Rise An Eve Novel

been hiding there for weeks, a bunch of cans scattered by his feet. He raised his gun, aiming at me, and I froze, the flashlight unsteady in my hand.
    “I’m just trying to pass through,” I said. “I’m with the rebels.”
    He squinted against the light, then lowered his weapon. “As soon as you get out, go east,” he said. He set the gun down and resumed changing a fabric bandage on his leg. “There’s a government barricade to the west, just three blocks away.”
    He went back to his work, wincing as he knotted the strip. He didn’t say anything else, instead digging through his supplies, pulling out corked bottles of water. “Thanks,” I said as I started back down the tunnel, where the ceiling broke open, revealing a dank room. I climbed into the small walk-in closet, setting the thin carpet back over the opening, along with an empty cardboard box that had been pushed into the corner.
    Inside, the first-story apartment was dark. I could make out the ripped couch on its side and a moldy, half-eaten sandwich on the kitchen table, casually sitting there, as if someone had left abruptly and never came back. The front window was shattered in the corner, making it hard to see through.
    I pulled the tattered curtains away just an inch, exposing an intact piece of glass. A soldier came down the road. He looked over the end of his rifle as he scanned the buildings. He paused a moment in my direction and I froze, not moving my hand away from the thin curtain. He was younger than I was, his face gaunt, his cheeks hollowed out. He squinted for a moment before he finally looked away.
    For a long while I stayed there, my finger pinning the curtain away from the glass, waiting until I was certain he wouldn’t return. I could feel the eight-hour journey in my movements, in the dead ache in my legs, the throbbing in my lower back. I needed one night to rest, to prepare for what lay ahead in the morning, but it was too dangerous to stay at the mouth of the tunnel. I stepped out of the apartment, scanning the road for any signs of the King’s men. When it was clear, I started east, as the rebel had said, looking for the first secure place I could find.
    There was an old apartment complex a few yards ahead. Some of the rooms had been set on fire. The sign had fallen and smashed on the pavement, leaving a thin layer of colored glass in its wake. But it was set back from the road, the inner courtyard empty. A parking lot sat beside it, a few cars laying there, belly up, like dead bugs.
    I started up the inside stairs, spurred on by an explosion that sounded half a mile east. Moving along the outdoor hall, I finally found an apartment that was unlocked, the inside raided for supplies. I moved the remaining furniture against the entrance, not stopping until it sat in a pile, a desk chair wedged beneath the doorknob.
    There was only a handful of dried fruit left in my pack. I forced myself to eat it, despite the tense sickness I held in my gut. I listened to the sounds of the Outlands, the occasional gunshot splitting the night. Somewhere someone screamed. I lay my head onto the dingy mattress on the floor, curling in on myself, trying to get warm.
    Soon the sounds outside grew louder. A Jeep barreled past. As the night persisted, I thought of my father, of the stillness of his suite, the look he’d shared with the Lieutenant when Moss and I were questioned. It was nearly impossible to sleep, my body awake, alive, my thoughts sprinting ahead of me.
    The morning was coming for us both.

twenty-eight
    THE SOLDIER HAD BEEN DEAD FOR A FEW HOURS. MY HANDS shook as I worked the jacket from her body. Her arms were heavy, the limbs locked in place, as I inched them out of the sleeves. I tried not to look at her face, but it was impossible. My gaze kept returning to her white cheeks, the lips that were parted slightly, dry and cracked in places. Her eyes were covered with a thin gray film.
    I’d found her several blocks away from the motel, slumped against a burned-out shop. Her head was bleeding in the back, the blood congealing in her ponytail. It looked like someone had surprised her while she patrolled the Outlands—probably a rebel bent on retaliation. I paused, holding her cold hand in mine, as I took off the other sleeve. The name Jackson was embroidered on her lapel.
    I tucked the gun we’d taken from the man at the motel into my pants, the knife in the side of my belt. It would end soon. I wrapped the jacket around my