Page 42 of Chaos

Shane comes closer, stretching out toward me with long, pale fingers. “Can you lift your hands? So I can unlock the cuffs?”

I don’t want to, because it’s hard to believe they’re really just going to let me go.

I want to spit and hiss at him.

That doesn’t make sense, but it’s there. I don’t want to help him be my jailor, but I want these cuffs off more than I want to be difficult, so I hold my hands up and hope my face isn’t half as red as it feels.

He cups my wrists gently with his good hand, and lifts the key with his other one. I flinch as he fumbles to hold the key steady, misses twice, in what feels like a cruel and clever ploy to remind me that I took part in smashing that hand.

I briefly consider kicking him and stealing his gun, but there are probably ten soldiers in the hallway and a hotel full of them between me and Ben and freedom. Not a great way to earn their trust, and find Ben and the supplies we need to break out, so I wait dutifully as he wobbles the key into the lock, and try not to stare at his face since it looks so much like a character in a TV show that sometimes felt like my very best friend before the plague.

Finally, the cuffs pop, and the release feels so good I lurch upright fast.

Too fast.

I sway on my feet as my vision darkens.

A firm hand comes up and cups my elbow. “Easy.”

The warmth of his skin cuts through my shirt, and I jerk away. “Are you my keeper now?”

I mean it sarcastically, but it just comes out sounding sad.

“Kind of. Come on. We don’t have any free rooms,” he says, gesturing toward the doorway like he’s a gentleman and ladies go first in his world. “Now that the army moved in, we’re at capacity.”

I take my first tentative step in my sock-covered feet toward the doorway, wondering if he’s about to lead me to some sort of communal dormitory.

He follows but makes no move to stop me.

No one does. I try to saunter out of the interrogation room like I expected nothing less, but it’s highly possible it’s more of a desperate shamble as I pass flanks of soldiers in camouflage, strapped with rifles and handguns, filling the dark basement hallway.

Everyone goes quiet as I pass, staring at me like I’m a threat on par with a second wave of the Aussie Flu. Shane sticks to my heels like a shadow.

I remember my way around Thornewood even though everything has changed, but I’m tired, so I let him open doors and lead me up the stairs to the lobby.

It’s dim, lit by fireplaces and a few electric lamps. The windows and doors leading outside reveal nothing but blackness.

I need water and food and a blanket and somewhere to sleep—and shoes.

I don’t even have a knife.

Some of the old people from town fill the packed lobby, people who left after Ben smashed Shane’s hand glare uneasilyat me. Some of the soldiers eye me, and my skin crawls in reaction.

“There’s a closet,” Shane says. “You’ll have privacy there. Come on.”

Privacy sounds so good.

“Is there a lock on the door?” I ask.

“Probably not.” He takes my hand, pulls me down the hall. Monroe would tell him to fuck off, but for some reason I don’t. I let his big hand wrap around mine, warm. It’s the unbroken hand, his left hand. He leads me down the hall, and into the colonnade, into one of the boutiques. It’s an undesirable one that sells home decor no one needs. Decorative boxes, and garden statues and over-large painted vases.

He turns on a flashlight and shines it into an empty backroom, then opens a supply closet.

No lock on the door.

But at least thereisa door.

“Are you going in there, too?” I ask.