Page 200 of Storm Caller

I’m on my feet.

I turn to my mother and help her sit up. “Stay here and don’t move,” I say, dropping my bag onto the ground. “I’ll come back for you.”

She peers up at me. Her face is now covered in soot, and she’s bleeding from a small cut on her temple. I’m hesitant to leave her, but she’ll just get in the way. I think she’ll be safe enough here for a few minutes.

“Mom,” I say. “I’m coming back for you. Don’t move. Do you understand?” I grab her shoulders and shake her a little. “Tell me you get it!”

Finally, she nods. “I won’t move. I’ll wait for you.”

“Okay,” I say, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Mom.”

Then I break away and run. I pass through the rock wall, climbing over debris as I begin searching for signs of anyone I know. But it’s hopeless. The bodies are mostly destroyed, charred to ash, unrecognizable.

“Rook!” I scream. “Rook! Where are you!”

I scan the horizon, moving closer to the fighting. I spot the Patrol in their navy uniforms. The Brigade. Storm Guard. The soldiers of the Veil in their leather armor, their faces covered in blood and their eyes ringed with black.

“Rook!” I’m screaming, hoping for a single familiar face.

Where are Fisher and Cal? Navy and Justin? Edward?

I weave through the fighting, dodging random fists and elbows.

It takes me a moment to process that there’s something off about this situation.

Who are all these people?

Finally, I spot Fisher in the distance. He’s fighting with someone I can’t place.

A man. Lanky, his chest bare, his beard bushy, and his hair long. He’s wearing loose brown pants and is wielding a massive serrated knife. There are more like him. Men and women all dressed in varying shades of brown and green.

Then I spot the vehicles. Large covered trucks.

What’s going on?

I spin around and around, still searching.

“Rook!” I scream as I edge my way toward Fisher.

“Rook!” My voice is starting to give out.

Soot chokes the air and fills my lungs. “Rook!” I croak.

I stumble over bodies. Rocks and debris.

Another explosion. It blasts in my ears, tossing me off my feet. I land on the hard earth, my knees and an elbow connecting with a crack. I cry out, hacking and coughing, and try to get up, but my legs have become jelly, incapable of supporting me.

Someone seizes one arm and then the other, and I’m dragged to my feet.

“No!” I shout, but my voice is raw and broken. I try to fight, but my ears are ringing, and my brain won’t catch up.

“How many do we have?” comes a voice—low, rough.

“’Bout fifty, I think?”

“Let’s take this one, too. She seems scrappy.”

Someone shoves me, and I have just enough awareness to understand it’s one of these strange newcomers. The man gripping my arm is huge, bare-chested, stacked with muscle, and wearing a pair of loose green pants hanging from his hips. A thick band is tattooed around his biceps.