Chapter 33 Chapter 33: The Journey home
Gasping for air that felt thin and sharp, I took a frantic inventory. Two rounds left in the rifle, a weight that felt both pathetic and precious. Two pistol magazines, their cold metal a small promise of continued survival. We’d made it back by sheer, dumb luck, a fact that settled in my gut like a stone.
Then I saw him. Max. He must’ve crawled into the wagon bed during the chaos, a rat seeking shelter. He was curled around himself, blood seeping through his fingers where I’d stabbed him. Our eyes met in the jolting semi-darkness, and he choked out a wet, desperate plea. “I had to; they made me! You don’t know what it’s like… being a cripple, being of no use, being different, everyone just uses you or throws you away…TILLY, PLEASE…Tilly…!”
The words were a familiar song of weakness, a melody The Sisters had taught me to despise. There was no room for it, not here, not now. Not after what he’d done. Without a word, I yanked my knife free from his gut with a sickening pull and shoved his whimpering form out of the bouncing wagon. He hit the hard-packed earth with a thud I felt more than heard, his cries instantly swallowed by the distance.
I never got to know Ida, not really. But I’d liked her a lot in our short time. She had a quiet competence, a lack of pretence. I think we could’ve been friends, a thought that felt foreign and fragile. But then again, who wants to be my friend? Seems like all my friends either die a bloody death, or I end up being the one who kills them.
I moved up front, collapsing onto the bench beside Mr. Jacks. He was pale, his knuckles white on the reins, blood soaking through his trousers from the gash in his thigh.
“They bailed out, and I killed Max,” I said, my voice numb, hollowed out.
“I heard the commotion. He was a no-good liar anyway. Got what was comin’ to him.” His tone was matter-of-fact, devoid of judgment.
I started tearing strips from the hem of my already ruined T-shirt. “Hold still.” As I wrapped the makeshift tourniquet above the wound and twisted it tight, he grimaced, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth.
“You do know he’s the one who ratted you out to us Brits?” he grunted through the pain. “That day you were askin’ about Russians. He came scuttling to John right after, tellin’ him all about your book.”
I pulled the knot even tighter, the fabric biting into his flesh. “I know now.” The pieces clicked into a terrible, obvious picture. “I also can guess who else he’s been spying for.” Charles. Guy. He was the leak.
He let out a half-laugh, half-moan. “Well, he ain’t gonna be doin’ it anymore.”
We made surprisingly good time on the return journey. Mr. Jacks, despite his injury, kept the horse at a steady, ground-eating trot, his face a mask of stoic endurance. When the jagged, familiar towers of the city finally pierced the horizon, exhaustion hit me like a physical hammer, the bone-deep weariness that comes after the adrenaline flees, leaving behind the raw tension of the fight, the hypervigilance for feral attacks, the visceral memory of killing Max, and the sharp, cold sting of his betrayal. I was worn down to the very marrow of my being.
As we pulled up to the main gate, the absurdity of the timeline struck me, we’d been gone less than five hours, but I felt like I’d aged a decade. Everything had changed. Six of us had gone out, a small army. Only two of us came back, battered and bleeding. The guards noticed, of course. Our wagon was a brutal testament to what we’d endured, its wood splintered and riddled with bullet holes.
“Looks like you’ve been in the wars,” one of them remarked casually as we rolled past. I stayed silent, staring straight ahead. Mr. Jacks just gave a tired nod.
“Let’s get you to the medical wing,” I said, my voice rough.
Mr. Jacks looked genuinely terrified. “No, not me, not there. Those butchers… take me to Maggie. In the Brit Sector. She’ll patch me up proper.”
We drove in a heavy silence past the imposing façade of the Wastelanders’ tower. My eyes scanned the windows, but if Nate was inside, he gave no sign. The wagon rolled on, crossing into the Brit Sector, moving through the streets of Agriculture toward the Brit casino. People stopped to stare at our battle-scarred conveyance, but no one approached. No one dared.
When we finally pulled up outside the casino, Mr. Jacks’s strength gave out. He slumped forward, then collapsed sideways off the bench, landing on the hard ground in an unconscious heap. Whether from blood loss or sheer exhaustion, I couldn’t tell.
So, I did the only thing I could. I shouted for help.
The doors burst open. Benjamin, John, Tim, the lecherous creep from the casino and several other Brits poured out, armed with bats and clubs, Mary close behind them, her face etched with concern.
“What the fuck happened? Who did this?” John roared, his voice a raw, wounded thing. He sounded like a lion whose pride had been attacked.
I staggered down from the wagon, my legs unsteady, numb from the day’s relentless horrors. I tried to form an answer, but the words were ash in my throat. He seized me by the shoulders, shaking me violently. His gaze was a maddened void, yet I could see the faint glint of unshed tears beneath the fury.
“Max,” I finally croaked, my voice ragged and unused. “It was Max, he turned-”
Mary cut in sharply, her voice a blade of reason. “John! Let her be! There’ll be time for questions later. Get them inside, now! Away from prying eyes.” She pushed past him and dropped to her knees beside Mr. Jacks. “And let me see to him.”
John snapped out of his immediate rage, the commander reasserting himself. “Benjamin, get the wagon around back. You lot, carry Mr. Jacks in, careful now! Tim, take her-” His voice turned venomous as he glared at me. “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Mary whirled on him. “Behave, John,” she said, her tone surprisingly tender yet firm.
“You’ve had your way with coddling her. Now we try mine. Get her the fuck inside, Tim!” he barked.