Facing West (The Drifts, #3), page 1
THE DRIFTS
PART 3: FACING WEST
EMILY V. WEBSTER
Copyright © 2022 by Emily V. Webster
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real people, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
Edited by Cassandra Chaput & Jenny Howard
Formatted by Nicole Scarano
Cover designed by MiblArt
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Author
1
Captured. Again.
I have to be, right?
I don’t move a muscle. I let my eyes roam as much as they can without tilting my head to either side. It’s dim in here. Glowsticks hang from the light-colored ceiling. I feel like I’m in a tin can. Or a school bus.
My eyes hit the sides of the room. Windows. But there’s no light shining in. It must be nighttime then, right?
It smells weird in here. Kind of musty. I press down with my palm on whatever I’m lying on. It’s hard and a little cold. Metal.
My right arm is up against one side of the . . . room? Vehicle? I don’t even know. But I feel it on my skin. My bare arm. My letterman jacket! Where is it? I can only feel that my shirt, pants, and socks still cover my body. I wiggle my toes. No boots.
Just before I get the courage to sit up and search my surroundings, something makes a sound. A door sliding open, maybe? And then it shuts – so do my eyes. My heart races, but I do my best to keep my breathing normal.
Someone moves around beside me. Just one person? I think so. Maybe there’s something nearby I can use as a weapon. Get out of here; finally get back to finding my sister. It doesn’t matter who this person is; I can take them. I did just escape from an Alliance camp a few days ago.
I barely squint my eyes open; enough to get a blurry view of a figure with their back turned to me. Dressed in all black. Slowly, my memories come back from before I went unconscious. Someone in all black was standing over me.
Leaving the reminiscing for later, I tilt my head to the left. Is that a sword? There’s nothing that screams weapon for escape more than the thin blade leaning against the far wall.
I bolt up from the hard bench, ignoring some foreign, striking pain at my side and grab the sword, but as I turn to point the tip of the blade at my assailant, my body coils up as I drop the weapon with a clang on the floor and grab my left side.
Still hunched over, I look up, scrunching my face from the excruciating pain. I expect the barrel of a gun to be pointed at my head, but the person just stands there in front of me, calm as can be. It’s not until now that I notice my captor is a woman. Black boots halfway up her calves. Black leather pants. Black leather jacket. Thick, black hair in a ponytail draped over one shoulder, and a side bang that moves over her forehead. The only parts of her olive skin that aren’t covered are her hands, neck, and face.
“You’re going to rip your stitches,” she says.
If I haven’t already, I think. But wait, stitches? More is coming back to me. I was shot, wasn’t I? Rolled down a hill and was bleeding out. That wasn’t long after I left Casper. “You didn’t shoot me, did you?” I ask her, leaving the sword and finding my way back to the metal bench I was on. It’s attached to the side of this room.
This woman looks to be in her mid-thirties. There’s some dirt outlining her face like it does to just about everyone. I can’t even imagine mine. She cocks her head to the side. “How much sense does that make?” She walks a few steps over to me, causing me to tense up. “You’ve been knocked out, on and off, for two and a half weeks. If I was going to hurt you, I would have done it then.”
Suddenly, I don’t care how close she is to me. “Two and a half weeks?!” Wasn’t it only yesterday I took a tumble down the hill? “Are you sure?”
She nods. “I’ve been keeping track of the days for you.”
Then I see it on a stack of crates that don’t look like they belong here. The notebook I found in the Camry. I stuffed Joel’s calendar in there. And next to it is my letterman and boots and several other supplies.
I look down at the large spot on my shirt where dried blood is stained. The woman slowly reaches toward me and carefully pulls my shirt up an inch to survey my crudely stitched wound. The hole is pulled shut by thread, and I already know I’m going to have a nasty scar once it fully heals.
Some blood oozes out, probably caused by my sudden movement. It looks like a gut shot, but maybe I’m wrong because I feel like that would have done more damage.
It isn’t discolored and it doesn’t smell like Lisa’s wound had when we realized there was an infection.
“Good news,” she says, grabbing a cloth I hadn’t noticed was on the bench with me. It’s already got blood stains on it. I imagine they’re mine. I want to tell her not to touch the wound with that; it could get my injury infected, but she’s been at it for two and a half weeks, and the gunshot wound looks clean enough, so she must know what she’s doing. “You didn’t rip the stitches. Just a little irritation.” She presses the cloth against the wound and waits for me to hold it in place. “The bullet went through muscle. No organs.”
“Are you a doctor?” I ask, wondering how she knows all this.
She shakes her head. “I’ve been around gunshot wounds before. If I was a doctor, I’d probably have removed your stitches by now,” she tells me. “I’ve been hesitant, because, well,” she shrugs, “I’m not a doctor. Now that you’re awake and conscious, I’ll feel better to remove them later today or tomorrow.”
I make a face as I look down at my covered gunshot wound, hoping her taking the stitches out won’t be a mistake, and hoping that leaving them in this long wasn’t a mistake.
She picks up the sword and puts it back in place against the wall, then walks away toward another stack of crates fashioned into a stand. There’s a gun. I don’t know what kind, but some sort of handgun.
Where’s my Colt? Did I lose it tumbling down the hill when I was running from those two men? I thought I had it on me, but my memory is so foggy. I check the table. I don’t see it.
“Where’s my stuff?” I ask as if I haven’t already found most of it on top of the one stack of crates. My wound still throbs, but it doesn’t feel anywhere near as horrible as it did a minute ago.
The woman in all black gestures with her head toward the first set of crates. She reaches over to push the letterman closer to my boots to reveal the other items. The whiskey bottle still full of water. Did she refill it or not touch it? The notepad and the pencil clipped to it. A handful of tampons. Capone’s chain collar. I guess she went through my stuff since it had been in the pockets, but can I blame her? I remember everything I had, and it’s all there except the deodorant and my Colt .45. My knife got lost during the fall. I do remember that.
Before I can decide whether I should mention the missing items, the woman speaks, “I traded the deodorant for some needle and thread. Already had the alcohol,” she explains. “I didn’t want to leave the gun and knife out.” She kicks her foot to the side, and I lean over just enough to find a small metal box under the bench, barely lit by the glowsticks. Quickly, I sit straight up, realizing any movement I make strains the stitches in my skin.
“I lost my knife.”
“It wasn’t on you, but it wasn’t lost,” she replies. “It was under a bush beside you.”
I guess I can’t be upset she traded the deodorant. If she’s telling the truth, that is. Which gets me thinking. What if she’s got my Colt and knife somewhere else, and all she did was kick some box stuffed with rations?
“Can I see my gun?” I ask. “I forget how many rounds I have left.” Three, I tell myself, remembering clearly.
“Three.” She squats down and grabs the container. “You don’t trust me.” The metal lid opens to reveal my .45 and an assortment of knives. “That’s good. I don’t trust you, either. Did more when you were unconscious.” She shuts the lid, puts the box back into place, and stands up.
“You sure have your back to me a lot,” I mumble.
She must’ve heard me, because she gives me some look before she does just that – turns her back on me. And she’s back to cleaning and reassembling her gun.
I find it to be a waste of time to keep my eyes on her every passing second. Yeah, she’s got a gun in her hand while I’m wounded and unarmed. No, I don’t trust her. However, if she didn’t want to help me, she wouldn’t have. I’d have bled out at the bottom of some hill.
I would’ve been like Joel. Escaped Camp Delta just to die.
I stare at my feet, pushing away the memory of the recruit getting shot by Kellen who had turned out to be a spy. Only Casper, Skylar, Sam, and I escaped and lived to tell about it. That is, if the other three have made it these past two and a half weeks.
I peek out the window, expecting to find the stars, or at least the moon, in the dark sky. But that’s not what I see at all. Torches are lined up and down what appears to be a wide hallway. The walls look like cement and there’s a dark strip toward the top of them. Farther in the distance where the floor gets higher, I see movement. There are stands and tables, and people walking around out there. I notice a stairwell leading upwards on the other side of the open area.
“Where are we?” I ask. Maybe I should ask how much longer until I can leave without the risk of injuring myself further. Or why she took the time and energy to save me.
“Fifty miles from where you got shot. Took about a week to get here.”
My curiosity spikes. Fifty miles? Like she mentioned before, there must’ve been moments I was conscious enough to get some food and water down.
Was she on her way here and just happened to stumble across me? I choose to listen to the rest of what she has to say before asking any more questions.
“We had a horse for some of it,” she says, and I figure she’s seen the shock on my face. “A wheelbarrow helped for part.” She keeps her eyes on the task in front of her as she speaks. “This place is called Seventh Station. It’s a subway station in New York.”
I study the room again, now noticing the poles. I look to one end of our shelter. There’s a curtain hanging down, and I figure there’s a door to the next subway car behind it.
“You live here?” I ask. Besides what I’ve already picked out, I don’t find any more supplies other than a dark backpack in the corner. I wonder what she’s got in there.
There’s a single clicking sound when she finishes reassembling her gun and she lifts her leather jacket to put it in the back of her waistband. She turns around and shakes her head. It looks like she’s prepared for the follow-up question, where do you live or, are you just roaming, but I don’t ask one.
I watch her face, trying to find any signs of . . . what exactly? I’m not sure, but something. My attempt at getting a read on her is failing. Usually, I get vibes like Be careful; this person is dangerous. Then again, that’s the only initial vibe I get from anyone. I’m not getting that vibe from her, and it makes me uneasy, like I should have that exact vibe right now.
After several quiet moments pass of the two of us studying each other, I decide to break the silence and finally ask the question that matters. “How long ‘til I’ll be okay enough to walk?”
“I’d say you’re halfway through the healing process.”
I look down at the cloth I’m holding against the injury, still soaking up blood. “So, I shouldn’t leave for another two weeks?” She’s crazy if she thinks I’ll wait that long.
“Two and a half,” she corrects.
I roll my eyes. I needed to get south three and a half months ago. Yet here I am in New York City.
“Somewhere to be?”
I watch her dark eyes. I still can’t get a read on her. Did I expect I would? Clearly I’m not the best at judging people. I accused Casper of being a spy after he took lashings for me. I disregarded Kellen as the spy, and he turned out to be the traitor – well, would that really make him a traitor? He infiltrated. That was his job.
When I don’t answer, she doesn’t press. She goes to the corner where the backpack is and reaches in, then pulls out a loaf of bread and a gray travel mug. She sets the mug down on another bench opposite of me and grabs my water-filled whiskey bottle. I take it when she offers it to me, then the half loaf after she breaks it in two. Then she sits down next to her mug.
I keep eyeing her while she stares at the empty stack of crates. I went from getting I want to go back to Tucson from Natalie, to silence, alone with my thoughts, to what’s your story and, here’s your next mission . . . And now I’m back to basically silence, but in the presence of some stranger.
“For someone with nothing to say, you stare a lot,” she says without taking her eyes from the crates.
“I don’t have anything to say. I just want to heal and go.”
“Is there nothing to say?” She takes a look toward my wound. “Your parents had to teach you manners before they died.” She says it matter-of-factly, not like she’s trying to push my buttons – not like how Sam would have said it. I guess since I’m alone, she figures everyone in my life is dead. Maybe that’s because she doesn’t have anyone left.
I hesitate. What’s so hard about saying Thank you? It’s one of the first rules of being polite that everyone learns. Maybe it’s because politeness died when the world did. “Thanks,” I say softly.
She shrugs. “Your breath to waste or save.” She takes a bite out of the half loaf.
I bite into the loaf. Then again. And again. When I put the rim of the glass bottle to my lips, I get a slight taste of whiskey, but I down the water so fast, and have to stop myself from drinking the whole thing. When I put the cap back on, I realize it’s barely over the halfway point.
I look at the woman again. Has she been on her own all this time? That’s got to be rough if that’s the case. Everyone in camp was alone, but I guess I didn’t think about it that way because they were imprisoned together.
She probably thinks I’m an asshole. She stitched me up and traveled fifty miles with some unconscious girl who she had to feed and water – and I had to eliminate my waste, right? And I have to be nudged to tell her thank you. She does deserve more appreciation than I’m giving her, but I know nothing about her or her motives, so that sad excuse for a thank-you is all she’s going to get for now.
“Since you’re not going to ask it,” she begins, “what are we calling each other?”
“What, is that the first question most of the people you save ask you?” I say, trying to crack a joke, but I don’t care for being funny right now. I’ll leave that to Casper and Sam – at least they think they’re funny. And she doesn’t seem to care for my attempt at humor, either. Good to know we agree about it. “You’re a survivor. What more is there to know?” I say seriously this time. I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to need to know her name. Then again, I didn’t plan on getting to know anyone in Camp Delta, and look what happened there – three whole months.
“Survivor, yes. A lot more, too.” She pauses briefly. “I was thinking Jack Daniels,” she gives a nod toward the bottle in my hand, then one toward my things on a stand, “or Denver–”
“Kendra,” I quickly say, avoiding eye contact for a few brief moments.
She looks confused by the sudden burst of my name, but she returns to her calm state when she takes the last bite of her bread. Even after she’s finished chewing, she doesn’t give me her name. Is she trying to punish me for being rude? Not much of a punishment. But I guess it would be nice not to think of her as the woman in all black. It’s a mouthful. “What about you?” I finally ask.
“Silver.”
2
After we’ve introduced ourselves, I go to touch the slave bracelet around my wrist, wondering if she has any ideas how to get it off. She must’ve noticed it. Why not turn me in? She’d get more supplies to add in her backpack. Unless she’s scared they’ll take her, too.
But when I feel for the band, my fingers graze my skin. My eyes bolt downward to my bare wrist. There are some marks from the three months of irritation from the silver band.
“How’d you get it off?” I ask, bewildered and relieved.
“Sawblade,” Silver tells me, staring out her side of the subway car. Maybe there’s another opening with stands and more people. “I borrowed it . . . without asking.” She glances over at my wrist that feels weightless now that I know the stupid band is off. “If anyone saw it, they’d take you to trade.”
