57. Fifty Four
Fifty Four
Cecil
The ride to town has never felt so quick.
Packed into six vehicles, we race down winding country roads until buildings become more frequent and close together.
Once gravel turns to brick, the familiar scene of the townsquare comes into view.
What was once a bustling city center has emptied into something of a ghost town—outdated storefronts, crumbling sidewalks, overgrown shrubs and weeds peeking through pavement.
As a teenager, I wandered these streets in search of work.
It’s almost poetic that this is where my work for the Brothers will end.
With the orphanage a few blocks East, we pull into a deserted parking lot, deciding to travel the rest of the way on foot. In my passenger seat, Sylvie’s chin is held high, her shoulders thrown back. There’s not an inkling of worry that mars her face. My pride hopes I’m able to mirror the look.
“You better fix your face. If the others see you like this, they’ll go running with their tail between their legs.”
Well, so much for that.
I don’t respond, choosing to ignore her as I hop out. In the bed of the truck lies a gun bag, and I make quick work of the zipper, tossing a rifle to Sylvie as she approaches.
“That was shitty,” she says through a heavy exhale. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
I throw my own rifle over my shoulder, patting down my pockets and holster.
“No, it’s not. Sometimes I forget what it’s like to worry about other people. To have family.” The sincerity of her words throws me for a loop. “I want you to know I’ve got your back. You’ll see them again.”
An unwanted emotion surfaces, and I distract myself by yanking each weapon from the bag. The rest of our group ambles toward us, and I divy out the guns. In the corner of my eye, Sylvie comes to my side. Her hand rests on my upper arm, and she squeezes once. “I promise.”
I glance at her, lingering on her forced smile. Shaking my head, I turn to face the cluster of buildings that surround us. The city is eerily silent. “We’ll see.”
Each footfall is in time with the thumping of my heart.
The journey thus far has gone on without a hitch, and only a block separates us from the orphanage.
We’ve split into two groups, closing in at both sides and hoping to remain undetected.
In the heart of downtown, the streets are somehow even more desolate than they were on the outskirts.
The plan was to arrive before the Brothers and evacuate the children. Running the streets is better than whatever Hell Curran has planned for them, and with the aid of the workers, we should be able to get them far enough before we’re faced with any opposition.
We’re close enough to make out the faded brass door knobs of the orphanage. The hairs at my nape stand up, the wind warning that something is amiss. Eyes scanning each alleyway, every window, there’s not a soul to be seen. My stomach turns sour, my body urging me to turn back.
But we’ve made it this far. I chalk it up to anxiety.
Sylvie stays close to my back, keeping an eye behind us.
The pace we’ve set slows as we reach the steep stairs that lead to the building’s entrance.
Bringing a finger to my lips, I wait until everyone has stilled before turning an ear to the building.
Complete silence surrounds us, not even a peel of childish laughter or a distant footstep.
Each time I’ve visited, life is apparent. But now, it’s as vacant as the rest of the street. The gnawing in my gut grows more feral, and my grip on the gun grows slick with sweat.
It’s apocalyptic, the quiet.
Reaching into my front pocket, I pull out an old watch. The glass is shattered, but the arm still ticks, and it reads 10:59 a.m. We’ve got one minute before the rest of our group will enter the building from the back. I force myself up the stairs.
The moment my hand closes around the doorknob, electricity zings up my arm. I yank my hand back an inch. Sylvie steps up beside me, a questioning look on her face. I swallow hard, shake out my hand, and try again.
When it swings open, the sight stops my heart.
Empty. I can tell without searching the three stories that there’s not a single child in the place. The lights are off, and with the dreary skies, it’s cast in an unnatural darkness. Sylvie’s breath hitches, and I hear a few muttered questions from behind me.
Foregoing stealth, I march across the worn wooden floorboards and head straight for the main hall. Pictures have been knocked from walls, small wooden chairs sized for little bodies thrown and broken. The place has been ransacked.
It’s in the dining hall that we meet the other half of our group. They appear just as shaken as the rest of us, eyes flitting over the deserted building.
“What do we do?” Sylvie asks, verbalizing my very same thought.
Molars grinding, I welcome the ache it shoots into my skull. Anything to distract from the urge to puke, cry, or scream skyward.
“Search the place, quickly. Look for any stragglers. In five minutes, I want everyone back here. We’ll have to meet them at the Sanctuary after all.”
There are nervous glances, but as they were trained, the group follows my orders and files out of the room. Stepping back into the hall, I approach the winding staircase. Footfalls echo behind me, and I glance back to see Sylvie hot on my heels.
“Help search downstairs,” I order gruffly.
She clucks her tongue against her teeth. “Someone has to watch your back.”
Realistically, I’m in no position to argue; not while my mind is tearing any coherent thought to shreds. I march ahead, ignoring her presence entirely.
Each room is in the same state as those downstairs, if not worse. The floors are littered with toys: old dolls, teddy bears, trucks and blocks. The thought of children desperately grabbing for a comfort item while being whisked away by the Brothers has my hands curling into fists.
Five minutes are gone in a flash and we’ve not found a single shoe print.
What little control we had of this situation has turned to ash, blowing back into our faces.
Spinning on my heel, I exit the last of the shared bedrooms and start for the stairs.
Sylvie waits at the top, her back turned to me.
“Nothing,” I announce. There’s tension in her shoulders, her hand hovering halfway to the gun on her hip. Halting, I peer past her. There, at the bottom of the steps, stand four men.
Not our men.
And then, my arrival as the catalyst, silence breaks open into an explosion of gunfire. Shouts come from every direction, and my instincts tell me to run to the aid of the others, but we’re blocked off.
A familiar face makes my innards coil painfully. Taking the steps two at a time, AJ closes the distance between us like we’re no more than old friends.
This was a fucking trap.
“There he is!” AJ’s smile is wide as he shouts over the cacophony of violence taking place beneath our feet.
“I was worried you wouldn’t show!” He turns his smile to Sylvie, wrapping a lock of her hair around his finger.
I know if it weren’t for the three men pointing guns at us, the imprint of his teeth would already be on her kneecap.
“You’ll want to come with me.” It almost sounds like an apology.
AJ shakes his head in disappointment. “Curran isn’t thrilled with you, ya know?
” Stepping around me, he pushes his gun to my back, the bite of the barrel forcing my feet forward.
Marching into my own grave, I scramble for a solution.
The heady scent of blood and gunpowder flood my nostrils, and when we reach the foyer, it takes multiple swallows to stop the vomit from splattering onto my shoes.
Four bodies are contorted on the ground, the deep red of their fatal wounds stretching into the woodgrain. Two I recognize, two I don’t. We don’t have fighters to spare, but at least a couple of Curran’s men were taken down, too.
The remaining members of the Resistance stand in a line, arms raised in surrender like pigs for the slaughter. We are painfully outnumbered, and without the element of surprise, our plan has been destroyed.
With a shove between my shoulders, I fall into line with the rest of them. Sylvie stands at my right, eyes blazing with fury.
“Weapons,” one of the men orders. He’s a burly guy with black, shoulder length hair, displaying his brand proudly on the side of his throat. I wonder if that was his choice or Curran’s.
I feel the desperation in each gaze that falls on me, asking permission to hand over our guns and accept defeat. Fighting back in this moment would only get us killed, and for reasons I don’t want to consider, they’re keeping us alive. We need to use what little time we have.
Thrusting my arm out, I drop my rifle to the ground with a clatter. Emptying my pockets, I hand over my knives, my pistol, and even my busted watch. In a tense silence, the rest follow suit.
All except Sylvie.
The large man steps forward, reaching for her gun. Defiant, she jerks out of his reach. He closes the distance again, gripping the strap, and she seizes the opportunity to spit a wad of saliva onto the center of his chin.
“Sylvie—” I try, but it’s already too late.
One muscled arm swings back and then forward, knocking her to the side with a backhanded smack.
When she straightens, blood trickles from her eyebrow, and hair hangs in front of her left eye.
A devilish smile spreads across her lips, and she drops the gun to the ground.
“You’ll regret that,” she says in a sickly sweet voice. I shoot daggers at her, silently pleading that she at least feign obedience. Is she trying to get herself killed?
The man stays silent, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to wipe the spit from his chin. It’s AJ who laughs, clapping his hands in glee.