Warchild: Pawn (The Warchild Series) (11 page)

“Now you know why I’m in charge.” I
hear the words come out of my mouth, which doesn’t answer her question, but
even I can’t explain it.

She winces as she stands, inhaling
with a slow, painful breath. “Maybe she’s not such a little girl after all. Boys,
why don’t we shake hands with these nice people?”

I don’t trust her, and I wonder if
I’m making a mistake.

CHAPTER ● FOURTEEN

As if he weren’t already angry with
me before, James is absolutely furious with me now. The members of his group
have put away their weapons, and they’re standing near the tall white pine,
trying to care for Squirrel, attempting to get the arrows out of him without
doing too much damage. Crockett is there with them—she didn’t apologize, but at
least she ordered her men to help. Two of them are cutting down small saplings
and they plan to stretch some deer hide across them to make a sling for
Squirrel.

The plan is for Little Blake and Big
Blake to carry him west. Crockett says there is a Republicon group about ten
miles away, hopefully out of the main army’s path, with a healer amongst them
where they can leave Squirrel until he can mend and then rejoin us—if he makes
it. If
we
make it. He’s badly wounded, but we think his chances are
good. Big Blake and Little Blake, who’s not so little at all, are good runners,
and they should be able to catch up to us before we reach the capitol.

James towers above me, and he has to
bend over to put his shaking finger in my face. His cheeks, the parts not
covered with his beard, are red and his eyes bulge. “You’re crazy if you think
I’m going to do that. No.”

“We could use their help,” I say. “It’s
their land, too, and if they come with us, we’ll have that many more people for
protection or to fight if we need it. More people to stand watch so we can
rest.”

“Caroline, they killed Rawley! Don’t
you understand that? She’s lucky I don’t walk over there and put a knife in her
belly right now.”

I lay my hand on his shoulder. His
friend is dead, and it’s an awful thing to ask of him, but it makes sense for
them to come. I’m learning all too fast that leaders have to make some of the
worst decisions that are the best for their followers. I still don’t consider
myself their leader, actually, but they’re looking for me to guide them. A
fourteen-year-old girl. I know I promised him a reward, but why he’s actually
trusting me to get them somewhere, I don’t know. “I understand, and I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t. If you did then you
wouldn’t be asking this.”

We can’t stand here arguing all day.
What I’m asking would be hard for anyone to accept, and I’m aware of that, but
in addition to the DAV, time is also our enemy.

I say, “Within the next week or the
next month, it doesn’t matter how long, you and all the rest of them won’t have
a home. There won’t be anywhere to go. It won’t matter who killed who because
these woods will be crawling with DAV soldiers. You don’t have
anywhere to
go
. You can’t get into West Virginia, or Kentucky, or Tennessee, or North
Carolina.

“Grandfather says—
said
they
shoot Republicons the moment they try to cross the border. You don’t have a
choice, and it’s the only way, so you can either take your chances on your own,
or we can all go together, and I’ll get you your reward. From here on out, we
are moving forward, not backward, both with our heads
and
our feet. She
agreed to go, she and her men, and you should, too. You don’t have to like it,
you just have to do it to survive. It’s your choice, James, do what you want,
but Finn and I are going south, with or without you.”

“South, south, south!” he shouts. “What
happens when you go south, huh? Even if we get there in time enough to warn
them, where will
your
people go? I heard Finn—I heard him say that you
don’t have an army. You told me the DAV has tanks and ten thousand men, so how
in the world do you plan to fight, huh? Tell me that. If
we
don’t have
anywhere to go,
you
don’t have anywhere to go.” James takes a deep
breath. His shoulders rise and fall as he shakes his head. “It doesn’t make
sense, Caroline. I offered to come with you, to help you, to protect you,
because I saw what those blackcoats did to your families. It wasn’t right.
Forget the reward. But what happens when we get to Warrenville if you don’t
have an army to protect yourselves? Wherever you go, wherever
we
go, the
result is the same.”

He’s right. I haven’t been looking
at it that way. My goal, and my only goal, was to warn as many towns and
encampments as possible on my way back to the capitol, to give my people a
chance to run before the DAV army could capture them and take them north to
work. But, what then? The blackcoats will run right over anything in their
path, including Warrenville, all the way to the high-fenced borders of the surrounding
states. We’re all doomed. Within a year, or as little as six months, we’ll be
servants to the DAV. That is, unless…

“Answer me,” he says.

“We’ll
build
an army.”

James scoffs and leans against a
tree, looking at me like an ignorant child. “With what? Sticks and arrows?”

“People.”

“People? Really? People? People die,
Caroline, especially when the other side has tanks and bullets!”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“You will, huh?
You
? Tell me
what you know that the idiots running the PRV don’t.” He pauses, then chuckles.
“You know what? Never mind. It wouldn’t surprise me if a girl your age was
smarter than that bunch of lazy cows.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s not exactly a compliment,
and it’s still a horrible idea.”

“We don’t have—” I stop trying to
convince James as Finn jogs over to us.

“The Blakes are ready,” he says. “We
got Squirrel bandaged up, and he’s in a lot of pain, but Crockett thinks he’ll
be fine once they get him to the healer.”

“Good,” I say to him. Then to James,
“Are we done here?”

“I guess.”

“Crockett and her men are coming,” I
say. The determination in my voice leaves James grudgingly agreeing. He doesn’t
like it, and I don’t blame him, but I suspect he knows that we’re safer
together than we are apart, for now, at least.

The three of us walk over to
Squirrel. He’s lying in the sling, almost looking relaxed, as Big Blake and
Little Blake stand at each end, patiently holding the saplings. Squirrel is so
thin that it’s not a struggle for either of them.

Squirrel grins, and there’s pain in
his eyes.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah…no. Honestly, I think the fall
hurt worse than the arrows.”

James reaches down and ruffles
Squirrel’s hair. “You’ll be back to climbing trees in no time, buddy. Come find
us in Warrenville when you’re ready…just follow the smell.”

Squirrel nods and winces when he
tries to lift his hand to James. They shake and he says, “Don’t let the
blackcoats get you.”

I say to the Blakes, “You know where
we’re going. Catch up to us. We’ll need your help.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison, and
after I slap Little Blake on the back, they carefully make their way down the
hillside, heading west.

Crockett walks up beside us and
watches them go. Without looking at him, she mutters, “James?”

He refuses to turn in her direction,
choosing to keep his eyes on the three members of his clan as they leave the
comfort of our little community. “What?”

“Sorry about your men. I was…protecting
my territory.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her apology,
and, instead, he walks away without saying a word.

“Thank you,” I say. At least it’s
something.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Five minutes later, after we’ve all
gathered our things, and the two parties have given each other enough wary
glances to last a lifetime, we’re on the move again.

Heading south.

Where there’s no protection. Maybe
no hope.

I have to believe that’s not true.

It’s the only way we can go.

***

Over the next two days, our collection
of Republicons and citizens grows as we retreat. We warn makeshift encampments
and ramshackle towns about the impending danger. Some choose to come with us,
some choose to head into the woods, preferring to hide in smaller groups in
hopes that they can outlast what’s coming. I don’t question them. I may be
leading this roughshod assembly, but I’m not going to force people to do
anything they don’t want to do, regardless of how unwise their decisions are.

Like James says, the potential
result of this mad dash south might only be delaying the inevitable. With
nowhere safe to run, I can’t disagree with the fact that they may last longer
as free men hiding in the woods. More than once on our journey, since my talk
with James, I’ve considered the same possibility for us, but as an official
scout of the PRV, it’s my responsibility to warn the citizens that don’t know.

The rain is never ending.

Finn and I both have blisters on our
feet, and the skin down there is white and wrinkled from going days without
changing into dry socks or the luxury of warming our boots by a fire. In the
middle of our third day running, when every step is met with sharp pain arcing
up our legs, we use a trick that James teaches us; it’s what the Republicons do
to keep their feet dry. Four of his members part with spare shirts and ancient
plastic bags that they’ve salvaged from somewhere. They tell us that back
before the world ended, people used to carry supplies in them. Now they’re
waterproof socks, of sorts. We wrap our feet in these items to keep the wetness
out. It helps, but not a lot. The blisters still hurt, but at least it doesn’t
feel like I’m squishing through a shallow river every time I stride forward.

We come across even more groups of
Republicons, and, initially, they’re hesitant about joining our cluster with
the presence of Crockett and her gang, but once they understand their lack of
options, they agree and keep a watchful eye on her. Truthfully, I think she
enjoys it. Their caution only adds to her reputation.

James continues to ignore her, and
from what I can tell, she couldn’t care less.

When we stop to make camp on the
third night, I ask Marla how tired she is, and of course, she says not at all. The
girl has a bottomless supply of energy, and where she gets it from is anybody’s
guess. James and I argue over whether or not it’s a good idea, but I send her
north anyway. I have to know how much distance we’ve put between ourselves and
the DAV runners. They’ll be ahead of the vanguard, but if they’ve found some of
the PRV citizens we’ve left to fend for themselves, there’s a possibility that
they’ve slowed or stopped altogether. Taking prisoners and seeing that they’re
properly contained takes time.

“Be careful,” I tell Marla. “Go as
far as you think is safe, and if you don’t see any of them by then, get back as
fast as you can.”

“How far is that?” she asks. “How
much room do we need between us and them?”

I don’t know the answer to this. Our
group has grown to a size that makes it difficult to move fast through the
woods. We number in the hundreds now. I lost count after the PRV citizens from
the last two encampments decided to join us.

I look around at all the blank,
exhausted faces. There are people everywhere, hiding under trees and bushes to
get out of the rain, eating deer jerky and homemade bread, goat cheese and
apples. Babies cry and suckle at exposed breasts.

These are my people.
My
people. How did I come to be in charge of such a large mass of bodies, all
counting on me to make the right decision? The weight of the responsibility
sits down hard on my chest, and my lungs refuse to work the way they should. It’s
too much. So many lives.

Marla asks again, “How much?”

“I don’t know.” My vision begins to
blur, and I can’t tell if it’s from stress or tears forming.

“Well, I can’t just go running back
without—”

I stamp my foot and slap my thighs. “I
don’t know. I don’t know, okay? Just go. Go until you find them, and do
not
get caught.”

Minutes later, I find that I can’t
stop my hands from shaking. I need a distraction. I walk through the swarm of
people eating, resting, and building campfires. A young mother with blonde
hair, green eyes, and one of the most beautiful baby girls I’ve ever seen sits
huddled under a rock outcropping. The opening beneath dips deep enough into the
hill that I’m able to scoot in next to her and ask how she’s doing.

“Okay, I guess.” The baby rolls over
and latches onto the mother’s breast.

“I’m Caroline.”

“Sweeney,” she says, extending a
hand.

We shake. She’s frail. I’m afraid
I’ll crush her bones. Her baby pulls away and screeches, leaving the breast
exposed. She doesn’t try to cover herself up. She’s so exhausted.

I reach over and help her by lifting
the shirt back onto her shoulder. I’ve been around enough children to know the
cry of a hungry baby. Sweeney isn’t producing enough milk. I pray that we can
find enough food to make that possible. “What’s her name?” I ask.

“Willow,” she answers.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

As I suspected, Sweeney says, “I
can’t produce enough milk. Do you know how much further?”