The Gender War (The Gender Game #4) by Bella Forrest (the beginning after the end read novel .TXT) 📕

“Nah,” Viggo said, waving his arm dismissively. “They’ve got this. Let’s ride.” He turned to Jay, who was still holding the gate in place. “We gotta leave—is it going to be a problem for you?”

“No,” Jay shouted back. “We’re good!”

I waved at Jay, then turned to follow Viggo. Within minutes we were mounted, helmeted, and riding Viggo’s motorcycle, heading down the open road toward the nearest homestead in the surrounding farmland. This was an information-gathering mission—to observe and talk to anyone we saw—but as we drove, it was hard not to appreciate the sun on my face. For a moment, it was easy to forget what was going on.

Our temporary peace was cut short when Viggo noticed people on the road ahead of us. He pulled over and killed the engine, taking off his helmet and dismounting the bike. A group of people were walking—no, trudging—down the road, their eyes tired and worried, their clothes torn and dirtied. Some of them carried bags or backpacks; one even clutched what seemed to be a soot-streaked painting, maybe some keepsake or family heirloom. Some of them had nothing.

“Hello,” Viggo greeted a few of them when they got closer. “Did your car break down?”

One of the men, whose short-cropped brown hair was singed at the edges, slowed to a stop in front of Viggo, and I left the bike leaning on the kickstand in order to move in closer, curious to hear what he had to say. He looked like hell—his face grim and covered with soot.

“No,” one of the men said, giving me a strange look. “We couldn’t even get to our cars. The fires… they were too bad. We were barely able to get out with our lives.” He paused, his voice getting tight. “My wife disappeared in the confusion. She and our daughter. I—I’m not sure where they are.”

“I’m so sorry,” Viggo said, his eyes wide. “Can you tell me more about the fires? Last I heard, emergency services were putting them out.”

The man bristled for a moment, took a deep breath, and wiped at his face, smearing the soot and ash around. “There were no emergency service people on the street. I know, because we walked for miles. As for the fires… Last I saw, nearly half the warehouse district was burning. It—uh—it was harvest season.”

Viggo nodded as if he understood what the man was saying. It took me a minute to figure it out. When I did, it was hard not to gasp. The warehouses would have been loaded with food—enough to last until the next harvest. That meant that a significant amount of the Patrians’ reserves had been taken out.

Which meant that people were going to starve this winter.

It didn’t end there, though. Another man, heavier-set than the first one, chimed in as well. “In my area they were getting volunteers together to go fight the fires—they were going door-to-door, picking people from their houses. We never saw anybody fighting fires, though. Later it got bad, and we had to leave, too. Some of those guys didn’t come home.”

“‘They’?” Viggo asked. “Who’s asking for volunteers from the community? The government must really have been hit hard.”

“The Matrian wardens,” the heavyset man replied. “They said they were here to help. I don’t know what good a bunch of women are going to be in putting out fires… Maybe that’s why they were trying to get guys to leave their families and help. I wouldn’t have, if they’d asked me.” He indicated a haggard-looking woman and a teenage boy holding back a few paces across the road. “We had to stick together. All we have now is each other.”

I turned away from the man, my stomach tightening up until it felt like a rock the size of my fist. I couldn’t listen to these stories anymore, so I moved away, back toward Viggo’s bike. He exchanged a few more words with the weary man, and then followed me.

“It’s getting bad, isn’t it?” I asked.

Viggo’s face was grim as he put on his helmet. “It’s getting worse,” he corrected.

I didn’t respond—there was no need, because he was right. I climbed back on the bike and wrapped my arms around his waist, probably a bit more tightly than was necessary. But I needed to feel his warm body against me as we rode off, carefully navigating through the few people walking away from the city, their eyes lit up in anger or downcast in hopelessness.

We interviewed dozens more people, all with similar stories about the fires, the bombings, fleeing for their lives. By the time we had turned the motorcycle toward home base, the sun was starting to set in the sky. We hadn’t learned much—it was clear from the refugees’ stories that most of them were still confused about what had happened as well. There were also rumors. Rumors that ranged from an attempted coup to some sort of apocalyptic cataclysm. One man even claimed it was aliens.

Strangely enough, nobody mentioned a Matrian element to the conflict at all. I wondered how that could be—did nobody suspect that the Matrians, not a terrorist cell, were behind the bombings?—until I realized that the Matrians’ own reputation was working for them. No one in Patrus suspected Matrus of anything—and I believed the reason for this was deeper than just male arrogance.

I remembered an adage I’d once read in an old Matrian history book during my orphanage days, spoken by some wise person from the distant past: “Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?” Matrus was supposed to be founded on peace. Otherwise, why had its founders moved to the other, much less conducive, side of the river in the first place? The pursuit of peace at all costs was the root of the nation’s very existence. And yet here Matrus was now, aping the very traits its founders had despised. In spite of