Our W.I.C.K.E.D Fate (The W.I.C.K.E.D Girl sequel)

7

It had been nine days since the remainder of Group A, joined by Emily and Isabelle, had adhered to James's group. 

And something was amiss. 

Everywhere Emily looked, she was greeted by sunken eyes and sallow, sickly-looking faces. The women who had once been talkative and cracked jokes were now quiet as mice as they went about their businesses, their gazes glazed over and impassive. 

"What's going on?" Isabelle whispered to Emily, noting the sudden change in their hosts' behaviour.

Overhearing Isabelle's question, Ella butted in. "We've been low on food lately, haven't you noticed? Everyone's probably famished." 

Emily frowned, recalling the meals they'd been served merely days ago, a kind of stew with rabbit and vegetables and a thick, gravy-like sauce. "I don't think that's it," she said.

Ella kept quiet after that, and the girls completed their daily chores in a strange, deafening silence, the same feeling of wrongness thrumming in Emily's bones as she worked. 

As soon as the boys returned from their scavenging trip, Emily waited until they were all gathered in the room James had assigned to them and then confessed, "Something's wrong. I think something is going to happen to us if we don't leave."

Ella scoffed. "And when exactly should we give up our safe shelter, now so that everyone can see us fleeing like ungrateful assholes, or this evening when it means going out there at night?" 

Newt was frowning. "What do you mean, Emily?"

"I think James has been lying to us."

"To be honest with you," Minho chimed in, "I really don't miss the feeling of going to sleep on an empty stomach. No offence, Emily, but unless you have concrete proof. . ."

"I'm with Emily on this one," Chuck intervened. "These people have been acting weird as hell lately. Have you seen their faces? They look—"

"—sick," Thomas finished. "They look like Cranks."

At this, the group of seven erupted, their sentences overlapping. 

"They can't possibly be Cranks." Minho scoffed. "Have you forgotten what a Crank looks and acts like, shank? They're usually more murderous than these folks, who have, need I remind you, offered us a roof over our heads and bandages and food?"

"I see it," Newt chipped in, his tone conciliatory. "But it can't be. Cranks don't stay in the transformation phase for long. And unless everybody was bitten at the same time . . . it's not plausible."

"Why do you people have to be so logical all the damn time?"

Emily's head whipped around towards the voice. James was leaning in the doorless doorway, arms folded at his chest, smiling a thin smile that failed to graze his crazed eyes. "Is all of this," he said, opening his arms wide as if to encompass the entire world, the Scorch itself, "not extraordinary enough to make you believe anything is possible?"

"What are you?" asked Minho, hand going to the machete in his back pocket. 

James chuckled. "We have many names. You can call us that nasty, nasty name, if you'd like. Cranks. The Gone. We like to believe we're the rulers of this new and cruel world."

Thomas sneered, and James's gaze snapped towards him. His smile faltered, replaced by a scowl. "You would do well to listen. An era has ended. Nowhere is safe anymore, save for by our side."

"Why did you bring us here?" inquired Emily.

James sucked the inside of his cheek and grabbed his chin, a portrait of a thinking man that would have been comical had James's throat not been crossed by a web of black, spidery veins. When he spoke, his teeth were stained with blood. "You are strong. Every cause needs masterminds and soldiers."

"Right. And you're one of the masterminds," Minho teased, grimacing. "Yeah, I can definitely see it now."

James growled. "It is time for you to choose. With us, or against us?"

"And what happens if we choose to leave?" Ella said.

The corners of James's mouth went up, up, up, the mad grin setting his eyes on fire. "Darling," he whispered, "who said anything about leaving?"

It happened in a flash—James stepped back, somebody screamed, and Emily barely had time to draw her knife before the room was flooded by unleashed Cranks. 

The odds seemed to be stacked against the group. Everywhere Emily turned, a Crank was waiting to strike, surrounding each of them, snarling figures lurking in the corner of her eye. She attempted a jab at the one closest to her, but it dodged before the knife could meet skin.

"So," James asked again, "what's it gonna be?"

"Go fuck yourself," Newt lashed out, and a gunshot rang through the air, and the fight commenced.

It soon became clear that the group had virtually no chance of taking on every Crank in the building—at least, not at once. Emily grabbed Isabelle's hand and dashed for the door, hoping to lure away some of the Cranks in order to give the others an advantage, but as soon as she reached the corridor, a hand shot out and wrapped itself around her wrist. 

"Where do you think you're going?" James asked, his voice cloyingly sweet. 

Emily moved to strike with her free hand, but James was quicker—he knocked the knife out of her grasp, and it landed to the concrete floor with a loud clang. Emily glanced over her shoulder, and panic rose in her throat as she realised Isabelle was nowhere to be found. 

James yanked Emily closer, and the putrid stench of his breath enveloped the young woman. "I like you," he whispered in her ear. "Wouldn't you like to rule beside me?"

A familiar voice rang in Emily's ears. "Like hell, she would."

Newt's eyes were filled with an unwavering, fierce—savage, even—kind of determination, and his gun was pointed at James's head.

James let out a short, humourless cackle. "The knight in shining armour," he jeered. "Come to rescue your princess?"

Newt didn't budge, though James was holding Emily to him like a shield. "Let her go," he demanded.

Emily didn't need to see James to know he'd just shaken his head. 

And she didn't have time to register the bullet wheezing past her, just that James let go of her, roaring as he clutched his shoulder. She shot forward and into Newt's arms, who laced their fingers together and pulled her away in a sprint, the others trailing after them, shots echoing through the large, empty building.

As soon as the group was back in the open desert, Emily halted, trying to focus her thoughts. She was aware they could either fight the monsters or keep running until their legs gave way and the Cranks would be upon them. Newt's hand still in hers, she turned to face the mob of Cranks quickly approaching.

She met Newt's frantic gaze. "Give me your gun."

"Emily, there's no time—"

"Newt," she pleaded, more urgent now. "Trust me."

He didn't hesitate any further. Once her fingers were wrapped around the cold metal of the pistol, Emily began firing, loud gunshots tearing through the quiet of the night. Her ears were ringing. Almost immediately, Minho and Thomas arrived at her side, their gun raised as well. Together, they handled the horde of Cranks, taking advantage of the moments when they would trip over the dead bodies. Once they were out of ammunition, the rest of the Cranks were handled by knives and machetes and Chuck's baseball bat. 

And only when the corpses of the Cranks were lying at their feet and everyone was panting from the effort did Emily notice the steady pain in her wrist had not faded.