Chapter 7
Rumi hadn’t said anything shocking. Not truly.
Unit Seven had sung Tristian’s praises while I mended their injuries.
I knew they admired him. I knew they were close and had one another’s backs.
I shouldn’t be surprised they had banded together to protect him from me.
Still, my chest felt empty. In the aftermath of Lily’s death, everyone but Ingrid had tried to make sure I understood that they didn’t blame me.
And I had abandoned them, letting the beast roam free.
I was the creator of my own hell, so why did I feel this way?
“Here,” Tristian said, passing me ear protection and a Force-issued pistol before walking away without a look in my direction. The rest of the unit lined up in their own lanes.
The sleek, clean pistol gleamed in my hand. I was better fed and clothed than I had been in years. The gun was nicer than anything I had to my name. But I longed for my grimy pickax and a dirt wall, to swing until I fell into a rhythm, lungs ravaged, and I couldn’t lift my arms.
“Warm up. Shoot the targets,” Tristian informed us, an edge to his voice.
The rest of the unit rustled around me, putting on eye and ear protection.
The targets ahead were similar to the ones from yesterday.
I had been shocked at my accuracy. I hadn’t shot a pistol since coming to Haven.
I assumed I’d be rusty, but it had been natural, like riding a bike.
Shooting had always been easy for me. My father had made sure of that.
A month or two into the war, before it had reached our shores, my father had woken me as the first rays of sun blanketed the bleak horizon.
We had hiked into the woods behind our house.
He had been silent the entire time before abruptly stopping and pulling out a thermos of hot coffee with milk.
He loved black coffee, but he ruined the entire thermos for me.
He silently poured me a cup into the lid before taking a long drag from the thermos.
He stared at me for what felt like an eternity.
Finally, he withdrew his pistol and checked it before holding it out to me.
“I’m going to teach you how to survive, little flower.”
He had given me a thorough rundown on the gun, showing me every part until I could recite everything. He taught me how to quickly unload and reload it. Then he had stomped off, setting up targets and talking me through each one, giving me tips, siphoning his old military training to me.
“Go ahead. Shoot the targets,” he said. “I’m right here.”
I hit all but one squarely, easily. I thought it had been pride on his face as he hugged me that day. Looking back, I think it was relief. That I might stand a chance. That I could take the helm while he answered the military’s call one last time.
He took me out every morning, never shooting too many rounds, claiming I would need them one day. He showed me his ammunition stash. Then he showed me his medical kits, teaching me basic field knowledge. Until I stood a chance…
“You have to survive now, little flower.”
Staring down the aim of the Force pistol, I wondered whether my father had already anticipated the outcome of the war as we trudged out into those woods.
He must have known he would be drafted. That my mother wouldn’t fight for us.
When he taught me how to survive, did he know what it would cost me?
What I would lose, trying to ensure survival for our entire family?
Had he realized that with each trip into the woods, his little flower lost her petals?
“Clear,” Tristian called out. The red light flipped to green, and the sounds of shots rang out around me, my ear protection still around my neck.
The old pistol in my waistband was all I had left of him now.
I remembered sitting in our kitchen the morning he was to leave.
It was one of the most vivid memories I had from before Haven.
I wasn’t surprised that memory stood the test of time.
Somehow, regrets always do. The war had reached us.
The sun breached the horizon as I sat at the table with two cups of coffee. Black, the way he liked it.
“We can’t go this morning, little flower.” Because he was leaving. “No milk?”
I shook my head, taking a sip, shuddering at the bitterness. My father took a seat across from me, taking a drink from his own before placing his pistol on the table.
“This is yours now,” he said. Bitter tears filled my eyes. “You know how to use it. You know where everything is hidden. I have prepared you the best I can.”
“Don’t go.”
“I have to.”
“Let others fight out there. Stay here. Fight for us.”
“I am fighting for you. I have to try to handle this before it gets to you. It’s my duty. I have prepared you, Sasha.”
Angry tears fell as I shook my head, wishing I could make it untrue, wishing just once he chose us over his obligations to the military. Even in retirement, he answered their call.
“The first time you really have to use this,” he told me, tapping the gun, the barrel facing the rising sun, “if you think you can’t or if you find yourself hesitating, remember who’s at your back.”
“Always point your gun in a safe direction,” I recited.
“No, that isn’t what I mean. Your gun safety is impeccable.
I mean, when you have to kill for the first time”—my startled eyes found his grave ones—“remember why you’re pulling the trigger.
Remember who you are fighting for and what you are keeping alive.
Don’t hesitate between your life and anyone else’s.
You pull the trigger. Do you understand?
Remember who’s at your back.” I thought I understood.
“Later, we can deal with the damage of using it. I hope you never have to. I believe our military will win.” He stood from the table, making his way to the fridge.
He returned a second later, pouring milk into my coffee until it was a pale tan. “You can do this, Sasha.”
“I’m never going to forgive you for leaving.”
Those were my last words to my father. I had been angry and refused to say anything as he embraced me goodbye. I hadn’t said I loved him. I hadn’t said thank you. I hadn’t said I was scared. I had let my anger win.
The same anger that walked beside me every day, along with the damage.
Faces swarmed my vision. They weren’t my family…
My father never got the chance to tell me how to deal with the damage.
What did you do once you had destroyed yourself?
When everyone you pulled the trigger for was buried beneath you and no longer behind you?
What did you do when no one was at your back?
“Cadet,” Tristian thundered, cutting through the trenches of my memory. “You didn’t put on your ear protection,” Tristian said, walking into my stall, his voice muffled against the ringing in my ears.
The rest of the unit huddled around my lane. I had missed the entire warm-up.
“When I give an order, you follow it. Do you understand?” Tristian growled, fuming. “This isn’t a joke, Cadet. We go above the moment the weather is clear. You have to be ready.”
I scanned the empty range, the light above still green.
The rest of the unit crowded at my back.
I pulled on my headphones, flipped off the safety, and took aim.
I didn’t breathe between shots. Each one landed perfectly, in a fraction of the time it took everyone else.
I checked my rounds before holstering the gun.
Damien whistled. “If we ever have to shoot anything, Cadell does it.”
I turned to find all of them staring at the target. Even Ingrid couldn’t hide her awe at my accuracy. I tried not to think about the way my father’s eyes had crinkled as he checked those first targets, smiling at me.
Tristian wasn’t looking at the target, though; he was looking at me. I didn’t know what he was thinking. I didn’t want to know.
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Levi asked.
“Are we done?” I demanded, fending off the memories.
“Were you in the military during the war?” Patrick asked.
“Great job,” Isla chimed in.
“Could you do it with your eyes closed?” Damien asked.
I whipped my head toward him. “That’s a stupid fucking question. When you kill someone, you keep your eyes open, and you watch the damage. Are we done?”
Everyone fell silent. Several of them looked at me like they understood, but most seemed shocked by my words. How many of them had had to kill to be here?
“No, we aren’t done,” Tristian informed me before looking at the others. “We have to do the House—”
“You can’t be serious,” Damien interjected. “The obstacle course, fine, but the House is for cadet grunts.”
“You mean like her,” Patrick said.
“There is no incoming class for her to complete it with,” Tristian said.
Damien crossed his arms. “Yeah, but she already has her unit assignment. She doesn’t need to prove herself. There’s no Auction. We don’t use that above anyway. Plus, it’s her first day.”
“Lyssa doesn’t see it like that. She wants us all to do it with her.”
“It’ll be a good refresher,” Isla said. Did she ever tire of being positive?
“She shoots well enough. She might be fine on her own. It’s what she wants,” Rumi said quietly.
“I’m not doing the House with her,” Ingrid grumbled.
As they squabbled among themselves, I looked back at the targets. I swore I saw my father inspecting the marks, shooting me a smile. I shook the image away, cramming it back into the ruined depths of my soul.
“I don’t remember asking anyone their opinions,” Tristian said, silencing them.
“Is anyone going to bother telling her what the House is?” I asked.
“Hell,” Damien claimed.
“It’s a close-quarters tactical training exercise,” Levi said.
“Typically, incoming cadets are broken up into teams and then pairs,” Tristian explained.