Shadow Army: A Shadows Rising Novella

15. Truth

Cress:

Numb. Dead. Was this normal, feeling like a sponge was soaking up all my emotions? I should be crying a river. Instead, I was numb. Dry eyed. Anger was the only thing making it through, and even that was muted and distant, like the thunderhead rolling in on the other side of the mountains.

The gopher rattled over a large stone, cement tires churning gravel, and I glanced at Beckett, teeth tight as I wrenched the steering yoke to the left, fighting to keep the old girl on what stood for a road east of town. Doc put a hand out, bracing against the wood of the dashboard, his other arm keeping Beckett from jostling around on the seat between us. He glanced at me as the gopher straightened up again, but didn't say anything. He hadn't said anything at all since we left Darkening. He hadn't even questioned my crazy plan, simply nodding and climbing up into the cab with Beckett, leaving Jimmy and the girls to travel in the bed of the cargo bin.

I couldn't tell from looking at him if he agreed, or if he was just going along with it to avoid a fight.

I turned back to the washed out logging slip that hair-pinned up the side of Roundtop – the blunt, weathered mound of rock that rose to the east of Darkening. It had been covered in gigantic red cedars once, but the original settlers had cut them down to build houses and barns and boardwalks. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing for us now. The scrubby ten-year saplings actually afforded more cover, their branches thick and green and closer to the ground. I could only be glad of that. We would need whatever we could get. Then, once we reached Browler's mine, we'd have shelter for the night, at least, and a chance to rest and lick our wounds.

Or, in my case, get the Mech patched up again.

That thing had enough firepower to take out a whole platoon. It was also the key to all of this. Those men were hunting for it. It might have answers, but if I couldn't get it working, it might as well be an empty tin can.

We started up another steep grade and hit a particularly bad washboard that sent everything bouncing around again. Doc maintained his grip on my little brother, saving him from flopping onto the floor, while I wrestled with the gopher, trying to keep us from tipping over the edge of the road while maintaining our precious forward momentum.

The washboard evened out and I glanced at Doc again, sliding my gaze along his profile from the corner of my eye. That straight nose with the slight uptilt at the end, that angled jaw... It was still sinking in that he was there next to me. Alive.

There would have been no way I could have done what he did for Beckett. The round had fragmented all through Beck's shoulder, and Doc had pulled out every last shard, then sewed him up all neat and tidy, and given Beckett a draught of something that would hold off infection. It had also made him sleepy, which was a good thing, given the amount of bouncing he was going through.

I would owe him again. I already owed him so much. There would be no way to ever repay him.

Not just for Beckett, either.

I slammed the gopher up into high gear as we rounded yet another switchback and began lumbering up the last stretch before the cut off to Browler's mine.

He had been there when Momma died. He hadn't asked any questions then, either. He took one look at me standing there on his back stoop in the dark and the rain, grabbed his jacket and his medical bag, and climbed into the gopher. He had given her something that calmed her fits, but there hadn't been anything he could do. There was something wrong in her brain, a mass growing like a canker on the stem of a weed, taking up too much room in her skull, choking the life out of my beautiful, intelligent, graceful mother.