Marco and I share a look—disbelief, triumph, terror all mixed together. We actually did it. We escaped Victora. We’re free.
Almost.
Marco’s already dragging me to the right, away from the wall. “This way,” he says. “Maria and Esme.”
The stench hits us before we see the dump—rotting garbage and human waste baking under the desert sun. Marco leads me through scattered refuse toward a cluster of ramshackle buildings where the city stores its trash before slaves haul it away.
A guard leans against one of the structures. One of the men who often takes Marco’s coin for small favors. His face lights up when he spots Marco approaching, probably expecting a fat payment for watching over Marco’s belongings.
Then his eyes shift to me. Recognition dawns. His expression changes from greed to alarm.
His hand moves toward his weapon.
Marco’s cutlass slashes his throat before the man can draw. Blood sprays across the dirt as the guard crumples.
“Maria!” Marco snaps. “Esme!”
Movement under tarps and blankets among Marco’s stored possessions. Then Esme’s beautiful face pops up to greet us.
“Robin?!”
I’ve never seen her look so shocked.
Marco hisses for silence. “We have no time.”
Maria emerges from the hiding spot, her face pale as she takes in our blood-soaked appearance.
“You didn’t,” she breathes.
“We fucking did,” Marco replies.
He’s already moving, locating specific bags among his things, tossing them to us with urgency.
I squeeze Esme’s hand as we break into a jog through the scrapyard.
“This was the plan all along, wasn’t it?” she says,breathless but grinning.
I can only laugh in reply. The sound comes out wild, half mad.
Marco weaves between towers of stacked tires and rusted car parts—engines stripped bare, door panels bent into abstract sculptures by time and weather. The metallic graveyard stretches endlessly under the burning sun.
There, at the scrapyard’s edge, sits a small van. Canvas stretched across a metal frame for the back, but the fabric hangs in tatters. Rust eats holes through the body panels. One headlight dangles by wires.
“Is that thing drivable?” Maria asks.
“Let’s hope so,” Marco replies.
“But you can’t drive.”
“Butyoucan.”
“I haven’t driven in over a decade!”
“It’s like riding a bike!”
“How would you know?!”
Marco yanks open the driver’s door. The hinges shriek in protest. He fumbles around the pedals, then holds up a key triumphantly.
