The others do the same.
In this enclosed circle, captives start the slow, lethargic dance of lowering themselves to the poorly kept asphalt.
Faces are slack with fatigue, muscles sagged with exhaustion, and almost every set of eyes that shifts to me, curious, but looks away fast, is defeated.
Slowly, achingly, I lower myself to the road with them—beside the woman in Converse.
I give her a name.
Connie.
Connie is my silent companion in the bunched captives. She sits at my side, only ever looking at me for a moment here or there, and not flinching when I stare back. I notice her clothes aren’t as distressed as some of the others. They might be cheap, grabbed at random on the run in this world, but they aren’t torn and ragged.
That’s not why I give her a name.
I give it because of her sadness.
The sorrow in how she looks at me.
I don’t know what it means, what she’s trying to say, what she wanted to ask. And truth be told, I’m too up my own ass of pain to really give a shit.
I lean my weight onto my side, pinned on my aching arm, and my face twisted, because no matter how I shift or turn or move, I find no comfortable way to sit, no way to rest that doesn’t spring pain up some part of my body.
The urge to lie down on my side is strong.
But under the sweeping glares of the guards who eye us up, closely, much too closely, I get the sense I’m not allowed.
So I sit.
The edge of what feels like a can is digging into the small of my back. I shift the bag away from my spine, but the straps are firm around my shoulders, and with my wrists tied, I can’t exactly take the backpack off.
The breath I release puffs out my cheeks.
I consider the unit ahead, standing motionless, as the fae on steeds seem to patrol the edge of the town.
I cut a glance down at my belt, the CB radio fastened there, untouched, unnoticed, and I feel it suddenly burning into my skin.
Shifting my knee, I use my thigh to shield the radio from any lingering glances from the guards.
Last thing I want is any of them realising what I have on my belt. Need to find a way to hide it.
But not yet.
Not as a sudden surge shudders down the unit—then utter stillness.
Not so much as a gasp, a breath, a rustle is heard.
The captives are as rigid as I am.
The guards are stiff against the tension, and their gazes are glares like the torchlight, aimed up at the warriors.
A heartbeat thumps through me.
Another reaches my tingling fingers.
The third touches my toes as they curl in my boots.
The general, at the head of the unit, bathed in crimson firelight, lifts her sword—and swords raise all over. Her head tilts back, her red mouth parts, and a vicious sound rips out of her.
