Fire in His Blood(5)

"You broke the law."

 

I clasp my hands together, trying to look penitent. "Please. I'm trying to feed my sister-"

 

The look on his face grows harder. "That is no excuse, Miss Jones. The New Militia will feed you; you know this. All you have to do is ask."

 

Yeah, in exchange for a quick fuck, the NM will be plenty happy to give me a tin of moldy beans. Even a starving girl's got standards. "Please. You can't send me outside the wall."

 

 

 

        

          

        

         

 

"Why not? You went there anyhow."

 

"That was just to grab something to sell! Now you're telling me I can't come back!" Real panic sets in, and I'm gasping for air. There's not enough air in the damn room. I can't stop shaking. "The dragons. I can't be out in the open with the dragons-"

 

"I'm not unsympathetic, Miss Jones, but we must uphold the rules." He says he's not unsympathetic, but the look on his face is anything but.

 

"You're using a battery on your laptop right now," I protest. "How can you condemn me for searching for more? Where do you think that one came from?"

 

As soon as the words leave my lips, I know they're a mistake. His I'm-weary-but-benevolent look disappears, replaced by a deep frown at his realization that I'd dare to call him out. Like this is surprising. Everyone uses stolen goods, whether for nostalgia or other selfish needs, but no one mentions that they get them from scavengers like me. No one wants to sell out their source … 

 

Except for my buddy Tucker, who sold me out to save his own ass when his shop got raided. I hope I never see him again, because he's seriously going to regret ratting me out. Now's not the time to think about Tucker, though. I have to think about Amy. And I have to think about myself.

 

So I clasp my hands tightly under my chin and make my eyes as big and tear-filled as I can. I don't even have to fake the tears. I'm freaking out. My hands won't stop shaking. "Please, please, Mayor Lewis. Don't exile me. I'll die out there. My sister will die in here with no one to take care of her. Please help me. I'm not a bad person."

 

And I sniff to add woebegone drama to my tears. I need this. I need to stay.

 

Amy needs me.

 

Mayor Lewis gives me a hard stare and slowly shakes his head. "The rules are rules. We cannot bend them for anyone in Fort Dallas or we'll sink back into anarchy again. I'm sure that you remember how bad it was in the riots when the dragons first arrived."

 

I remember. I still have nightmares.

 

At my silence, he hooks his thumbs in his belt, and I notice his pants are nice and clean and pressed, unlike my own ratty jeans that are so filthy they could stand on their own and are held together with a rope belt. He gazes down at me. "The law is what keeps things running smoothly here. If the New Militia has no power, we have no hope as a people."

 

I manage to keep my face bland as he drones on, reciting a history I know all too well. Blah blah seven years since the dragons came and the skies ripped open. Year One was the year of death, of flame and ash and char, when most everyone who couldn't hide fast enough died. Then came years of scrounging, making do, building shelters that the dragons wouldn't break through or tear apart with their claws. Years of hiding. Years of endless fire and starvation and huddling in the darkness as the dragons roar overhead. Like I don't know this. I've lived every day of it.  

 

His version is different than mine, though. In his version, the New Militia is the phoenix that rises from the ashes to be the savior of the survivors. In my eyes, they're a bunch of bullies with guns who are only interested in one currency: pussy.

 

But I'm guessing he's never been told to spread 'em for a loaf of hard bread or a bite of stew.

 

"Rules are what make Fort Dallas the success it is," Mayor Lewis drones on. "It's what has allowed us to remain civilized long after the world has gone to hell. And I'm sorry, Miss Jones, but we cannot make an exception for you."

 

Panic claws through me again. My throat feels like a desert. I lick my lips, determined not to give up. "I want to stay. Please. I'm begging. Fort Dallas is my home. I don't have anywhere else to go. My sister needs me-"

 

One of the militia guards steps forward. "Word with you, Mayor."

 

Yes! Hope flickers in my head, and I stare at the guard. Wait, it's not just a guard. He's wearing stripes on his shoulder, which means he's a sergeant or something. Either way, he's higher up than the jailhouse turkeys. I turn on my knees and aim my clasped hands toward him.