The Way Back

Chapter 9

TRIS POV

Five days ago, I escaped the prison I was confined in for a year. Five days ago, I watched one of my only friends die right in front of me. Five days ago, I took off into the forest to save myself and left hundreds of people behind, not even bothering to worry about what could happen to the survivors.

The dead soldier whose backpack I stole is pathetic. I suppose he wasn't expecting to be in a situation where food was his main priority, but I can't help but frown on how unprepared he was.

A water bottle. Yeah, that was all he had besides extra ammo, a knife, and a few flares.

I have drunk it only when I felt like I was about to pass out, though that was too often. The several crying fits I have had have worsened my thirst, but I couldn't drink more than a few drops at a time. If I did, then I knew I would run out quickly.

Honestly, I'm surprised that I have managed to make the water last this long. By now, I must have less than a cup left—though I don't know for certain because I am too scared to check.

And there is neither water nor any type of food in sight; there hasn't been for the five days I have spent walking in the same direction. The land is all dry hills and little to no vegetation. Certainly no human life.

My mouth is so parched that everything inside it feels like sandpaper, and my stomach must be borderline concave by the way it cramps from hunger. My feet ache from traveling and my hands are probably permanently curled in the same position in which they hold the assault rifle, but I push myself on. Rest hasn't come easily to me, and tonight I need actual sleep before I go any further.

However, I am not going to stop until I find decent shelter. I have been deprived of that long enough.

The sun is starting to set, and I climb to the top of one last hill with shaking legs to get a helpful look at the valley below me. Down beneath me there is what looks like a junkyard that the hill casts a shadow on. There are even shipping containers amidst all the junk, and it makes me sigh in relief. I haven't had a roof to protect me from the scalding sun all this time. My skin is pink and peeling and although I have a thousand other necessities, at least I can have this right now.

It is when I get to ground level and am approaching the junkyard that I see it: a speck of light peeking out from a blue shipping container that is visible even from here in the dark. When I creep closer, I hear voices. Actual voices of people. They must all live in these spacious, metal boxes.

My body hesitates to move, and I don't understand why until I remember my motto:

Don't trust anyone.

I peek into the one-room makeshift house in front of me to see if anyone is in there, and I see no movement. Just as I am about to carefully open the door and step inside, I hear footsteps behind me.

Whirling around with my gun up and ready, I find myself aiming at a shocked woman, who carries a basket filled with laundry. Her eyes widen when they land on my gun, and it is then that I notice a little girl standing behind her, staring out at me past her mother's legs. She can't be any older than five and wears scrappy clothing like her mother. It tugs at my heartstrings, but I hold my ground.

"I—I need food and water," I beg, my voice raspy. "Please." Though I don't know why I say that because the woman doesn't exactly have a choice being held at gunpoint.

She holds her empty hand up and nods almost sympathetically. How could she extend kindness to me when I practically threatened her? "Yes, of course," she says. "Could you open that door behind you so we can get inside?"