The Thrust (12 page)

He didn’t want to get up and potentially wake anyone, so he stayed in bed. Surely God would be able to hear his prayers even if Evan’s head was still on his pillow, right?

God, please let there be good men in the bunch. Please let Barker and Clarissa and Jenna come back for me and Annie, and for everyone
. He paused, wondering if it was okay to wish for someone’s death.
And if it is your will, God, please let Colonel Lanche die. Or change his ways
, he amended.
That would be better
.

Amen.

Evan still couldn’t sleep. Too much snoring. Plus, he missed being near Annie, even if it meant sleeping on the Tracks. He liked having her nearby, knowing she was safe. Where he was now, he had no idea if she was okay or not.

God, please watch over Annie and keep her safe
, he added to his prayer.

Amen
.

Suddenly a thick, heavy hand clamped down over his nose and mouth. Evan couldn’t breathe. He flailed in the tiny bunk, kicking his legs out in terror.

He couldn’t
breathe
.

“Stop struggling,” his attacker whispered in his ear. It was Scar.

Evan stopped instantly, hoping that obedience would calm Scar down. It worked. Scar shifted his hand off of Evan’s nose, but kept it tightly over his lips. Evan breathed as much blessed air as he could through his nose, unable to even open his mouth under Scar’s heavy grasp on his face.

“If you make any noise, I will kill you,” Scar hissed in his ear.

Evan nodded, tears flowing down his cheeks. He was terrified, but he was angry, too. Angry at himself for crying. For showing Scar how much of a hold on him he truly had. And angry at Lanche for not keeping his word.

Lanche had promised he’d call Scar off. And ever since Evan had spilled what he knew about Barker and his friends, secure in the idea that the intel could no longer harm them, Scar hadn’t touched him.

Hadn’t even looked at him, really.

Stupid of Evan to think that Scar wouldn’t want vengeance. A whimper tore out of Evan’s mouth, muffled under that heavy hand, and Scar laughed softly. There were other men so near, just a few feet away, still sleeping. How did they not wake up?

Or maybe they were awake, and choosing to stay silent. To keep their eyes closed and pretend not to see. To not make waves.

Scar flipped Evan onto his stomach, freeing his mouth. He gasped for air hungrily.

But he didn’t scream. What would happen if he screamed?

If he screamed, the men would wake up, they’d have to. And they’d see him getting fucked like a bitch. They’d never again see him as a soldier like them, as a man.

All Evan wanted was to be a man, for once.

He felt Scar’s knees straddle his own thin thighs. Felt his pants get pulled down roughly.

Just live through this second.

Evan focused on the pillow. Focused on the feel of the rough cotton pillowcase beneath his cheek. He forced himself to pretend it wasn’t happening. That he couldn’t hear Scar spitting onto his hand, a thick drop of spittle landing on the small of Evan’s bare back.

The pain ripped through him as Scar forced himself inside, but Evan didn’t scream. Didn’t do anything, couldn’t do anything.

Focus on not making a sound. Don’t give Scar the satisfaction of knowing he hurt you.

It was over so fast, and Scar sat on the edge of the bunk, breathing heavily, rebuttoning his pants.

“Did you like that, pretty boy?” Scar whispered, leaning down so he was close to his ear.

Evan closed his eyes, which felt puffy and swollen from crying, and kept his mouth shut, hoping Scar would leave.

“That’s what I thought.” Scar laughed quietly, looking around.

None of the other soldiers had woken up. Or at least, none had opened their eyes.

And then Evan was alone in his little bed again. His whole body hurt from tensing his muscles, his ass on fire.

He was wet down there, too.

Spit? Come? He reached his hand around to touch his asshole gently, wishing he could rub away the pain.

Blood.

Evan bit the pillow to hold back a cry of anger, and fear.

I’m going to kill Scar.
It was the only way.

An abandoned apartment building, outside Grand Central

CLARISSA

CLARISSA
cursed under her breath as she followed Trent down the hall in the abandoned apartment building in Midtown.

“It’s not your fault,” Trent said again, taking her hand.

“I just can’t believe we missed evening rations.”

She kicked some litter to the side of the hallway in frustration. Without the distraction of rations being handed out, it was too risky for them to try and break into Grand Central. They’d have to wait, out of sight, until the next day.

“We’ll get in first thing in the morning,” Trent reassured her. “It’s probably for the best. We’re worn-out from walking—this way we can rest up and go in alert.”

He knocked on a half-closed door and it creaked open. A large circle with an X spray-painted through it was on the door. After the Pulse hit, when the army was evacuating everyone, they marked all the residences like that. Some had numbers spray-painted in those circles, for the amount of people they found alive . . . and those they found dead.

Looked like whoever had lived in this place had gone to the shelter early, of his own volition. Maybe he’d run out of food and water. Made sense—most people only had a few days’ worth of supplies to survive on, a few weeks at most. Clarissa had been like that too.

God, to think of all the times she’d had to stop by the grocery store on the way home from work just to pick up dinner. Having an empty pantry once the food she’d pilfered from the diner was gone made going to the FEMA shelter an easy choice at the time. She’d never thought it would turn bad. No one had.

“This’ll do,” Trent said, guiding her inside. The sun was setting fast, and the apartment was dark. “We can’t afford to make a fire in case someone sees it,” he said. “We’re too close to the camp.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “It’s not cold.”

They went through the small apartment until they found the bedroom. The bed was made, which stuck her as oddly ridiculous. She plopped down on the edge and smiled up at Trent.

“You’re right,” she said, “I’m exhausted.”

He set his pack down and lay beside her, still dressed in the uniform. She turned her back to him so she couldn’t see it, and snuggled against him, her bottom nestling against his groin.

His cock hardened against her ass, and she stilled. She was wearing Karen’s clothing, her disguise. And having her back to him . . .

Fuck. He had to be thinking about her. How could he not be?

But she didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to see him looking like one of them, like a soldier. So she stayed put, trying to relax into the sensation as his cock nudged against her, and he reached around, caressing her body.

Memories flashed through her mind, that same feeling of trying to relax and make the best of a situation she didn’t really want—

“Please, stop,” she whispered. So softly she was barely aware if she’d spoken out loud or not.

But immediately, his hands were off of her, and he sat up. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled sadly at him. “You don’t need to be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just . . . I don’t feel comfortable having sex right now. Not while I’m dressed like Karen, and you’re dressed like a soldier. Too much . . . weirdness.”

He nodded stiffly. “You’re right. I’m sorry—fuck. I’m . . .” He sighed and lay back down, keeping about a foot of distance between them.

“Is this . . . is this because I look a bit like Karen right now?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s dark, Clarissa.” He paused, as if that explained it all.

“Thank you for being so respectful when I asked you to stop,” she said quietly. “I know that’s not always easy for men once things get started.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s not easy,” he said. “It takes two to tango. I don’t want to do anything you’re not okay with.”

Clarissa smiled at him, feeling better. She rested her head on his chest, wrapping her arms around him. After a moment, he kissed the top of her hair gently.

“The way you look at me when I’m dressed like a soldier,” he said, “it kills me.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“I wish you didn’t have to go back into that hellhole tomorrow with me,” Trent said.

“I don’t mind going back,” she said finally. “Because we’re going to help change everything there. It’s worth it.”

“You know,” he said, “I was thinking about what you said about making a town newspaper. It’s a really good idea.”

“Really?” The newspaper idea sparked something inside her she’d never felt before when she’d read books on making career choices or trying to decide on a major. “How would we make paper for it?”

“I’m thinking hemp. Not the
let’s get high on marijuana
kind, but the industrial kind. Easy to grow, lots of fiber—which is great for making paper—and it reaches maturity in months, not years like trees.”

“Isn’t hemp illegal to grow?” she asked.

“You’re kidding, right?” Trent laughed. “I think we can make up our own rules about stuff like that in Letliv. People would love to have a newspaper. I bet we could even find a printing press if we scavenge around long enough, or build one ourselves.”

“No psyops, though, okay?”

“Hell no,” Trent agreed. “These pamphlets, it’s different. We’re trying to save lives with little more than a sound bite. For your newspaper, you can write about whatever you want, get other people to contribute articles, post things for barter, that sort of thing.”

Wow. She could write whatever she wanted. The idea had possibilities. She’d never thought of journalism as a career path before. But she loved to read and heaven knew she had an opinion on everything. When their newspaper got going, she’d make sure both sides of issues were fairly covered so people could make up their own minds. It was a heady feeling.

For the first time in her life, she wanted to be something more than a waitress, to do something more than just make enough money to get by. How ironic that it had taken such a huge crisis to bring her aspirations to light.

“You’re gonna kick ass at this newspaper thing,” Trent said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re . . . all lit up.”

She grinned and snuggled against him. “First things first. We need to take care of our mission at Grand Central.”

Or there might not be a future to write about.

Grand Central Terminal

EVAN

The following morning,
Evan woke before anyone else and tore the sheets off his cot, throwing them in the hamper so no one would see the drops of blood and semen.

If not for his still-aching body, he’d be able to pretend it had just been a nightmare. But it had been real. After all his threats, Scar had finally done it.

What could he do? Who could he tell?

Evan didn’t want Annie to know. But she knew him so well, she’d see it on his face the moment she saw him at morning rations.

Fuck.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

This was the Colonel’s fault. He’d promised him he’d be safe. Promised.

Evan wiped at his eyes angrily, forcing the tears back. He’d already cried enough to last a lifetime.

One of the soldiers who’d slept near his bunk came up to him as he was remaking his cot.

“Hey, man,” he said. “You’re new, right? I’m Hernandez.”

Hernandez stuck his hand out, and Evan eyed it warily before shaking it.

“We don’t have to change the sheets every day,” Hernandez said.

“Okay,” Evan said, keeping his eyes on the new sheets.

“Are you . . .” Hernandez lowered his voice. “Are you okay?”

Evan’s face felt hot, flushed. It was happening already. Now everyone would know.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Evan asked tightly.

“I’m kind of a light sleeper,” Hernandez said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Listen, man,” Hernandez shook his head. “I won’t say anything. I just . . . Scar’s not supposed to be in our bunk. He sleeps with the other higher-ups.”

“Please, just forget it,” Evan whispered.

“I feel like an asshole,” Hernandez said, not looking at Evan. “I should have done something.”

“What could you have done?” Evan asked. “Pulled him off of me? Beat the shit out of him? And then gotten punished. We’d both end up getting caned by the big clock in front of everyone.”

“That’s just for the citizens,” Hernandez said. “Colonel Lanche punishes soldiers in private, so we can maintain some semblance of authority. Scar scares the shit out of me. Out of all of us.” He sighed. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Evan looked at Hernandez, finally. He expected to see pity on his face—the last thing he wanted to see. Instead, he saw his own anger reflected back at him.