Jacks hands me his shirt, which I pull over my head. It smells pleasantly worn. It’s too large, but I tie it off at my waist, so I can still easily reach my gun and the knives sheathed on either thigh.
“I can lend you some sweatpants later if you want,” Jacks offers, and I nod. I could always wear my synth-suit under my clothes. Part of the perks is that it seeps the sweat away from your body, keeps you dry and cool, and doesn’t need to be washed. It was designed for long-term wear. Also, I’ll feel safer with it on, in case I have to leave Fort Black in a hurry, or if I’m ever alone with Tank again.
“Are you going to keep those gloves on? It’s pretty hot outside.”
I smile and hold up my hand and wiggle my black-clad fingers. “Not gloves . . . They’re attached. . . . Or why wouldn’t I have just taken them off when you tattooed my wrist?”
“I don’t know. . . .” His face reddens. “I wasn’t going to ask. . . .”
I can feel my own face heat up and wonder what’s gotten into me. “Here, look”—I pull up my hood and cover my face—“it’s all one piece. The hood attaches to the neck with a Velcro-type fastener . . . except it’s quiet.” I don’t know why I feel the need to babble.
He’s staring at me with an amused look on his face. I pull my hood back down and stare at the floor. “Why don’t we just go?” I say awkwardly.
Jacks nods and leads me down the corridor, opposite the stairs, back to where I first met Tank and Pete. Two different men are standing guard. I get the same leering reaction from them I got from Tank and Pete, though. So much for the camouflaging magic of Jacks’s shirt.
“This the fresh meat?” one calls to Jacks.
The other chimes in. “You’d better claim her fast, Jackson,” he says, as if I’m not even there. “She looks sweet as pie.”
I shudder and look at Jacks, who ignores them and opens the inner door for me. I hurry through, only to be brought up short by the bright sunlight. I shield my eyes as Jacks stops next to me. He turns and smiles grimly.
“Welcome to Fort Black.”
Chapter Eleven
The first thing that hits me is the smell. The stench of unwashed bodies, of too many people and not enough space. Gagging, I put my hand over my nose and mouth.
“You’ll get used to it,” Jacks tells me. He grabs my hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling away from his grip.
“Trust me,” he says, taking my hand again. “You don’t want to look unclaimed.”
I look at him for a moment, then let my hand relax in his as he leads me through the open yard, crowded by a maze of shacks made of plywood and cardboard, with a few tents mixed in. People live so closely here that even the fact that they’re out in the open doesn’t get rid of the stink—or maybe it’s just the walls that keep the air oppressive and unmoving.
I try to place my feet on what little concrete is visible around the hovels, but there’s barely any room to walk. I drop my hand from my face and force myself to start getting used to the smell.
“This was the exercise yard,” Jacks explains. “It’s where the people with no skills live, and the children with no parents.”
“That’s awful.”
“No argument from me,” he says grimly. We keep walking.
“Where do you live?”
“In the cells. That’s what being the Warden’s nephew gets you. That and my cushy job as Doc’s assistant.”
“But you don’t know anything about medicine?”
“I’ve got the basics, enough to help Doc with his examinations. Mostly I take notes for him. Make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”
“So you’re his bodyguard, too, then.”
He shrugs. “Bodyguard, secretary, gofer,” he says. “Pretty much whatever he needs.”
A gunshot sounds from above and I flinch, involuntarily squeezing Jacks’s hand tighter. “Probably a Florae outside,” he says. “They try to shoot them before they reach the walls.”
“The gunshots only bring more.”
“This isn’t exactly a quiet place,” Jacks says. “They’ll come anyway. But the walls keep them out.” He’s right. Fort Black must attract any Florae within a ten-mile radius. I start to ask why they don’t use the crossbows, then answer the question myself, remembering how ineffective they’d been against the Floraes chasing the cyclist.
As I look around at the flimsy structures these people call home, I see a man shoot up out of a cardboard box. He collides with me. I barely feel the impact against my shoulder, but it knocks a humph from him and sends him staggering. He nearly goes down before scuttling away without a word or glance back at me. He’s painfully thin—obviously malnourished—and the sharp stench he leaves behind him has me gagging again.
I shake my head, taking a look at the people around me. They’re not all as bad off as that man, though, and some of them do turn their eyes to me as I pass—wide, frightened, desperate eyes.