Page 72 of Ember Rising

Janitorial closet. Damn.

The next locked door I find is made of steel. My crowbar is useless on it. I run back to a fire alarm box on the wall, shattering the glass with the heavy iron bar.

I pull the ax out of the box and race back to the closet, swinging it high and aiming for the doorknob.

It’s a whiff, the ax’s momentum nearly sweeping me off my feet. I try again, and miss again.

The third time, though, I strike the handle. Pain tingles through my fingers to my arms, but the handle doesn’t budge.

I exhale hard and take a deep breath in, swinging the ax with everything I’ve got. It’s a narrow miss, and I nearly chop the toes of my left foot off.

I laugh softly, sweat trailing down my face. It’s a bitch being so small, but what I lack in size, I make up for in pure stubbornness.

Tightening my grip on the wood handle, I swing the ax like a baseball bat, hitting the knob. I hammer at it again and again, a primal sound tearing from my throat.

Finally, the knob clatters to the floor. Panting, I release the ax and kick the door open.

If it’s more cleaning supplies, a bitch might just lose it.

When I see the outline of what I was hoping to find, I cry out with relief and race toward one. There are several med carts in the room, all still stocked with medication. I find a clean flat bedsheet and lay it on the floor, filling the center of it with medications, needles, alcohol pads, and bandages. There are nutrition shakes on a shelf, so I add several.

When I have as much as I can carry, I tie the sheet closed to make it into a bundle I can carry over my shoulder. Breathing through my mouth, I run back to the nurses’ station I passed, scanning shelves.

Clinical Medication Handbook for Nurses.

Perfect. I swipe it, then grab another one about treatment of complex wounds.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m riding away from the facility on Jane’s back. I hope she remembers the way we came, because I think I do, but I’m not certain.

Hold on, Evander. I’m on my way.

23

“Is my son still on Island Seven? I don’t care what resources are required to answer that question. I want it done.” – unencrypted electronic message from New America Vice President Aldous Thatcher to his chief of staff

Amira

Three and a half years ago

The roar of approaching engines makes my pulse race. They’re back.

“Alice, are the potatoes ready?” Genevieve asks me, her brow furrowed.

I don’t know why I blurted out the name Alice Glass when Donovan asked who I was that day. Something told me not to share my real name with anyone. I answer to it like I was born with it now.

“Yes.”

“And you kept them hot?”

“I did.”

She nods, satisfied, and moves on to ask Maggie if her dish is ready. I smooth my palms down the black V-neck shirt I’m wearing, glancing at it. No flecks of potatoes or smears of butter, because I remembered my apron.

My mother would faint if she could see me now—the daughter she drilled intelligence, independence, and archery skills into, who competed in the Olympic Games, responsible only for looking good and making delicious mashed potatoes every night.

Five minutes later, my heart skips when I see Donovan making his way toward me, his gaze warm. Since we’ve been staying at this megachurch, he’s come to see me as soon as he gets back every night. He gives me a quick peck on the lips.

I try not to look at the blood splattered all over his gray shirt, his neck, and his arms.