Page 87 of Code Bound
“Cipher?” I croak out. The tips of my fingers are purple and I can’t feel them even when I run my other hand over them, but I still hold them dutifully in front of the fire in the hope of warming them up. “Cipher.”
“My apologies,” Cipher grunts. “Locke.”
Locke jerks up at the sound of his name. Cipher rarely talks to him directly, and he certainly never uses his name. “Y-yeah?”
“I need you to stand up. Now.”
Locke meets my eyes, but forces himself to stand and leave the small bubble of warmth around the fire.
“Walk ten steps toward the back of the cave.” Locke does as he’s told, his shivers turning violent again the further he gets from the fire. “Two steps to the right. Now dig.”
“I can’t feel my hands,” Locke grits out, dropping to his knees.
“If you do not dig, you will not have to worry about that much longer,” Cipher growls. “You will not have hands.”
“Fuck,” Locke croaks and starts to claw at the earth beneath him. The ground is hard, frozen, and he quickly realizes his hands won’t do much good. He pulls out his hammer, and with a painful yell, he curls his hands around the cold metal.
“I can help?—”
“Stay where you are,” Cipher orders. “You are closer to death than the Bone Breaker.”
His words are somehow icier than the weather outside. I stay where I am, my whole body seizing with the cold digging into my bones.
Locke slams the hammer into the ground, small rocks shooting away from the impact. He shouts as the hammer connects, the pain ricocheting up his arms as he pulls them back to repeat the action. Again and again he pummels the ground, blasting through the frozen dirt, until the first glimpse of a loot crate appears. At the sight of it, Locke grows frantic, hitting harder despite his pain. His muscles are bulging, the veins in his neck standing out in stark relief, as the tips of his fingers turn purple.
I frown. When had his shoulders grown so much muscle? He’d been leaner before, and though he’s not much bigger now, there’s an obvious difference as he starts to strain.
“Hurry,” Cipher commands. “Just open it. Do not worry about pulling it out entirely.”
Locke doesn’t argue, as if he understands just how fucked we are if he doesn’t do what Cipher says.
“I can’t feel my feet,” I say. They’re as close to the fire as possible without setting myself on fire, but I can’t feel it. I’m not even sure if I’m moving my toes.
Locke drops his hammer and claws at the clasp on the loot crate. He can’t feel his fingers, just like me, the tips blackening. It takes him five tries to get it open. It’s a large chest, and as soon as he has the lid pried up, he’s dragging the contents out of it.
A large fuzzy blanket. A double sleeping bag. Matches. Extra thick socks, two pairs. A thermos of bottomless everlasting hot soup. A jar of some ointment that Locke doesn’t bother reading out loud.
“Take off anything that is wet,” Cipher orders. “Quickly.”
I look down at myself. “Everything is wet.”
“Then take it off,” Cipher continues. “You must be dry.”
Even my eyelashes are wet where the ice that had gathered there melted near the fire. But I do as Cipher says.
“Both of you,” Cipher adds when Locke doesn’t immediately move.
Locke grimaces. “Taking off clothing when it’s so cold sounds like a bad idea.”
“Just do it,” I tell Locke. “He wouldn’t be telling us this unless it was necessary.”
Locke hesitates only two seconds more before he shrugs his jacket off and drapes it across the dry ground. Then he tugs his shirt off, revealing all his muscle. He kicks off his boots the same time as I do, his socks following. I’m in only my shirt and underwear, but my shirt is wet, too.
“Locke. Get the sleeping bag laid out near enough to the fire to gather warmth, but not so close to catch on fire.”
Locke moves over to do that and then looks down at his pants. They’re long, the bottoms of them wet from the snow. He grimaces and shoves his pants down, revealing his naked body completely. He wears no underwear. The tattoos continue past the pants?—
“Don’t look at me,” he growls, cupping himself. “It’s cold.”
