Page 172

Bryant stays exactly where he is, watching us like our disgust is dessert.

I step in front of her before he can enjoy it too much.

I look from the finger to the guard, then to Rhea beyond the fence, then to Russ standing near the cart, then to Bryant with that pleasant, awful smile. They want us weak. Disgusted. Afraid. They want us to understand what kind of place this is before the fighting starts.

Fine.

I understand.

I nudge the bowl away with my boot. The finger bumps against the rim and sinks under the gray surface.

I wipe Poppy’s tears from my thumb onto my jeans and smile right back at them.

Not happy. Not kind.

A promise.

Bryant throws his head back and laughs.

It echoes up to the second floor, bouncing off dead storefronts and broken glass until it sounds like the whole mall is laughing with him.

Then he turns and walks away, his people following behind him.

Russ goes last.

THIRTY-THREE

NO MERCY

LEON

We find him three blocks from the mall, alone and dragging a dented metal cart behind him.

Stupid. Or unlucky. At this point, I don’t care which.

The cart’s wheels squeal over broken asphalt, loud enough to make my teeth clench. It’s piled with scavenged junk: cans, rope, strips of wiring, a cracked plastic bin, a roll of duct tape, and something wrapped in a stained towel that smells too much like the smoke drifting above the mall. Not woodsmoke. Not garbage.

Meat.

Old fat. Burnt skin. Salt and spoil soaked into cloth.

My grip tightens around the bow.

The man spots us too late. He freezes like a deer caught in headlights before turning and running, shoving the cart ahead of him.

Carlos curses under his breath. “That’s one of them.”

I move.

The world narrows to his back, his boots skidding over glass, the slap of his breath as he cuts hard into an alley between two brick buildings. He’s fast, but not fast enough. He slips near a pile of broken bricks, catches himself against a wall, and keeps going.

I hit him between the shoulders hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, and we crash into the pavement. The cart tips behind us with a metallic scream, cans rolling everywhere. The stained towel slides loose, and something pale and charred tumbles halfway out before the bin flips over it.

A strip of skin.

Blackened at one edge.

The man twists under me, elbow swinging for my ribs.