Free The Aftermath by Jen Alexander Page B

across the landscape. The only intact fence I’ve ever seen in The Aftermath is the one around the recreation yard of the jail. Perhaps this fence will be the one that secures my freedom.
    I don’t care about the soles of my feet or my tired legs. I run as fast as my legs will carry me, pumping my arms and letting a hot breeze blow my hair from my forehead.
    When I reach the gate, I curl my fingertips in the metal and fall against it. In the thirty-nine months of my life that I can remember, I cry for the second time.
    Several minutes pass before I’m able to calm myself down enough to think rationally. I pace the fence, looking for a way out—a torn part to crawl under, a latch, anything. Twenty feet above me at the top are coils of razor wire. This puts scaling the fence out of the question.
    I sift through the pack of weapons I took from April until I find a pair of rusted pliers. I run my fingertips along the bottom of the fence. I am about to start pulling at a corroded section of the metal when a male voice behind me says, “You do know escape is against the law, right?”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    “That’s what you’re doing, right?” the boy continues.
    I grip the fence so hard, it feels as if the thin links are making indentations on my bones. Silly, frightened character. That’s what I am, because though he may not see it, I am shaking furiously, hoping against hope that his name appears on Olivia’s map in green and not red.
    Even then, that wouldn’t mean that I’m safe.
    “Well?”
    What would Olivia say? Three years of her playing me and I have no idea how she’d respond. I loll my head back. Stare up at the rolls of barbed wire. Sweat drips between my shoulder blades, like lava drizzling down my flesh.
    “I was curious,” I say slowly. “And I wanted to see what was out here.”
    This isn’t how Olivia would have me respond. No, not at all. Olivia would taunt him—ask him why he cared. Then she’d reach my hand for the Glock, even though his gun or knife is probably already trained on the back of my head. Maybe I’d win—I usually do when Olivia’s in control—but as she made me shoot him down, I’d picture myself on the ground instead, and feel nothing but regret.
    Now that I think about it, I’m glad I don’t answer like Olivia. Olivia seems to enjoy putting my life in danger.
    “You were curious?” I hear the sound of his feet shuffling in the dry grass for a few seconds, and then he says, “Okay, turn around.”
    The last time someone told me to turn around, that person died, tearing violently at the crown of her head. I hadn’t understood why she would fuss over her head when the wound was on her chest. But now I know we’re controlled by some technology that’s been placed within our heads. Maybe she felt it as she were dying.
    Will I be ripping at my skull today?
    I swallow hard and turn. My fingers tangle in the metal behind me, and I hold on to it for comfort before I lift my gaze to his.
    My heart leaps into my throat.
    Gray eyes stare back at me. Dark gray eyes partially hidden by a messy mop of dark hair.
    I know this boy. He is the reason I’m here right now and not unresponsive, trapped in a room over a bar with three other characters. He’s the boy from the elevator.
    “You,” I breathe, but then I catch myself, biting into my bottom lip so I don’t give myself away.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the...” Letting his weapon arm drop to his side, he tilts his head and gives me a challenging gaze. “What are you doing out here?”
    Why is he still asking me questions? Shouldn’t he be threatening to attack me again or trying to rob me or something, anything, other than simply staring at me? His lack of movement gives me an opportunity to size him up. He doesn’t look like any flesh-eater I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t look like a Survivor, either. Though he’s several inches taller than me, he’s nowhere near Ethan’s height. I try to remember ever