Mikey rushes from the city center, his eyes bright with wonder. “Can you believe it, Gwen?” he asks, tugging my hand. “There’s so many of them.”
He’s right. There must be a hundred or more boys. The older boys tote peculiar gadgets on tool belts while the littler children do simpler tasks.
Two boys burst from an adjacent tunnel, not unlike the one we’ve just traveled. Sweat laces their brows while they gasp for breath, as if they’ve just outrun a monster or, worse yet, a Marauder. They drop their rucksacks to the ground and grip their hands awkwardly in what appears to be a secret handshake.
“Scavengers,” Pete whispers, leaning in close to me. “That’s Pickpocket in the waistcoat and Pyro in the jacket. Judging by their rucksacks, they’ve been out for a few days, scavenging beyond Everland’s borders.”
Smaller boys notice their arrival and surround them, mimicking the hand gestures and giddy with excitement. Pyro hefts the bulging rucksacks over his muscular shoulders and heads toward a building with STOCK ROOM scribbled in red paint on the piece of wood. The smaller boys squeal with delight as Pickpocket reaches into his pockets and hands out brightly colored marbles.
“Pickpocket!” His name echoes off the stone and concrete walls, drawing the attention of every boy. Another boy, with shoulder-length hair as black as ebony, storms from the stock room. He tosses a lit cigarette into the water at the base of the fountain as he picks up his pace, shoving past Pyro and sprinting toward Pickpocket.
“Uh-oh,” Pete says. “This can’t be good.”
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but Jack’s the last person you want to piss off around here,” Pete says, starting toward the boys.
Bella watches with wide eyes from her perch, unmoving. Scout leans against the fountain, arms folded and head shaking.
Pickpocket’s smile fades as the little boys scatter.
“Thief!” Jack says before punching Pickpocket square in the jaw.
Pickpocket stumbles back, gripping his chin in his hand. Blood drips from a cut on his chin, leaving a crimson trail on his dark bronze skin. Shock fades to anger on his face. It only takes a second before Pickpocket tackles Jack and they are rolling on the floor, grunting and throwing punches. Pyro drops the rucksacks and attempts to pull Pickpocket off of Jack.
“Cool it, you two!” Pete yells as he bolts toward the boys.
Jack swings a fist and Pickpocket ducks. Pyro doesn’t see the punch coming until Jack’s fist connects with his nose, sending a gush of blood down his mouth and chin.
“Bloody idiot!” Pyro growls, holding his nose.
The altercation takes all of five seconds, but in that short time all three of the boys are bleeding.
Mikey grips my hand tightly as I follow behind at a distance.
“Enough!” Pete yells, trying to wrench Jack from Pickpocket.
Older kids join in the brawl, trying to pry the seething Lost Kids off one another. It eventually takes four boys to separate Pickpocket and Jack.
Pete breathes heavily as he stands between them. “The next person who throws a punch is banished from the Lost City!”
Jack wrests free from the two boys holding him back. His lip is split. He wipes at it with the back of his hand, inspects the bloodred streak, and spits on the ground. He points a finger at Pickpocket. “You stole an extra ration, Pickpocket,” he growls. “The punishment for theft is three days in the stockade.”
Pickpocket rubs his jaw, the open gash marking where Jack’s fist made contact. “I took what I was allotted. Two sets of rations for each day I was gone.”
“You left midday the day before last. You should’ve only had three rations!” Jack juts a finger in Pickpocket’s chest.
Pickpocket swipes Jack’s hand from him. “You’re kidding me? And what were we supposed to eat today? It’s nearly suppertime as it is.”
“And with all of the running we do, it isn’t enough,” Pyro interjects, wiping blood off his face with a handkerchief.
“Oh, give me a break. We all know you Scavengers eat more than your share of the plunder while you’re out. If I were in charge, none of you would receive rations!”
“And that’s exactly why you are only second-in-command. If you were leader, we’d all starve,” Pickpocket says through gritted teeth. He backs up and throws his hands out flippantly. “Checks and balances, Jack. You”—he points at the dark-haired boy—“need to be kept in check.”
Jack balls his hand and lifts it, ready to pummel the boy.
“I said enough!” Pete yells. “I’m in charge. I make the rules. If any of you have a problem with them, you can take it up with me.”
Jack lifts his hands as if in surrender and takes a step back. “You’re the boss.”
“Glad we have an understanding,” Pete says, glaring at Jack as if challenging him to argue. Jack says nothing and instead heads toward a gathering of boys congregated by the statue in the city’s center.