"If you leak one more drop of rusty gray water on my boots, I swear to God I will personally melt you down into a frying pan," Jevan hissed, wiping a mixture of grease and stinging sweat from his eyes. The copper pipe of Sector 4’s primary filtration pump didn't care about his empty threats. It gave a wet, mocking splat, sending a jet of lukewarm, metallic-tasting water directly into his left cheek. "Unbelievable," Jevan muttered, spitting out a stray droplet that had landed on his lip. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper, and his tongue was practically glued to the roof of his mouth. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing past loose screws and copper wire, until he found what he was looking for: a heavily crushed, slightly lint-covered piece of synthetic mint bubblegum. He popped it into his mouth and chewed furiously. It was stale, hard as a pebble, and tasted vaguely like industrial detergent, but it was his only hope. As his jaw worked the gum into a sticky,

Jevan lay in the dirt, covered in soot, steam, and sand. The scooter’s engine let out one final, pathetic hiss of death, and then was silent. "Well," Jevan muttered to the sky, his voice raspy and thin. "We made it.""Define 'made it,'" Svara said, her voice dripping with dry, unadulterated venom. She was already on her feet, furiously brushing gray dust and bits of dried horseweed off her cargo pants. "Because if 'made it' means crashing a motorized trash can into a pile of dirt, ruining my only good pair of pants, and trapping us in a courtyard with a locked gate, then yes, Jevan. We absolutely nailed it."Jevan groaned, slowly rolling onto his side. Every muscle in his body felt like it had been run over by a steamroller, and then put through a blender. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, spitting out a mouthful of gritty sand. "Look, the gates are locked. Those raiders outside can’t get to us. Technically, this is a strategic victory.""Oh, really?" Svara pointed a finger towar

The blinding, white-hot magnesium glare of the homemade flashbomb burned straight through Jevan’s closed eyelids. He let out a strangled yelp, his vision instantly dissolving into a chaotic sea of dancing purple spots and screaming static. But years of dodging snapping drive-belts and exploding steam lines had trained his body to react before his brain could catch up. Hearing the frantic, heavy rustle of a stiff canvas trench coat rushing toward the exit, Jevan threw himself forward in a blind, desperate tackle."I got her!" he roared, his hands locking onto a bundle of crackling plastic and thick fabric. They collided with a heavy, air-leaving oof. The impact sent them both skidding across the dusty concrete floor, initiating a spectacular, highly wet catastrophe. Dozens of plastic intravenous saline bags, shoved hastily into the thief’s oversized pockets, surrendered to the pressure. They burst one after another in a rapid-fire chorus of wet pops, spraying cold, sterile saltwater