Fear Itself

Ignoring his fresh wounds, Dean rose the next day to join the Brotherhood in preparing for the on-coming riot. They spent the day moving the necessary gear up to the rendezvous point—the place where they would set up their barricade. The place where they would gather together and fight the League Militia in a bloody, brutal battle to the death. Our brave comrades, both men and women, would join forces in our makeshift stronghold, with the odds stacked against them, and they would either win or they would die. Even if we won, some would still die. Something about that seemed unfair, but time and time again, I was reminded that it was necessary. That was why I wasn’t supposed to go. If only Dean would take his own advice.

Hours passed in preparation. All the rituals were different. Avery was nowhere to be found. Both Dean, Alex, and Gabe disappeared into Sam’s office. In the main room, gathered around the table were the Americans. They strapped on their helmets with radiant bravado, knocking each other around a bit as they laced up their boots and polished their guns, boisterously belting out the words to the Star Spangled Banner, led by Casper Collins himself.

They kept on singing as they polished their guns in swift and even strokes. They pieced them together, loaded them up, checked the sights and sang all the while. Their voices rang proud and filled the room with a sense of confidence. They were ready to go. They were willing. They were determined and purposed. What they sang: the land of the free, and the home of the brave. That sounded lovely. Maybe one day we could have that. Maybe one day we could live above ground, in the light, no longer fearing for our lives. The thought was almost too nice, too pretty.

We were close, and something about that shook me to the core. This whole time, victory had been out of reach—until now. Now, it was an arm’s length away. One reach, and we could take it all: The League, the world, and our freedom. It was like standing on the edge of the cliff. It was beautiful and breathtaking to see, but one misstep could mean the end. Everything we worked for could come tumbling down. Everyone could die. All of these brave warriors, my dearest friends, could go out there and never return. Then, what had we accomplished?

Nothing. Exactly what the League wanted. Squash the Brotherhood and squash the peoples’ morale. They’d have won. It’d be just how they wanted it.

The men strapped on their backpacks. They carried medical supplies in each one with some extra ammo and anything else they may have decided to bring, anything sentimental, anything identifying. Dog tags, photos, mementos—anything they wanted with them if and when they died. Casper tucked away a photo of a woman with hair the color of cherry wood, a girl he called Sera. When I asked why Sera hadn’t come with him, he explained that she “respectfully disagreed with his actions.” He brushed his callused fingers across the photo’s surface and planted a kiss over her face before he folded it up and stuffed it in his pocket.

The clock struck ten, and it was time for them to move out. They left in shifts, in groups of five or less, and headed off into the night. Nobody gave goodbyes. Nobody had the heart, not even Gabe, who knelt before his daughter, kissed her forehead, and told her he’d be back before she even knew he was gone. I took the elevator with a group of Americans I’d never met before. There was Claire Wilson, a 32-year-old from Montana. Adam and Andrew Benson were brothers from Florida. Julie was but a few years older than me: a prep school runaway who met Casper in Washington, D.C.

Idle chatter commenced on the ride up, but they were off once on the street. I waited just outside the box, just in case Dean tried to avoid saying goodbye to me; I wouldn’t have put it past him. The cool night air chilled my skin, even through my tights and sweater. A few groups appeared and went on their way. Avery came alone. Stepped out of the box and paused when he saw me.

“You’re going?” I asked him, and he nodded. I nodded back. Fair enough, I supposed. I wasn’t too worried about Avery. Dean may have been trained for combat, but Avery wasn’t the one operating under blind rage and revenge. “Well, Kennedy already tried to kill you twice.”

“Yeah,” Avery laughed. “’N all he did was piss me off.”

Grinning, I hugged him with a gentle squeeze. “Be safe, Mumbles,” I murmured close to his ear.

The fabric of his jacket brushed against my back, up and down over me. “Always, Princess.”

He left me. A few more groups passed through, and I was out there for awhile before Dean and Cas stepped out of the box. “Sup, your royal highness?” Cas jested, grinning and winking at me before he headed off in pursuit of the others. Dean stayed behind, standing beside me with his hands shoved his pockets.

“I was looking for you,” he told me. The only sound was the whistling of wind brushing by us. Other than that, it was silent. No cars. No people. Nothing. Just us. Just the air and the sound of our breathing, the sound of our boots scuffing against the ground. “For a second, I didn’t think I’d get to see you.”

I gave him a quivery smile. “Sorry,” I murmured in apology. “I thought you might’ve tried to run off without saying goodbye.”

“Blondie, I would never.”

“I know.” Somehow, this might have been easier if he had. Silence held us at a distance, kept us apart. His hands never moved from his pockets. My arms were wrapped around myself for security, like they were a shield and nothing could hurt me as long as I kept them tight. “You don’t have to go,” I murmured. “You could stay.”

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “You know I can’t, babe.”

“Why not?” I asked, nearly shouted if I hadn’t restrained myself. “Why do you have to do this? Why do you have to go? There are plenty of people already there to fight.”

“I’m their leader,” he explained, rubbing a hand under his helmet to wipe at his brow. “How would that look if I didn’t show up?”

My fingers tugged anxiously at the sleeves of my cardie when I noticed his unaffected gaze. He already made up his mind. What could I do to persuade him? Dean was just as stubborn as I was, if not more. “Muscles, you’re hurt,” I whimpered, trying to swallow back the fear, and the pain, and the dread clogging up my throat and stinging my eyes. “You can’t go, okay? That’s it. You’re hurt, and you’re not fit to do this.”

“It’s not that simple, Blondie.”

“Muscles, you could die.”

There was a moment of solemn silence before Dean murmured, “I know.”

He knew full well what could happen, and he was still going to go. He was going to fight, going to risk his life, and he knew that if he died, he was going to leave me all alone. “And you’re still gonna go.” My voice was crumbling beneath all my sadness and fear, weighed down by the heart sinking in my chest. Sniffling, I began to viciously wipe at my eyes with my sweater. I told myself a hundred times that I wasn’t going to cry. With a surge of frustrated desperation, I snatched his left hand from his pocket and held it up in front of his face. I pointed the gold band on his finger with a clenched jaw. “You promised,” I muttered. “You promised me forever.”

Dean lowered his gaze. His blue eyes were glued to the pavement, like he couldn’t bare to face the truth and look reality in the eye. It was standing right in front of him; he knew that all too well. “I know,” he said quietly. He swallowed. His lips pursed in a subtle grimace before he lifted his face to look at me. He wriggled his hand from my grasp, cupped my face, and kissed me softly. “And you’ll always have me,” he said. He kept our faces close, kept his eyes closed when he kissed my forehead now. “No matter what happens.”

Selfish bastard. What good was he if he was dead? I wanted him alive. I wanted him with me, always. He said he’d never leave, but here he was, saying goodbye, wasting what could have been our last conversation on his own conflicted guilt. It was when I felt his arm around me that I started to cry. Sobs racked my chest until it ached, and I cried my throat raw in a matter of seconds. I wanted things to slow down, wanted him to stay with me. My vision blurred, so I just buried my face against his chest instead of trying to look around.

His lips pressed against the top of my head now, and he uttered the very words I never wanted to hear him say: “I have to go, Blondie.” His voice was heavy and flat. He began to shift away, but I lurched forward and grabbed him again.

“Please,” I begged, sobbing so hard I didn’t think I could breathe. “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

He simply said it again. “I have to.”

“No—“ I protested, but he didn’t let me finish. He took my face and kissed me hard. He kissed me like he might not ever see me again.

“I love you, Blondie,” he murmured. His voice shook for a moment, but he drew another deep breath in. He ran his hand over my cheek slowly, gradually, carefully. Our gazes locked. There was pain in his eyes. I cupped his face in my hands too. His cheeks were burning under my fingertips. I kissed him again, but he pulled away from me. “I love you so much.” His arms fell back to his sides.

“Please—“ I cried, but he had already pulled away from me. He was already gone.

I stood there for a moment with my arm outstretched, but he kept walking. He didn’t look back, so I drew my hand back toward my chest and clutched the fabric just over my heart before I began to cry again. “Please,” I whispered. “Please, just come back safe.”