The Future Without Hope (7 page)

Chapter
6.
Ghosts of the Past

THE
FIRST TIME I SAW OMAR, I was twelve. Five years after ERI-Milan broke in
Atlanta, we were still adjusting to life behind Haven walls and the fact that
there was no end in sight.

Then,
we still believed in a cure. We were still fucking idiots.

Omar
was larger than life. At eighteen, he was already fighting in the East. And in
a battleground that spanned hundreds of miles and millions of lives, he rose to
the top. He led the first foray into Atlanta after the bombing. He rescued as
many survivors as he killed infects.

We
had heard his legend before he ever arrived in 1. Kelsey was already slipping
her handlers, disappearing with me to spar and train. Every time, it set the
entire haven in a panic, but every time, I helped her.

Few
things would make her smile—but that did.

When
Omar first walked into our lives, Kelsey decided that he would be the soldier
who would push us from training in secret to the frontlines.

He
did. With his help, and her determination, we went from a couple of kids to an
elite force.

And
then we killed her.

Chapter
7.
The Assistance of the Order

OMAR
AND I ARE ENOUGH TO CAUSE A STIR IN ANY PLACE—but in Haven 1, where we both
have a past and connections, we draw more attention than I’m comfortable with.

“Do
you have ways out?” he asks, abruptly. I glance at him, and let a slow smile
turn my lips. He makes a disgusted noise in his throat. “Your bolt-holes will
bring down a haven one day.”

“They’re
falling just fine without my help,” I say coolly.

He
grunts, and we walk another stretch in silence. He’s steering the direction of
the walk and the conversation, and I’m letting him. But when we finally reach
the jogging track, where Walkers do PT and citizens can work out excess energy,
I finally shift my full attention on him. “Where is she, Omar?”

“How
much do you know of the Order?”

I
think about the Grays in 6, and Holly here, moving the pieces to control a
president. I think of Lori in 18.

“Not
as much as I should,” I say, grudgingly. “Enough to know you don’t belong with
a group of bloodthirsty fanatics.”

Omar’s
expression sours, just a little. “They are a means to an end.”

“What
end is that?” I ask, quietly.

Omar
pauses, studying me for a long moment. “I spent almost ten years watching
people die, fighting for the East, and then some bastard decided we couldn’t
win, and everyone who died did it for no reason. There’s no fucking sense in
that.”

I
stare at him, not sure I believe what I’m hearing. “We can’t win that battle.
You know that—we fought it. We know what the numbers were like. The population
was too dense.”

That
was the real problem in the East. For every one we evac’ed, another didn’t make
it out. Too many died too fast, in too small a space. There was no way to put
them all down, because every solider who died came back. We didn’t have the
manpower or the weaponry to take it back. There was a theory that they didn’t
migrate west as we ceded the battle because the dead were territorial—they died
and stayed where they died.

It
was a stupid fucking theory. They didn’t chase because they were dead fucking
walking, and they didn’t have that kind of thought process. They only knew to
chase flesh and when we pulled out, it was fast and clean—there was nothing
left to chase.

Omar’s
eyes gleam, fanatically bright. “We can take it back. The Order, the Walkers
and the army. If we work together—we can win the East back.”

“Omar,
the same thing that was true ten years ago is still true. We can’t face them
with large numbers—it will mutate the ERI in us. That’s what started this in
Atlanta.”

“You
aren’t listening,” he snaps, and I hate that part of me wants to jerk to
attention, a muscle memory even after ten years.

“It
doesn’t matter.”

“It
does. If you want her back, it matters a helluva a lot.”

I
go still, staring at him. “What the fuck is this going to cost me?”

He
looks away, walking again, and I fall in beside him. “I know where she is. And
I can retrieve her—but it’ll either cost me my position in the Order, and a
chance to recover the East, or there will be a regime change.”

“What
will that entail?” I ask, softly.

“One
assassination,” he answers. “Lori is dead—we confirmed it. 18 fell a week ago.
The Red sect doesn’t have a High Priestess, for now. But there is someone with
enough power to threaten my hold on the Order.”

I
stare at the track. “Is she safe?”

“For
now,” Omar says, his voice blank. “But this offer has an expiration date, O’Malley.
If we do this, we do it now. If not, I go away and wait for the right
opportunity, and you walk away without the girl.”

One
death. One person to kill, and I can have her back, can keep the promise.

In
the end, it’s not even a choice.

 
I nod. “Who do I have to kill?”

Chapter
8.
Assassinations

I
SIT ON THE EDGE OF THE WALL, my feet hanging down. The sun set hours ago, and 1
is shutting down, closing in on itself and the darkness.

Even
now, twenty years after the zombies rose and took Atlanta, the fear of monsters
in the dark is an instinctual thing.

There
are few things I can say with certainty I am good at. I was seven when the
world changed, and all my childhood dreams died with my mother in Atlanta. I
never had the chance to be good at anything.

And
in the changed world, the options are limited. I am good at surviving. I’m good
at knowing what the hell is happening and getting the fuck out of the way. At
annoying Collin and pissing off Ren and keeping my own council.

And
I am good, very good, at killing.

I
click my magazine into the gun, and let out my breath as I stand. The air is
turning cool, early for the onset of winter, but not unexpected. It catches my
mood. I glance up at the moonless sky, and I pray. For the first time since
Columbus and everything went sideways, and before that, when Atlanta fell and
my mother died, leaving me an orphan for all intents and purposes.

I
pray that this one last life is enough to buy back Nurrin’s freedom. That
trusting the Black Priest won’t prove to be as deadly a mistake as it did ten
years ago.

That
wherever and whatever Kelsey is now, she isn’t watching me now.

Then
I shove all of my maudlin shit aside, and jog silently down the stairs, off to
kill a president.

Chapter 9.
The Order’s Price

EVEN THE
PRESIDENT WILL STOP FOR THE ORDER. That is how Omar set it up.

It’s not unusual
for the Order’s presidential puppet to meet with a visiting High Priest. Kenny
will hate to be manipulated into an unexpected meeting, but he’ll come. He’ll
have no choice.

Which is why I'm
crouched in a dim hall, waiting for the arrival of a man I hate. Doing favors
and wet work for the man I don't trust. I always knew my life was fucked up,
but this is a new low, even for me.

Ren's somewhere
with the Order, though and every fucking time I think about that, my blood runs
icy. One more death. One more, and it's over.

Down the hall,
the door swings open, and I can hear the boots of Kenny's personal guards. I
wonder, listening to him move closer, if he thinks they are like us. Like the
ones who followed Kelsey into hell and back out again, damaged because we came
out the other side without her to keep us whole.

Even the
survivors died, in ways. None of us were the same, after.

And isn't that
the fucking theme song for this world.

Kenny and his
guards walk past me, into the room. I swallow the curse raging in me. I don’t
want to do this shit with his people in the room. I want it clean and quick—but
that’s why I’m here. Because Omar knew it wouldn’t be clean or quick.

The Black Priest
had never been good at either. Messy was his specialty.

I wait until I
can hear the voices from the other room settle into conversation, and then I
slip from the empty hall.

This isn’t how I
would have chosen to do this. I’d have slipped into his room at night, opened
his throat and vanished.

That
would be easy and clean. And for a
moment, reaching for my knife, I hesitate. Because the whole setup rubs me
wrong. Killing is one thing, and necessary. Making Omar’s statements—that’s
another fucking thing entirely.

But this is his
price, and I’ll swallow just about anything to find Nurrin. I pull my knife and
slink out of the shadows.

There is a guard
at the door, his back to me as I slip it open. Omar’s eyes flick over to me and
then back to Kenny, his expression never changing. I slip in behind the guard,
and I feel him stiffen, a heartbeat before my hand clamps down on his mouth,
and I jerk him back, dragging my knife across his throat. The man makes a
startled, muffled noise, and Omar shifts, speaking over Kenny as blood sprays
in a wet arc. His body goes limp and I lower him slowly, keeping my hand tight
to his mouth as I do.

I’m good at what
I do. The man’s eyes are already drifting closed as I lay him out. Without
looking away from the table, I stab him again, high in the thigh. The answering
spread of blood is deep and red—I hit the femoral artery I was aiming for.

He’ll be dead
before his boss.

I shift, coming
to my feet silently. There is still one guard, at Kenny’s back, and I prowl
forward, pulling my bow silently around. It will happen fast—so fast. And I’m
not stupid enough to think Kenny is unarmed.

I crouch a few
feet behind them, and release a breath, focusing myself. And release the bolt.
The quarrel whistles through the air, and embeds in the guard’s skull. He’s
dead before he hits the table.

“What the fuck!”
Kenny shouts, jerking away from the table and I pull her gun, rising smoothly.
My bow clatters against the ground, forgotten as I advance on the president.

I’ll be executed
for this. Not even exiled—treason is still an offense punishable by death. An
assassination is about as treasonous as it gets.

There is a smile
on my lips, a sick certainty that I’m signing my own death warrant as I lift
the gun and press it to Kenny’s temple.

“Where the
fuck
is she?” I growl.

I hate Kenny.
And he has always hated me. Because I was the one Kelsey chose, every time
there was a choice. Because I was the one in Columbus with her. Because when it
all ended, I was the one who grieved, and the one the world—what was left of
it—saw grieve.

Kenny was
forgotten by me, and Kelsey, the world—his father. And he never forgave me for
it.

“She’ll be dead
before you get to her, O’Malley. My people will have her killed before you
reach the fucking Walls.”

I punch him, and
he stumbles into the table. I could shoot him. Put an end to all of this
shit—but hitting him feeds a visceral need in me. I grin, and Kenny growls, lunging
at me. I catch his weight and bring my elbow down into his kidney. For a
moment, he freezes, and I grab him by the hair, slamming his head down on the
table. I hear bone crunch, and Kenny shouts, a grabled noise as I pull back and
slam his head down again.

Hands pull me
back, and I snarl at Omar. “What? You wanted a dead president. Back the fuck
off!”

I shake him off
and Kenny rolls to his back. His face is a mess of blood and broken teeth and
his hands are up, the universal gesture of surrender.

“I can help
you,” he slurs. “Don’t kill me. I can help you. I’ve worked with your Order. I
can give you a platform to further your sect’s agenda. You wouldn’t be the High
Priest without knowing how to help yourself.”

Omar goes still,
staring at the man I want dead. The one who kidnapped the only woman I’ve ever
promised to protect.

“How can you
help me, little president?”

Part
5.

The
Edge of Hope

Hope
rises from the ashes. It carries us to rebuild a world that the infection
destroyed. It keeps us going.

President
Andrew Buchman-

We
all have it to start with. But hope dies in childhood—when we all learn that
there is no cure. There is no way out. There is only this.

Nurrin
Sanders-

Chapter
1.
Broken Girl, Broken World

I’M
NOT INFECTED. Of course I’m not. I’m a First. It would be too easy for me to
die from ERI-Milan. The Order doesn’t believe in easy shit—it has to be
painful. It has to hurt like fuck, and come only after I have tortured myself
with the knowledge of what’s coming.

That’s
the worst part. The anticipation.

They
pump me full of drugs, and Silas orders me left in Containment. I’m not
infected, but it’s a punishment. When I’m awake enough for shit to make sense,
I know that it’s a punishment.

A
few times, I wake, and I know someone has been here. My thin white clothes
barely cover me, and it hurts to move. It hurts to breathe, and the knowledge
that I’ve been touched, even under drugs, makes me violently and ill.

Occasionally
he lets me see Collin.

Collin,
who should be dead, and isn’t. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing to keep
him alive, but I know it’s not a cure. It won’t work, long-term. Every time I
see him, he’s a little worse—he’s skinny, clammy, pale. Shriveled. I can see
the veins under his skin, dark with blood and infection. Every heart beat
pushes him further into the sickness.

He
screams, sometimes. I sit in my Containment cell, and I can hear their
contained infects shrieking in hunger. I know them, the way they sound, how
they move as a pack and individually.

And
sometimes, when they scream, Collin does. That scares me more than anything.

No.
That’s not true.

I’ve
lost track of how long I’ve been here. Long enough that my brother should be
dead, and I should be lost in the depths of the Order.

Long
enough that there is no reason Finn has not found me.

Finn
said once that hope is what killed us. Hope is what made us get up and keep
trying, when logic said we were dead. And hope being crushed is what would kill
us in the end.

I
didn’t understand that, when he said it. It’s a stupid fucking emotion. Zombies
kill. Emotions just make you weak.

I
didn’t get it, because I was just a stupid fucking haven girl.

I
get it now.