In the distance, something crashes, and the crunching groan of metal catches my attention. The entire room seems to flinch. The walls shiver.
“Landed,” someone says. “We might be here a while.”
“Are we safe?” asks another.
“Safe as anyone.”
That’s not helpful. I swallow hard. On and on, the siren blares. The dragon roars again.
This isn’t in the pattern. It isn’t. Something’s wrong.
The mayor sighs heavily, and I realize a moment later it’s his sweaty arm touching mine. He’s standing right next to me. “I don’t understand it. I thought they followed patterns.”
“They do,” the captain says in a hushed voice.
The mayor speaks again. “That’s the second attack within twenty-four hours.”
“It is. The other attack was reds. This is a new dragon that’s settled into the area. Another gold. He doesn’t follow the same pattern as the others,” the captain agrees, his voice carefully blank of emotion. “If this keeps up, we won’t have much of a fort left.”
The mayor sighs again, and I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. Five bait girls. Past tense. “And this experiment of yours… it worked in Fort Orleans? With a gold?”
“Yes, sir. We think the gold is the key.”
A gold is the key to what? Every answer I come up with is more terrifying than the last.
A pause. “You can have her, Captain.”
“Have me for what?” I blurt out.
No one answers me except the dragon’s wild roar.
2
CLAUDIA
Once the skies are silent and the smell of fire is no longer so thick on the air, the crowd slowly disperses. The dragon’s gone. For now.
The guards grab my arms and take me down a hall in the opposite direction of the mayor’s office.
"Where are you taking me?" I suspect they won’t answer, but I have to ask.
The two exchange a look, but no one speaks up.
I remain silent, intent. If they try to take me outside of the barrier, I’m going to make a break for it, handcuffs or not. The militia escort me out of the mall and down a metal-covered tunnel that loops around the edge of the barrier. A small concrete building with a reinforced roof serves as an outpost, and the gun-toting guards nod at each other as they drag me inside.
The interior is much nicer than any place I’ve been in a long time. Off to one side I can see a room full of orderly cots with clean, neat blankets. Soldiers play cards on a table in a kitchen area, and as the guard drags me back, I hear laughter and even a female voice coming from the barracks.
They pull me into a new room, one that looks like it belongs to someone in charge. One of the soldiers escorting me is about my age, but extremely unpleasant and smirky. Of course he’s the one that sticks around. He smirks at me again before he moves forward and opens a trunk, rummaging for something. He finds a small package and tosses it to me. “Here. Change.”
It smacks against my chest, and I feebly try to catch it with my cuffed hands. “What is this?”
“A dress. You can’t wear that.”
I frown and look down at my clothes. I’m wearing worn jeans and a ratty T-shirt that I’ve scavenged from someone in exchange for a few expired cans of food. One of the sleeves is burned and crispy around the edges, and the knees in my jeans are both torn, but for Fort Dallas, I’m wearing perfectly acceptable clothing. At least I have clothing. Some people are resorting to home-spun stuff now that clothing from Before is getting harder and harder to find. All my private bits are covered, and these clothes have plenty of good years in them. “Why would I wear a dress? What’s wrong with my clothing?”
“You need to clean yourself up,” he explains. He nods at his buddy, and the one holding my arm turns and drags me out of the room. I stumble after him, about to protest until I see the metal bathtub sitting on the concrete floor.
Oh. A bath.
The tub is completely filled with fresh water; they must have used one of the nearby wells to get so much, because the plumbing no longer works anywhere. Next to the tub I see a cake of soap and a thick brown towel. This…this is luxury. Add this on to the dress and I’m more than a little worried. “You guys gonna make me go whoring?”
The soldier snorts and gives me another shove forward, then produces a key. “Hold your arms out.”
I do, and he unlocks the cuffs and then moves to the door. I rub my wrists and consider running, but I’ll never get far in a barracks full of soldiers, and I like not being riddled with bullets. “What’s the dress and the bath for, then, if not whoring?” Not that I want to whore, mind you. It’s just…the most logical conclusion.
He ignores my question and gives me a pointed look. "Use the soap. A lot of it. Make sure you wash off your smell."
“Wash off my…smell?” I smell—everyone does now that deodorant is a thing of the past—but I’m not rank. He smells, too. Everyone does. I tilt my head, curious. “I don’t understand.”
"Yours is not to question. Yours is to do."
“And…you’re not going to pass me around?” Because I’ve heard stories of pretty girls disappearing into barracks and never returning. And while I wouldn’t call myself pretty, I’m here and being told to bathe, so I’m freaking out a little.
The fear must be showing on my face, because the guard shakes his head at me and gestures at the tub again.
“We’re not going to hurt you. Just clean up and get dressed and we’ll explain.”
He shuts the door, locks it, and then I’m alone with the tub. I stall for a little bit, uncertain, rubbing my wrists as I stare longingly at the water. I’d love a bath, but I can’t get over the feeling that there’s some sort of trick that I’m not aware of. Like the moment I undress, a dozen guys will storm in the room or something. Why are they insisting I bathe? It doesn’t make sense.
But…the water smells so clean and fresh, and the soap has a hint of herbs to it. I pick it up and sniff it. Lavender. Oh wow. It’s an old store soap. And I’ve been stuck in a sweaty, musty jail cell for two weeks. I stink of ash and sweat and god knows what else.
Fuck it. I pull my clothes off, toss them aside, and slide into the tub. If I’m gonna be raped, I might as well be squeaky clean.
I sink in the water up to my neck and groan. It’s utter bliss. It doesn’t matter that it’s lukewarm. It’s a bath. My last one was Before. Ever since, it’s been a scramble to get enough food and water, much less bathing. Most days I settle for a quick wipe-down with a wet cloth, and a lot of people don’t even do that. But all this water? This is luxury. Amy would freak out if she knew…
Amy. I fight the urge to cry. Please be all right, Amy. I’m going to get out of this and then I’m going to come back to you.