The Death Wave

Currently being rewritten as "Red City"


9. 131 days

“He tried to kill you?”

I impatiently click my tongue and turn to Chance. I’ve been trying to explain to Lyra and Chance about what happened last night with Cole, and after a long hour of discussion we still haven’t come to any conclusion about what we’re going to do with him. Of course, I left out the part where Cole tried to touch me, and dragged me outside probably not to kill me, but for something else. But they got the idea.

Rubbing my hands together, I push myself up and lean against the windowsill. My bones scream with pain from being thrown around and bashed against the wall and the floor, but I stand still, my face emotionless and showing no pain.

Lyra comes over to me and places a small ivory hand on my shoulder, “is he still out there?”

“I’m not sure,” I shrug her hand off and push the cabinet away from the door, walking out into the crisp morning air. The road is empty, no sign of Cole anywhere, not even further down the road that leads into the centre of the city. A looming scatter of grey clouds lurks over the tall buildings in the city. As always, something feels off.

Underneath the windowsill is a small tear of white paper. My eyebrows furrow as I kneel down and pick up the paper, unfolding it twice. My eyes widen.

I’ll find you, princess

Before anybody else can see, I shove the paper in my pocket and go back inside where Lyra is waiting for me.

“Anything?” she asks.

“He must be a quick runner,” was all I said.


Now that Cole was gone, we each were given more rations and sanity. I push Chance down the centre of the road whilst Lyra carries the bag and hops along slightly in front of us. When I’m sure that she isn’t paying attention, I bend down closer to Chance.

“How are you holding up?”

Chance chuckles, or tries at least, “I feel like a prince in a castle.”

I smile, but then it’s gone again. “Seriously Chance.”

“I am serious!” He protests, and even though he’s still making jokes and laughing around, I can hear the weakness in his voice. I start to speed up until we’re walking with Lyra.

“Everything alright?” Lyra asks, handing me the bag and taking over the job of pushing the wheelchair. I give her a glare that says it’s not, and she nods apologetically. At least someone is sorry.  

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