each other, and the mood in the room becomes very tense.
Even though Eli and Malcolm have never met, there’s a deep sense of history and resentment between them. Clearly Owen had a habit of challenging Malcolm, and Eli came equipped with that same boldness.
Then Malcolm’s furious expression slips, and he falls into an easy — if somewhat off-putting — smile. “I’m just fuckin’ with you,” he says, flashing a pair of pronounced canines and extending a sideways handshake to Eli.
Eli lets out a stiff chuckle that does little to convince anyone, but he takes his hand anyway.
I release a slow sigh of relief, and Malcolm’s heavy gaze shifts to me.
“And you brought a friend .” He pronounces the word with clear double meaning.
“This is Harper,” says Eli.
“Nice to meet you,” says Malcolm, extending a hand.
“Likewise.”
His palm is surprisingly cold. He envelopes my hand with both of his, and when we shake, I feel Eli shift a tiny bit closer.
I glance around the room, trying to keep my nerdiness in check. “You’ve got an impressive setup here,” I say in an attempt to be gracious.
“It’s coming along,” says Malcolm. “We’re able to keep pretty close tabs on the compound rats . . . not that it’s done much good.”
“Oh, no?”
Malcolm shakes his head. “We’ve lost a lot of men recently.”
I nod, fighting the bile rising up in my throat. I think back to the men at the body shop — the man I killed — and the trail of dead bodies we’ve left in our wake since.
To distract myself, I wander over to the wall behind the computers, where they’ve tacked up a map of the town and the surrounding desert. Several routes are hand drawn over the terrain in blue marker, and I recognize one as the path Eli and I took last time.
To the left of that map, there are eight grainy photographs that look like mug shots — six men and two women staring blankly at the camera. I don’t know any of them personally, but I recognize their photos from the compound news feeds. They’re the AWOL Recon operatives.
I drag in a shallow breath and try to focus on something else. My hands are shaking so badly that I have to shove them in my pockets to avoid attracting attention.
“Are these them?” I ask, touching the edge of one of the photos.
“What?”
“The compound workers who’ve been killing your men,” I say, more harshly than I meant to. “Are these the ones?”
“No,” says Malcolm. “Those operatives are . . . Well, let’s just say they’re no longer a threat.”
I swallow twice to wet my parched throat. “What about the workers from 119? How are you managing them?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize I’ve gone too far. I’d been fishing to see if the drifters knew that 119 had been wiped off the map, but when Malcolm’s mouth twists into a sneer, I realize I probably just got Eli/Owen into even more trouble.
Malcolm chuckles. “I see Owen has been sharing.”
Then something in his expression changes, and his amusement makes an almost imperceptible shift to suspicion. “Where did you say you were from?”
I swallow, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I didn’t. I’m from Salt Lake City.”
Malcolm points between me and Eli. “And . . . how do you two know each other?”
I let out an embarrassed laugh to hint at something scandalous and glance at Eli. It’s time for him to start fielding some questions.
“We ran into each other between here and Fort Sol,” says Eli. “She was having some car trouble, and I stopped to help.”
“Huh,” says Malcolm. He rubs his chin, his expression pensive. “Was this before or after you ran off and sold me out to Jackson?”
I freeze. A heavy silence falls over the room, and I realize all the drifters are staring at Malcolm and Eli, bracing for the storm.
Eli recovers quickly. “ Sold you out ? Is that what you think?”
“I don’t really know what to think, to be honest,” says Malcolm
Even though Eli and Malcolm have never met, there’s a deep sense of history and resentment between them. Clearly Owen had a habit of challenging Malcolm, and Eli came equipped with that same boldness.
Then Malcolm’s furious expression slips, and he falls into an easy — if somewhat off-putting — smile. “I’m just fuckin’ with you,” he says, flashing a pair of pronounced canines and extending a sideways handshake to Eli.
Eli lets out a stiff chuckle that does little to convince anyone, but he takes his hand anyway.
I release a slow sigh of relief, and Malcolm’s heavy gaze shifts to me.
“And you brought a friend .” He pronounces the word with clear double meaning.
“This is Harper,” says Eli.
“Nice to meet you,” says Malcolm, extending a hand.
“Likewise.”
His palm is surprisingly cold. He envelopes my hand with both of his, and when we shake, I feel Eli shift a tiny bit closer.
I glance around the room, trying to keep my nerdiness in check. “You’ve got an impressive setup here,” I say in an attempt to be gracious.
“It’s coming along,” says Malcolm. “We’re able to keep pretty close tabs on the compound rats . . . not that it’s done much good.”
“Oh, no?”
Malcolm shakes his head. “We’ve lost a lot of men recently.”
I nod, fighting the bile rising up in my throat. I think back to the men at the body shop — the man I killed — and the trail of dead bodies we’ve left in our wake since.
To distract myself, I wander over to the wall behind the computers, where they’ve tacked up a map of the town and the surrounding desert. Several routes are hand drawn over the terrain in blue marker, and I recognize one as the path Eli and I took last time.
To the left of that map, there are eight grainy photographs that look like mug shots — six men and two women staring blankly at the camera. I don’t know any of them personally, but I recognize their photos from the compound news feeds. They’re the AWOL Recon operatives.
I drag in a shallow breath and try to focus on something else. My hands are shaking so badly that I have to shove them in my pockets to avoid attracting attention.
“Are these them?” I ask, touching the edge of one of the photos.
“What?”
“The compound workers who’ve been killing your men,” I say, more harshly than I meant to. “Are these the ones?”
“No,” says Malcolm. “Those operatives are . . . Well, let’s just say they’re no longer a threat.”
I swallow twice to wet my parched throat. “What about the workers from 119? How are you managing them?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize I’ve gone too far. I’d been fishing to see if the drifters knew that 119 had been wiped off the map, but when Malcolm’s mouth twists into a sneer, I realize I probably just got Eli/Owen into even more trouble.
Malcolm chuckles. “I see Owen has been sharing.”
Then something in his expression changes, and his amusement makes an almost imperceptible shift to suspicion. “Where did you say you were from?”
I swallow, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I didn’t. I’m from Salt Lake City.”
Malcolm points between me and Eli. “And . . . how do you two know each other?”
I let out an embarrassed laugh to hint at something scandalous and glance at Eli. It’s time for him to start fielding some questions.
“We ran into each other between here and Fort Sol,” says Eli. “She was having some car trouble, and I stopped to help.”
“Huh,” says Malcolm. He rubs his chin, his expression pensive. “Was this before or after you ran off and sold me out to Jackson?”
I freeze. A heavy silence falls over the room, and I realize all the drifters are staring at Malcolm and Eli, bracing for the storm.
Eli recovers quickly. “ Sold you out ? Is that what you think?”
“I don’t really know what to think, to be honest,” says Malcolm
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