Page 41 of Before We Burn

Constantine's eyes flash. “Can you stop cracking jokes? Do I look like I’m in a joking mood? Names are important; they give us purpose.”

I nod in agreement. “Then Daddy is perfect for Benny. You’ll be able to find a new meaning for that one, I’m sure.”

We’re both quiet for a moment until Connie’s cold demeanor cracks and I see a smile forming on her face.

Connie never lets people in, and she definitely doesn’t admit she actually likes them. It’s always been her way of protecting herself. She’s seen too many of her friends fade throughout the years, and adding more to her list of mourning isn’t in her cards. I don’t say anything, though. These moments are rare. I want her to feel comfortable sharing her thoughts—the nice ones.

“It seems you already have a plan, Connie. I just want to be in on it. I want to make sure we can all do it together, safely.”

She nods and begins to slowly walk back toward the house.“Yeah, I have a plan, and I don’t like it one bit. But the first thing we need to do is cut that tracker out of hu—Benny—and get on a bullet train to Boston in the morning.”

I expected cutting the tracker out of Benny—that was a given.

I follow Connie, her steps slow and deliberate—like she didn’t want to go back into the house. I can’t say anything, though. Can’t point out that I can feel something wrong with her. That’s just how Connie is. Since I first met her, her gift has been her safety blanket. When she is uncomfortable, she uses it, making the room suddenly forget how nervous she looks. Now she hasn’t been doing that, it is bringing her insecurities to the front. Sometimes I wish she would just talk to me about it, because I feel the same way, too.

The house is quiet when we enter. I thought there would be some type of laughter or rejoicing now the two military brats are back together. Instead, I’m met with an unsettling silence and tension-filled air I can’t describe. Benny’s thoughts are the first ones I hear. He’s angry, and the fact that he had been beaten and dragged into this was on his ‘worst things to ever happen to me’ list.

I don’t care to listen anymore. I know his thoughts will likely be unkind, and honestly, I already feel unlikable, unloveable, and overall just not great. I don’t need to hear those things from a complete stranger I just saved, especially when I already think them to myself.

We move to the room Benny is in, finding him in a corner, his hands balled into fists and his face set in a scowl. Everett sits where I left him, his head hung low and his usual bright shine completely extinguished. There must’ve been a fight or disagreement. I’m just about to ask when Connie moves quickly to Benny’s side.

She stands in front of him, a silent battle hidden behind her calm demeanor. Then suddenly, she grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around to face me. Her arms loop under his armpits and she grasps her hands behind his neck. He kicks his legs and cusses heavily, throwing empty threats at the both of us.

I ignore his cries for help, but Everett doesn’t. At some point, he sprung up and tried to rush toward us, but Bunny stood in front of him, her teeth bared and an insanely unsettling smile on her face.

Everett's gaze finds mine, and for a second there is a flash of understanding. I pull my knife and move in front of Benny. I slide down the sweatpants we had given him earlier, and once I find that infamous scar, I cut into it and dig out that stupid tracker.

We make our way to the train station, which is nothing like I imagined. It’s dirty and run down, people lining the cracked brick walls with signs asking for help. Poverty everywhere has gotten worse, and no one understands why because they remain blind to the truth.

The government doesn’t want the ones less fortunate to make it out of this war. They want them to perish, because it makes it easier when it comes to creating a new world order.

Connie holds my hand tight, not wanting me to wander and end up on another one of my self-fulling missions. Sometimes I just can’t help it. They are all innocent to me. It’s their leader—the person they answer to—I have a problem with. When you control the narrative, you control the mindsets of the people who are engaged with whatever you’re putting out. That’s this exact situation.

Connie would tell me I was naive for thinking that way, but I am hopeful that if they knew the truth, they might accept us.

A woman with long, matted brown hair catches my attention. She has two small children wrapped up in three blankets, hats that are too big, and boots two sizes bigger than their feet. The mother’s face looks hollow, her cheeks having lost whatever elasticity was once there, her eyes clouded with heavy dark bags, and her collarbones protruding from her skin. She looks starved.

Her kids, on the other hand, seem well taken care of. They both look clean, and the older boy hugs his mother, the intention to coax her under the blanket with him, but she refuses. She wants them to be fully covered, which makes sense since temperatures have become some of the lowest of the season.

I stop in my tracks, digging my heels into the ground, my focus fixated on the small family as I read the sign: We don’t ask for money, just for something to eat or a warm place to stay. I am skilled in housekeeping, sewing, and quilt making. My heart sinks, and for the first time, I forcibly enter the parts of her mind which would otherwise be hidden.

I see everything there. Her husband was taken for the draft. They told her he died in battle, but she doesn’t believe that. She never got to see his body, never got to bury him. She questioned the military and the government. She must’ve gotten close to something, because they are purposely trying to kill her now. She might not see the patterns, but I do.

They raised her taxes on her house, cut her rations because her household size went down, her job at an assembly line fired her because they said her productivity was low—but there was no proof of that. She thought her luck had run out, that it was just her. But I see the same tactics the humans used over and over again: Separate. Occupy. Eliminate.

Connie shouts at me to keep moving, tugging and tugging, but I don’t budge. Not until my legs begin to move, and before I know it I’m standing in front of the mother, her wide brown eyes staring at me as a tear falls from a corner. She is border-line delirious.

“Death, please be kind to my children.” Her voice breaks as she speaks.

One of her frail arms crosses over her youngest, as if to protect her, and my unbeating heart breaks. I gently remove my jacket then my sweater, leaving me in nothing but a long sleeve fleece shirt that clings to my body. Her head shakes quickly in dismissal.

“No, please keep it. You’ll freeze.” She tries to refuse, but I push the jacket back to her.

I feel Connie at my back, and a subtle ease washes over us, her presence acting as a warm blanket around all of us.

The children watch me hesitantly. They can’t decide if I am going to hurt their mother or help her. Bunny appears next to me, a styrofoam cup in her hand. I look at it confused, and Bunny chirps, “You know what needs to be done.”

I quickly glance around us and roll up my sleeve. The jacket isn’t enough to get this woman up. She needs energy, and she’s too close to death to make it without it. I bite into my wrist hard enough to allow at least two ounces of blood to drip into the cup. Bunny and Connie block me so it appears like we’re just talking.