One of the guards-the one with the gut-glances at the door again and saunters over to my jail cell. He peers down through the barbed wire gate at me. "How we doin' today?"
"Same as yesterday." What, does he think I have a full schedule or something? I'm in a freaking jail cell on bogus charges. Well … a little bogus.
Teeny, tiny bit bogus.
At least, not entirely legit.
"Long night," he comments, then rubs tired eyes.
"Oh, not me. I slept like a baby." I give him my most winning smile. I'm going to try charm, I think. Weasel a few answers out of him. He'll either run with the ball and start fingering his nightstick in a gross sort of way, or he'll get suspicious. This is one time I'm hoping my guard's a creep.
He just frowns at me. "You slept through the dragon attack?"
All right, now he just thinks I'm a dummy. No one sleeps through a dragon attack, especially not one that's out of pattern. I was up last night, too, huddled in a corner, hugging my knees to my chest and praying for it to end, which is how I spend every dragon attack.
The dragons usually attack like clockwork-the big golden ones attack every three days, just before noon. The smaller red ones attack daily for a week and then nothing for another three. No one ever attacks at night.
Except last night. And I don't know what that means. And I can't think about it because then I'll worry about Amy, and it does no good to worry about Amy while I'm stuck in here.
"Sleep through the dragon attack? Me?" I shake my head and try to keep smiling. "I meant otherwise."
He just looks at me like I'm crazy. Maybe I am. Flirting with a guard for information is a slippery slope.
"So," I ask. "What's on the agenda for today?"
The guard's eyes narrow at me. Guess I'm being too obvious. Before he can say something, the door opens and another uniformed guard sticks his head in. He nods at my two captors, and the second man gets to his feet. The guard at my door reaches for something in his belt. For a moment I worry it's a nightstick, but when I hear the jangle of keys, I relax. I'm getting out.
One way or another. I mean, I might be getting punished, too, but at least it's a chance.
The door creaks open and he flicks his fingers at me. "Come out, Miss Jones."
I stand, my legs wobbly and achy, and step forward. I hug my old, worn T-shirt to my body and try to look helpless even as I scan the room. How hard will it be to make a run for it? I consider the empty 'jailhouse' and the other guard staring at me with avid interest by the desk. I could be faster than both of them, in theory, if they're all that's around. But if there's one thing I know about Fort Dallas? There are always more soldiers. I discard the idea of escape; I fought when they threw me down here, but two weeks and several meals lighter, I'm too stiff and weak to do much fighting. I don't even protest when the guard holds up handcuffs. What good will it do?
I stick my wrists out and keep my 'I'm so helpful' smile on my face, though it feels like I'm dying inside.
He leads me out of the jailhouse and into a long, dark corridor lit by only a few dusty windows. A new guard arrives, nods at the one walking at my side, and then they flank me and steer me down a crumbling concrete corridor and into an endless maze of broken concrete and ripped up flooring. An old, dull sign across the long hall that reads 'Food Court' reminds me that this part of Fort Dallas was once a shopping mall. The concrete-covered bazaar where the scavengers hold their swap-tents? An old parking garage. Memories of shopping and hanging out with friends after school float through my mind, but that was another life ago. That Claudia Jones is dead. She died in the Rift, and the skinny, gritty survivor I am today is the only one that remains. That Claudia knew about malls and schools and who was the lead singer of her favorite boy band. Survivor Claudia doesn't remember much about the world before the fire and the Rift. Everything's changed too much between now and then. To me, this building is just more of Fort Dallas. Crumbling. Broken down. Barren. Sorry. Charred.
Smoke lingers in the scent of the air and wisps through the sunlight, again making me think of dragons. The stink of it makes me weary and anxious all at once. The entire world's nothing but fire and ash lately, and I'm just so sick of it all. I'm not an optimist like Amy. I don't think things will get better at some point.
I think we just have to make do with what we've got. Maybe that's why I'm the scavenger and Amy's safe at home.