Free Those Who Lived: Fallen World Stories by Megan Crewe Page B

right now, I wasn’t sure they cared what happened to anyone else as long as they were living in comfort. Maybe I’d been naive to think it might be otherwise. Even in their former lives, most of the Wardens had been surviving by screwing over whomever they could. Anyone who did have some compassion, some desire to see us form something that resembled an actual society again... they’d have learned to bury those impulses just like I had.
    Whatever approval I’d earned just now, it was because I’d gone against a guy they hated, not because I’d demonstrated a better way of ruling. That might be enough to inspire them to turn on Nathan, but it wasn’t going to convince them to bow to me in his place. What could I do that they’d respect, that didn’t involve treating Nathan just as brutally as he was treating the rest of them?
    This was Michael’s real problem. It wasn’t our “subjects” he was hesitant to back off on. It was his own supporters. If after everything he’d accomplished, he wasn’t sure he could ease off, show a little kindness, without the Wardens jumping on that as a weakness, what hope in hell did I have?
    “If I need you again, I’ll know I can call on you,” I told the others as the station came into view. I watched them saunter on ahead, feeling just as uncertain as before.
     
    The knock on my dorm room door came early the next morning, just after I’d gotten up.
    “Yeah?” I said, tugging my shirt the rest of the way over my head.
    Nathan peered inside. My skin prickled at the idea of him coming into this tight space, but I gave him the respectful nod I knew he expected. He looked calm enough. Probably he just wanted me to haul another load of gas and guns for him. He left the door ajar as he stepped inside, which reassured me further. I should have known better.
    “You’ve made yourself at home,” he said breezily, glancing at my sparse assortment of clothes hung on the wall hooks, the crate I was using as a bedside table with a couple books I’d unofficially borrowed from the neighborhood library.
    “Seems like we’re going to be here a while,” I said.
    “Hmmm,” he said, cocking his head. Then he lunged.
    His forearm socked me across the chest, elbow to the ribs, slamming me into the wall. I choked on my breath as the cool edge of his switchblade touched my throat. I pressed my head back, away from it, instinctively.
    Nathan leaned in, his eyes flat. My heart pounded. I had a few inches on him, and he was nearly as thin as I was—I probably could have thrown him off if it’d been a fair fight. If I hadn’t felt the bite of metal nicking my skin when I swallowed.
    “I hear you’ve been telling the troops it’s really you calling the shots,” he said, so close a fleck of spit hit my cheek.
    “That’s ridiculous,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. Technically I wasn’t even lying. I hadn’t said that in so many words. And if he was focused on that, that probably meant no one had spilled the details of what I’d orchestrated behind his back.
    “Why would I be telling them lies?” I hurried on. “Even if I wanted to, I’d know it’d get back to you. And I don’t want to be calling the shots.”
    “You keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, and you do what I say,” Nathan said as if he hadn’t heard a single word. “That’s your only job here. Michael’s hardly kept these cretins in line as it is.”
    “I haven’t said anything,” I protested, my voice hitching as the blade dug a little deeper. A droplet slid down my throat to my collarbone. “You’re in charge. They’re all yours. I don’t want them.” In that moment, that had never been more true.
    For a second I thought he was going to do it. His mouth twisted and his shoulders braced. I could already feel, with a chill washing through me, the way the knife would slice clean into my neck, the gush of blood, the shock of pain. Then he shifted back, just an inch.
    “Good,” he