The Thrust Page 8

  “I didn’t,” Jenna said somberly. “Not at first. I wish I had taken Taryn with me and run, though, the second he told me. I was dumb to stay.”

  “What happened to Taryn?” Emily asked, but the sickening look on Jenna’s face told her the answer.

  Clarissa cleared her throat. “Taryn was executed. Jenna was going to be next, but she ran. Thank God, she ran.”

  “So what’s the plan? Are we going to get everyone out of that hellhole?”

  Jenna nodded. “Fuck yeah we are. We’ve been making maps, training our people. Getting ready. These,” she said, gesturing to Clarissa’s pamphlets, “are to distribute first. We want everyone to know we’re on their side. So they’ll come willingly, instead of hesitating.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  Jenna frowned. “I didn’t go at first even though I trusted you, and Mason, because you sent him. If I was too scared to leave even when Mason told me the truth . . . it makes sense that other women will feel the same way.”

  “Trent and I are going to infiltrate the camp to get these distributed,” Clarissa explained. “I just need to figure out how to darken my hair.”

  “You can do that with tea, coffee, crushed walnut husks,” Emily listed. “Basically anything brown will do. Just soak your hair in it for a long time. It won’t last long, but if we can tone down the redness, that will help.”

  “Told you she’d help,” Jenna smiled. “But her hair is so red. I was thinking we should dye it first with the ink, and then maybe see if some of that natural stuff would make it look less blue.”

  “I want to cut long bangs, too,” Clarissa said. “To hide my face.”

  Emily smiled. “Where can we camp tonight? Let me and Mason and Samuel get set up, and then we can play beauty shop.”

  “You can camp on Trent’s land,” Clarissa said.

  “Sure he’ll be okay with that?”

  “Um . . .” Clarissa flushed. “We live together. It’s weird. Complicated. But no, he won’t mind. He’s got a stake in the game as well.”

  Emily looked at Jenna for answers.

  “Trent is Annie’s brother. He wants to get her out of there more than anything in the world.”

  “All right.” Emily pushed up her shirt sleeves and grinned, so grateful to see her friends alive and well. The whole town, the people milling about, the vegetable gardens growing on every available patch of land . . . everyone here was not just surviving. They were thriving.

  With people like the citizens of Letliv, if there were Letlivs in other parts of the country . . . yeah, America could rebuild. They didn’t need the UN’s help, not if more of the country wanted freedom than wanted camps like Grand Central. Nothing could stop them.

  “Let’s get to it.”

  “Emily,” Clarissa said, taking hold of her arm. “Who’s Mason?”

  “Mason is my husband. And he’s ready to fight for liberty, too.”

  Letliv, Connecticut

  TRENT

  TRENT sat with Barker and Mason outside while Clarissa, Jenna, and Emily played around with all sorts of different things to dye Clarissa’s hair, and a big basin of dark brown water.

  “Don’t move around so much,” Emily said to Clarissa. “You have to let it really set on your hair for a good forty minutes or so.”

  Clarissa laughed. “I miss Clairol. Ten minutes and done.”

  Trent instinctively liked Emily and Mason. He seemed . . . tough. And they needed as many tough people as they could find.

  “How’d you meet Emily, Mason?” Trent asked.

  Mason frowned. “I was living on rats. Had a whole room of them I was breeding. Didn’t have an endless supply of fish nearby in Manhattan, you know?”

  Trent nodded. That must have been so hard, struggling to get the food he needed for basic survival.

  “Well, some soldiers found my stash of meat,” Mason said, “and they knocked me out to get it. Left me for dead. I went to the hospital, looking for pain medicine, gauze, whatever I could loot . . . and I found Emily there instead.”

  Barker listened, clearly hearing this story for the first time. He called over to Emily. “That’s where you went after you escaped Grand Central? The hospital where you used to work? Why?”

  Emily shrugged, pouring more of the dark water over Clarissa’s hair. “My feet took me there. I think I was in shock or something. The place was abandoned.”

  “Similar thing happened to me, actually,” Clarissa said, her eyes shut to avoid getting the homemade concoction in her eyes. “It was like being on autopilot. After the Pulse I stuck around at the diner till closing, cleaning up, and even went into work the next day. Good thing, too, because my manager let me take home all the old bread and the stuff in the fridge that would go bad. Without it, I’d have been out of food within days.”

  Trent had wondered about that. About how exactly Clarissa had gotten to the camp in the first place. Had she gone on her own, or was she taken there against her will?

  Emily smiled at Mason. “But I lucked out too, by being at the hospital—getting my very own patient to nurse back to health.”

  Mason smiled broadly in return. “She saved my life. That’s part of the reason why I agreed when she asked me to help her escape the city.”

  “Part of the reason?” Trent asked. “What’s the other part?”

  Emily blushed and Trent felt like an idiot. Of course.

  “Never mind,” Trent said. “How’s the hair coming, Clarissa? Still a redhead?”

  Clarissa had her eyes closed, lying back against the basin of rainwater mixed with every dark thing they could find. Walnut husks, tea, precious coffee donated by their neighbors, even a little ink.

  “We’ll see,” she murmured.

  As soon as she was disguised, he’d shave his head like the soldiers, and borrow one of Barker’s uniforms. Then they’d travel back to Grand Central and hope like hell they didn’t get caught.

  “I feel like an undercover spy. Like a CIA agent or something,” Trent said. He smiled as if it were all a game, but he knew the stakes were high.

  They could get killed.

  Barker took a stick and drew a line in the dirt by their feet. “Clarissa can show you the way, but just to give you an idea, you should avoid the main entrances.” He put Xs on two spots. “Try to enter a back way, and when it’s busiest.”

  “Shouldn’t we go at night, when there’s less chance of people seeing us?” Trent asked.

  “No,” Barker said. “Too risky. There are always guards, twenty-four seven. Mealtimes are busy, long lines everywhere. The guards are so focused on keeping everyone in those lines, and keeping people from taking more than their rations, that you’ll have a better chance then.”

  Trent wanted to get Annie out of there. How would he be able to leave with her? He didn’t even know if her leg was healed yet, or if she could walk.

  “Barker,” he said, “when you escaped, how did you do it?”

  “Well, first Colonel Lanche sent me on a mission to find Jenna, so I just walked out. But the second time, when I escaped with Clarissa . . .” He looked over at her and then lowered his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Trent asked.

  “I pretended to be like those other asshole soldiers. Pretended I was taking her outside for . . . you know, privacy.”

  Clarissa’s eyes were still shut, but Trent could see the grimace on her face, because she was listening. “It’s okay, Barker, I know now it was just an act.”

  “Wait—she didn’t know then?” Trent asked.

  “I thought we were on the same page,” Barker said. “But apparently my acting skills were too good. We got out, but she ran from me, and it wasn’t until she had a gun on me later that I realized she was afraid of me.” He turned to Clarissa. “I still feel bad about that.”

  “It’s not your fault, Barker,” Jenna said. “You didn’t know.”

  Trent watched the exchange in silence. Was that how he was going to have to get Annie out of
there? The thought sickened him.

  And they couldn’t sneak every woman out like that.

  “We need another way,” Trent said. “A hidden way, a place we can smuggle the girls out without being seen.”

  “An exit from the Tracks,” Clarissa said. “That’s what we need. Has it been enough time? Can I sit up?”

  “Let’s take a look.” Emily sponged the excess water from her hair and helped her up.

  “It’s darker!” Jenna said. “But it won’t last long. A few days if you’re lucky.”

  “I guess we should cut it now, too,” Clarissa said. She touched her now-brown locks mournfully.

  “It’s for a good cause,” Emily said, but Trent knew she didn’t need reminding.

  After all, Clarissa was willing to risk her life to help save his sister, and Evan, and the others. Sacrificing some of her beautiful hair was nothing compared to that.

  Emily carefully combed Clarissa’s wet hair, then took the scissors Trent used to keep his own hair trimmed.

  “Long bangs to hide your face, right?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  “I know how you can get onto the Tracks,” Jenna said suddenly. “I just figured it out.”

  She jumped up and grabbed the stick Barker had used to make lines in the dirt. “There’s a way that runs directly below street level at Forty-Seventh Street—from Lexington to Madison,” she said. “From that passageway, people could reach the Forty-Fifth Street cross passageway and connect to all the lower-level platforms. That’s where Annie is.”

  “But that must be blocked off,” Clarissa said. “I don’t remember seeing it.”

  “It is blocked off, sort of. They were doing construction on it when the Pulse hit. I bet they just boarded it up so they wouldn’t have to man it day and night.” Jenna grinned. “That’s why nobody saw it.”

  “How do you know about it?” Emily asked.

  “Because they made a big deal about the construction on the Upper East Side, before the Pulse. People in my office complained about it.” She shook her head. “And I never thought of it till now. That passageway might be blocked by just some plywood, for all we know!”

  “It’s definitely not on the guard schedule,” Barker said. “Just the main entrances, and the side entrances. But if we could get people out by Forty-Seventh Street . . .”

  “It could work,” Jenna said.

  “What if it doesn’t?” Clarissa asked.

  “I think,” Emily said, “that you should try to get in that way. If you can get in, you can get out. And entering on the lower levels, on the Tracks, that’s the best way to avoid being seen by the soldiers.”

  Trent nodded. It was worth a try. Absolutely. His sister’s life was at stake.

  Emily picked up the scissors again. “Are you ready, Clarissa?”

  She nodded.

  With deft precision, Emily cut long pieces of the hair in front of Clarissa’s face, until her high forehead, thin red eyebrows, and half of her beautiful blue eyes were covered by a heavy fringe of hair.

  “How do I look?” she asked timidly.

  Trent walked over to her and looked at her objectively. “You don’t look like yourself.”

  “Which is a good thing,” Emily added.

  Clarissa smiled. “I guess so. Fuck. I feel different, even.”

  She walked over to Trent and embraced him. She looked so unlike herself that it was strange, as if he were hugging another woman. But the feel of her body beneath her thin cotton dress reminded him that yes, it was all Clarissa.

  “You’re still beautiful,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s your turn under the knife, mister.”

  Trent rubbed his hands together and sat down in front of Emily. “Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  That evening, Clarissa couldn’t help but stare at the stranger looking back at her in the mirror in Trent’s bedroom.

  Am I still in there?

  Yes. She was. She didn’t look like herself, as Trent had said. Her face seemed to disappear behind the shaggy brown hair. No longer was she the redhead she’d always identified as.

  She didn’t feel beautiful—she felt hidden. She wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, certainly.

  Trent had told her to make use of some of his wife’s clothing so she could look as different as possible. Now she was dressed in jeans that were too big on her, and a heavy dark gray hooded sweatshirt.

  Is this what his wife used to wear on cold mornings, perhaps? Or was the oversized, comfy sweatshirt a sentimental token she’d saved, but never worn?

  God, Clarissa looked different. Unrecognizable.

  That’s good. It’s a good thing. It’s what she wanted, right?

  The door creaked open and she gasped in surprise, ashamed for some reason at being caught staring at herself in the mirror like a vain girl.

  “Just me,” Trent said. “Can I come in?”

  She laughed. “It’s your room, Trent. You have more of a right to be here than I do.”

  He was looking at her in a way she hadn’t seen before. Did she really appear so ugly now?

  “I keep feeling like I’m looking at someone else,” he muttered.

  “It’s still me,” she said.

  She tried to put a brave smile on, to show him that it didn’t matter if she didn’t look like herself. It was only temporary. The dye would wash out, and her hair would grow.

  “Come here,” Trent whispered.

  Clarissa slipped off her shoes and walked over to him, coming to rest between his legs.

  He pressed his newly-shaved head against her breasts, hugging her to him.

  “This used to be my sweatshirt,” Trent said. “I left it at Karen’s dorm the first time I spent the night, and she kept it ever since.”

  “Do you want me to take it off?”

  Trent shook his head. He pulled her down onto his lap, cuddling her gently, as if she were frail and might break easily.

  He looked like . . . a soldier. And if she never saw another soldier again it would be too soon.

  It’s still Trent. Just like she was still Clarissa.

  “Tomorrow’s a big day,” she said, trying not to focus on his new look. “Are you scared?”

  “Not for me. But . . . I’m terrified of losing you. Promise me you’ll stay by my side.”

  “I will.” She was terrified too. It helped knowing he understood the danger they were putting themselves in. He had no misconceptions.

  His mouth sought hers with an urgency that surprised her, and she kissed him back just as hard. She needed to feel everything tonight.

  Because what if it was their last night?

  No. Don’t think that way.

  Trent rolled her over onto her back, pulling her jeans down and her sweatshirt up, revealing the pale globes of her breasts.

  Her nipples tightened in the cool night air, and she moaned as he sucked each one into his mouth hungrily.

  Usually he took her in the missionary position, but tonight was different. He was different. With his shaved head, he too seemed like another man all together.

  Trent pushed her onto her stomach and straddled her from behind.

  She moaned in fear, but what was she afraid of? Not Trent. He might have a soldier’s haircut, but he was not one of them. He was a good man.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, his muscular chest pressed to her back. His breath was warm in her ear. As if he knew her innermost thoughts, he said, “It’s me, it’s Trent.”

  His cock was hard, pressing against her thigh insistently.

  She pushed her bottom up, granting him access to her pussy, wanting to feel him inside her, filling her.

  “Oh God,” he groaned, sinking into her with one heavy thrust. She cried out from the sensation, and he reached around, capturing her clit with his fingers.

  The rhythm built within her. She rocked her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, and he rubbed her bud hard, fast, until she
exploded, her body shaking as spasm after spasm shook through her.

  Trent slammed into her once more. “Karen!” he cried out.

  Karen.

  He was calling out his dead wife’s name when he climaxed.

  Clarissa felt his semen spill into her, felt his body, heavy, panting above her. He collapsed on top of her, burying his face in her hair.

  “You called me Karen,” she whispered.

  Trent rolled next to her and pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “I’m sorry. It slipped out.”

  “Were you thinking of her all the times we’ve made love?” Clarissa asked. She didn’t want to know, but she had to ask.

  Was everything she was starting to feel for Trent completely one-sided?

  Was she only ever going to be a not-good-enough replacement for his late wife?

  “I need to show you something,” Trent said. He stood, pulling his jeans up. He’d never taken them completely off.

  She too was still dressed, she realized. It had all happened so fast, so intensely, that her jeans were simply around her thighs.

  Karen’s jeans. Karen’s sweatshirt.

  Clarissa felt sick to her stomach. What had she done?

  Trent pulled a framed photo out of the top shelf in his closet, where he kept one of his handguns.

  “I put this away after she died because it hurt too much to see her face every day,” Trent said. His voice was thick with emotion.

  Clarissa took the picture from his hands.

  Karen was very pretty. Her shoulder-length brown hair framed her face, her bangs nearly hiding her eyes.

  A very similar haircut to what Clarissa had now.

  “I didn’t know,” Clarissa said. “I wasn’t trying to look like her, I swear.”

  “I know,” Trent said. “But when I saw you there, in our bedroom, wearing Karen’s clothes, her hair . . .” He drifted off, staring at the floor as if he was ashamed of himself.

  “It’s okay,” Clarissa said.

  “I just wanted to feel her one more time,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have used you like that.”

  “It’s okay,” she repeated. “We’ve all lost something. Someone.”