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    Strike
    Strike
    Strike
    Ebook415 pages4 hours

    Strike

    By Delilah S. Dawson

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    From the author of the “gritty near-future dystopian tale,” (Booklist) Hit comes the thrilling sequel about an indentured assassin fighting to survive in a world of anarchy.

    The hit list was just the beginning.

    Time to strike back.

    After faking her own death to escape her term as an indentured assassin for Valor Savings Bank, Patsy is on the run with her boyfriend, Wyatt. All she wants to do is go home, but that’s never going to happen—not as long as Valor’s out to get her and the people she loves.

    Left with no good choices, Patsy’s only option is to meet with a mysterious group that calls itself the Citizens for Freedom.

    Led by the charismatic Leon Crane, the CFF seem to be just what Patsy has been looking for. Leon promises that if she joins, she’ll finally get revenge on Valor for everything they’ve done to her—and for everything they’ve made her do.

    But Patsy knows the CFF has a few secrets of their own. One thing is certain: they’ll do absolutely anything to complete their mission, no matter who’s standing in their way. Even if it’s Patsy herself.

    Delilah S. Dawson takes anarchy and high-octane drama to the next explosive level in this sequel to the “practically movie-ready” (Kirkus Reviews) novel, Hit.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
    Release dateApr 12, 2016
    ISBN9781481423441
    Author

    Delilah S. Dawson

    Delilah S. Dawson is the author of Hit, Servants of the Storm, Strike, the Blud series, Star Wars novels and short stories, a variety of short stories, comics, and essays, and the Shadow series as Lila Bowen. She lives in Georgia with her family and a fat mutt named Merle. Find her online at WhimsyDark.com.

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    • 4/5
      This is the 2nd book in the Hit series. It was a super engaging and high octane continuation of this post-apocalyptic thriller. I ended up careening through this book pretty quickly and was left eager to read more.Patsy has faked her own death and is trying to decide what to do next before Valor finds her and retaliates against her actions. Her and Wyatt decide to join The Citizens for Freedom; which they find out is just as bad as Valor in its own way.We find out a lot more in this book about how and why Valor took over the country. We also find out a lot more about how Patsy is involved and why she was targeted. Additionally we learn about Wyatt’s past as well.My favorite part of the book was all the new and interesting characters that are introduced. They are all well done and fun to read about.This book is intense; there is a lot of violence and some torture so it’s not for the faint of heart. However, this makes the book absolutely heart-stopping at points and very hard to put down. There are also some wonderful tender scenes between Wyatt and Patsy that are an excellent counter-balance to the violence throughout. It’s very intriguing to see how each of the characters deals with this collapse of civilization and the forced violence in their own way.Overall I ended up enjoying this book a lot and am curious to see where things end up in the third and final book of this series! I would recommend to those who are interested in post-apocalyptic thrillers or government conspiracy types of books.
    • 4/5
      Hit by Delilah S Dawson Hit #1. Dystopian YA thriller. Cliffhanger. Fast paced and tightly written. Engrossing and electrifying. Do you read every line in those contracts or software agreements? Imagine if in the small print it includes a kill or die condition. Scary thought what may be in those 20 pages of legalese. The banks have taken over for the government. There are no more police. Teenagers have been tested with a hidden agenda.The bank: Pay your debt or become a mercenary. Or die. I like Patsy’s commitment to help her mother. I don’t trust Wyatt. I can’t wait to read the next in the series.

    Book preview

    Strike - Delilah S. Dawson

    1.

    The thing about faking your own death is that it kills a little part of you while setting everything else free. It would feel great if not for the blood under my fingernails and the knowledge that I have nowhere to go. Everything I did, I did for my mom, and I have no way of knowing if they killed her anyway. My dad could be dead too, for all I know. I haven’t seen him since he walked out when I was a little kid. All I want to do is go home, and I can never go home. My entire world is in this car: me, Wyatt, my dog, Matty, the clothes in my backpack, and the laptops I took from a double agent’s burning trailer.

    He told me the password before he died. He wanted me to help take down Valor, the bank that now controls the government and sent me out on a killing spree. So I guess I should use it.

    I type Adelaide, and a green glow fills the car as the laptop flickers to life.

    What is that, the Matrix? Wyatt asks.

    He’s driving too fast, but I wish it were faster. The green lights flash over the dark interior of his old Lexus, and when I glance at him, the green dances over his face, leaving his eyes black slits. It’s hard to see on this curving country road, and I’m grateful for every second that passes without Hummer lights blinding us from behind or the thump of helicopter blades overhead. Because soon Valor will know what we did. And they’ll come after us.

    I sigh. You’re such a nerd. And I don’t know. The green numbers are moving too fast.

    I hit return a few times, hoping something will happen, but nothing does.

    You look good in green. Like the Hulk, I say quietly, so he knows I didn’t mean the nerd thing and so he knows I’m not still in shock.

    At least not on the surface.

    The numbers on the screen slow and stop, but even frozen they make no sense. There are no windows, no icons, no white background with discernible navigation. Not even that tooly little paper clip on my mom’s old Dell. It looks like you’re trying to hack into a conspiracy network. Want some tips? Just a black screen with rows and rows of green nonsense, ending in a blinking cursor.

    It’s code, Wyatt says, and the tires eat gravel as he swerves back into our lane. My heart stutters, but will it ever stop stuttering?

    No shit, Mario. Keep driving.

    He slows and corrects the car, flashing his brights in the shadowy spots where there aren’t any streetlights. Deer eyes gleam green before their white tails bounce back into the darkness, and my heart can’t speed up any more when Wyatt slams on the brakes because it’s already going full tilt. Crashing the car over a deer in the middle of nowhere after all I’ve done would be an ironic end to my story. I’ve killed nearly a dozen people in the past few days, and now I have no idea where we’re going, how we’ll live, where I’ll manage to get clean underwear when this pack of cheap white ones from Walmart runs out.

    I thought the laptops would . . . I don’t know. Have all the answers? Maybe a file labeled VALOR PLANS or WHY I PRETENDED TO BE A VALOR MURDERBOT AND THEN HID IN AN OLD SINGLE-WIDE or something from Alistair that explained what we’re fighting and why we were chosen. Why I was chosen. I want to swing by my old neighborhood so bad, but I know we can’t. I just have to hope Wyatt has another hiding place for us tonight, somewhere we can go and sleep off the adrenaline and drink another milk shake.

    Except—shit. He can’t use his Valor credit card anymore. They can track us. Every time it slides through a machine, they’ll get a little ping. And I’m almost out of cash. I’ll barely be able to cover his four-hamburger minimum tonight. I’m used to being poor but not completely bankrupt, and it’s easy to see how the entire country got so accustomed to using credit cards. I’d give anything for comfort tonight, even if it meant paying it back double next month. I can’t imagine living through the next week, so maybe the lack of cash won’t matter. It’s not like we can get jobs. No one can know who we are, or Valor will kill us—and maybe everyone around us too. That seems to be how they work.

    We’re on a road I drive every day, and yet suddenly I’m a million miles from home, and I slam the laptop closed to keep the torrent of tears from electrocuting my lap. All this week, and I’ve barely cried. All that blood, all those eyes going flat. Explosions, fire, bullets, stitches, fights with Wyatt, running and running and running. I came within inches of being shot tonight. Inches. By this boy I’ve known only a few days but who I trusted enough to almost shoot me, even though I killed his dad. And—I’m so soft inside, so mushed up and broken and trampled. I push the laptops onto the floorboard, pull up my knees, and uglycry so hard that Wyatt’s music is almost drowned out. In the backseat, Matty whines in solidarity, her tail thumping.

    The car slows, and Wyatt reaches for me.

    Keep driving, I say. I’ll keep crying. No big deal.

    That’s a band, you know. From Georgia.

    I stare at him, eyes hot and wet. What?

    Drivin’ n’ Cryin’. It’s a band. They do ‘Honeysuckle Blue.’

    Jesus, Wyatt. How does that even matter?

    Uh. I’m driving. You’re crying. This blows? I don’t know. I’m just . . . It’s so surreal, right? Where are we even going? We never discussed that part.

    I fit each eye into a knee and press hard to keep from flying apart. Take us to another one of your ex-druggie hangouts. Somewhere with no lights, where the car will be hidden, where no one would ever think about looking for either of us. Somewhere with milk shakes and money trees and day-long mosh pits. I don’t care anymore.

    Wyatt puts on his blinker and turns onto the main highway, four lanes buzzing with late dinnertime traffic. Calm as a damn Buddha statue, he says, Yes, you do. You say that, but you do care. That’s what makes you different. You care, but you keep going anyway.

    My crying falls off after that. He’s right.

    I’m not surprised when he turns in to the McDonald’s, but I am surprised when he pulls a twenty out of his backpack. Get whatever you need. Dad’s emergency fund. Not like he’s going to need it, right?

    I wince and mutter, Milk shake.

    I wish we still had the mail truck with the bed in back so that I could slither between the seats and lie on the hard bed beside Matty. It’s easier to cry when Wyatt’s not looking at me, when I’m not this broken object on display. He still thinks he can fix things, fix me, somehow. But now the backseat holds an aquarium full of snake and a big black dog who’d love nothing more than to lick all the tears off my face. I don’t even have a sweater to wrap up in or yarn to knit a new one. In all the world, I have nothing but my dead uncle’s dog and this messed-up boy who has no business caring about me because I’m the one who killed his dad.

    And then he buys me three milk shakes, one in each flavor, and it’s okay again.

    For now.

    I’m finishing up the vanilla milk shake when Wyatt turns the car down a gravel road. Branches brush the roof, and Matty springs up from the floorboard and sniffs the air.

    Where are we? I ask.

    Wyatt swallows half a cheeseburger and grins. Just another place Mikey and I used to hang. Land that the county bought to make a park and then ran out of money.

    A NO TRESPASSING sign flashes past, filled with bullet holes.

    Is it safe?

    Wyatt shrugs. Is anything now?

    I go quiet as he navigates the overgrown road. Asphalt fades in and out. Sometimes it’s just two bumpy red-dirt ruts, and I have to put my milk shake down so my teeth don’t clack. Matty’s pressed to the window, panting like crazy. Monty the python remains creepy and still. The lights flash over a half-blackened concrete block that might’ve once been a crappy apartment in the middle of the forest. Ancient barns and rusted cars pop out of the trees like sleeping dinosaurs caught in the headlights. Finally, Wyatt eases his car in between an old boat and a topless Cadillac and parks. When I squeeze out and look back, stretching until my fists brush the branches, his car has a sort of camouflage. Funny how I hadn’t noticed the worn-off paint on its hood until now.

    I open the back door, and Matty bounds out of the car as if she’s forgotten the bullet wound in her neck and starts sniffing around. The big shadow looming over us is a huge, creepy house, one story and all spread out like they made them when my mom was a kid, before people realized that land was a finite sort of thing. Wyatt rummages in the trunk and hands me a flashlight as he hefts his backpack and a sleeping bag over his shoulder.

    Go ahead. Ignore the signs. The key is under the mat.

    I stare up at the house. It looks haunted. Seriously?

    Unless you want to sleep in the car with Monty. He loves warm snuggles.

    With a shiver, I grab the fast food out of the front and hurry to the house as if Valor guys are stalking us through the woods. We’re in a clearing, and overhead the stars are as glittery as broken glass. The moon is higher and smaller than it was when I walked up to Wyatt’s door in my postal service uniform just a few hours ago, mostly expecting to get shot, whether by accident or on purpose. I feel like part of me stayed buried with my Valor camera, under my friend Amber’s body in Wyatt’s front yard. The moon watched me then, and it watches me now, distant and cold as a frowning judge robed in black. The moon knows I walked away alive, and by now surely the Valor suits have turned Amber over and realized she’s not me. The question is: Do they care enough to hunt me down?

    It would be beautiful out here if I weren’t terrified and shivering, if I weren’t constantly expecting to be shot. When Matty’s tongue slops over my hand and the oil-spattered bags, I go for the key and wrestle the door open. The sign to the right says DANGER: ASBESTOS. So that’s promising.

    The door creaks, and I swing the flashlight around. Matty rushes past me and starts sniffing the floor. It looks like this place got burgled during an earthquake in the sixties and everything got left on the ground to rot. The smell is musty with an overlay of moss and the faintest sprinkle of skunk, and I wish to hell Wyatt hadn’t already exhausted his other, nicer hideouts. He’s so close behind me that I can smell his deodorant.

    You pick the best hotels, I say.

    Five stars. You’re going to love the indoor pool.

    Gross.

    He trades his sleeping bag for my flashlight and leads the way down a narrow hallway with flimsy wood paneling peeling off the wall. Normally I would be too scared of getting in trouble or falling through the floor to walk into an abandoned, dangerous house in the dark. Now I’m checking for hiding places and escape hatches, should Valor come for us. After a few more turns and lots of weird crap that I barely see, we end up in a decently clean room that smells like cigarettes and weed. There’s a squashy sofa in the corner that might sprout mushrooms at any moment and a big pile of records spilling out of sleeves beside an army of empty liquor bottles filled with ashes.

    You and Mikey, huh?

    Good times, he says, kind of bittersweet, kind of sarcastic. But no one ever came out here, not a single time. And this room is the only one that doesn’t leak. So there’s that.

    He arranges the sleeping bag, pulls another flashlight out of his backpack, and hurries outside for more stuff, and I sit down on the sleeping bag and poke fries into my mouth and try to remember how to chew. Matty creeps close on her belly, her head on my knee, like she wants to apologize for all my trouble. Wyatt tromps back in with Monty’s aquarium and hurries right back out. I keep eating. I go throw up in a cardboard box, just to make things interesting, because the floppy French fries remind me of dressing my ex–best friend’s corpse in my own shirt and hat tonight. Amber’s arms were floppy, just like the fries.

    When Wyatt comes back, he drops his bag and hurries to my side. I’m curled up in a ball, shaking, making a weird keening noise. Soon he’s a big spoon, making me into the little spoon, holding me tight against his chest, murmuring stupid shit to me and raising my body temperature back up to the land of the living.

    It’s okay. Shh. C’mon. It’s going to be all right.

    That makes me snort. It’s really not.

    Is this . . . ? I mean, is this the usual stuff, or something different?

    Wyatt, if you ask me if I’m on my period, I’m going to literally murder you. And you know that’s kind of my specialty.

    His hand stills on my stomach. Is that supposed to be a joke?

    I guess. It’s the best I can do. And it’s all the usual stuff. I thought I would feel better now, and I don’t. Nothing feels real or okay or better. It was supposed to be over, and it’s not over. I can’t go home. A sob catches in my throat, and I ride it out, tucking my head into his shoulder. I can’t go home.

    Nope. You can’t.

    You pointed a gun at me and pulled the trigger, and it’s got me all messed up, because I know what that feels like, and I thought I was hard inside. I want to be hard. But I’m all squashy and tangled. All it takes is a bullet in the wrong place. It’s over so much faster than it is in the movies. All the blood. And the eyes. I dig my fists into my eyelids. Jeremy’s eyes. God, they—he was Jeremy, and then all of a sudden, he wasn’t. And I was me, but now I’m not anymore. So who am I?

    You’re you. And it’s not your fault.

    He’s so solid and real and honest that his words just double me up harder, and I am full of so many feelings that I can’t hold them all, and I’m going to explode, because seventeen-year-old girls shouldn’t have to kill people, and I have. A lot of people. They said that if I did what they told me to do, I was supposed to be able to go back to real life, to my house and my mom and my job and school, but here I am now, on the run. With nothing. Just a boy and a dog and a snake, lost in the woods. It was supposed to be worth it. I was supposed to get my life back.

    But it’s gone. Just as if I really were dead.

    I keep crying.

    I cry until lights flash through the window, dancing across the peeling wood walls.

    Someone else is in the woods.

    My hand tightens around the gun.

    I never let it go, you see.

    2.

    My tears stop falling, and my chin stubbornly sets. I don’t know how to deal with the aftermath of killing, but I’m pretty good at the actual murder part.

    You think it’s Valor? Wyatt whispers in my ear.

    Who else?

    Second Union again, maybe?

    I hadn’t thought of that—that Second Union might still be sending their own assassins after the kids, like me, who got tapped as bounty hunters for Valor. I can’t believe we ever trusted banks. They sent my best friend, Jeremy, after me, and now he’s dead. What else can they possibly do?

    I snort. Either way, they’re going to die.

    Wyatt’s big body uncurls from around mine, leaving me cold. Iron seeps into my veins. I check my clip, even though I know it’s full. This is my dad’s gun, the one Valor didn’t know about. Wyatt reaches into his backpack and pulls out Jeremy’s Glock, the one stamped SECOND UNION in glittering gold. He nudges Roy’s shotgun so that it’s on the ground between us, and he nods and clicks off both of our flashlights, which were fortunately pointed low instead of lighting up the windows like idiots. The light from outside dances in my eyes, and Wyatt dives for the ground and pulls me with him, our shoulders smashed together and my arm around Matty.

    Shh, I murmur. Good dog. Don’t get us killed, ’kay?

    Voices chitter in the night as a beam of light cuts the darkness overhead.

    Is it safe? says one—a young guy. Funny—that’s the same thing I asked.

    Oh, for a haunted house in the middle of a creepy forest, it looks pretty safe, says another guy, smooth as butter. I’ve hung out here before. It’s cool.

    Idiots, hisses a third. A girl. Shut up and point the light down. Could you be less obvious?

    They’re kids. So, not Valor, Wyatt whispers.

    Doesn’t mean they don’t want us dead, I whisper back. And we’re both thinking about Jeremy and Roy, sent by Second Union to kill us for reasons we still don’t completely understand.

    They’re going to the front door.

    I grab my flashlight and silently rise to a crouch. Then let’s go tell ’em we don’t want any damn Girl Scout cookies.

    Wyatt goes first, hurrying down the hallway. It’s dark as death, so I grab the back of his hoodie and try not to step too heavily. I’ll never forget the sound of that thug’s foot breaking through a rotten step in Sharon Mulvaney’s house. Was that really only three days ago that I got in a gang shoot-out in a meth house? I shake my head. If I can survive that, I can survive this.

    White light shoots overhead as a face appears in the window by the front door.

    Amateurs, I mutter.

    A high whine reminds me that Matty is at my side—stupid, loyal, doesn’t-understand-guns Matty. We should’ve locked her in a bathroom or something. Overweight Labradors suck in gunfights. I guess she’s an amateur too. It’s too late to lock her up somewhere safer—I just have to hope we can end this quick, whatever it is.

    My heart is in my throat again. But then, did it ever leave?

    They’re all on the porch now, and fingers scrabble around the floorboards.

    You said there was a key, says the young one. Baby Bear.

    There used to be, says the smooth, cool guy. Papa Bear.

    Again, you guys are idiots. The wood’s rotten. One kick and the whole fucking house will fall down. Sensible Mama Bear.

    You probably shouldn’t—

    The door bangs open, and I step into it with my gun up and my flashlight on.

    Can we help you?

    God, I sound like a badass. But inside I’m screaming. Matty starts barking like crazy, and Wyatt grabs her collar and pretends to hold her back, his gun pointed alongside mine. I can barely see them in the single beam of light. They’re just ragged, desperate shadows in the night. Whoever was holding the flashlight on their side? They drop it.

    I smell piss and gun oil, and then Papa Bear is cocking a pistol like it means something. Yeah, you can help us. We’re hiding here. So you can leave.

    Wrong answer. Go hide somewhere else or get shot.

    My jaw is so tense that my teeth are about to crack like popcorn, and I can hear these kids breathing, because they’re kids—they’re our age or maybe even younger—and Papa Bear’s gun doesn’t waver and Matty is barking and when Baby Bear goes for his waistband, I spit, Goddammit, and shoot him before something seriously stupid happens.

    But I shot him in the leg, so I guess I’m learning.

    It wasn’t meant to be a killing shot this time.

    He squeals like a baby and falls over, and Wyatt lets go of Matty and slaps a hand over the kid’s mouth to stop his screaming.

    Jesus! You shot him! says the girl. She fumbles for the flashlight and shines it on whoever the hell I just shot, and oh my God, I didn’t shoot a teenager. I shot a ten-year-old, maybe. A rat-faced little kid in boat shoes, and his pants are a wet splatter of piss and blood, but at least the blood isn’t gushing out, so maybe I’m not going to hell forever.

    You come knocking on somebody else’s house after dark, you got to expect bad things to happen, Wyatt mutters. She warned you.

    With a deep sigh, he pulls off his hoodie and ties it around the kid’s leg. I can only stand there, numb, gun flopping at my side, hating myself and feeling like shit. At some point, the kid stops shouting and passes out, and the girl is fussing around with him, shooing Wyatt away, and the weird slurping sound I hear is Matty licking Papa Bear’s gun hand. It’s too dark to see much, but he’s leaning against the door, cool as a stupid cucumber, staring at Wyatt.

    Sup, Beard? he says.

    Wyatt’s head snaps up, and he stands, suddenly twice as tall as he should be and exuding menace as he gets in Papa Bear’s face. Do I know you?

    Haven’t seen you since Mikey’s funeral. You don’t remember me? I’m hurt.

    Oh, yeah. I remember now. You used to have a shaved head. Pretty sure I got drunk every time we hung out because I couldn’t stand you. What’s your name again? Chance?

    Cianci. But Chance is good enough for the apocalypse. Yeah, let’s go with that. He tucks the gun under his shirt against tight abs and slumps against the door. Chance, he says to himself. And who’s the chick with the itchy trigger finger?

    I think you mean the chick who still has fourteen bullets, I say.

    He just laughs like that’s adorable. Which pisses me off even more.

    I ram my gun against his belly and say, Dude, I will totally blow you a new butthole. Just pick up your friends and go away.

    He shakes shaggy, dark hair out of his eyes, which are just shiny black pits in this light. They’re not my friends. And no. I think he’s reaching to hold my hand, but he does something with the gun, pushing it smoothly out of my grip before I can react. Holding it up, he grins. Tonight’s not New Butthole Night. It’s actually Thursday. And you should never touch somebody with a gun unless you’re going to pull the trigger, because you never know who spent a lot of time in juvie practicing disarming techniques.

    Still holding my gun, he walks past me and into the house, whistling.

    Wyatt and the girl drag the kid I shot (The kid. I shot.) into the house and onto our sleeping bag. Turns out my bullet (My. Bullet.) went right out the back of his thigh, leaving a clean wound that didn’t hit anything major. Which makes me a monster but not, at least, a monster who murders little boys.

    I don’t blame you, Zooey. I wanted to shoot him, too, Chance says, settling in on the squashy sofa and splaying out in the way of boys who want to seem bigger than they are. But Gabriela wouldn’t let me. So here we are. And now I ask you: Do you have any food? Because I’m dying here.

    My name isn’t Zooey, I say.

    I don’t want to know your real name, and you look like Zooey Deschanel’s trailer-trash sister, so we’re going with that.

    I wish I’d shot you instead.

    His grin is so annoying that I click off the flashlight.

    Lots of people say that, Zooey.

    Gabriela grabs my flashlight and props it up with hers so she can inspect the kid. It’s not a pretty sight. Wyatt and I are standing just outside the hallway, watching and incompetent, and it’s horribly awkward. Not as awkward as that time I wasn’t wearing pants and he got a pajama boner while trying to slash my throat with a steak knife, but close.

    We can take him to the vet tomorrow, I say, and Wyatt shakes his head.

    We can’t go back there. And we’re broke. Except for the card.

    But a vet wouldn’t turn away a bleeding kid. Hippocratic oaths, right?

    Chance sits forward, a gun in each hand, his and mine. Zooey, do you honestly think oaths mean shit in this world? All contracts are void, and God bless Valor.

    I stare at him, hard. Were you . . . ?

    A Valor assassin? Yep. I did my ten. Had to shoot the kid’s parents right in front of him, and Gabriela McBigheart brought him along like a dumb puppy. And when we all went home to be a happy family, our house had burned down. Coincidence? I think not.

    But I’m not listening anymore. My hands are fisted in Wyatt’s shirt, and I’m on tiptoes, pulling him close and murmuring, We have to go. We have to go now. We have to go to my house. My mom. She needs me. They can’t. They wouldn’t. Wyatt. We have to.

    He pulls me close like he can hug the pain and panic away. You know we can’t go back. You knew that when we ran. You knew after Amber. Just try not to think about it. We have to keep moving. Right? That’s what you said. We have to go on. His whisper trickles into my ear, and it should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. He’s right. We can’t go back, not for good and not for bad. For the first time, it occurs to me that if my mom knew what I’d done, she’d be horrified. It was bad enough, doing what Valor demanded. But now I’ve shot a kid for no reason at all. Would she even recognize me?

    I’m a monster, I whisper.

    You’re Patsy.

    I can’t unclench my fists, and he helps me, gently untangling me from his shirt like I’m a panicked kitten. My fingers shake, and I drop to sitting cross-legged, suddenly light-headed and lost. It’s one thing to have hope, and it’s another thing to know that you never had hope and were just fooling yourself all along.

    Holy shit! It wasn’t you, was it, Beard? It was her. Chance leans down, elbows on knees, grinning at me like a shark. How many?

    Leave her alone, man, Wyatt warns, but Chance doesn’t budge.

    How many?

    My eyes roll up to him. As many as I had to.

    And you haven’t been home.

    It’s not a question. His eyes meet mine like the click of teeth.

    Me and Valor didn’t end things on the best of terms, I finally say.

    Valor doesn’t end anything on good terms, says the girl, pushing her way into the tight circle of our conversation. She’s about my age with medium-dark skin and a faded purple fro-hawk.

    You too? I ask.

    She shakes her head. Nope. Just went with my brother to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid.

    I look from her to him, Gabriela to Chance, or Cianci, or whatever, and the only thing they have in common is that they’re angry. He’s tall and lanky; she’s short and curvy. He’s tan, but she’s brown. His eyes are shifty gray; hers are maybe dark hazel. They can’t be related.

    Yes, she’s my sister. Yes, it’s a long story. Point is, would you like to adopt the nerd you shot? Because we’re on the run, and he can’t run anymore, and it’s kind of your fault.

    I can run, the kid whimpers.

    Chance stands and saunters over to nudge the kid’s leg with his boot tip. The kid howls and sniffles. No, you really can’t.

    I look up at Wyatt, unsure what to say.

    We have plans, he says for me.

    So do we. Chance looks pointedly at the door. And they’re happening now.

    I don’t want to go with the girl that shot me! the kid wails.

    I can shoot you, too, Chance offers, flopping his gun in the kid’s direction.

    No, you can’t. You’re out of bullets.

    If looks could kill, Chance just turned the kid into pulp.

    Did I mention he’s a tactical genius? he says, shoving the gun into the front of his jeans. It’s a black Glock, of course. Just like mine, which he pulls out instead. I’ve got fourteen bullets now. You want one?

    The kid just sniffles and glares like he knows that Chance is an asshole but not a monster. Lucky him.

    So you’ve got bullets now. Take your kid and go. There’s another building in the park. Stay there. But don’t come back here, or we’ll aim higher, I say. We have more guns.

    Where are you headed? Gabriela asks, too quick.

    My hands go into fists. Wouldn’t you like to know? Let me guess. You want our supplies.

    Yeah. I’m just really excited about half-eaten hamburgers and a fat dog. And is that a freaking snake? She shakes her heads and puts a hand on her hip. Look, I’m just saying . . . if you’re in the same boat we are, we might as well see if we can help each other. We have nowhere to go, no one we can trust. You don’t, either. Maybe there’s safety in numbers.

    I promise we won’t eat your dog, Chance says, but that’s obvious. Matty is on her back, licking his knuckles while he rubs her belly.

    Wyatt and I lock eyes. He shakes his head no. And I know that he knows more about this Chance kid than I do, and if their only connection is Mikey, that means Chance is a connection from Wyatt’s bad-boy phase. Could be drugs, destruction, or punk shows. Could be worse. But I shot this kid, and they look desperate, and I can’t help thinking about what it would feel like to go home and see your house on fire. There’s a connection here—a common enemy. In the new world Valor is fashioning, connections like this one might be the only way to survive. I don’t trust these kids. Not a bit. But I don’t know if my conscience can take three more lives, three more strike marks. If we send them away without money, without food, without medicine, with only fourteen bullets against the world, I will hate myself even more.

    Chance slides out my clip, flicks a bullet out with his thumb and rolls it around in his palm. These aren’t Valor issue, are they?

    I say nothing. Wyatt curses under his breath. Chance slides the bullet back in, snaps in the clip, and aims the gun at me. Where are the rest of the bullets? he says slowly.

    Wyatt’s gun is ready, aimed at Chance’s chest. None of your goddamn business. Now, she asked where we were going, and that’s nowhere. So where are you going? Because now would be a good time to leave.

    Chance measures us with his eyes, stares around the dark room as if taking inventory. Roy’s shotgun pinned under my foot, Wyatt’s Glock pointed at his chest, our bags, our dog who is clearly not a guard dog, a glass box full of snake. He gives me a lopsided smile.

    We don’t know where we’re going, okay? We were going to figure that out here, tonight. I mean . . . what’s left? Can’t go home. Can’t go back to school. Don’t know who’s in on the takeover and who’s not. This place is turning into the Wild Wild West.

    I forgot how much you and Mikey liked crappy movies, Wyatt says. Idiot. It’s nothing like that.

    There’s no law, the law there is went corrupt, and you can shoot anybody without consequences. That’s pretty fucking Wild West to me, bro.

    Why don’t you just go join the Citizens for Freedom? I say, hoping to scrape them off.

    Gabriela looks up from beside the kid. The what now?

    Okay, so we found out about this meeting— I start.

    Don’t! Wyatt puts a hand on my arm.

    Ugh! I wave my arms around and pace up and down the hall. Why not? What do we have to lose? They’ll see the flyers one day anyway. Let them go. Maybe the Citizens have medicine for the kid.

    Wyatt leans in to whisper, You want them to go to the meeting? He inclines his head toward Chance. Look, I know this guy, and you don’t want him on our side.

    If I’m a bad guy, you’re a bad guy, too, bro, Chance says lazily, turning the gun around like he’s looking for the gold stamp.

    Why don’t we all go? Gabriela says. If you were going anyway. Strength in numbers.

    Wyatt’s voice is strained. I don’t like this.

    Gabriela stands and walks to

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