Three (Article 5) by Kristen Simmons Read Free Book Online

reservations, I wrapped the radio back up in plastic and hoisted it over my shoulder.
    We moved on after that. I followed Billy, who made his way down the center street, a dinner plate held over his head like a halo, blocking the rain. The handle of the gun rested against his lower back, molded beneath his wet T-shirt.
    We spread out for the remainder of the afternoon, spearing through the woods, tromping through the sand. The sky drew back to a thin layer of white, and my clothes grew tough and chafed my skin. Blisters crowned my feet, but we didn’t rest. Slowing would have turned the questions from a whisper to a shout: Where were we going? Who would we find? Chase felt it, too. He didn’t have to say anything; I could see it in the way his fists clenched, the way his gaze rested on nothing, always moving.
    As we entered an old state park, the beach gave way to swamps and marshland. Twisted trees blocked our path, their white roots like long, spindly fingers diving below the murky water. We carved a single-file line down a trail forged long ago and abandoned before the War, slapping at the mosquitos that buzzed in our ears as our heavy footsteps crashed through the brush.
    Our party thinned. Rebecca and Sean had fallen behind again, and to keep them connected to the others, Chase and I slowed our pace, isolated in the middle of the train. We weren’t about to leave our friends defenseless, but we couldn’t lose track of the others, either.
    When it seemed the path had been completely lost, we rested beside a stream to wait for Sean and Rebecca. The light was dimmer beneath the trees, and a curtain of vines and foliage created an isolated cove. We sat on moss-covered rocks and split a can of oily tuna and powdered mashed potatoes, silent, but for our thoughts. I nearly cried with relief when I took off my shoes to shake out the sand and dipped them in the cool, clear water.
    After a while Chase rose and waded in. Facing away, he squatted low to dip his hands in the stream. He took a drink. Then pulled his shirt off over his head.
    My cheeks warmed. I thought I should avert my eyes but I couldn’t look away; he knew I was here, but still it felt like I was intruding on something private. There was something different about him—in the bow of his head and the way his arm fell slack—that made my heart ache.
    He stood, wrung out the shirt that he’d dipped in the water, and scrubbed it over the back of his neck. The muscles of his shoulders shifted, rolled, made winged blades as he lifted his arms. A raised scar cut from the side of his ribs to his spine. The light that filtered through the trees glinted off the metal handgun tucked in the waistband of his jeans.
    Before I could stop myself I was moving forward, shocked back to reality by the sound of the splashing water around my ankles.
    He turned to face me, his emotions guarded. I swallowed, aware of how his eyes moved between my eyes and my lips.
    A beat passed. Then another.
    “How’d you get that scar?” I asked.
    One brow arched.
    I flattened my palm over his back. At my touch he siphoned in a sharp breath and twisted away, shaking out his shirt. It couldn’t have hurt him. Was he embarrassed? Of the way he looked ? It seemed impossible.
    I placed my hand on it again. This time he stilled.
    “I know it’s from the MM.” I felt the rough skin, the ridges, tracing the map of his body. And waited.
    “Two months in I tried to run.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “There was this girl at home. The kind that made you want to try.” His smile melted. “I got caught in a fence. Then I got caught by a guard.”
    My chest tight, my fingertips rose climbing his back, drifting over his shoulder to the puckered scar on his bicep, where he’d taken a knife in my defense outside a sporting goods store. He shivered, watching my hand.
    Lower. Goose bumps raised the dark hairs of his forearm. I lifted his knuckles, tracing the cuts and indentations, following