Page 159 of Cold Mercy

“You want to do this the easy way or the hard way, kid?” one of them asks, shoving me toward the door.

“Fuck you,” I spit through gritted teeth, thrashing against their hold.

My eyes dart frantically toward the room down the hall. “Zayn!” I shout, panic seizing my chest as I search for any sign of my mother. “Mom!”

I fight against the hands pinning my arms, desperate to get to them, shouting their names as the men haul me out of my room and drag me down the stairs in my pajamas. As they force me down, my eyes land instantly on the figure of my father standing in the center of the foyer.

A cold, sickening dread uncurls in my stomach, the kind of visceral feeling that hits you when your brain already knows the truth but tries to shield you from it for just a second longer. My mother is in the shadows, sobbing as she clutches a terrified, confused Zayn to her chest. My father just stands there with his hands clenched into fists, watching me with an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred that wishes me dead.

“Mom?” I choke out, the betrayal tasting bitter on my tongue.

She flinches and looks away, unable to meet my eyes, but my father stares right at me with a rage that burns hotter than his usual daily disdain. My disbelief shatters into a blinding, white-hot fury, and I lunge forward against the men holding me.

“You fucking piece of shit!” I scream, looking at my father. “I'm going to kill you! Do you hear me? I'll kill you for everything you've done to me!”

The men jerk me back with enough force to lift me off my feet and then slam me face-first onto the floor, hauling me back up by my shirt until the fabric tears. They drag me out the front door into the cold night air, where a black van waits with its engine idling. One of them shoves me inside onto the metal floor, and before I can move, a rough sack is pulled over my head, plunging me into darkness. They bind my wrists and ankles with cord so tight it burns against my skin.

The ride lasts for hours, I don't know how many. Time dissolves in the back of the van until the doors finally slide open and the blinding sun hits me like a blow. They drag me out, cutting the cords on my ankles and wrists, as I stumble onto the dry, cracked earth. Several other kids stumble out of the van with me, and now we are all lined up, blinking against the glare of an endless, red desert.

“Strip,” one of the men commands, throwing a pile of coarse, faded rags onto the ground.

They force us to change right there in the dirt, stripping us of everything we own until we are standing in oversized, dusty clothes.

A man steps forward, the one in charge, with cold, dead eyes, and starts pacing in front of us.

“Listen up,” he barks, his voice carrying over the wind. “Here, you earn everything. You earn your food, you earn your water, and you earn the right to breathe without pain. If you work hard, it gets easier. If you make this difficult, I promise you, I will make this hell on earth.”

He stops, looking down the line with a sneer.

“Don't think you're special. Don't think you're strong. You are below average. You are broken. You are here because you were a fucking ulcer on your parents lives, bringing them nothing but shame and problems. And we are going to fix that.”

The old man didn't send me here because I was a problem, he sent me here because he was losing. The son of a bitch realized he didn't have the spine to break me under his own roof, so he paid someone else to finish the job. Mom thinks I’m on a luxury vacation, no doubt. But Zayn? God only knows what poison he fed him to turn him against me.

Suddenly, a small girl next to me, maybe ten years old, collapses to her knees, sobbing and calling out for her mother. The leader is on her in a second.

“Did I give you permission to sit?” he roars, looming over her. “Get the fuck up!”

The image of my little brother flashes in my mind, and I move without thinking. I crouch down, grabbing her under the arms and hauling her upright.

“Hey,” I whisper, steadying her. “It's going to be okay. Just stand up, okay? You have to stand.”

The leader steps closer, his shadow falling over us. I've already got the girl on her feet, but he isn't looking at her anymore. He's looking at me.

“Did I speak to you?” he screams, his face inches from mine. “Did I tell you to move?”

Fury flares hot in my chest. “She's just a little girl, you creep,” I snap back. “Does it get you off to terrorize her?”

His fist connects with my jaw before I can even finish the sentence. My head snaps back, blood instantly filling my mouth, and I stumble but manage to stay on my feet. I wipe the blood away, glaring at him.

“Disobedience is punished,” he says calmly, addressing the group. “If you ever want to go home again, I suggest you learn your place.”

Hours later, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the camp. We were told to build our own shelters, crude structures made of tarp and sticks, before anyone could eat. Everyone else is huddled with their bowls of gray, tasteless oats and a cup of water, but I am sitting alone in the dirt, my stomach cramping with hunger. My punishment for speaking up was losing my ration.

A shadow falls over me. I keep my head down, refusing to look up, until a tin cup is placed in the dirt next to my knee.

“First days are the worst,” a voice says.

I glance up. A boy about my age is standing there, holding out his own bowl of oats. He pushes it toward me, but I don't want his charity. I start to turn away, yet he doesn't leave. He just sits down in the dust beside me, unbothered by my silence.

“I'm Nicholas,” he says, offering a hand. I stare at it but don't take it, turning my gaze deliberately toward the endless stretch of desert instead. He doesn't seem offended.

“You have to eat something,” he says, nudging the bowl closer. “It tastes like shit, but I always close my eyes and imagine I'm eating a double cheeseburger with bacon.”

I finally look up at him, raising an eyebrow at the absurdity. “And that actually helps?”

He laughs, a dry, raspy sound. “Hell no. Still tastes like crap, but the imagination part is nice.”

I study him for a beat, weighing the risk. He seems crazy enough to survive here, which makes him useful. I thrust my hand out before I can overthink it.

“Thomas,” I introduce myself, gripping his hand firmly. “And…thanks.”