Page 50 of The Compound

He dropped his hands, and Becca at once started spluttering and gasping, stepping backward, her hands clutching her throat. “You’re banished,” he said to Becca. “Now. This minute. Into the desert.”

She took in rattling breaths. “Let me get my things,” she rasped.

“Now,” he said.

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

“No,” he said, swiftly, and without room for argument.

“At least let me get her a coat,” I said. “For God’s sake, Tom, it’s freezing out there.”

He hesitated, then picked up one of his own jumpers and pulled it over Becca’s head, careful of her injured nose.

Her arm got stuck in the wrong hole, and he helped her, then fixed her hair with surprising gentleness.

She was shaking, breathing unsteadily. Tom glanced at Andrew, who was still deeply asleep; he looked paler than he had a few hours ago, and his head was moving on his pillow.

“You stay with him,” Tom said to me. “You might have to wake him up and give him more water.”

He put his arm around Becca’s shoulders and walked her out of the room. There was no time for a goodbye, though I wasn’t sure if she would have wanted one.

Now I was the only girl left. For all of our scheming, how depressing it was that Becca and I had been foiled by such a thing as brute strength.

I wondered if we were always doomed to fail, because they were strong, and we were weak.

Was this how it was always going to turn out?

If I stayed here, would I always be under the threat of their strength, the end to every argument, the solution to any problem?

Even dehydrated and weak, Tom had knocked me about like I was nothing.

Andrew, too, hadn’t hesitated to become a brute when he needed to.

But hadn’t I done the same, by helping Becca to keep the water hidden?

If I had their strength, would I not useit?

Andrew started to talk in his sleep, sounding distressed. I pressed his shoulder and said his name, as I had done a hundred times or more in the months that we had lived here. He wasn’t easy to wake, and I had to shake him gently before he opened his eyes.

“Lily,” he said. His voice was faint. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Andrew. How are you feeling?”

His eyes moved around, and he muttered something that I couldn’t understand.

I felt his forehead: he was burning up. “Lean forward a little,” I said.

He didn’t, so I cupped the back of his neck, lifting his head gently, and with my free hand took the bottle from his nightstand.

“Open your mouth,” I said. “Some more water and you’ll feel much better. ”

I fed him the water slowly. Swallowing seemed painful for him, and he closed his mouth after a minute or so. He put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, but when I got up, his eyes opened again. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to get you something for your fever.”

“Fever?” he asked, bewildered. “Where are the others?”

“Outside.”

“What, all of them?”

I wiped some of the sweat off his brow. “I’ll be back in a minute. Try and drink some more water, if you can.”

I went to a downstairs bathroom and got some ibuprofen. I drenched a towel with water, returning as quickly as I could. I glanced out the window, but there was nothing to see, only darkness.

Andrew had fallen asleep again, and it was more difficult to wake him this time.

“Oh, Lily,” he said, vaguely surprised. “Where’s Sam?”

“Open up,” I said. “I have something to make you feel better.”

He looked around, agitated. “Where’s Sam? He’s not in your bed.”

“Sam’s in the garden,” I said. “He wanted to check on the vegetables one more time before he went to sleep. Now, open up for me, Andrew, okay?” He opened his mouth. His tongue was white. I placed the ibuprofen on it and poured more water into his mouth. He fell asleep again shortly after.

I placed the wet towel on his forehead, and dribbled some water on his lips, which were still raw and bloody. The towel seemed to heat up in a very short space of time.

A noise. I looked up and found Tom. He sat heavily on the bed. He looked exhausted. “Well, she’s gone,” he said. I said nothing and wiped at the sweat gathering in the hollow of Andrew’s throat.

“How is he?”

I shrugged. Tom came over to look at him.

“Thanks for looking after him,” he said.

I turned my back to him.

“I forget, sometimes, how young you are, Lily. Well, look at you now. Final three.”

I kept my back to him, not saying a word.

He got into bed, and I continued to mop Andrew’s face, and waited for the fever to break.

I hated them both, but I didn’t want Andrew to die—I stayed awake as long as I could, waking him when I could to pour more water into his mouth.

I must have fallen asleep at some point, for I woke later, in my own bed, though I didn’t remember moving from Andrew’s side.

I didn’t wake of my own accord: it was the sound of the voice that pulled me from my sleep.

“Good morning,” it said. “Andrew has been temporarily removed from the compound in order to receive medical treatment. He has not been banished and will return as soon as is medically advisable.”

I thought I might have been dreaming, but Andrew’s bed was empty. Tom was lying on his bed atop the covers, the sunlight through the skylight shining on his scars and burns. He didn’t move, but I knew he was awake.