16. Riley #2
She turns to me, and I nearly gasp. Her face is lined and haggard, speaking to fatigue that goes way beyond sleep deprivation. But underneath all that, she’s possibly one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She could have easily been a model in the world before.
It’s hard to place her age. Something about her tells me she looks older than she really is.
“Call me Lena.” She shakes my hand. “You’re Riley, the photographer, right? Tamara Volkova? Fancy seeing you here ...”
Blood rushes into my face, and I mumble something reluctant, more embarrassed by my name and what it stands for than I have ever been. You can only be called a traitorous bitch so many times before it rubs off on you.
“Did you scrub?” Aron asks Lena, inadvertently saving me from having to come up with an actual reply.
“Would I come near you otherwise?” She raises her eyebrows at him.
“What, you’re a scavenger?” Half a foot shorter than she is, I have to look up at her to see her nod.
Scavengers are Rifters who breach the exclusion zone to retrieve any remaining resources.
Though technically not resistance members, they’re invaluable to the cause, collecting weapons, ammunition, building materials, and vehicle parts from the outer edges of the Rift.
It’s not a calling to be taken lightly. After only five years, the levels of radiation and poison in the area are high enough to as good as guarantee severe health issues down the line.
The inner part of the Rift remains rapidly lethal to this day.
Whoever this beautiful woman is, whatever her reasons, she’s chosen a gruesome path. Regret runs through me like a tremor.
“Are you staying here with us, Lena?” Aron breaks the silence, and when she agrees, he suggests, “Let’s get a fire going then. We’ve got plenty of food if you’re running short.”
“And I’ve got something to wash it down with.” Lena pats his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Sometime later, we’re sitting around the fire, sated if not satisfied with the canned vegetable stew.
The night has fallen, and when I set my empty bowl aside, I tilt my head up to look at the stars.
For months after the bombs fell, they were hardly visible at all, even in regions much further away from the Rift.
But five years on, they seem brighter than ever, especially here.
No industrial glow to interfere here in the Rifterland.
I dreamt of photographing the stars when I was younger, eagerly waiting for them to reappear in all their glory. Too bad I won’t get the chance.
“Would you like some more, honey?” Lena leans closer to me, offering me her flask of sharp-smelling, home-brewed alcohol.
“No thanks,” I refuse, but not without a smile. “I already had way too much.”
“Have some more anyway. You look like you need it.”
“Why are you nice to me?” I slur after three more eye-watering swigs from the flask, grimacing as the alcohol burns its way down my throat.
“That’s quite enough for you, I think.” Aron reaches over and snatches the flask away.
“Hey!” I protest, leaning closer to him until I lose my balance and land on my elbow on the ground. “You’re so mean to me all the time. Don’t you ever feel bad?” I ask him without attempting to sit back up.
“No.” He drinks deeply, his neck bobbing as he swallows.
“See, that’s what I mean!” I turn my attention back to Lena, the light and shadow of the flame dancing across her fatigued face. “He hates me. Why don’t you? Shouldn’t you hate me too?”
“Wasn’t it you who patched Sammy up at Trebsberg?” Lena asks, her brow knitting with confusion. “You and that older friend of yours worked with the Hounds sometimes, didn’t you?”
The effect of her words is as sobering as a bucket of ice water thrown in my face. I sit up abruptly. But before I can manage to even open my mouth, Aron demands in a voice sharp as steel, “What did you just say?”
Lena frowns, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I mostly scavenged for the Hounds. I was practically one of them. I heard things and put two and two together when eight-fingered Sammy told me you saved his life.”
“Oh! The guy with eight fingers.” The memory clicks in place: an ugly abdominal gash, white gauze, the index finger missing from each hand. “Yes. Not that it did him much good. They all died two weeks later.”
“What the hell ...” Aron mutters, but Lena disregards him.
“You patched a rebel up in an area swarming with Continuits!”
“I’m a photographer.” I wave my arm dismissively. “I know how to make myself inconspicuous. It’s what anyone would have done.”
“No.” Her shadow on the ground lengthens as she leans closer.
“It’s what a hero would have done.” I want to protest her words, but she doesn’t give me a chance.
“It wasn’t for nothing. You gave him two more weeks with his people.
” Her voice breaks a little, and I don’t manage anything better than a small, choked “oh” in reaction.
“Slow the fuck down ...” Aron’s voice rises, but so does Lena’s as she speaks over him.
“Sammy and I were friends. We were a lot alike. We both lost everything when the bombs fell. I understood why he had to fight. And he understood why I had to scavenge.”
“Hold THE FUCK up.” Aron roars, then points at Lena. “You! You can confirm that Hotshot here and her buddy worked for us?”
“Well, that’s what I’m fucking saying, isn’t it?” she snaps at him, earning a darkly displeased look.
“How sure are you? Would you vouch for them?”
“Yes, you lunatic. I would.”
“Well fuck me,” Aron exhales loudly. “And I was so sure that crybaby was lying.”
I let out a breath—a breath I’ve been holding ever since I first woke up in Aron’s cell.
It’s like a weight has just dropped off my shoulders.
I know this won’t mean freedom for me. I’m never escaping the Necromancer’s wrath.
I was the one who pushed him over the edge and into the depths of his madness.
On some level, I think I’ve always known.
From the day his brilliant, demented creations started cropping up, he’s been like a heavy storm cloud hanging over my head wherever I went.
But Lena’s testimony may just prove to be Corrado’s salvation, and that’s all that matters to me anymore. Aron Krasnik is a psychopath, but he is far from erratic. He sees himself as a justice-bringer, and everything he does makes horrifying sense to him.
I can already see the worried creases lining his brow with doubt. And doubt is like erosion—it starts imperceptibly, but in the long run it can grow powerful enough to alter the course of a person’s intentions.
I reach out for the flask lying abandoned on the ground and take a deep swig.