The Deepest Poison Read Free Page B

name for so long, the way one wears shabby clothes because of sentimentality and good fit.
    I gritted my teeth, trying to stave off petty thoughts and the wobbling of the world. I forced my legs to run, stiff and old as they were. Pops of gunfire lit up the edge of the camp ahead. I wondered if the entire front line had fallen, or if this had been a decisive spear’s point to penetrate the trenches to Five’s weakest side.
    No matter their goal, ours was simple: protect our patients.
    We entered the outer yard of the wards. The deluge had worsened in our short time away. Ahead of me, Miss Leander balked like a horse at gallop jerked to a sudden stop. She could hear a full symphony in off-­key agony.
    This time, I took her by the arm. “You can still shoot.” It was not a question.
    She nodded. Cold as the morning was, sweat coursed meandering rivers from her temple to jaw. “It’s been years, but yes. If I must.” She’d likely mutter apologies all the while.
    I disarmed a soldier who lay slack-­jawed in a puddle of expulsions. Most men in the yard were either unconscious or too weak to assist in our defense—­which was for the best, in a way. Many would have placed their guns to their own mouths rather than face capture by Wasters, who were known for their perverse brutality.
    Still unsteady, I stepped as carefully as I could around bodies on the ground. Something felt wrong. I patted my hip. My medician wand was gone! That absence could be fatal amidst a zyme contamination like this. I’d need to recover it promptly.
    The walls between the reception and moribund wards contained shrouded logs of dead men stacked like cordwood, five bodies high. All my years at the front, amidst this endless cycle of wars, and I had never seen the like.
    â€œMiss Leander, Miss Percival!” called one of the soldiers, breathing hard. I recognized him as one of our escorts to the water tanks. He motioned us behind a stack of crates.
    â€œFigure them Wasters’ll head this way. They’s executing any sick man they see on the ground. Easy pickings here.”
    â€œOh Lady,” murmured Miss Leander. “Mercy upon them.”
    As a medician, a mentor to several generations, I had never voiced my frustrations with faith. I knew undeniably of the Lady’s power. I felt its wonder every day. But her mercy—­that I doubted.
    I checked the chambers of my gun. “Prayers later, Miss Leander. Ready yourself.”
    A concussive blast shuddered through the camp. More pops, nearer. I raised the Gadsden .45 in my grip, my wrist steadied by the corner of a crate.
    The brown dungarees of a Waster flashed into view as the man ducked around a tent. I fired. Blood sprayed from his forearm—­a mere flesh wound. A pathetic shot, courtesy of my concussion.
    The soldier next to us fired his rifle. The Waster spun, a hole gaping through his chest, then flopped to earth.
    Gunfire pattered close by, and far away, and all around. More bombs boomed from the ridge. We waited. Tension ached through my ready arms. Hooves clattered into the yard.“Hold! I’m looking for Miss Percival!” called a familiar voice. Captain Yancy. At least he still looked to me, not Miss Leander.
    â€œHere!” I called.
    He rode closer. “The Wasters are in retreat, m’lady! They had a force of their best, but we held them off. It seems they expected most of us to be sick as mutts.”
    â€œYou medicians. You saved the camp, even if you can’t cure us all.” The raspy voice came from a soldier at our feet. Miserable as he was, he looked up with the most tender of smiles. “Miss Leander, she told us to stop eating and drinking right away. She sent away for help.”
    â€œNot fast enough. Not enough ,” said Miss Leander, voice breaking. She slipped the gun into her apron pocket, her gaze distant.
    Miss Leander, Miss Leander, all praise Miss Leander. I heard it