The Survivors Trilogy

BOOK ONE || CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ten, one hundred, one thousand blinks later and I still don't really understand what this boy just said. The words weren't foreign to me, but it felt like they just went in one ear and out the other.

Wastelands. Wastelands? Welcome to the Wastelands.

As soon as the words passed his lips, I was sure he was joking, just messing around with us, trying to get a reaction out of us, but his face is completely emotionless; no twitch of his mouth, no amusement in his eyes. He looks like he is waiting for us to respond to what he said. I guess we weren't the only ones that call it the Wastelands.

One, two, three seconds pass.

He uncrosses his arms.

Four, five, six.

He puffs out a loud breath of air, audible to all of us. "Do not all talk at once."

Whatever comment I was going to say next gets stuck in my throat and dies.

The boy steps forward, giving us a better view of his figure; his clothes aren't as worn and frayed as I thought they would be—they are simple, a thin light gray T-shirt that falls below his hips but stops just before his thighs, made out of a material I can't quite recognize. A cotton-like material is on one of his hands like a glove, but the other is completely bare. His pants are plain black, nothing special about them, and he has frayed leather boots on his feet. He is very thin and tall—his clothes are almost hanging off his body.

He studies each one of us carefully, eyes lingering on Vicky for longer than necessary. I pull her behind my back, and he smirks to himself, turning away to look at someone else.

The boy laughs out loud. "Well," he says, "if you are not going to talk, then I guess I am going to have to show you." He turns away from us and starts walking over to a series of... buttons, maybe? I can't be too sure what they are. I didn't even see them in the first place.

He breathes out a loud sigh and pushes a few of the buttons, making a small click sound around us.

Lights. Lights?

They have electricity?

The lights flicker all around us, making me blink and squint my eyes until I decide to shut them hard. After rubbing my eyes with the balls of my hands for a few seconds, I see something that sends my mouth to the floor and my heart to pound in my ears.

People.

Survivors.

Weapons... pointed at us.

My eyes scan over each individual in the spacious room; around fifty or so people are staring straight at us, not saying a single word, but all wearing the same expression; anger, hatred, confusion, all wrapped up into one look. Their gazes are almost as sharp as the instruments wrapped tightly in their vice-like grips.

The boy walks back to the center of the room, standing a few feet in front of the people. I seem to find my eyes drifting of their own accord; a male, head-to-toe in the same type of black clothing as the first boy, holds a medium-sized silver bow, the razor-sharp tip pointed directly at my chest. His bandana is wrapped tightly around his mouth, and a thin black hood is over his head, covering most of his features.

Unless it's just the lights, but his eyes seem to be darker than all of the articles of clothing on his body.

I feel my hand tighten around the dagger as I pull Vicky fully behind me. I'm not going to let that arrow be the death of Vicky. It has to go through me first.

"Okay," the boy huffs, "obviously you are in shock and cannot say a single word, so"—he steps forward—"I am just going to start talking."

The room goes quiet for a single moment, and the only thing I can hear is the beating of my heart slamming against my chest.