They were dead.
And not just dead, but carved up in places, as if someone had tried to butcher them and had quit in a hurry. Fresh, bloody footprints and slimy trails of gore surrounded the body. Retching, Nate began to run and didn’t stop until he was back in the alley behind Alden’s. Doubling over, he vomited again and again, clinging to a scrap of chain-link fence to keep from collapsing in his own sick.
Alden opened the back door and dragged him inside, silently depositing him in the washroom and leaving him there. All Nate caught was a flash of lips pressed tight with rage before the door slammed shut on him.
Nate pulled his backpack off and clutched it like one of Pixel’s rag dolls, sobbing into the dusty canvas until he felt like there was nothing left inside of him.
Alden didn’t speak to him for three days.
When the chimes rang out early the next week, Nate snuck back out and peered through a fold in the curtain. An old man with a shock of white hair walked in using a cane.
Alden met him a few steps in and offered his arm, leading him to a stool at the front counter. “Careful now.”
The old man swatted at him. “I’m not made of glass, boy.”
Nate tensed, expecting Alden to lash out—no one addressed him like that. But Alden laughed quietly and began to rummage beneath the counter. “How is it out there?”
“How do you think?” The old man coughed, thin and wheezy. “They’ve sealed the delivery gates. No food, no supplies.”
Nate’s worries simmered under his skin, half-formed like the echoes of a bad dream. The battery packs wouldn’t be enough to help the gang. He’d have to try to hack the ticker feeds—learn everything he could. He’d never tried to scavenge for information, but it couldn’t be that hard. The gang needed to know where to take shelter. He’d get what he learned to them somehow.
A clattering drew Nate’s attention back to the front room. The man had dropped his cane. Alden crouched to retrieve it for him and pressed a small plastic box into his knotted fingers. “This is all I have left. Go slow.”
“Low supplies at Alba’s? The world really must be ending.”
Alden ducked his head, lips pressing into a tight smile. He pushed his hair back behind one ear. “No one calls it that anymore.”
“Ah, well. Let an old-timer have his memories. Take care, son.” He patted Alden’s hand and left the shop with the box clutched to his chest, chimes tinkling in his wake.
“Spy on me again, and I’ll chain you to Fran’s bed,” Alden murmured, his back rigid. They’d had a few stilted conversations, but Alden was still sore with him for sneaking out of the shop.
Nate dashed down the short hallway, boots silent against the ragged old carpet that smelled like mold. Alden’s threat was rot, but his heart raced anyway. He ducked into Fran’s room.
“Who’s chasing you, bird?” Fran asked.
“No one.” Breathing hard, Nate offered her a small smile. It took awhile for his body to settle, but even after it did, regret lingered, an ache that ran from his chest to his fingertips. He’d stolen something from Alden—a private moment, when Alden had precious little that belonged only to him.
But he’d learned something too. It wasn’t getting better out there. He needed to work harder—do anything in his power to give Reed and the girls an edge. A chance to survive.
Wary of taking apart Fran’s precious ticker, he rummaged around until he found an old, cracked one in a pile of junk in her chest of drawers. He broke it down to a meaningless pile of tech-guts.
Shadows spread across the room. Fran snored.
Moving like a ghost, Alden lit candles around him and left a plate of bread without saying a word. Nate worked feverishly, carefully reconstructing the ticker with a modified tuner.
Rogue broadcasts ran on a different wavelength than the official Gathos City notices. If he tweaked the tuner to pick up frequencies the tickers didn’t use, maybe he’d come across another signal. The Breakers had to communicate somehow. Couriers were too busy running chem and passing threats from one gang to another to carry secret messages about explosions and chaos.
Late in the night, Alden stumbled into the room and dragged a cushion next to where Nate worked on the floor. He moved like he wasn’t quite awake and threw his arms around Nate’s waist before falling asleep. His breath was sweet with chem.
Nate tried to keep working, but he hadn’t slept much since sneaking out, and the rhythm of Alden’s breath lulled him. He curled up alongside Alden on the cushion, and Alden’s arms convulsed around him.
What does he dream?
Nate held still and feigned sleep as Alden startled awake. His heart raced against Nate’s back. Alden’s breath didn’t settle back to the gentle rhythm of sleep. He pressed his face into Nate’s hair and clenched his fingers in the loose shirt Nate wore to bed.
“Nate,” Alden said, mournful and soft. He wept quietly as Nate stared into the darkness and didn’t sleep at all.
Nate’s repaired ticker couldn’t make sense of the jumble of information polluting every channel.
