The Thrust (24 page)

He paused to let it sink in, to let the soldiers remember the pamphlets. To remember the promise of liberty.

“We are at a critical moment in time. What happens now—today—could end up in the history books as a defining moment when Americans fought for liberty. Colonel Lanche is dead. So are his commanding men.”

No one spoke. Not even a murmur of shock.

“No one else has to die today. We have not come here to take over. We have not come here to kill you.”

Trent gestured around the terminal. “With your cooperation, with your help, we will not merely survive today, but thrive tomorrow.”

And then, to his surprise . . . the men cheered.

It was a raucous sound, as if a year of martial law and confinement suddenly loosened in their guts and bubbled out their throats. Cheering, fists pumping the air in exhilaration.

“Soldiers—take off your uniform shirts. Keep your guns—that is your right as an American—but take a stand. Show us whether you wish to cling to the old way of doing things . . . or if you are ready to move forward into a peaceful future.”

One soldier set his rifle on the floor and unbuttoned his shirt halfway before tossing it to the floor. He didn’t say a word, but his intentions were clear. He was now with Letliv.

“Yes!” Trent shouted, wanting his voice to be heard by everyone. “Without Lanche and his men, you are free. Free to move on, wherever you wish. Free to stay in Manhattan, if that suits you. But the time of living in this death camp under tyranny is over.”

One by one, slowly at first, the soldiers removed their shirts. Some wore plain T-shirts underneath, some undershirts, and some wore nothing at all. The men were a diverse group, just like New York City had once been. But on the matter of liberty, they were now of one mind. Trent watched in amazement as the main terminal at Grand Central turned into a sea of hopeful faces, ready for freedom.

Trent grinned. He raised his fist and whooped with joy.

Then—

A hand clasped over his mouth from behind.

what the—

Trent swung wildly, landing a kick on something soft.

What the fuck is happening?

“Hold your fire,” a loud voice yelled—the man holding him hostage. “This is a terrorist, you idiots! Colonel Lanche said you’d be brainwashed by him and he was right.”

The soldier slammed Trent to the ground, and shots rang out.

Oh, fuck—

From his vantage point on the floor, Trent could see a large group of soldiers who seemed to have come out of nowhere—from the bowels of Grand Central. All wore their uniforms, and they were shooting at any man not wearing one.

Trent hefted his rifle and shot one in the chest, watched him fall.

Chaos erupted around him as the shooting went on and on.

The men who had joined their fight for freedom battled Lanche’s soldiers with ferocity. It seemed like it would never end.

Mason and Barker were out there somewhere, fighting too.

Stay strong, my friends.

The odds were on their side. Only a relatively small faction of Colonel Lanche’s soldiers fought for their fallen leader’s memory.

The rest were on Letliv’s side.

Pain shattered through Trent, and darkness overwhelmed him.

I’ve been shot. God, don’t let me die now—

He passed out.

And the battle raged on.

Outside Grand Central Terminal

CLARISSA

CLARISSA
huddled with Emily and Jenna as the sounds of gunfire finally, finally, died down.

“It’s stopping,” Annie whispered. Her face was pressed against Evan’s chest. He seemed older now, less like an adolescent. His time in Grand Central had aged him, just as it had done to her and so many others.

“Wait,” Clarissa said, when Emily started to go back inside. “Make sure it’s over.”

“I’m not waiting anymore,” Emily said. “Mason might need me.”

“He needs you safe,” Clarissa argued, but she followed. Trent might need her. Jenna was close behind. And then, to her surprise—Clarissa saw that all of the women from the Tracks were following them back into the main terminal.

They had to know what happened. All that gunfire—what did it mean?

Who had won?

The very real possibility that Colonel Lanche’s soldiers had overtaken the small Letliv army scared the fuck out of her.

Don’t let Trent be dead, please God don’t let him be dead.

They entered the battlefield that had formerly been the grand main terminal. Bodies were strewn everywhere.

Lots of men were dead. Shot.

Many weren’t wearing their uniform shirts—oh God, they died on Letliv’s side. They had fought for freedom, and paid the ultimate sacrifice.

“Look,” Jenna whispered.

Clarissa followed her gaze. Soldiers—dead soldiers—in full uniform. The men who had fought to maintain the camp the way the Colonel would have wanted them to. Not everyone wanted to be free.

Some men were walking around, helping the survivors. There were plenty of those, too. Thank God. Thank God!

“Trent?” Clarissa called tentatively. No answer. “TRENT!”

If he died, God, if he died, what would she do? How could she go on?

Jenna took her arm. “Come on, let’s look for them.”

They moved among the sea of men—most, she saw had no uniform shirt on. Clarissa dropped to her knees as one man reached out to her.

“The fighting’s over,” she said. “Come on, sit up.” She helped him sit up, and the man looked around, dazed.

“I’m okay,” the man said. With a grunt of effort, he rose and limped off to help more men.

Everywhere she looked, she saw men. Many were uninjured, thank God. Shocked, yes. But not hurt. They started piling the dead in two rows—one for the men who fought for Letliv, the other for the late Colonel Lanche.

“I see Barker!” Jenna exclaimed. Her face lit up with joy. Barker was uninjured. She ran to him, and they embraced.

Clarissa smiled for her friend. Good. They’d lost a lot of men—maybe even hundreds—but there were still a lot of good men left who had proven their desire to live free.

“Trent?” Clarissa called again. With each face she passed, each man she helped, each body she stepped over—she thought she’d find him. And she didn’t. Where was Trent?

I need you, Trent. Where are you?

The women rushed around the room, tearing their clothes to make bandages, and Emily directed them on how to apply pressure. How to make the men more comfortable. And how to get the ones who were okay feeling well enough to get up.

“The walking wounded should go to the big clock,” Emily shouted. “I’ll see them after I triage.”

Clarissa saw all this, heard it happening around her. Waited for Trent to stand up and find her. But he didn’t.

Trent, where are you?

Please, God. Don’t let Trent be dead.

But it made sense. If he was the instigator—the man from Letliv who’d started it all—he’d be the one every soldier in a uniform would be aiming for, right?

God, no. Don’t let me be right. I don’t want to be right.

And then—she saw him. Lying by foot of the huge stairway that led up to the upper level.

“Trent!” she ran to him, maneuvering around the hordes of people. Men and women moved past her, in front of her, blocking her vision so she couldn’t see him.

“Trent!” She finally reached him, panting. He lay on his side, as if he’d struggled to get up and failed. Blood pooled around him.

“I’m here, Trent,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

“Clarissa,” he said, smiling up at her weakly. “Are you okay? Did the women get out?”

“Yes. We’re all okay. And we won, Trent. All the men who fought you, they’re—they’re dead.”

Trent didn’t look happy about that, but she hadn’t expected him to. He wasn’t a violent person by nature. Fighting was a last resort. But he’d gone into this battle—this thrust—knowing people would die.

“I wish it didn’t have to be that way,” he said. He grimaced as he tried to sit up.

“Where are you hit?” she asked, and patted down his body the way she’d seen Emily do, looking for what was hurt.

“Everything hurts,” Trent said. “I don’t know. My legs buckled.”

“Emily—I need you!”

Emily rushed over to them and kneeled by Trent’s side. She looked him over quickly and pressed her hands over his thigh, where blood seeped through his pants. He groaned in pain.

“What’s your name?”

Trent frowned. “You know me. It’s Trent.”

“Do you know what happened?” Emily asked.

Trent looked at her like she’d gone crazy from the sight of the wounded, but Clarissa knew better. Emily was checking if he still had his wits about him.

Emily had once told her that just by asking a patient some basic questions she could quickly assess if he was breathing, if he was alert, oriented, even if his lips were moving symmetrically, whatever that told her. So Clarissa kept quiet and let Trent talk to her.

“The soldiers all took their shirts off,” Trent said. “I thought—I thought everyone was on our side. There were so many. I really thought we could just walk out of here and no one would die,” Trent said. “But then we were ambushed. That’s when the shooting started.”

“Okay,” Emily said, nodding. She ran her hands up and down his body, feeling for injuries. At his chest, he grimaced.

“I think you cracked some ribs when you fell on these stairs,” Emily said. “But you’re breathing fine, so that’s good.” She took her knife out and, lacking any extra material on her own clothes, cut the sweatshirt Clarissa wore. Karen’s sweatshirt.

“You’ve got a big scrape on your thigh,” Emily said, wrapping it tightly. “I think a bullet grazed you, but it didn’t do much damage.”

“It’s nothing,” Trent said. “The ribs hurt more.”

Emily glanced at Clarissa with a reassuring smile. “Let’s get you more comfortable. The bleeding stopped with the bandage.”

“Is he gonna be okay, Em?” Clarissa asked.

“Yeah,” Emily said, but she frowned. “He didn’t lose too much blood, which is good. But we have to make sure he doesn’t get an infection. All these men—we need to keep their wounds from getting infected in the next few days and weeks.”

Annie came over and tapped Emily on the shoulder. “I bet those men from the UN brought antibiotics. We just need to find them.”

“Yes!” Evan added, right behind her. He wasn’t going to let Annie out of his sight any time soon, it seemed. “I’ll get some guys who know the supply area. We’ll find them.”

Trent sat up on his elbows. “We won’t be able to move on until the injured men are doing better.”

“There are plenty of men and women here who want to stay,” Clarissa said. “They’ll have access to medical supplies and food that were denied them before. And when they’re better, they can go wherever they want.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, careful to avoid his injured ribs. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” she whispered. “I was so scared.”

“Me too,” Trent admitted. “Terrified.”

But what terrified Clarissa the most, deep down, was just how close she’d come to losing the one man who’d come to mean so much more to her than any other man before.

She’d promised herself long ago that she’d stay independent. Stay strong. Yet when it came to Trent, she couldn’t seem to help wanting to be with him all the time. To never leave his side.

If he had died, what would she have done? As hard as Roy’s loss had been, losing Trent would have been . . . unbearably worse. Their lives were constantly at risk in this new world. The only way to keep her heart safe was to distance herself emotionally.

To not let herself fall for Trent.

She looked down at his handsome face, covered in sweat and smeared with blood and gunpowder.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” she whispered.

It was difficult to tear her gaze away from those soulful eyes of his, but she did. She did.

JENNA

When the fighting
stopped, Jenna found Barker first thing. He was fine, thank God. Already up and walking around, helping the others.

But Jenna had to see Colonel Lanche. One last time. Had to see his corpse, to know for sure that he was dead and gone.

The OCC was just as they’d left it, with bodies strewn about haphazardly. Blood splattered the walls and pooled beneath the victims.

Not victims. They’d gotten what they deserved.

Still . . .

I killed a man.
What did that mean now, for her conscience . . . and her soul?

Before the Pulse she’d been an office manager. Now she was carrying a rifle and staring at the late great leader of Grand Central. His skin was bluish gray, his eyes, open and staring.

Colonel Lanche had given her nightmares before, but now . . . would he haunt her for the rest of her life?

Someone knocked on the open door. Jenna whirled, gun ready.

“It’s just me,” Barker said softly. “Can I come in?”

Jenna nodded, then threw herself into his arms and sobbed.