Chapter 111: Skye

The road to hell was cracked and dusty with many detours to get around collapsed bridges and blockages. We've been here for two weeks. On the outskirts of Tucson Sanctuary, clinging to what meagre hope we need to stay alive. The outcome is starting to look grim. Life as I know it has been smashed to pieces leaving something unrecognizable in its place. And I am not unique. We're all suffering in ways we've never before experienced.
"Reload." Wolfe hands his rifle to me and pulls his sidearm. He turns and aims over the rubble surrounding us. We're crouched within the broken confines of a fallen building. Old Tucson. Or that's what the locals call it. I call it our last stand. The bodies are piling up, our situation becoming bleaker with every passing hour. Old Tucson is going to be our graveyard.
I flex my stiff fingers and breathe warm air on them, then work to reload the rifle. Except for the occasional crack of a gun going off, the morning is still, cold and empty. Once the gun is loaded, I set it next to Wolfe. At first, I'd complained about his taking point and me assisting, but when he handed me a gun and pointed over our makeshift protection, I'd nearly gotten us killed by wasting two bullets before a zombie launched itself at us. Wolfe had made quick work of the Primitive, cutting its head off for good measure. Then he silently took his weapon back and started taking out the continuing threats with calm, cool precision.
We've been doing this same routine for almost the entire time we've been here. Organizing in teams to protect the refugees crowding into the ruins of the old city. It won't matter for much longer though. We have no food, except what we brought. The Primitives and the constant boom of our weapons is scaring away any prey we could hunt. Our situation is rapidly becoming dire.
When we first arrived, I'd been angry at our lack of reception into the city. We were promised Sanctuary, yet the big gates remain firmly closed against us. Then rumours started filtering through. Rumours about the city falling apart from the inside out. A rebellion, a takeover, a fire that killed the Warlord and his family. I'd been stunned by the news. We came to this Sanctuary because my sister is here, yet she supposedly died. I refuse to believe it until I see her dead body. I thought she was dead before, when we'd been separated in Las Vegas over a decade ago. Then she magically appeared on my doorstep in Santa Fe. Taran is resilient. If anyone can survive a city on the verge of war, it's my sister.
Then, just this morning, news leaked about a new development. The Warlord, Diogo Fuentes, has risen up, stronger than ever, to take his city back. I hope this means that Taran is still alive and we'll soon hear news. Not just because I want my baby sister to be alive, but because we can't last much longer. With each passing day our situation grows grimmer. Though the waves of refugees begging for Sanctuary has become a trickle, the Primitives are relentless. They come at us constantly. Whenever we kill them, more replace the dead. Our ammunition is running out along with our food supplies and our will to survive. Taran and Diogo are our only hope.
"Relief is here." Wolfe's low grumble snaps me from my thoughts.
I shift my tired body to face him, looking up at his hard, chiselled face as he concentrates his efforts toward protecting the perimeter. Wolfe can shoot better than any other person on the line, despite only having one eye. We take turns protecting Old Tucson along with a few dozen others who can shoot and fight. Most are soldiers and police from their own fallen Sanctuaries. We've been at this for weeks and the group morale is wearing as thin as our supplies.
I nod toward Remi, short for Ramirez, the man who'll replace me and Wolfe on the line. He's looking worse for wear. The clothes that filled his broad frame two weeks ago are now hanging on him, giving him a lean look. Weariness has etched deep grooves in his face and dirt has settled on him like a fine blanket. All of us look the same. There's not enough fresh water for bathing so we make do with the few drops leftover after cooking and drinking. Even that's starting to disappear. Our path to the dam is dangerous, overrun by Primitives. Our trips are far and few between.
I accept the hand Remi offers me and stand. My body, stiff from crouching on a cold, hard ground all night, creaks in protest. Wolfe growls at Remi which has him dropping his hand from mine. I sigh and send Wolfe a small glare. I don't have enough heart to back it up though. I'm utterly exhausted, and if truth be told, I need a protector in Wolfe. He's the strongest man in this ruined city. Without him I'd probably be raped, dead or zombified by now.
Still, Wolfe is a hard man to read. He seems protective and aggressive one moment and coldly detached the next. I don't know his story, but there must be one. We all have stories. Some are more brutal than others. I would bet that Wolfe's story is the stuff of nightmares. What I'd like to know, is he the good guy or the villain?
Without a word, Wolfe holsters his weapons and heads toward the barracks. A temporary residence on the outskirts of Old Tucson that we set up so we can be more easily at hand in case the Primitives break through our line. When we first arrived, Wolfe suggested I take shelter in one of the centres set up for women, children and elderly refugees unable to fight. I'd suggested he go fuck himself, that I'm perfectly capable of fighting with the best of them. And while I've proven to be a bad shot, I can still fight.
Wolfe silently allowed me to stay and has been teaching me how to use his guns, how to take a Primitive down and how to finish them. I shudder as I remember the Primitive he'd hauled over to me a few days ago. He'd held it down and insisted I stab it through the heart and cut off its head. Though I'd done the deed exactly as instructed, I haven't slept well since. I see his wild eyes and clawed hands every time I close my eyes.
We stop at the mess tent before entering the barracks. I'm so tired it takes me a moment to realize that its Scarlett handing me a plate. Her face is so dirty I didn't recognize her, but her dress is unmistakable, a garment I've only seen worn by the harem women from Santa Fe Sanctuary. Only three of us women, a handful of soldiers and about a hundred citizens survived the fall of our city.
"Thank you, Scarlett," I murmur taking the plate of steaming food from her hands.
"Make sure you eat it all," she says, eyeing my frame, thinner now from lack of food and hard physical labour. "Don't give it away this time. If you're going to be on the line then you need it more than the rest of us."
I smile my gratitude and move away from her as she turns to give a plate to the next person in line. I trail after Wolfe and take a seat next to him. We've been inseparable since the moment I told him I wouldn't hide with the children. I'm not sure why exactly. Maybe some unspoken agreement that I'm safer with Wolfe. Or maybe he won't let me go. Though I haven't tested the theory, only an idiot wouldn't notice the way he is around me. He moves when I move, listens when I speak, growls when people get too close to me.
I try to remember if he was this way back when we were home. I think he was, a little anyway. The fortress guards certainly weren't allowed to speak to me unless through him. At the time I'd thought it was an order from my husband, the Warlord of Santa Fe. Now, I think otherwise. Silas had been a kind, gentle man. The opposite of most warlords. Yet he was also thoughtful and measured in his actions. He had the ability to make the harsh decisions, though it often went against character.
My eyes prick with unshed tears as I think of my husband, dead now. Taken down when the Primitives attacked our Sanctuary. He refused to leave when the rest of us were escaping. I haven't found the time to properly grieve his death. Haven't cried once since I was forced to leave over Wolfe's shoulder.
"Let him go."