army, all of it, just pack Frankie and the boys and the dog into a truck, and go.
Something on the bottom of the bullet catches my eye. I pinch the lumpy, dented bullet between my fingers and lift it closer for a better view, moving to a hallway window for light.
It’s a standard nine-millimeter, but faintly imprinted on the bottom, and only slightly distorted from impact, is a headstamp.
E & H 9MM 2036.
I frown.
The E & H is for Evessa & Humberga, a major US gun manufacturer, the biggest supplier of arms to the military by the time war production was at its peak in the late 2020s.
9mm is the size, but 2036? Is that a year? A serial number?