Chariot | Group B → The Scorch Trials²

i.eleven

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● [ i . continued ]

THE WOMAN didn't waste a second. She waved them forward, keeping her gun raised as her eyes darted around the dusty street, scanning for movement. "In, quick!" she barked again.

The Glenners didn't argue. They filed through the doorway one by one, panting, shaky, still streaked with blood that wasn't all their own. Rogue helped Wally through, feeling the girl's trembling weight against her arm, and then stumbled in herself.

The woman slammed the heavy door shut behind them and threw three bolts across it in quick succession. The metallic clank echoed through the room.

Rogue blinked, taking in their surroundings. The light inside was dim and warm, a stark change from the blinding sun outside. The only light came from a few bulbs strung along the ceiling, buzzing faintly. A couple had burned out, leaving small patches of shadow in the corners.

The room itself was wide, easily large enough to fit all thirty girls with space to spare. The walls were cracked in places, water-stained and peeling, but someone had tried to make it liveable. Worn blankets were hung along one wall like makeshift curtains, and a few rough tables and chairs stood near the centre. Piles of scavenged supplies lined the far side: bottles of water, canned food, boxes of bullets, and a stack of threadbare sleeping bags.

Rogue turned, watching as the woman pulled down a metal bar from the wall and secured the door's final lock. She didn't relax until it clicked into place. Then, finally, she turned to face them.

She looked older than Rogue remembered. Her hair, a dark brown streaked with grey, was tied back into a tight, short ponytail. Her clothes were practical. She donned boots, torn cargo trousers, and a long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows, all coated in sand and grime. Her skin was tanned and creased, the kind that came from years of surviving outside.

A strip of faded fabric covered the lower half of her face, tied tight behind her head, but Rogue didn't need to see the rest to know who she was.

It was her. The woman from the van. The one who'd saved them from WICKED, driven them through the night, told them they were finally safe. Rogue felt her throat tighten.

Beside her stood the younger girl. She couldn't have been older than twenty, maybe younger. She, too, wore a fabric mask. Her, and her eyes... light, sharp, a washed-out blue, met Rogue's before flicking away.

Rogue wondered, for half a second, if she was the woman's daughter. Or maybe not. No one really had families anymore.

No one said anything at first. The sound of thirty people breathing in a single room filled the silence. Then, finally, the older woman spoke.

Her voice was the same as Rogue remembered, though far less panicked than she once was. "You shouldn't be out there alone. Not this far. Not without weapons."

No one responded. A few of the Glenners exchanged wary glances, Harriet and Sonya among them.

The woman's eyes scanned the group, taking in their torn clothes, their bruises, the blood splattered on their arms. "You've had a rough time, then. I saw the Cranks on your tail from the window."

Rogue swallowed. "You... We know you."

The woman's stare shifted to her. "Yes, you do."

Rogue hesitated. "You're supposed to be dead."

That earned the smallest flicker of something across the woman's eyes. Humour, maybe. "So are you."

The younger girl let out a small sound, like a scoff, then stepped further from the woman but said nothing.