Chapter 28
Chaos is as destructive as any warfare.
Tristian had said it weeks ago when I couldn’t understand why more units weren’t looking for the resources, why more people didn’t know.
The next ten days, I found myself thankful the knowledge of our dwindling supplies was a secret as the illness swept through the tunnels, upending everyone’s lives.
If an illness could cause this…what would impending doom do?
There were no quiet moments as managing civil unrest became a full-time job for the Force.
Our usual routine in the Gym halted completely as patrol units grew and the shifts increased in frequency and length.
I had only seen Tristian in passing. We had hardly exchanged a word.
Not that there had been many opportunities.
When I wasn’t patrolling the halls, I was locked away in that closet as Bretta’s survival kept me on my toes.
I had thought she was getting better, only to be proven wrong as the fever came back.
I was almost sure the illness had morphed into something bacterial.
Her fever soared, leaving me no choice but to break into the antibiotics from the med bag.
Ingrid had caught it; her nose ran constantly.
We didn’t speak about it as she moved closer to her sister instead of away.
Ingrid refused rest as she sat on the floor next to Bretta every moment she wasn’t patrolling.
Owen had kept his word. Even after I told him our mission had been called, he still found time to stop by. The last time he came, he passed me in the hall.
“The mean one is sick,” he told me.
“I know.”
“Make her rest, or she’ll end up like her sister,” he instructed, hurrying off.
I didn’t bother to tell him that was the point. Ingrid wasn’t concerned with life without Bretta. If her sister didn’t survive, Ingrid was ensuring she’d go too. I had felt the same with Lara.
I hadn’t consciously intended to find myself back in the Ward.
But somehow every time I left that closet, my feet dragged me there, weaving between beds, assisting where I could.
Burnout licked at my heels, but I pressed on.
Three times I had sat by death, then taken the charts to the paper grave site.
I should have placed the files and left, but as the fear in Haven grew, I searched for the names Rumi had given me, my interest morphing into something personal.
Was it possible to disappear, and if you did, where did you go?
Rumi had told me I could stop. I didn’t, even as I ran on fumes.
I wasn’t the only one working myself into the ground.
Tristian frequently took double shifts. He had been angry since the mission was called, his frustration following him like a black cloud.
We were now made to wear helmets while on patrol for protection from the illness and from the number of fights we were forced to break up.
I clung to the upside that Damien and Levi were granted more time to recover without causing suspicion.
The helmets allowed the rest of the unit to hide their absences on patrol.
The panic, a tangible, living thing, slithered through the tunnels.
The holding cells were at capacity. The Ward stretched thin as their workers began to fall ill, taking away able bodies and empty beds.
The Expansion and Sanitation Sectors were hit the hardest. Sector-to-sector travel had been banned.
Three days ago, a mandatory curfew was put in place.
Life in Haven shifted as dwellers fought over resources, personal space, all while searching for someone to blame.
Some said it was from the Force members who went above.
Others declared that Sanitation was the issue, that they had failed to keep Haven clean.
There were the quiet whispers that claimed it was the Kitchens, that they were up to something.
Others blamed Expansion, swearing they had disrupted something in the earth.
The stories and accusations became wilder each day.
I didn’t understand why it mattered where the illness came from. There was no stopping it, only mitigating the spread. Did it matter who started it if we all ended up in the same place? I didn’t think anyone else saw it that way. People needed someone to blame. Near extinction hadn’t changed that.
Hence why I was currently trying to break up a fight outside the Kitchens.
The air whooshed from my lungs as I collided with stone.
Two men fighting each other had pinned me against the tunnel wall.
I sucked in a sharp breath as the pressure increased until another Force member grabbed their necks and sent them sprawling, where the two men continued to fight on the floor.
A helmet shield went up. Tristian stared back at me.
“Are you all right?” he asked as Patrick and Ingrid broke up the fight.
I wanted to ask him if he was feeling any symptoms, if he was sleeping.
Memories of him on the cot the day I met him found me daily.
How sick he had been. A new fear unlocked as I watched Unit Seven like a hawk.
Terrified that at any minute one of them would fall ill, I ran exams on them in our living quarters whether they were awake or not.
I wondered how many items in the bag might be useful.
How many would I be left with for our next mission?
I had already used almost all of my antibiotics.
But there were other questions I didn’t know how to ask. Why he ran off after he’d gotten on his knees before me. Whether he regretted it. Whether memories of it chased him from sleep too. Whether it had altered something in him the way it had for me. Whether he wanted more…
“Sasha, are you okay?” Tristian asked again. I simply nodded.
He turned to help Patrick and Ingrid. A bell filled the tunnels. Finally. I sighed, thankful for the end of the shift. Patrick stood, noting identification numbers, writing up the parties involved in the tussle as Ingrid took off. A siren rang out, echoing through the tunnels.
Curfew had started.
I entered the Gym as the siren rang again, ripping off my helmet and uniform before beelining for the showers.
It was now mandatory for everyone to rinse after a patrol.
The lukewarm water welcomed me as I scrubbed every inch of myself.
All too soon, I turned off the water, toweled off, and fished clothes from my destroyed locker, the organization long gone.
I dressed and grabbed the wadded-up apron that had been shoved into my hands by Owen a couple of days ago.
“Sasha”—Patrick crossed the room, offering me a stack of papers—“can you give these to Hayes to file? He’ll be in the commanders’ locker room.” A bruise was forming on the bridge of his nose from the fight. I hesitated at his outstretched hand. “Please. I need a damn drink.”
He looked it. “Sure.”
“Thank you.” He sighed heavily, handing me the papers.
“Any update on the weather?” I asked.
“Burdon said above isn’t the concern right now,” Patrick said, running his hand down the back of his neck.
Shock ignited through me. How could finding resources not be the number one priority?
We were draining our supplies. Patrick cleared his throat.
“Whatever you do, don’t bring that up with Hayes.
He might actually kill someone this time if he has to go over it again. ”
We hadn’t been together as a full unit in days. Everyone spread out throughout Haven. We had resorted to an odd game of telephone, passing updates to whichever unit member was around.
“All right. Are you feeling okay?” I asked, scanning him as I had taken to doing to all the members of Unit Seven when the helmets came off again.
“Yeah, not sick. Just exhausted. Thanks again, Beast.”
I nodded as he walked away. It was the first time he had used my call sign. While the rest of Haven seemed determined to point fingers and destroy one another, Unit Seven seemed to drift closer.
Several minutes later, I stood in an identical locker room to ours, only smaller, since it was solely for unit commanders.
It was empty except for Tristian. He stood, his back to me, an arm bracing his body against his locker.
My stomach fluttered. He ran a towel over his wet hair, the scar on his shoulder blade shifting with the movement. I imagined running my fingers over it.
“Hayes,” I called out. Tristian lowered the towel as he glanced my way.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked, turning fully until he stood before me in just his briefs, the towel clutched in his hands. He had a bruise along his jaw.
My mind went careening off at the sight of him. I immediately attempted to reel it back in, handing him the paperwork. “Patrick told me to give these to you from the fight.”
“Right. Thanks.” Tristian tossed his towel away as he took the papers and placed them in the top of his open locker. The contents were neatly folded and organized exactly as mine had been that first day.
Tristian quickly pulled on a pair of blue pants. My locker had been stocked with supplies, gear, and clothes that fit me. The reason for all of it had been right in front of me.
“You filled my locker for my first day?” I asked quietly.
Tristian met my gaze, nodding.
The consideration hit me like a ton of bricks, hollowing me out.
I had been cruel and vicious. I had lied to him, telling him I would seek out Jaxon simply because I knew it would hurt him.
Tristian had still taken the time to make sure I was prepared.
I was unworthy of it. Of him. Maybe that was why he had run; maybe he had finally realized the same thing.
“Did you need something else?” Tristian asked.
“No, nothing else,” I muttered. That fury I had tried to fire at him every step righted itself, landing squarely in my chest, stealing my breath. I should leave before I said something I would regret, before I tainted all that was good in him.