The Girl Who Punched Back (Death Fields 2)

“What’s this about?” Walker asks.

I keep my eyes on Wyatt’s. “In private.”

“I’ve got this,” he says. Walker rolls her eyes but leaves us alone.

“You promised me,” I say. “We have one rule. You know that.”

“What? You’re here. I’m here. No one is getting left behind.”

I cross my arms. “Where’s Cole.”

“That rule is between us.” He sighs. “Cole is not my problem.”

“He should be here, with the other scientists.”

“He’s not on the list, Alex.”

“Then get him on the list. Tell Jane. Or my dad.”

He shakes his head. “Again, not my problem. But if you want to stick around you can. No one is making you go. This was your idea, remember.”

Realization dawns and my hands clench into tight fists. “So that’s what this is about. She thinks I’ll choose between him and the mission.” I pace back and forth, ignoring the way his eyebrow shoots up again, implying that he thinks I’m delusional.

Maybe I am.

“If you’re coming you need to get your shot.”

“Did you get it?” I look over at the dwindling line.

“Yes, the veterans got them yesterday.”

“Nothing weird happened?” He shakes his head. I sigh and step back into line.

“If it’s worth anything, I think Cole’s actually helping down in the lab. They should have called him in months ago.”

His comment hits me hard. He’s right. Cole shouldn’t be with me and the Fighters. His brain is too important to risk out there with cannibalistic savages. He should be with my dad. More importantly, he should be here for Chloe.

“Next.”

I step forward and settle into the hard pla

stic seat, rolling up my sleeve. I keep my eyes down as he wipes and my arm tingles cool from the alcohol and I tense, waiting for the prick. The pain is sharp but quick and I blink back tears as the medic slaps a bandage over the small wound. More than ever, I miss my Lab Guy.

“Thanks.”

“Drink water,” he says. “And let someone know if you feel woozy or something.”

“Is that common?” I ask.

“No. Hydration is important, though. One of the doctors will find you within twenty-four hours to check.”

I nod and walk off, following the waving hand of the Fighter corralling us into the back of a military vehicle. The soldier glances at me and his list. “Ramsey, right?”

“Yes.”

“Keep your pack with you and your weapon ready.” He notices my hatchet sticking out of the side of my bag. There’s skepticism in his voice when he asks, “Is that your personal weapon?”

“One of them.” I have a gun in my boot and knife strapped to my leg.