Pyre

Chapter 4

TOBIAS POV

"Out of my way!"

An older man shoves me aside forcefully as he plows through the food line. It isn't much of a line at this point because of people like him. If I weren't so weak, I would have flattened him on the ground. Then again, it is never a good idea to call attention to myself.

A cough rips through my throat on the way out, clawing and cutting it into shreds. Shivering, I pull my jacket tighter around me even though I am mostly indoors and surrounded by hungry people.

The sickness comes in waves, but for the most part it is always present. The brutal cold makes sure that I am unable to breathe through my nose, and on select days I am the victim of a harsh cough and an occasional fever. It is impossible to avoid illness in the factionless with our lack of resources.

Over the last week, I haven't been getting enough to eat. That must explain why I was attacked by a virus in the first place, why I am so fragile from malnutrition.

"Beat it, kid!" a woman grumbles as she pushes a child further back in the line. "You're not getting any of my scraps."

I frown. There is something broken about the factionless; there is a flaw that marks an absence of humanity in them. I thought the factionless were the most human of the factions because they had to suffer and band together in order to survive. It seems that everyone is actually just selfish, fending for themselves.

It occurs to me that the factionless are not only comprised of people who failed their initiations. Oftentimes, criminals are sentenced to a life of destitution among them as punishment. That explains the immorality among them, in their wartime methods and their everyday actions.

Eventually I make it to the front of the line, where people are spooning out small servings of soup into cans. I take one and a piece of bread, sliding in between the crowd to get out of it. When I am not surrounded anymore, I glance above me and find Evelyn watching the starving group smugly. She turns away, retreating back into her quarters.

I did not even consider the fact that we have conquered Amity. Somehow we still don't have enough food, and I believe that it has everything to do with the expression on her face.

Nothing is distributed equally here. Only the people who act wrongly receive rewards, and I am sure that she uses that to her advantage.

I distance myself from the factionless gathering space—I can't exactly eat with a mask on, and I also can't risk my recognizable face being exposed. So I settle down at the outskirts, where I sit on a crate in the corner between two buildings.

Lifting my mask, I drink the soup. It is normally awful, but this time it soothes my sore throat so that I don't have to choke it down. My stomach growls, and I know that even with the bread, the meal will not be enough to fill me up.

Just as I take one last sip of it, footsteps alert me that someone is coming. I shove the mask onto my face and set the can aside in case it is someone to be worried about.

It isn't.

It is a little boy, no more than five years old. His ribs protrude beneath his ragged clothing that probably doesn't do much against the winter chill. He watches me with wide eyes, and then shifts them downward to the bread in my hand.

My chest constricts. Suddenly I want nothing more in this world than to wrap up the little boy and make sure he is fed for the rest of his life. No child should have to experience this, and he would not have to if anyone had a conscience.

I imagine that this is how he fends for himself, trying to find leftovers and stealing and begging for the basic necessity. But he does not say anything to me.