Page 90 of Beehive
Dust motes spun in the meager light.
Thomas’s breathing was slow but steady. I sat beside him, one hand still on his arm, the other resting on my knee. This was a waiting game now—waiting for him to gather enough strength to move, waiting for my mind to come up with a plan to slip through Soviet patrols, waiting for nightfall perhaps, when we might move under the cover of darkness.
“Will,” Thomas muttered, pulling me from my anxious thoughts.
“Yeah?” I leaned in.
His voice was weak, but his eyes held a gentle intensity. “You saved my life.”
I chuckled awkwardly. I wasn’t the one who saved people. That was Thomas. His praise felt like an ill-fitting coat.
“Okay,” was all I could manage in reply.
His gaze sharpened. “Seriously, she would’ve killed me. I remember now. I remember it all. You saved meagain. That’s the second time.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. I wasn’t keeping score; but I supposed he was right. When he’d been captured by the Nazis, I’d insisted on being part of the team to rescue him. No force on Earth could’ve stopped me. Earlier, when Visla was pulling her trigger, I acted on instinct, on the basest of needs to keep my family alive. I didn’t do it for praise or to be known as anyone’s savior. I did it because Thomas was everything to me.
I couldn’t let him die. Not then. Not now. Not ever.
“I love you,” he said, then closed his eyes. “You’re my anchor, Will.”
My throat tightened again. Hearing that, after everything, hit me hard. I wanted to pull him close, to hold him until the fear ebbed away, but I couldn’t risk moving him too much, not yet. SoI just bent forward, pressed my forehead to his good shoulder, closed my eyes, and tried to stop the tears from falling.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured. “I promise.”
32
Will
Time slipped through our fingers. It was later in the day.
I reached for the bread, broke off a small piece.
“Try to eat,” I said. “It’s not fresh, but it’s something.”
Thomas grimaced when I held it to his lips but managed to take a small bite. He chewed slowly, as if his jaw hurt, but he got it down. I helped him with another sip of water. His eyes followed my every movement, as if reassuring himself I was real, that I hadn’t abandoned him. The trust in his gaze humbled me—and warmed my soul.
“Tonight,” I said, setting the cup aside, “if you’re strong enough, we’ll try to move. The streets will be quieter after curfew, and if we’re lucky, we can slip past the patrols. We just need to reach one of the western zones.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “I can do it.”
I admired his courage but worried it was false bravado. He looked so pale, and each breath seemed an effort. Still, we had no choice. He couldn’t walk through the streets unassisted. I’d have to support him, hope his legs could bear some of his weight.Maybe I could fashion a sling or find a cane, something to help him move faster.
For now, rest was his best medicine.
“Sleep a bit more,” I said, brushing my fingers over his brow. His skin felt a bit cooler, or maybe that was wishful thinking. “I’ll keep watch.”
“You need rest, too,” he said, always thinking of me. Typical Thomas.
I mustered a smile. “I will. I just need to check a few things first.”
I waited until he slept soundly before leaving.
We couldn’t stay in that godforsaken ruin without supplies. Thomas’s wound would fester if I didn’t find something, anything, to help him. Beyond that, we needed an escape route—a way to get past the Soviet patrols and reach the American sector where we could hand over the film.
“Hold on,” I whispered to his sleeping form, then turned and slipped into the hallway.
The building was silent except for the drip of water from a broken pipe downstairs. It was another moonless night, dark as pitch. The trek from our top-level perch would’ve been treacherous had I not memorized the path: two flights down, then a left turn through a corridor whose plaster walls were scorched black.
