Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

32. Will

32

Will

T ime slipped through our fingers. It was later in the day.

I reached for the bread, broke off a small piece.

“Try to eat,” I said. “It’s not fresh, but it’s something.”

Thomas grimaced when I held it to his lips but managed to take a small bite. He chewed slowly, as if his jaw hurt, but he got it down. I helped him with another sip of water. His eyes followed my every movement, as if reassuring himself I was real, that I hadn’t abandoned him. The trust in his gaze humbled me—and warmed my soul.

“Tonight,” I said, setting the cup aside, “if you’re strong enough, we’ll try to move. The streets will be quieter after curfew, and if we’re lucky, we can slip past the patrols. We just need to reach one of the western zones.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “I can do it.”

I admired his courage but worried it was false bravado. He looked so pale, and each breath seemed an effort. Still, we had no choice. He couldn’t walk through the streets unassisted. I’d have to support him, hope his legs could bear some of his weight. Maybe I could fashion a sling or find a cane, something to help him move faster.

For now, rest was his best medicine.

“Sleep a bit more,” I said, brushing my fingers over his brow. His skin felt a bit cooler, or maybe that was wishful thinking. “I’ll keep watch.”

“You need rest, too,” he said, always thinking of me. Typical Thomas.

I mustered a smile. “I will. I just need to check a few things first.”

I waited until he slept soundly before leaving.

We couldn’t stay in that godforsaken ruin without supplies. Thomas’s wound would fester if I didn’t find something, anything, to help him. Beyond that, we needed an escape route—a way to get past the Soviet patrols and reach the American sector where we could hand over the film.

“Hold on,” I whispered to his sleeping form, then turned and slipped into the hallway.

The building was silent except for the drip of water from a broken pipe downstairs. It was another moonless night, dark as pitch. The trek from our top-level perch would’ve been treacherous had I not memorized the path: two flights down, then a left turn through a corridor whose plaster walls were scorched black.

Once outside, I pressed myself flat against the side of the building and peered around the corner down the empty street. I hoped the patrols would be fewer, but after the way we’d kicked their beehive, there was no telling what I might encounter.

A dozen hours earlier, while waiting for Thomas to wake, I’d recalled a code name: Brise. The name translated to “breeze” in English, but I doubted it had much to do with its owner. Brise was a fixer who lived in the British quadrant we’d heard about once during a briefing. He was supposed to have relatives here in the Soviet zone and had a reputation for smuggling supplies. I hoped a resourceful lad like Brise could lead us to a safe house or a sympathetic doctor.

As far as leads went, this one was pretty thin—but it was all I had.

I navigated toward what had once been a small public square. Before the war, there would have been shops, a café, maybe a bakery or two. Now, it was a half-bombed plaza with a burned-out fountain at its center.

I’d heard whispers that “certain types” still gathered there after dark to trade while Soviet eyes were looking the other way. Most of what was bought and sold would be useless to us: bits of cloth, ration coupons, old clothing. If they had painkillers, maybe even black-market penicillin, I would find a way to barter. More importantly, if anyone knew of Brise’s whereabouts—or another fixer—I might learn it there.

Reaching the edge of the square, I hid behind a chunk of collapsed masonry and listened. Low voices drifted across the cracked pavement. The glow of a small fire flickered ahead, casting dancing shadows on the surrounding buildings. I kept my pistol drawn but hidden beneath my jacket.

Trust had proven a rare currency of late.

I rounded a corner and caught sight of a small group—three figures huddled close around a metal drum turned upright. Flames rose above the rim. To one side, a woman, her hair wrapped in a scarf, was showing a bottle of something to a wiry man in a threadbare coat. A third figure, tall and silent, lingered a few steps away, acting as a lookout.

I stepped into the light and cleared my throat.

The lookout tensed, and everyone looked my way.

For a second, I expected shouts or gunfire, some reaction to the stranger in their midst; but they just stared, their eyes wary and hollow. Raising my hands slowly, I turned my palms out to show they were empty and I meant no harm.

“I am looking for help,” I said. “My brother is wounded. I need medicine, and a place to hide.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “You are not Soviet.”

Her accent was German, rough and tired.

The wiry man angled himself away, his hand slipping into his coat, probably gripping a weapon. I couldn’t blame him. I was doing the same.

“No, I am not,” I agreed, keeping my voice steady. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just need help. I even have something to trade.” I had very little worth offering, but maybe I could afford a bullet or two in exchange, or some trinket I’d pocketed without remembering. This part of the plan was still ill-formed.

The lookout stepped forward. Now in the light, I could see an angry scar running down one cheek. He looked me over, his eyes lingering on my worn boots and the bulge where I gripped my pistol.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“A doctor, or at least supplies to treat a gunshot wound. And shelter. A place where the patrols won’t find us.” I paused, considering how much to reveal. “We need to get across.”

There was no need to explain where we needed to cross. Everyone who lived in the Soviet sector knew what that phrase meant. They also understood the attempt was a capital offense.

Still, what risk was freedom worth?

The wiry man let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. “You think crossing is easy? After all that has happened? Do you know how worked up the Soviets are right now?” He shook his head. “You are either desperate or a fool.”

“How about both,” I said, managing a faint smile. “I have to try. My brother’s life depends on it.”

The trio exchanged glances. The lookout stepped back.

The woman moved forward and squared her shoulders to mine. “Show me what you have.”

I reached into my coat and pulled out a thin silver chain, something I’d found in the safe house while searching for food. It was tarnished but might still hold some value. I also offered a single bullet, one of my handful remaining.

The wiry man hissed at the sight of the bullet, as if offended, but the woman’s eyes flickered with interest. She took the chain from me and examined it in the candlelight.

The lookout crossed his arms. “A chain won’t buy you a doctor.”

“I can find more if I have to,” I said, then turned to the woman. “Please, I’m begging.”

Normally, I hated bargaining from a position of weakness, but there wasn’t much choice. Thomas was alone, and every minute ticked us closer toward danger.

The woman sighed and handed the chain back. “I know someone, a nurse who worked in a field hospital. She is not a doctor, but she might help—for a price.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Three blocks south, near the old bakery,” she said. “Second floor. Her name is Elke. If you knock three times, pause, then knock twice more, she might open the door. She is wary of strangers.” She paused, then added, “And if she asks who sent you, say Gerta.”

“Gerta,” I repeated, nodding. “Thank you.”

I started to back away, but the lookout stepped forward.

“And the shelter?” he asked. “That’s worth more than a name.”

I froze. “You know a safe place?”

He nodded. “Near the canal, there’s a row of houses. They are mostly intact. Some are watched, but not all. Number nineteen has a cellar you can access through the back alley. The lock is broken. Hardly anyone goes there since it is half flooded, but it is quiet and far from the principal routes the Soviets patrol.”

I memorized the directions, my heart suddenly pounding with hope.

“Thank you,” I said. “I owe you all a great debt.”

“Yes, you do. I will collect that debt before you cross the border.”

That sounded ominous, but I didn’t linger long enough to think on it.

My heart hammered as I considered what I’d do if Elke refused to help. Beg more? Offer something else? Time was so short.

I found the building: a squat structure with boarded-up windows and graffiti scrawled on the walls. It didn’t look promising, but I followed instructions to the letter. The stairwell was dark and smelled of rot. I counted steps, reached the second floor, and faced a battered door.

Three knocks , pause, two knocks .

For a long moment, there was nothing.

Then the door opened a crack. A single eye peered out—a woman’s eye, with dark lashes and a weary glint.

“ Gerta sent me,” I said quietly.

The eye blinked, then the door opened wider. A woman whose wiry brown hair barely rose to my shoulder stepped back, allowing me to slip through the doorway. The sound of four deadbolts sliding into place clicked behind me.

Inside, the space was sparse. There was no furniture save a makeshift cot and a table piled with bandages and cloth. A lone lamp flickered atop a crate. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered, which I took as a good sign.

Elke was short, middle-aged, with a sharp gaze that settled on my face and chest as if scanning for signs of injury. Her hair was cropped close, and she wore a threadbare sweater beneath a stained apron.

“You are not wounded,” she declared.

“I’m not here for myself,” I replied, my throat tight. “My brother . . . he’s got a bullet wound in the shoulder. I cleaned it best I could, but I’m no doctor.” I paused, then forced myself to be honest. “We’re trying to cross over. He can barely walk. He really needs help.”

Elke’s expression tightened at the mention of crossing. “I will give you what aid I can, but no more talk of crossing. I have seen too many die in the attempt.”

I nodded. “I understand. I just need something to keep him alive. Bandages, disinfectant, antibiotics, anything that will help with the pain or fight infection.”

She turned to the table and began rifling through a long tin box. “I do not have much,” she warned. “The damned Soviets take everything they can find. A few strips of bandage, some sulfa powder, and a syringe of morphine—this is all I have. Is it a painful wound?”

“He’s tough, but yes, it’s painful,” I said.

Morphine. That could be a lifesaver, allowing us to move quietly through the night.

She handed me a bundle wrapped in cloth and a tiny vial along with a syringe. “Use it sparingly,” she said, pointing at a red line on the syringe. “A single dose. Too much, and he will be too groggy to move. Too little, and it will not help.” She hesitated, then added, “I wish I had antibiotics, but they ran out long ago.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I . . . I have so little to trade.”

I showed her the silver chain and placed it gently on the table, my last token of value. Her gaze flicked to it, and for a moment, I saw sadness in her eyes.

She picked up the chain, let it pool in her palm. “It is beautiful,” she whispered, more to herself. “I will take it.” Then she looked at me sternly. “Not everyone in this city has turned into a monster. Some of us still try to help.”

“Thank you, Elke.” I nodded, my throat tight. “I won’t forget.”

She reached out and touched my wrist. “Be careful. The Russians are tightening their grip. Something has happened, and crossing will be dangerous.”

“We will. Thank you, again.”

With that, I slipped into the hallway holding our precious supplies close to my chest. Threading my way back through the quiet streets, my confidence grew.

I had what I needed, what Thomas needed.

When I finally reached the apartment in which we hid, Thomas was asleep where I’d left him. A surge of relief flowed through me as I sat beside him.

I’d made it back.

He was still alive.

We’d taken one more step toward survival.

“Thomas,” I whispered, touching his forehead.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, glazed with pain and fatigue.

“I got some supplies,” I said softly. “A nurse gave me bandages and something for the pain.”

I bent down and pressed my lips to his forehead, then pulled back, unwrapped the cloth, and got to work. I planned to give him the morphine right before we moved. For now, I cleaned his wound again and applied the sulfa powder. He winced, gritting his teeth, but didn’t cry out.

“Hold on,” I murmured, tightening the fresh bandage. “We’re going to a cellar near the canal. It’ll be safer than this place and get us a little closer to the border.”

He tried to smile, lips pale. “Sounds fancy.”

I clenched his hand.

I would do everything to keep this man alive. With some luck and caution, we’d hunker down at number nineteen, wait for a moment to slip past the Soviet patrols, and cross the border.

We had to.

The canister in my pocket, the statue tucked away—those were burdens we carried for a greater cause, but in that moment, all that mattered to me was Thomas’s life.

I steadied myself.

We weren’t done yet, not by a long shot. We had the beginning of a plan, and we had each other. Sometimes that was enough to tip the balance between darkness and light.

I pressed another kiss to his brow. He barely registered it, half conscious from pain and exhaustion. So, I settled down beside him and tried to rest.

Outside, the city kept its secrets, and the Soviets kept their watch.

I didn’t know how yet, but I swore we would find a way through.