Life's Inception: Life's Series, #3

By Rebekah Raymond

Abandoned by his mother and raised by his father's vigilantes, Jakob StPatrick learned early how to work outside the system. Overconfidence and misfortune mark StPatrick in a way he can never escape, but cockiness and charisma can only go so far, as he learns when his military career comes to an unexpected and violent halt.

 

After a mission gone awry, StPatrick is haunted by images of bloody hooks and his comrades' dead eyes.  A landmine blows his world apart and rips something irreplaceably precious from his life. And though his misfortunes bring their own opportunities, StPatrick is never the same.

 

And though, this time, the battle was won. There were no victors, only bruised bodies and battered souls.

 

But even to a damaged and bitter man, love comes in many forms; through friends, through a doctor whose hands heal his heart as much as his flesh, through a young girl who refuses to die, and through a friend-turned enemy-who needs to.

 

StPatrick tells this dark, thriller memoir in a way that personifies the struggle of the faction soldier and proves, once and for all, that the light is there at the end of every tunnel, no matter how dark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebekah Raymond
• Release date: Feb 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9780994869883

Book preview

Rebekah Raymond

Tesmur Publishing

Life's Inception © 2018 by Rebekah Raymond

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for brief passages for purposes of review.

EDITOR: T. MORGAN EDITING and Writing Services

Cover: AprilVolition and Double J Book Graphics

FIRST PRINTING, 2018

ISBN  978-0-9948698-8-3 (eBook format)

ISBN  978-0-9948698-9-0 (pdf)

NAMES, CHARACTERS, businesses, organizations, places, and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

TESMUR PUBLISHING

Airdrie, Alberta CANADA

T4B 0K3

IN THE BEGINNING

I WAS BROUGHT INTO the world the day my father was taken from it. And so, my life began, as it ended, in death.

My mother placed the blame solely on my tiny shoulders. This was an unfair accusation—as a newborn, I could hardly be to blame for the man’s ill choices that led to his end.

However, in all fairness to my mother, my father had been rushing home to be with her as she gave birth.

I would be his first surviving son.

Two gone before.

If he had only watched where he was going as he drove home, if he had only kept focus on the task at hand....

But should’s and would’s make up every unfortunate situation.

It ended with my father’s heavy vehicle crushed between two semi-trucks, the cargo of one dismantling both my father’s vehicle and the man inside.

I was born moments after my patriarch took his last breath.

My squalling cries announced both life and death simultaneously.

GO AWAY. THE UNKIND smack of my pudgy fingers from my mother’s hand forced me to recoil. Without sympathy, she glared at me. Daisy, darling, take him away.

I lifted my gaze to the woman who should have been my mother, who biologically was exactly that, and felt nothing but remorse and confusion. Even at almost four I have vague memories of her pushing me away, rejecting her only son. Forcing me into the protective umbrella of my sister. The taps against my skin, the sneering looks, the clutching back of the hem of her dress when I approached, these were all I remembered of my mother. Hate and repulsion for something I didn’t understand for a very long time.

Daisy made the best of a situation that had undoubtedly gone sour long ago. In the untended backyard, her smile reflected the sun as she brought a ball my way. Rolling with me in the field behind, I smelled the daisies, wildflowers and roses, crushed grass and bruised earth imprinted into her skin when she hugged me close, carrying me draped over one of her shoulders, my small body limp from a day of exhausting revelry. Together we sang in the dark recesses of the mansion’s empty halls. We painted on the backsides of wallpaper that had released its grip from the wall and hung, remorseful at its failure to adorn.

My Daisy corrected me when mother only cast a glare, she taught me the basics when our matriarch insisted I was stupid. She locked us away when the crazed glaze of drugs and alcohol turned our elder from the dissociative caregiver she was into the raving addict she pretended not to be. Daisy saved me, through it all. She was my light, my solitude, my everything.

And when the time came, Daisy draped me over her shoulder once more, my short legs wrapped around her waist, and let me cling to her, my wide eyes trying to take in every last detail of the home I didn’t know I’d never see again.

CHANGE

WHEN I TURNED FOUR, we were taken from our home. It had once boasted of the old wealth both my parents had brought into their marriage, and not at all of the children they produced after.

A nice place turned dishevelled shack with ill-repair. Exquisite wallpaper dinged, wood floors gouged and dirty, laundry piled in a corner.

I vaguely remember a team of men and women came into our home, one taking my hand as the others shook their head at my sister.

It was only years later I learned my mother had fallen into a nearby ravine and, inebriated, had drowned.

My young self only understood that my sister collected the meagre possessions worth keeping, scooped me up, and followed the grey-black-clad soldiers to the helicopter.

We travelled by the unconventional means to a place of safety, our new home. A long trip, two continents travelled.

Shown to a room within the soldiers’ complex. My sister continued to care for me, my surrogate mother until the sickness took her from me two years later.

And with her death, I, only six, became an orphan in truth, no remaining family to call my own, my other sister having passed away when I was only one.

AS I LOOK BACK, MY life was not all loss. There were times of happiness interspersed, like when Daisy and I would play tag in the gym of the complex, or when I would tease her for the way she would look at the young soldiers. Even after she was gone, I would feel joy as I lived like the soldiers’ pet.

I was picked up and cuddled after especially hard days, my head patted and hair smoothed by my new extended family and brightened by their praise. I learned to do small tasks for them to ease their workload, figured out how to get the smiles and laughs and words of encouragement that came after I had done a good deed. They became, in a way, my fathers, my mothers.

I was a prince among the unlikeliest of kingdoms.

The soldiers took it upon themselves to school me, my studies spotted with discipline and physical exercises along with the usual math and science and literature. I grew into my teens with a heavy knowledge of how to defend myself, how to launch an attack, and less on the accountability behind it.

I did love to read.

Sneaking away from my caretakers, tucking my tall, gangly form behind the commander’s desk, curling beneath a bunk, I could stow away with my borrowed—and often stolen—tablet, scrolling through screens of words and stories and fantastical ideas of writers long passed. It was my first introduction to real sophistication. It was my first taste of upper education. It gave me my first notion of love.

And it gave me more grief than I ever would have imagined.

AN EDUCATION

IT WAS THE COMMANDER who caught me, his heavy polished boots appearing in front of my hiding spot, this time a wide air vent, the ground-level grate providing adequate concealment.

Or so I thought.

Jakob Arkem StPatrick, come out here immediately.

The way his voice boomed in the open space, I sucked in my breath. It wasn’t often that I was in trouble, despite my numerous pranks and the careless way I flit through my studies. I wasn’t an angel by any stretch, but I was smart enough not to leave a trail.

While I mulled this over, the man cleared his throat, irritated. StPatrick, front and centre. This was an order, something I understood well, having lived with the vigilante faction for ten years.

Scurrying to grab the tablet in one hand, pushing the grate off the wall with the other, I shimmied out of the tight space. I quickly replaced the cover and stood tall in front of the other man, device tucked under my arm.

He was not amused.

Mr StPatrick, what were you doing in there? Our commander stood casually, his feet shoulder-width apart, hands tucked behind his back. When my eyes met his, cold order reigned. I gulped, my hand gripping my borrowed tablet tighter.

When I didn’t answer, the commander, an older man with thinning grey hair and a bulky, wide stance, took the device from me. I wanted to protest and protect my treasure, but his glance flickering over mine, daring me to try it, prevented me. I watched as he looked at the screen, his eyes widening.

He lowered the tablet swiftly, tucking it under his own elbow. His head snapped up, his eyes meeting mine. Captain Montoya found your little...tribute.

If anyone else had spoken those words, I would have grinned. For anyone else, I would have puffed out my chest and laughed at my own genius at being able to pull off such a stunt. But the commander was the only person standing between me and a state-run orphanage. Or it could be somewhere worse, considering my age. A workhouse was also a possibility, the place where the homeless were put to labour and eat and die.

I averted my eyes. Oh.

In truth, my stunt had been brilliantly executed, especially considering how much of it was based on external factors. I had sent a digital notice to Captain Montoya, a veteran soldier who had been tutoring me on the finer points of history. The note had come from a lieutenant’s tablet whose room I had broken into, having picked the lock. As the lieutenant, I requested an urgent visit from the captain on the other side of the complex, knowing full well the lieutenant was gone on mission.

When the captain left her office, I picked that lock as well, sneaking in with a well-stocked bag slung over my shoulder. For the next fifteen minutes, I worked on my creation, wiping nervous sweat from my brow as I kept one eye on the clock. I had taken advantage of several operations mishaps that would attract the captain on her way back. And, as the time came up and I had done all the propping, dressing, and stacking I could, I crept back out, just as efficiently, and went to crawl into the vent for some afternoon reading.

The setup on the captain’s desk was a testament to her teaching. A diorama of the last world war, one of the scenes she had been drilling into my head lately. The one where we had lost. Rather, the one where our asses had been handed to us on a silver platter.

So, the captain should have been appreciative of the effort I had put out with the project. Of course, it had been made with dead rats from the storeroom, dressed as our government officials, who were the reason three quarters of our soldiers had been needlessly slaughtered.

And I knew the captain hated rats.

I wasn’t impressed, Mr StPatrick, and neither was the captain. The commander’s voice brought me out of my reverie and I was aware I was smirking.

I dropped the expression and did what I had seen the soldiers do when being chastised, mimicking the commander’s stance. With my back straight, feet apart and fingers grasping each other white-knuckled behind my back, I was the same height as the man but felt only two feet tall.

Yes, sir.

For some reason, my seriousness seemed to affect the commander. I froze as he stepped away. He paced the room in slow, large strides, tapping the tablet sideways against his palm.

It has become clear I have been too lax with you, Mr StPatrick, he began. You are a cunning young man, and obviously more intelligent than I gave you credit for.

I flushed from embarrassment and anger, unsure whether the compliment was due to the three-hundred-year-old treatise I was reading and the insult was for the prank, or vice versa.

You remind me greatly of your father, StPatrick. He was a talented soldier and an honourable man. His humour lacked discretion as well. He stopped as he looked over me, head to toe. I stiffened.

My father. The man rarely made it into my thoughts. No, that wasn’t true. I thought about him all the time. My father had worked within this faction for years. Many of the soldiers who had seen me grow up had been friends and acquaintances of his. He should have been around, to raise me, to save me from my mother, to teach me to be a man.

Is it your intention to remain here with this faction, Mr StPatrick?

I nodded once, looking straight ahead as the commander circled around me. It is, sir.

In truth, I hadn’t thought of it. Now sixteen, my goal was currently to remain with a roof over my head and a girl in my bed as soon as possible. Beyond that, my life was an open book. Now the commander had mentioned it, the life of a soldier didn’t seem bad.

The commander came around and stared at me, nose to nose. I tried to keep my eyes straight. Finally, he broke away.

Tomorrow starts a new day for you, Mr StPatrick. Tomorrow you will begin new classes by communique. I will arrange everything with my friend at a university. You will do a post secondary education; you will begin training with the soldiers for your own future career. And, he paused, smiling, since you don’t mind working with filth, as a punishment for your stunt with the captain, you will clean the air vents throughout the complex. I smiled, relieved. He reflected my grin. By hand.

I sucked in my breath again. The first two items had made my heart race in anticipation and excitement. But the third... Clean them for how long, sir?

You already know the answer. Until they’re done, of course.

My shoulders slumped. The complex was large, holding at least one hundred soldiers and rooms and hallways of various sizes. The vents would be extensive. The job would take me months, possibly even a year.

Glancing at the tablet, he held it out. As my fingers extended for it, the man reconsidered, shaking his head and lowering the device beside his thigh. You’re a smart boy, I’m sure you will figure out a way to make it go by quickly.

Thinking of all the time wasted scrubbing the dirty vents, I had no doubt he was right.

TRAINING

AS PROMISED, THE NEXT day I was ordered to present myself to a small briefing room. Less expectedly, I found myself saddled with a tablet loaded with textbooks, philosophy and physics equations staring at me from the lightened screen.

The commander had done his research—he had found my interests, likely from the soldiers who had been tutoring me, and tailored my university education to one I could thrive in. It didn’t get by me that the subjects were related to my many missteps within the complex.

I attended the room daily, studying in the morning, training in the afternoon, taking a few hours each evening to crawl throughout the huge ductwork, wiping and scrubbing away a generation of grime. By the time I fell into my bunk at the end of each night, I was often asleep before I hit the pillow, my body trembling from physical exhaustion, my mind finally shutting off a day’s worth of calculations, literary riddles, and strategic movements.

Day after day I lived this routine, the activities allowing little time for casual recreation. Thankfully, my cleaning duty had finished within a few months of my start, my charisma helping to recruit others for the tedious task. No one had wanted to see me suffer, least of all me.

By the time my eighteenth birthday came around, I had fallen into a rhythm with the soldiers a bit older than me. I heard them tease about my habitual return to the training gym or study room after dinner, my studies of both more important to me than shooting the shit with the guys. Still, their unguarded conversations taught me about procedure and about the personalities of my superiors.

I learned the latest gossip, and, most importantly, about what most of the soldiers were. That most of them were different, there was never any question. I felt it in the way they walked, in their ability to be severely, even mortally, injured and then back to work in a short time, remarkably healed. I saw it in the passion of pairs as they tried to hide a rendezvous. And, I knew by the way some of them glanced at me from the corner of their eyes, that I was one too.

ON THE NIGHT OF THE anniversary of my birth a dozen soldiers, all men, appeared in the gym, startling me out of a rigorous hand-to-hand routine with an amused opponent. I cried out as they dragged me backward by the arms and squeaked in protest when I was thrown into the cascading showers, clothes and all. I glared at them, drenched, and stripped while they laughed, washing my body of the workout’s sweat, back turned.

A few minutes later the water was shut off and a towel thrown my way, casual clothes placed neatly on a stool nearby. Again, I glared at my opponents, strolling with a fury to retrieve the bland tan pants and briefs, the t-shirt a pallid shade of vomit. I slipped on the dressings of my imprisoned state, glancing around me finally. I noticed the men were all younger, all dressed out of uniform as well. I frowned. They had something planned.

When I dressed and demanded to know what was going on, boots were thrown at my feet. I crossed my arms over my chest, planted my feet shoulder-width apart, and glared at the group. In response, a lieutenant stepped through the group and smirked.

A WHILE LATER, I WAS planted hard into a chair, the roughly woven sack over my head removed. I glared again at the men around me, my fingers white-knuckled against each other, my palms itching to be released as my wrists tugged at the plastic tie around them. A knife was produced, the sharp edge placed against the cord.

I’m going to cut this off now, StPatrick. Don’t go causing trouble. The lieutenant’s voice tickled with amusement.

I stared at him, shooting daggers, unable to speak through the gag still in my mouth.

The knife sliced through the plastic easy enough, my hands snapping free and going to my face. Ripping the tie from around my mouth, I tried to get up, hands placed on my shoulders from men on either side of me, keeping me seated.

What the hell, Finnigan! I yelled out to the lieutenant. What the fuck are you doing?

Finnigan laughed. Calm down, StPatrick, we just figured your childhood should have a good send off, that’s all. He picked up a mug of something frothy some of the others had brought over. Drink?

I grit my teeth. Fuck off.

The others chuckled. I glanced around quickly. We were in a crude bar, a dive. Few other patrons were present. At least eight soldiers sat at our conjoined tables, all smiling ear to ear.

Aw, Finnigan, I doubt StPatrick’s a beer man, one of my holders said. I bet he’s into the hard stuff. I looked at him. He was grinning.

Is that right? Finnigan laughed. Well, we can accommodate, my man. He took a shot glass that was produced and nodded. Hold him.

Rough hands grabbed my arms firmly, holding me in place while two others forced open my mouth, fingers careful not to get caught in my snapping teeth. Immediately, Finnigan put one hand on my chest, keeping me still, and tipped the glass, pouring the liquid between my lips.

I sputtered, the clear drink working its way down my throat as the hands forced my mouth shut. The fiery liquid threatened to come out my nose when I fought. I swallowed.

Uhhg, vodka.

Hey, guys, I heard a male voice across the bar pipe up. Let’s cool it, eh?

The men around me roared, releasing me. Finnigan raised his hands shoulder-high as he acknowledged the barkeep.

What the fuck are you trying to do, asshole? Drown me? I snapped. My captors released me and walked around the table.

Finnigan lifted the mug of Guinness to his lips, downing half. Geez, StPatrick, do you talk to our commander with such a mouth? He laughed again.

Finnigan, a new voice warned. I looked over at the dark-skinned man who was leaning against the wall past the group, his arms and legs crossed. It was the new captain, Dalco Smart. He looked unamused by the use of my captor’s military slip in public. His piercing   storm-blue eyes drifted from Finnigan to me. Just take it easy.

Although I knew the message was for the other man, my muscles relaxed. The captain’s presence was no doubt an order from the commander, a way of keeping tabs on his men. I didn’t care—his influence calmed the others. They all sat, each grabbing a drink from the table’s centre. I would be safe if the captain was here. I knew it.

I watched as Finnigan plopped in a chair and smiled at the newcomer.

Captain Smart unfolded his limbs and walked by me slowly. He patted my shoulder as he passed; I had a strange twisting in my stomach, somewhere between a stomach pain and the sensation of falling too fast. Crediting it to the alcohol infusion, I watched him go, his steady footsteps taking him to a stool at the bar, signalling for a drink.

The bartender complied quickly, the beverage already on its way, sliding down the wooden length.

The captain caught it with ease. He was obviously a regular.

I was jealous.

This was my first time out of the complex since I was four.

So, StPatrick, you’re one of us now. How does it feel? Ready to saddle up in black? One of the slightly older lieutenants nodded my way, leaning on the table.

Across the room, the captain looked over his shoulder, shooting a glare at the man. The lieutenant ducked his head.

More than you know.

What the fuck is going on? What are you guys plotting here? I crossed my arms, leaning back in my chair.

Calm down, StPatrick. Finnigan turned to me. By the gods, you’re feisty. I didn’t think we were ever going to get you out of there.

I didn’t answer, tightening my fists under my arms.

Finnigan finished off his glass, wiping dribbles from his chin with the back of his arm.

Fine! He slammed down his mug, garnering another quick glance from his superior. We thought you would want to go into your first fight with your cockles empty. He raised his hand in the air, waving.

Meaning? I turned to look over my shoulder at who the lieutenant was waving at when his cohort pressed another glass into my hand.

Meaning, the man’s stout visage grinned as he confided, we’re going to get you laid.

His blatant enjoyment at the situation spread to the others quickly as two slight shadows fell over me in the soft lighting of the place.

I looked to one side, then the other, staring straight ahead again as I lifted the glass, swallowing a large portion of it.

The men roared again. Chairs scraped the badly worn carpet and the women sat on either side of me, near enough to my own age, both pretty by my standards. Still, as their fingers grazed my arms, my fingers tensed on my legs, my skin recoiling.

These girls, still young, had miles more experience in the ways of sex and that also meant they had likely been test driven by every Tom, Dick, and pervert within several towns’ radius.

I don’t want that.

The way the girls looked me over, their eyebrows raised in appreciation, I knew they found me attractive.

It was more than the money I was sure had exchanged hands at some point, more than the promise to them of stealing some virile young man’s virginity.

Wanting to test my theory, I looked at the one to my right, a skinny brunette, her hair bound back in a ponytail, her camisole and short skirt seeming much too cold for even the warm summer’s night breeze outside.

Looking her over, I flashed her a grin.

She flushed, averting her gaze, and I knew I had her. Her mouth opened slightly, her bottom lip disappearing under her teeth as she bit at it. My balls tightened.

Oh god, I want her.

THE NIGHT WORE ON, made swifter by the continuous flow of libations to our tables. The men around me teased and jabbed me with every insult they could, ribbing me about my constant work.

Our man StPatrick here is a glutton for punishment, Sylvia, Finnigan stammered, his mug sloshing as he waved it around with his exuberant gestures. This’ll be what—two degrees?

Three, I mumbled into my glass. When I’m done.

The young woman’s eyebrows shot up. She glanced at her blond counterpart. Blond, like Daisy. I shuddered.

From then on, their touches were gentler, their flirting more sophisticated. Apparently, I had elevated from the usual redneck gutter trash they were used to pleasing.

It was true, I did enjoy my studies more than anything nowadays, and with the commander’s blessing, I had decided to continue my education. He didn’t mind at all—it kept me too busy to pull any shit around the complex.

As my comrades’ eyes glazed over one by one, our group became louder, and the conversation turned to rowdy toasts. We toasted everything—the barkeep, the lovely ladies who had thus far kept my pants on, the chair supporting Lieutenant Baers’ fat ass. We even toasted the dour stare of Captain Smart, whose glares made it clear he hadn’t thought this would be a babysitting mission for a bunch of untutored drunk men.

I grinned back, raising my glass.

I lost track of how many drinks I had consumed earlier in the evening, the mounds of glasses removed by the dish boy repeatedly. Alcohol had never affected me like others. In the years I had been at the complex, I had been offered sips of various drinks as a boy, stolen beers or shared flasks of harder drinks with the soldiers as they deemed my age more appropriate for such things. Despite my ability to charm the precious drink from the hands of my mentors, I had never felt the heavy-lidded, glassy-eyed symptoms the others did. By the end, I, along with Captain Smart, were the only ones seeing straight.

So, it was when the call came in, the men all looking down as their hips vibrated with the same orders, I stood, whipping around to view the captain, who was already standing next to the bar. I dismissed the feeble pawing of Sylvia’s hands, nudging my chair aside to walk around it. I stood straighter, running a hand through my hair, smoothing it somewhat. I nodded.

The captain’s gaze hardened, looking me over. He marched up to me, leaning in to stare into my eyes. I felt the twinge again, resisting the urge to look away. Whatever Dalco Smart saw, it was enough. He bobbed his head, stepping around me to lean down and take the small device from Finnigan’s hip. Tapping the screen alive, I watched his fingers fly across the surface. They’ll be here soon to pick you up, he mumbled.

Finally, he passed the device back to a heavily glazed-over Finnigan. Without further words, our superior held out his hand, palm up. Finnigan slumped, fumbling in his pocket, producing keys. The captain snatched them and walked double time toward the door. I followed with haste as I caught Finnigan resting his head in his hand, disappointment written across his face, my sexual prospect strewn across his lap.

LOSS AND GAIN

CAPTAIN SMART WAS SILENT as he drove our SUV over the highway and through the side road leading to our complex.

I wanted to ask what his story was, how he had managed to become a captain at such a young age, his youth dripping from the highlights of his late-twenties face and smooth skin.

I wanted to know why I never saw him around the complex like I did the others, too. Of course, I had seen him a few times, his dark form always apart from the jovial nature of the others, but in general the man was a mystery.

He had questions for me too though. I could see his hooded eyes, black in the shadows of the night, darting to the rear-view mirror, staring at me in the passenger seat.

Unlike him, I was an open book. Everyone knew my history.

We tore into the hangar of the complex, skidding sideways to a halt.

I opened the door immediately, jumping out. Chaos was everywhere, the commander in the centre, issuing orders. I heard the driver’s side door slam and I walked quickly for the exit, figuring I would have a good four hours at least before I had any news about how this mission went. I could finish a few hours more of studying.

With any luck, it would take that long before the men from the bar returned as well.

StPatrick, suit up. The voice was clear as a bell and I recognized it immediately.

I straightened and turned. Captain Smart stood only ten feet away, tugging on a grey-black uniform top someone had brought him. The women around watched him appreciatively with stolen glances. How the hell he had gotten dressed so quickly startled me.

I remembered, he had already been wearing the pants and boots at the bar.

Private, don’t make me repeat myself. The captain was frowning, tucking in his buttoned shirt as he nodded toward a tech. His darkened eyes darted to the locker room.

I shook my head. No, sir!

Bursting into a run, I skidded through the doors of the change room, wrenching open my locker. In record time, I had stripped and donned my uniform, tying my boots in the military precision I had been taught time and again.

Stepping out into the hangar, a few of the familiar faces looked up at me, men and women I had known since I had first come to the complex.

Seeing the quick smiles, I suddenly felt taller, older.

And with those first steps into line with people who were my brothers and sisters in arms, I walked into my new life, leaving my childhood behind.

HOURS LATER THE SUN was rising, and with it, the vision of what we had done.

Bodies were everywhere.

The violence, in fact, had been mostly done by the time we arrived, the two volatile groups waging war on each other and taking out the bulk of their enemy’s resources. The fight was one as old as time—the first group believed they had claim to the town due to longevity of their stay, the second believed it only because they had the financial resources.

We were there to try to keep the peace, or at least to minimize the casualties. It didn’t matter. The number of bodies when we arrived attested to the haste with which the groups had attacked, the brutality with which they had performed their actions. Then, when the last survivors of the groups saw us, the vigilantes, they panicked.

Suddenly the betrayal was felt by both groups that the other had called us, and the black earth, already soaked with the blood of their comrades, exploded. Grenades and other homemade incendiary devices popped and bounced and exploded, throwing clumps of earth, chunks of human flesh, and sprays of blood and fluids around the square.

Being the youngest, I was told to observe, hanging back with the most superior captain who was in control, helping to keep his tablet in place as his booming voice gave commands over the squalls of our people. He was calm. He was determined.

He was slated for death.

It happened when the last of the survivors swarmed out of the buildings surrounding our people, their knife blades flashing, guns hidden within the shadows of the early morning sunrise. It was the offenders’ last-ditch effort to attack the vigilantes hand-to-hand. And it should have worked, too.

Sometime after our earpieces picked up the first grunt from a dagger entering the gut of another, my captain called a series of orders, speaking crisply. I knew the message was being transmitted to every one of our soldiers, each man and woman in dark garb changing their tactics immediately, their slight adjustments apparent from our vantage point.

The captain nodded to a few in the field. He raised his hand to his earpiece, trying to listen better. He stiffened. He fell, the splatter of blood from his head covering the tablet screen.

Rushing forward, I kept low as I scrambled from my ordered position, catching the captain’s body before it hit the muddy ground. I examined him, confirming his death.

I sucked in my breath—this was the first time I had ever seen another person killed, the first time I had ever beheld a wounded corpse. Even when Daisy had died, her expression had been peaceful, relief in the way her lips had curled into the softest smile. The sickness had taken her strength, but not her grace.

Blinking in the direction of the captain’s body, I noticed the bullet hole. It had been a through-and-through in his skull, no chance for the man’s survival.

And it had been shot from behind him.

As if taken over by an unseen force, I spun around on my knees, letting the captain’s body fall into the murky earth, taking my gun from my holster and swinging it out in the direction of the shooter. I tried to stay low, still knowing full well there was a good chance the killing weapon was trained on me. My fingers were firm around the warm plastic grip of my .22.

My eyes narrowed against the slowly rising beams of early morning light. My shoulders relaxed as I was taught, my legs pinioned under me for a sudden bolt of strength if I needed.

My sight moved as the muzzle did, sliding slowly over the edge of the rooftop holding the point of the other weapon. I knew it, I could calculate the trajectory and angle in my mind. I was good at physics, after all. And then it was there, a silvery glint off my opponent’s gun or buckle or some metal piece, and I knew I had them.

Two shots. I let them loose without hesitation. I doubt it was the bullets that killed them—after all, the target was well over sixty feet away, and while I was a fair shot, the hit would have been remarkable with my small gun. Instead, the shooter stiffened, hand clutching their shoulder. Their other arm came around, waving in the air as the shooter lost their balance.

I watched the figure fall, their black form in the shadows of the building dropping the three stories to their death. I could see it in the dirt cloud