Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 84949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Fort Dallas is surrounded by an immense metal barricade made from the ruins of crushed, stacked, and broken-down cars. It acts as a fence that keeps the worst trouble out and the residents inside. High up on the barricade, perched atop like gargoyles on the roof of the Notre Dame, the dragons are sprawled. There's five of them that haunt the city gates, all of them gray eyed and motionless. They're like zombies and they only respond when Azar tells them to, I've heard. They scared me at first, but as the months go by, I've gotten used to them.
They're like lamp posts—just more junk you see and walk past without acknowledging.
Except this time, I could swear one's staring down at me.
"Something wrong?" Hightower rides his bike back toward me, circling lazily. "Leg cramp?"
"No." I rub my neck, pondering. There's a dragon above, curled up like an oversized cat. Its tail isn't moving and the eyes are the same milky gray they always are. It doesn't blink, or even acknowledge that I'm here.
Must be my imagination.
I shake my head and turn to Hightower. "Sorry. I'm coming."
2
JENNY
It's a quiet day outside of the fort. Autumn has finally arrived and with it, a break in the intense Texas heat. I'm a little chilly in my stupid shift, my legs cold as the bitter wind rolls in from the north, but I can't take Hightower's hoodie that he offers, because it smells like him. The rules are very explicit—our scents have to be “pure” so we can catch a dragon. So I endure the cold, pedaling south briskly and making small talk with Hightower as I do. My bike has a basket for carrying treasures, and tucked inside it is an old map. When we pause to take a break, I pull out the plastic-covered map of the city and unfold it. Some of the streets are completely gone, but it's been marked on with crayon and certain areas circled to show the best scavenging spots.
"Where are we heading today?" I ask Hightower. "Anything in particular?"
He shrugs. "Same as usual."
I glance over at him. I have so many questions I want to ask about the program. Other than Rachel, has there been any success? Are my panties tossed in this direction that I've been assigned? What happens to me if my panties have no effect? Am I tossed out of the program? What happens to me after I catch a dragon? Why do we need more if the five we have—and Lord Azar—are keeping us safe already?
I know he won't answer—I'm not even sure he has the answers—but I wish someone would tell me something.
Pursing my lips, I make a decision. "These houses here are empty, but I wouldn't mind finding some scraps if we can?" Everything close to the fort is absolutely picked over, but if you look hard enough, sometimes you can find something. A lot of the time I discover bits of scrap left behind, torn clothing no one else wants, or a disgusting towel that's been abandoned in a muddy corner somewhere. I take them home, clean them up, and then use them in my quilting projects.
Hightower doesn't look happy at my suggestion. "You know you're not supposed to take anything home."
"Not unless I'm allowed, no." I smile at him to let him know I'm well aware of the rules. "But no one else wants scrap but me most of the time. And if they don't let me keep it, oh well." I fold up the map with a shrug. "Unless we're not supposed to go in this direction?"
He pauses. "No…we have to go here. We can't veer off course."
I suspect if I looked hard enough, I'd find my panties in a field somewhere, a dragon lure. I kinda wish I could find them, because I'd take that material in a heartbeat. It's such a waste otherwise. So I give my guard a bright smile. "Let's see what we can find, shall we?"
Two streets over, I catch a glimpse of a colorful lump in the street. I point at it, and we bike closer.
To my horror, the lump moves and a shiny beetle the size of a dog makes a buzzing noise and flies away. I make a sound of disgust, pulling up short. "Did you see that?"
Hightower puts his rifle to his shoulder and peers down the scope. "I'm gonna try and shoot it."
What? Why? I look at him in shock and disgust. "Are you crazy?"
Instead of answering me, he just fires. The gun recoils, my ears ring, and I slap my palms to cover them. A high-pitched whine rings through my head, and I have an instant migraine, none of which seems to bother Hightower. He lowers his gun and then flings down his bike, racing after his “kill.”