Warchild: Pawn (The Warchild Series) Read Free Page A

their homes, barring rear
entrances with rusted heaps that Grandfather calls refrigerators. Back when
people used electricity—I’ve only heard forbidden stories—they kept your food
cold, and I can only imagine what that luxury must have been like.
    The fearful shouting stopped, and
instead, it’s been replaced with screams of necessity, some begging for help,
some asking for an extra sheet of metal if anyone has it. Some are faster than
others, and they’re kind enough to help where it’s needed.
    I’ve asked Grandfather why we don’t
just leave the protection in place, so we wouldn’t have to go through this
maddening rush to safety. This makes complete sense to me. He says I’m probably
right, but it’s because of Hawkins. Hawkins thinks that constantly having that
extra layer of defense keeps everyone on edge, keeps them fearful and
unproductive. I understand the logic, but I would rather have the peace of
mind. If I were the General Chief, I would make everyone learn to work just as
hard with one eye looking over their shoulder.
    I find Brandon helping his father. He’s
holding a rubber tire at his side, and I can’t begin to guess how they plan to
use it. I grab his forearm, shout his name, and he spins around, surprised and
ready to fight for what’s his until he recognizes me.
    “Easy,” he says.
    “You have to come with me.”
    “Not right now, Caroline. I’m
helping—”
    “Hawkins said so.” I point with my chin
toward the upper valley. “Back up there.”
    His father, Marlon, steps away from
their wall, holding the hammer like a weapon. “I need him here.” Angry. Demanding.
    “Hawkins said—”
    “I don’t give a—”
    Brandon interrupts him, “Dad, I have
to.”
    “You have to help protect your
family.”
    Brandon shoves the old tire into his
father’s arms. “Here. We’re almost done. You’ll be fine without me,” he says,
and then to me, he adds, “Let me get my pack.”
    “Leave it. We don’t have time.”
    He pauses, studies me, and then pats
Marlon on the shoulder.
    We go back through the village, sprinting
past homes that may not be there much longer.
    Once we reach the outer edges of the
encampment, Brandon asks me, “You heard war drums?” His legs and lungs are
fresher than mine, and he has to ease back on his pace so that I can keep up.
    Between panting breaths, I manage to
say, “Yeah. Loud, like there were lots of them.”
    “That’s not good.”
    “Hawkins wants to know how many.”
    “How many drums?”
    “No,” I say, huffing, trying to get
my words out through my constricted chest. “How many blackcoats.”
    “Does he think—”
    “All of them,” I answer, because I
know what he’s going to ask. Does he think the whole DAV army is coming?
    Our encampment is on the northern
edge of the PRV. We’re the forward party, or whatever you want to call it. The
first line of defense, more or less. There are hundreds of miles to the east
and west that mark the border between our nations, but where we’re stationed,
it’s the easiest path down to the capitol of Warrenville. Grandfather says it
used to be called Roanoke back in the Olden Days.
    If the DAV really wants to ruin us,
if they want to invade and overtake the PRV, claiming it for their own, then
they’ll run right over us, down through the valleys and march through the
streets of the largest city we have remaining. There are a number of defense
points along the way, but I doubt they can withstand the brunt and brutal force
of the entire DAV army.
    Everyone has known this for decades,
maybe longer, and the only thing that has stopped them was the Peace Pact the
presidents signed after the last Great Invasion.
    The only question is, why has the
DAV decided to break it now?

CHAPTER ● THREE
    I ask Brandon what he thinks, if
he’s heard any rumors, as we reach the edge of the lake. The drums have
stopped, and it worries me. Without their massive, booming rhythm to pinpoint
their location,