"There," Thomas announces, slamming a map down on the table. "That's it. A few hundred miles away, maybe. It's gotta be where they're headed."
Circled in red pen is a small grid of lines on the map, connected together in a close-knit pattern. I narrow my eyes in concentration, looking at the map as I chew on my thumbnail. Vince leans forward, his expression unreadable as he listens to the boy. The light in the centre of the table flickers ever so slightly, casting eerie shadows around the walls. I hear Newt let out a soft sigh of exhaustion, cupping his mug in both hands as he watches intently.
"Based on the railways, and the direction WICKED were travelling, that's it. It's where they're taking Minho," Thomas continues. "We take everyone who can fight; follow roads where we can, and we can make it back within a week."
Vince gapes at him incredulously. "A week? It took us six months to get here." He pauses to look back down at the map, shaking his head angrily. "We've got over a hundred kids here now. We can't just hang around forever, waiting for WICKED to find us. After what we just pulled, we're back on their radar! They're gonna be searching longer, harder, faster than before, and you just want to wander off to some random point on the map? I don't think so."
I stop chewing on my thumbnail. "I know why Minho wasn't there. It was those boys, the ones who were meant to be guarding the back door. No one was guarding it before we left."
Everyone looks towards me. Vince's eyes cloud over with anger, while Thomas and Newt nod slowly, Brenda and Fry exchanging anxious glances.
"No, you don't get to assume that, (y/n)!" Vince snaps. I don't flinch.
"Why not?" I retort, my voice rising. "Because you're afraid that it's true? I saw one of the boys disappear halfway through the mission, Vince! He just vanished! And the other one was so preoccupied that of course he wouldn't notice if one of the guards snuck around the back!"
Vince scoffs. "You're talking bullshit!"
"Hey!" Newt snaps, standing up. "That's enough! You don't get to talk to her that way, Vince. She has a bloody good point, and if you can't see that, then maybe you shouldn't lead with such a distrustful judgement!"
Vince sighs deeply, putting his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he mutters. He sighs once more. "I'm sorry, (y/n). I didn't mean to lash out. I just... I can't risk having the Right Arm fall apart because of one man. I know Minho means a lot to you, to all of you." He stops, looking around the room, before focusing his stare on Thomas. "But we can't risk it. I don't even know what's there."
"I do."
We all turn our heads in the direction of the deep, familiar voice. Jorge lingers by the doorway of the room, slowly sauntering out of the shadows with a slight smile. "It's been a few years, but, I've been there. The Last City, they called it."
"Who?" Fry asks.
"WICKED. It was their whole base of operations. If the Last City is still standing, then that's the last place you wanna go, hermano. It's the lion's den."
"It's nothing we haven't done before," Thomas argues quietly.
"With months of planning," Vince intervenes, the hint of anger laced in his tone. "And reliable information, the element of surprise. None of which we have anymore."
"Look, Vince, I've thought this through-"
"No! You haven't!" Vince erupts, suddenly angry again. "Last time we fought back, I lost everything! You remember that?" His voice quivers slightly, his expression growing solemn, haunted. I remember. The image of Vince cradling Mary's limp body pops into my mind, with her deep red blood spilling out onto the dusty desert floor.
Thomas looks down in shame, nodding defeatedly. Vince sighs before his expression softens.
"I know it's Minho. But you can't ask me to put those kids on the line for one man. I won't do it. They've suffered enough trauma to last them a lifetime, and so have you," he murmurs. "I don't want to lose any of you kids, and our best chance is in the Safe Haven."
Suddenly, a static, crackling noise interrupts Vince, muffled voices filling the air. I look behind me, to the old radio next to the wall, the sound growing louder as the words begin to clarify.
"This area's clear," a male's voice declares through the radio. "Head to the shore."
Shuck. It's the WICKED berg officers again.
"Get the lights!" Brenda orders, just as the distant sound of helicopter propellers ripples through the outside air. Thomas and Vince bolt out of the room, the others switching off torches and lamps in our room. I grab the overhead lamp, turning the switch so it's turned off. The sound of the generator buzzes, before we are plunged into complete darkness as the remaining lights go off.
"They're getting closer," Frypan mutters.
"Too close," I agree, grabbing onto the chair in front of me. I am surprised when I feel another pair of warm hands on the back of the seat, flinching when I put my fingers on top of theirs.
"Sorry!" I whisper, hastily retracting my hand.
"It's alright," Newt laughs under his breath, "but your hands are really cold, (y/n)."
I feel him grab onto my hand with both of his, gently wrapping his warm palms around mine. I blush in the dark, hoping the lights don't turn back on in that moment. His fingertips trace the top of my hand, sending tingles down my arm.
"I don't know what else we can do, guys," Brenda admits quietly. "That would be a different kind of dangerous if we went after Minho now."
I nod, looking outside of the window where the moonlight dances on the surface of the black waves. "I know," I mutter, a small frown growing on the corner of my lips. But we have to try.
"Well," Jorge sighs, "I think I'll have some of that Tequila left over. Anyone care to have another poker night?"
The tension from the past few hours almost immediately sheds off of our skin as we grin around the room at each other, reminiscing of that poker-and-drinks night we shared a few months ago after setting up our lives here...
It was about three weeks after Minho had been captured. Our moods low and spirits dejected, exhausted from the weeks of setting up a new temporary camp in which to stay safe from WICKED, Jorge and Brenda came up with a fabulous idea of introducing us to a card game - poker.
"You'll love it, guys, Jorge and I have been playing it since I was younger. He almost always wins, but I can tell when he's bluffing so I've gotten pretty good myself," Brenda explained, hooking her arm through mine. The gesture made me smile as I tightened my arm around hers.
"Bluffing?" Fry questioned.
"Lying," Brenda answered. "Jorge will explain the rules."
The rules seemed simple enough. Everyone starts the game with sets of cards, and someone deals you new cards, placing "bets" between different rounds, either matching or raising bets based on how good your cards are, or "folding" if your cards are bad. No one knows what cards you have other than yourself. The winner at the end of the game has the best set of cards and receives the prize - the bets that were placed throughout the game.
"Well, that seems not too bad," Newt remarked.
"Ah, hermano, you're saying that now... well, how about we make the game a little more... interesting," he smirked. He reached under the table and pulled out a large glass bottle filled with a rust orange liquid.
"What's that?" I asked, reading the side of the bottle which read 'Jose Cuervo.'
"This," Jorge stipulated while pouring the liquid into tiny glasses, "is Tequila. The drink from my homeland."
Brenda snorted. "Last time he brought out the Jose Cuervo, I ended up with my face in the toilet. Can't remember a thing from that night."
Jorge shot Brenda side eye. "Last I remember, Bren, you drank straight from the bottle. We won't be doing that today; we'll be shooting straights."
Shooting straights?
"I bet you've never been wasted before, huh?" Brenda asks me.
"W-Wasted?" I asked apprehensively.
"Drunk."
"Oh! Well, not that I remember..." I giggled while looking over to Newt, Fry and Thomas, who seemed equally as hesitant and naive as I do.
"Hey, if it takes the edge off," Thomas remarked, grabbing one of the tiny glasses filled to the brim with Tequila. Brenda picked up another, and they clinked glasses.
"Bottoms up," Jorge grinned.
We all watched as Brenda 'shot' her glass, throwing the liquid quickly down her throat in a swift motion, then squeezing her eyes shut. Thomas did the same, quickly coughing and wiping his mouth, shaking his head.
"Each person that folds, has to take a shot," Jorge stated. "And for very player that goes all in with their cards, the others must drink, and the stakes shall be raised..." he gets up from his chair, surveying the supplies in a little box at the edge of the room, pulling out more bottles of different alcohols, "with these."
We all began to laugh as we were passed our 'shots.' And so, the game began, with Jorge dealing. It escalated quicker with each round, getting more intense as the stakes were raised higher with the bets. Eventually, Fry was the first to fold. We all begin to clap and cheer him on as he had to take his shot, displaying an equally dissatisfied reaction as Thomas did, grimacing as the tequila passed down his throat. Fry was out.
We kept raising the stakes with every player. I had good cards, so I felt assured that I could place more bets and remain safe. Then, Thomas had to fold, taking yet another shot.
"Amateur," Brenda teased.
The game continued just as intensely as before, with only myself, Newt and Brenda remaining. A few times, I caught Newt's eye and began to laugh. The alcohol glistened at me from their little shot glasses, yet I was determined that I wasn't going to be the one to fold, still not even taken one shot.
"Well, Brenda?" Jorge asked. "Are you matching, raising or folding?"
She squinted at her cards, then dramatically put her head on the table. "I fold," she mumbled.
"What was that? Say again?" Jorge mused.
"I fold!" she announced loudly, taking the shot as easy as breathing. We all cheered and laughed, Newt and I looking to each other as I bit my lip anxiously as Jorge began to pour a drink in a large pint glass. He filled it with Tequila, another brown alcohol and some sort of fizzy liquid. The glass was tall and menacing.
"Loser drinks this."
And so, we continued to play. I matched the stakes. Newt matched. Then I had a new card. I tried not to display my disappointment on my face. Newt grabbed a card. We looked each other in the eyes. I raised my eyebrows. The tension was palpable, it could've been sliced with a knife.
"Well? Show your cards."
My heart hammered as I placed my cards gingerly on the table. Looking at Newt's cards, I put my face in my hands as I realised he'd won.
"Sorry, (y/n)," Newt smirked. "Guess I'm just too good."
Everyone erupted as Jorge slid the drink closer to me. Trying to force a grin away from my face as I anticipated what alcohol would be like, I took a deep breath and began to drink.
It burned the tip and back of my tongue, but I kept drinking. It made my face distort as I felt the fiery liquid falling down my throat, travelling down into my stomach as it settled. I got halfway through the glass when I began to slow down, shaking my head as my eyes watered and I stopped drinking, coughing loudly.
"Oh - my God!" I spluttered, wiping my mouth. "That's disgusting!"
"Here, I'll finish it," Newt said, grinning as he began to drink. His grin quickly slipped as he tasted the alcohol, finishing the glass in one swift motion and cringing.
The next few hours were messy, loud and extremely fun. We sang songs, danced altogether, exchanged hugs as the alcohol made its way through our bodies and caused us to stagger and giggle way too much. Our words slurred, our sentences didn't make sense, and everything was far too funny than it should've been. Newt and I hugged for longer than we had ever before - and when I tripped over my own foot and began to fall, he was the one to wrap his big hand around my waist and catch me from falling. I laughed as I clung to his body, bouncing up and down on my feet in a hyper, drunk, happy bubble of joy. It even made me forget about why we were there, at the warehouse, without Minho, which caused a strike of guilt to momentarily wash through my body.
The alcohol was numbing and beautiful. It was both relaxing and energising, which made the room spin and made my body float simultaneously. But not everyone was the same. Fry couldn't stop laughing, then fell asleep in his chair within minutes of downing another shot. Thomas started off loud and socially unaware, then turned a little sad, giving everyone long speeches individually about how much we meant to him and how he'd never be the same if he lost us, which was sweet but a bit of a downer. Brenda was almost of energetic as I was, doing shot after shot then wiggling her hips as she danced to no music. It was a wonder she woke up the next day! And then Newt, Newt was still just as caring, just as funny, but a lot more chatty and almost childish, giggling at anything he found amusing and slapping his knees anytime he found something hilarious.
The night was delightfully unique. It lasted until the sun came up, and we all stumbled to the seashore, throwing rocks into the water's surface as we watched the sun arise and promised that we'd do this all again with Minho.