Chapter Thirty-Four
I FEEL LIKE A BLACKENED chicken wing. My muscles are taut, bones brittle, palms callused, and lips chapped.
My thighs ache from days of hard exertion.
At the risk of sounding like a big, fat, whiny baby, I’m also tired.
Greeley, on the other hand, places one boot in front of the other and begins the long ascent up the hill leading outside the Split.
She turns around, craning her neck to give me the stink eye. “Are you coming or what?”
I sigh and begin the trek behind Greeley. It’s not worth bickering with her. It will get me nowhere. And speaking of going nowhere . . . Today, we’re leaving the Split on foot. Without the protection of a vehicle. I’ve got a gun, but I’m not confident I can use it.
At the top of the hill looms the barbed gate separating the Split from the outer world.
While Egal and Macoby share the outer wall for protection, each has their own set of gates.
Two men stand in the wooden watchtower with their backs turned to us, guarding this side of the Split from the outside world.
They turn in unison as we approach, massive snipers slung across their backs.
Wind whistles in my ears, drowning the racing beat of my heart.
My braid comes undone, and caramel-colored strands whip my face like lashes.
As a child, my hair was a silky, icy halo around my head.
Mom would tuck smooth strands behind my ears and call me her Snow Princess.
Now I’ve got frizzy ropes that hang like boneless snakes around my face.
I redo my braid, using the opportunity to covertly peer at the men through my moving mop of hair. They’re supposedly here only to prevent Egals and zombies from coming inside, but their eyes narrow as we approach. Their grips on their guns tighten.
A few feet away, Greeley comes to a standstill, and though it takes everything in me not to cower, I stand beside her. The guards leave their post, hopping off the watchtower’s ledge to face us.
When he reaches us, the brawny guard with light-brown skin spits at our feet. “What’s your purpose?”
“None of your business,” Greeley answers.
The man’s fingers inch closer to the trigger. Next to him, the guard with a shaggy mullet and pornstache curls his lips over his teeth. “Where’s your Jeep, Greeley?”
“Again, none of your business. Can you open the gates?”
“Manners,” says the second man.
“Fuck you.”
“Please,” I interject, stepping in front of Greeley. We’re not even outside the Split, and she’s already causing problems. What am I getting myself into? “Please let us through.”
The mustached guard looks me up and down. “Who the hell are you?”
Greeley pushes me aside. “Doesn’t matter who she is. Let us through, or I’ll rip that ferret off your upper lip.”
The guard lowers his gun and uses his peace fingers to brush his stache. “It’ll cost you.”
Greeley doesn’t think for a second before pulling a pistol out of her back pocket. “You wanna play? Fine, let’s play.” She turns to me. “Kota, get out your gun.” No, thank you. “Now.”
I do as she says, though I’d rather run in the opposite direction. Or, I don’t know, jump off a cliff. Except the guards look nervous when I cock the gun. They don’t know I’m a total gun newb.
I say, “From the looks on your faces, you already know Greeley’s aim is impeccable. Well, she’s also trained me. Just my two cents, but I’d let us through.”
The brawny man sighs. “Fine. Go through. But this doesn’t end here.”
“You’re right,” Greeley says. “It doesn’t.” She pulls a knife out of her back pocket, snaps it open, and flicks it right through his foot. Brawny buckles over, howling. His knees give out as he falls to the earth.
Pornstache bends down to check out the blood gushing from his partner’s foot. He looks up to Greeley. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
“Trade guns with me,” she says. “Give me your sniper.”
“No!”
“Kota, take this.” She hands me her gun. She swings her backpack around and throws a thing of gauze, a tube of Neosporin, and a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the ground. “Trade me.”
Stache pulls the sniper off his back and holds it up to Greeley. “You’re a bitch.”
“Takes one to know one.” Greeley straps the gun on her back and turns to me. “Kota, you ready?”
Well, no. I’m woozy. I’m tired. I’m scared.
But Greeley can’t know that.
“Yeah,” I say, a gun in each of my hands. “I’m ready.”