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He didn’t want to die.

“For God’s sake,” the man said. He took his finger off the trigger and hefted the rifle from Cassius’ hands. Cass tracked its arc; it landed well out of arm’s reach in the snow.

He didn’t hesitate. Cass spun on his belly and crawled towards it.

“Cassius,” his father called. His voice was calm.

Cass didn’t listen to him. Whatever this was, whether it was real or one of his silly games, he wouldn’t face it without a weapon.

But seconds later, something grabbed both his ankles. Cass was dragged back in the snow with a scream.

He turned over and kicked whoever was holding him. Now that he was on knees, he could get a good look at him. The assailant was white, about his father’s age; a big man, bald-headed and broad. He had the burnished skin of a farmer. Cass realised belatedly that he’d shot him; a bleeding groove in his cheek proved that. Cass didn’t recognise him, but that didn’t surprise him. This nameless town was more a pit stop than a home.

“Would you stop?” the man shouted, Midlands accent slurring with his anger. Cassius hadn’t stopped kicking, but he abruptly did now, when his father nodded at him. The assailant let go of Cassius’ ankles gladly and stood, muttering under his breath. “You owe me, Jones. More than we agreed.”

Her father put up a hand, eyes fixed on Cass. “Later, York.”

It was a momentary bulwark against this conversation, but it worked. The big man stalked away, still cursing.

Cass tucked his legs closer to himself, hands splayed in the snow. In the back of his mind, he knew what had happened. His father had hired someone. Not to kill him, not even to maim him. But to show him and Thaddeus the value in his training. In staying strong against all the world’s invisible dangers.

He wanted to be wrong and he hated that he wasn’t. Even at twelve he had already seen too much of the world to know Mr Jones was right. Curse that part of him that was still a child: he wanted his father to love him, but he was certain this was as close as he’d ever get.

When he looked up, his father had his arms crossed. Thaddeus stood with the knife slack in his hands.

“What was that?” Thaddeus asked. “I thought it was a fucking teras.”

Mr Jones ignored him. “You should have moved faster. Both of you. If that was teras, you’d be dead.”

With a little bit of bravery, and a little bit of sullen stupidity, Cassius muttered, “You were no help.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Mr Jones stalked forward. Before Cass had a chance to understand how greatly he’d overstepped, his father slapped him hard across the face. The sting was immediate. It blossomed over his days-old bruise from the last beating he’d taken.

Cassius shifted his gaze to Thaddeus. They locked eyes. His brother was the favourite, but it didn’t do much to stop Mr Jones’ anger. Not for the first time, he met his eye and urged him, hoped Thad could feel his urgency in his blood: Thaddeus had a knife, and a gun, and Mr Jones had his back turned, the rifle scattered somewhere in the snow. It would only take the right kind of will. The right kind of force.

For God’s sake, Thad, do it, he wanted to scream. Do it for us.

He said nothing. Cass bit his tongue so hard it started to bleed. He broke eye contact with Thad, and in his periphery, watched as his brother put the knife away, put the gun back in its holster.

“You really think you have the wit to survive this world, boy?” his father hissed, finger jabbing towards his face. “You think you have what it takes? My whole life has been teras. There’s not a human alive who remembers the world before. So you better believe I am doing this for you. For you to live! I won’t have you being a faggot. Hear me? Weak, fucking fairy.”

There was no mention of Thaddeus, but there never was. Cassius was the undesirable, the mistake. The boy who was too weak for a world like this.

Their father spat over his shoulder and sniffed. “Your mother’s scavenging. I need to fish. Boat’s leaving in an hour.”

And just like that, he was gone.

“Need help getting up?” Thaddeus asked. A test is in its own right.

Cassius rolled and got up. “I’m fine,” he lied. He wanted to cry. He wanted to yell that Thaddeus was meant to protect him; meant to realise the threat of their father and take him out.

And then where would we be? Dead, or dying. Another broken body to be eaten by monsters.

That is the last thought I have before I wake.

16

LESSON SIXTEEN