I exhale and pull myself upright. I feel numb, detached from the world. I don’t care if the whole place caves in at this rate. I just can’t shake the disparity of my situation. Cole is gone. Why couldn’t Keegan let him stay in another part of the compound? Or trust me.
I stand in front of the mirror and pull my greasy hair into a bun. Then I wrap my hands the same way Bruno taught me. They’re so tight the blood flow is partially cut off to my fingers. I shake my arms and legs out to relax myself. I can do this. It’s just a couple of hours.
A blow to my cheekbone rouses me.
“Come on, Lexi, you’re getting your ass kicked,” Keegan shouts across the room.
I rub my face in surprise. A girl dances across from me with her fists raised. She’s taller, with straight black hair and a nasty glare. She hits me with a hook on the side of my head.
I groan.
“Protect yourself!” he yells at me again.
I won’t be humiliated anymore. Focus. Just focus. I jab and then hit her with an uppercut right in the sweet spot, and she stumbles backward.
“Better!” Keegan claps.
We do push-ups every ten minutes. We run sprints to warm up and run sprints to cool down. In the mornings, I learn hand-to-hand combat, and in the evenings, we go through weapons training in an indoor range.
When Keegan hands me a gun, my hand shakes so much that I don’t hit anything near the target. Last time I attempted shooting, it was to save Cole and Bruno. It’s not as easy when I have to think about it.
Keegan stands behind me as I try again and seems agitated by my lack of focus. He hands me a smaller pistol. “Here, use this one. It’s more your size.”
“What kind is it?”
“It’s a .40 caliber Glock. It’s a subcompact so it’ll fit perfectly in your hands. Just try it.”
I stand with my feet shoulder-width apart, using both hands to steady myself. I shoot and miss the red circle around the target. Crap. I glance at others as they shoot, feeling self-conscious because they all seem comfortable with what they’re doing. Even the younger citizens seem at ease.
“It’s okay. You’ll get better with practice—lots of practice.” Keegan encourages me.
I exhale. I’ve got to improve. I fill my clip again and try from a closer standpoint. The gun kicks as I squeeze the trigger, but a small hole appears in the target. Excitement over this small accomplishment gives me some satisfaction. I try again and hit it again. It’s not close to the first hole, but I hit it twice in a row.
Saturday. I wake up and see two tin cans sitting in the corner of my room with two paintbrushes lying on top. I jump out of bed and touch them to make sure they’re real. Black paint fills the first one and the second one contains red. I inhale, and the fumes make me light-headed, but I don’t care. It’s here. It’s real, and I get to paint. Thank you, Keegan.
After grabbing a small breakfast at the cafeteria, I shuffle back to my room. I keep my head low, making sure to avoid eye contact with everyone. I have no desire for small talk. The only goal I have right now is to get back to my room without an incident.
I balance my body just right to ensure I don’t fall over when painting. This is different from anything I’ve ever painted before. It’s the future. I arrange the tins perfectly in order to access both colors. I brush up and down, left and right, red and black, black and red. My arms go numb from painting so long.
When I’m not eating, sleeping, or training, I paint. The tension melts away as I do it. I draw the silhouettes of my father and Alyssa sitting on Lexington bay, watching the waves roll in and out.
“What’s that?” Keegan asks as he points to the Monet-style paintings.
I jump, almost falling off the stool.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Just watching.”
I begin putting the brushes away and placing the lids back on the cans. “Squint your eyes and look left to right.”
His eyes widen as he inspects my work. “Holy cow. It’s the Hole getting blown to pieces,” he says while shaking his head. “Damn, that’s amazing. I didn’t know you could paint. It’s kinda Gothic. I like it.” He smiles with satisfaction until his eyes come to rest on part of the painting.
“Is that…?” He stares at the figure of our father.
“Yes, and my friend Alyssa who died of some kind of virus.”
“Was she from the outside?” He sits down on my bed, taking in the bay. It’s breathtaking even when painted in black and red.
“Yes, but she was exiled to the Hole.”
“So how’d you meet her?”
“At the hospital. She was very sick. Sutton did everything he could to save her.”
He looks at me with questioning eyes.
“There’s not a lot of meds available here. Maybe she would’ve survived if she was treated in another place.” It feels like years ago now but hurts all the same.
Keegan shakes his head in loathing. “That’s disgusting. How can they deny a life?”
“You’re a hypocrite.”
“What? How?”
“You’re going to deny lots of lives with this revolt.”
“That doesn’t count.”
I don’t respond.
“Who’s that laying in a puddle of blood?” he asks, changing the subject. His eyes squint as he peers at a small figure in the corner of the painting.
“Me.”
He nods with confusion. An uncomfortable silence lingers, so he stands and leaves.
I turn off my lights and lie in darkness. I smell like sweat, but getting in the shower requires energy, and right now, I don’t have any reserves. I kick off my boots but can’t kick this feeling of abandonment. I thought we both wanted the same thing—to be together. Isn’t this the only way?
I squeeze my eyes closed, but his face, his beautiful face, is etched perfectly in my mind—his long, dark lashes over his charcoal eyes, his dimples when he smiles, his full lips kissing me. Oh God, I’m withering inside.
CHAPTER 19
Tuesday. Target shooting.
Wednesday. Obstacles. Climbing ropes, scaling walls, running through a course, and crawling through another. My hands are raw and my knuckles are scabbed over. It’s the only thing that gives me comfort.
Thursday. Shooting moving targets, shooting while lying down, falling, running, jumping, shooting everything.
Friday. Scenario training.
Saturday. Knife training. Bomb training. Training in everything. It feels good to keep my brain busy.
Sunday. I run my finger up my calves and thighs, feeling the bumps and rigid muscles forming. I’m secretly satisfied.
I unintentionally paint Cole’s eyes on the third wall of my room. I begin with an oval, and next thing I know, it’s his eyes. Always watching me wherever I go. I can train all day, every day, but he’ll never be far from my mind.
Monday. I wake up ready to kick some ass. After taking a hot shower, I pull on fresh clothes. I bind my hair tightly while inspecting myself in the mirror. My face has gained some color from eating better and exercising, but it’s still lean like the rest of me. My form-fitting shirt flatters my athletic frame. I smirk, pleased with my transformation. I wish Cole were here to see it. No… I can’t think like that today. I squash the argument in my brain and bounce into the cafeteria. Keegan looks up from his crowded table and stares at me, dumbfounded.
“Would it be all right if I joined you?” I say as I put my tray of food down beside him. “I’m sorry.”
“Finally! Thank God, I was starting to worry that I lost you forever,” he smacks me on my back. “Watch out, fellas, my little sister here is going to do some serious ass-kicking.”