Enemy of Gideon (11 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

S
leep becomes a mist for me, an elusive thief on the run. I fight to make myself comfortable, but I only manage three or four hours of sleep on the nights leading up to my meeting with Petra. This makes my body weary, and the school days longer until finally, I cough and sneeze.

I awake the morning of my visitation day with a high fever. Mom insists I stay home from school and rest.

“I’m supposed to go see Petra this afternoon,” I say, my throat burning with every word.

Mom sits on the edge of my bed. “Rest, bug. We’ll see how you feel later on today.”

She acts as if I mentioned wanting to meet a friend or study partner. Her sorrow at the mention of Petra’s name is missing. She doesn’t cry at night anymore while I toss and turn.
What did they do to her?

“I want you to come and see her with me,” I say.

She shakes her head, her expression blank. “There’s no need.”

In that moment, I make the decision to reveal to her all of my secrets. I’ll tell her everything about the Bible and the believers. I’ll even make Arkin take her to the outskirts. Of course, I’ll do all of this only if Petra escapes. If Mom can see for herself the truth about the believers, she will come to her senses again. Otherwise, she’ll remain brainwashed by her new “friend,” thinking Petra deserves her punishment for the good of Gideon.

Mom leaves the room. Her purposeful steps fade across the hardwood floor as she exits the apartment for work.

I lay back on my pillow, the fever blurring my thoughts. I kick the blankets from my hot legs and close my eyes for more sleep. My thoughts race while I count down to my meeting with Petra, my one chance to give her the wiping device. Taking Arkin’s advice, I prayed every night since my visit to Philippi, asking God for a way to transport the chip and then transfer it to Petra. Still, an idea hasn’t come. I can’t hide it in my sleeve, and reaching into my shoe or pocket will be too obvious.

My throat itches, throwing me into a severe coughing fit. I sit up in the bed and cough hard into my balled fist. My face burns so hot, it might catch on fire.

Why, God? Why do I have to be sick today?
I pray.
If you’re real, why are you making this so much more complicated? I thought you were on our side.

After two minutes of peace and relief, yet another coughing fit shakes my body.
How will I ever convince Mom I’m well enough to visit Petra? And how will I speak to Petra if I keep coughing like a dying dog?

Then, out of nowhere, an idea blooms in my mind. 

“Of course,” I say, staring at my balled up fist. I open it and look at my palm.

I will have a coughing fit, the perfect cover. The device will be tucked away in my mouth. Then I will cough it into my hand. I’ll be overly dramatic by rising from my chair and hunching over. Petra will naturally come over to check on me. If I pretend to collapse, I can slip it into Petra’s hand without the guards being the wiser.

But what if this thing isn’t waterproof? My saliva might disable it.

I have to find out, but how? I can’t test it myself. Then I’d risk frying it before I even have the chance to come up with an alternate plan. Does Arkin know? Or will I have to relay a message to Josiah? I doubt he even has the time to answer before my meeting with Petra.

I stare at my wristband. I can try to communicate with Arkin on it, but I never have before. I’ve been careful not to lead CE to him. Now that Mom is behaving so strangely, I’m glad I used caution. With Code Enforcement watching my family, they might suspect anyone we communicate with as a potential enemy.

Overcome with dizziness, I settle back into my bed. My thoughts merge and fade, becoming incomprehensible. A shiver passes up my back, so I pull the blankets up over my shoulders. My eyelids settle down, transporting me into a haze of bizarre dreams featuring masked strangers and long, dark tunnels.

After what feels like days, knocking brings me back to the surface of my consciousness. A muffled, male voice calls me. My head pounds when I sit up, but the fever is gone and my concentration is back. With my stomach aching for food, I ease myself on to my feet and stumble to the front door. Arkin stands behind it. His brow furrows and eyes widen at me.

“Raissa! Are you sick?” He steps into the apartment.

“I had a fever. It’s gone now,” I say, closing the door.

“Go sit down. Have you had anything to eat?”

“Not yet. I just woke up,” I say. Panic rises inside of me. “What time is it? Is school over?”

“It’s eleven. When I saw you weren’t in class, I thought something might be wrong, so I left the first chance I got.”

I settle down on the sofa. “You can get into serious trouble for skipping.”

He rummages through the kitchen cabinets, pulling out food. “It’s a couple of hours of citizen service. I can handle planting flowers or picking up trash.”

A moment later, he enters the living room with a plate of crackers smeared with peanut butter and a cup of water.

“Eat up. You need your energy,” he says, sitting beside me.

I thank him, gobble up the crackers, and drink every last drop of water.

“Is the
gift
you gave me waterproof?” I ask, staring hard into his eyes as if doing so would somehow transfer my thoughts into his head.

“The gift? The gift,” he says, translating my term for the wiping device. “I don’t know.”

He frowns and furrows his brow, so I lean into his ear and whisper into my cupped hands about my idea for how to give the device to Petra. He pulls back and nods.

“That’s a great idea. I don’t see why it wouldn’t work,” he says.

“But do you know for sure? Can we find out?”

“I’m not sure there’s enough time,” he says. “This is the only idea you have?”

I nod.

“Then it will work,” he says with full confidence.

“How do you know?”

“Just trust me.”

“But what about being sick?” I ask. “I don’t know if my mom will let me go.”

He put a finger on my lips. “You’re worrying too much about this. Have faith. It’s going to turn out okay.”

“I don’t want it to turn out
okay
. I need this to work!”

To my surprise, he wraps his arms around me and brings my head to his shoulder.

“Have faith,” he whispers.

I close my eyes and inhale his cologne. His scent
and gentle embrace bring me some comfort. Usually, his touch makes me nervous and self-conscious, but an intense fear surpasses all of those feelings, leaving me with a crushing dread that all we’ve planned and hoped for will be lost by the day’s end.

►▼◄

Arkin remains with me all afternoon, preparing snacks for me and griping about the vain and frivolous issues the kids at school obsess over. He makes every attempt to distract me from my worries. Around three o’clock, Mom communicates that she has to work a second shift. An hour later, Arkin heads upstairs. Feverish and coughing, I leave the apartment building inhibited only by my fears. The cold air invigorates my pounding head and makes my breathing easier. With each step, my heart pounds harder and harder.

The wiping device tastes bitter and cold when I pop it into my mouth one block from CE headquarters. I force it between my lower gums and cheek on the right side. It fits comfortably, small enough to be unnoticeable during a conversation. I pray the device will work when Petra attempts to escape in a few hours at nine-fifteen.

My thoughts meander to Petra’s condition, how they bruised her face before. Will she look worse this time?
She doesn’t deserve to be treated this way.
My fists ball up and my teeth grit with the thought, motivating my feet to a quicker pace. Petra will escape. She will because she deserves to escape. She deserves to be free.

Inside the building, I pass through security with ease, and an officer escorts me up to the white room. When I enter it, I follow my first instinct and remain standing to wait for Petra.

The door opens, and she steps in, guided by an officer.
The handcuffs! I forgot!
Petra’s hands were cuffed in front of her during our last meeting, and they are this time too. That could make the transfer more difficult.

She smiles. “They let you come back.”

The bruising and swelling of her injured eye has almost disappeared. Even still, her cheeks are sunken, and darkness has spread under both eyes.

I hug her. “Are they not feeding you?”

“Why are you worried about me? Look at you,” she says, stepping back. “Are you sick?”

“I had to stay home from school today,” I say, intentionally remaining on my feet.

“Where’s Mom?” she asks, hurt bleeding through her tone.

“She thinks …” The right words don’t come, but understanding crosses her face.

“I see.”

“I don’t have much time,” I say, my heart pounding in my ears.

I cough into my fist as I planned to. At first, I fake the cough, but it soon triggers a real coughing fit. I bend over and cough into my fist again, causing the device to slide on to my tongue. Then it flies into my palm.

“Rais, are you okay?” She steps closer but not close enough.

I buckle over, my face burning from the coughs. Then her cuffed hands land across my ribs as if she wants to try to stop me from falling forward. I switch hands, coughing into the other and placing the hand with the device on her hand. Petra turns her own hand, and the device leaves my palm.

Does she have it?
The coughs subside. Still bent over, I search the white floor. I would have heard it land on the hard, white tile. There’s nothing around our feet. I straighten up, and Petra steps back with her left hand clasping her right balled up fist. She has it.

I clear my throat.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“That’s been happening all day.”

“I’ll pray for it to pass,” she says.

I nod. I can tell she means, “I’ll pray for this escape to work.”

“I don’t know how to manage without you at home,” I say, weak and tired from the virus and the events of the past several weeks.

“You’ll be fine. Mom will be fine.”

“We’re never fine without you.”

Tears well up in her eyes. “Promise me you’ll take care of her. Don’t leave her.”

I turn from my sister’s intense stare.
She’s saying good-bye.
This could be the last time I ever see her.
I heave in a breath. “I promise.”

She lifts her hands into the air and steps toward me. We embrace, and her arms bring me a moment’s peace.

“I love you, bug,” she whispers through a heavy sob.

I burst into tears and clutch my sister. If I don’t let go, the moment might not end.

►▼◄

With chilly air chapping my tear-stained cheeks, I run home at full speed down the streets of Gideon. The pedestrians pressed on, unconcerned as I dodge them. They carry out their early evening routines without any worries about enemies, death sentenc
es, or escape plans. Their struggles don’t come close to what I’m facing with each new day.
How I long to be back in the blissful ignorance of citizen life!
I resent all of them now, and I hate the Code and all of its demands and injustices. My emotions tear at me like the fangs of a rabid dog. One minute, I hate the enemies for bringing Petra into their world. In the next, I hate Gideon and all it stands for.

I climb the never-ending staircases up to Arkin’s apartment and rap on the door. Mr. Pettigrew opens it with a smile which fades when he realizes I’m not over for a friendly chat. He guides me into the living room and calls Arkin in.

“Raissa!” Arkin hurries to the sofa where I lay panting and grabs my hands. “Are you okay? You’re freezing.”

“I’ll get a blanket,” Mr. Pettigrew says, leaving the living room.

I catch my breath. “I did it. It’s done.”

He nods. “Now we wait.”

“When will we know?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he whispers. “Code 73.”

I nod and remember. Code 73 means a prisoner has escaped. The last time it occurred I was a fifth grader, and all of the schools went into lock-down.
Code 73
with a photo of the fugitive appeared on our wristbands. In the morning, when CE tries to carry out Petra’s sentence, they will find her missing from the holding floor. By then, though, she’ll be well into the outskirts, safe and sound.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Stay for dinner. You need more than crackers to get your strength back.”

I nod, grateful for the invitation. The delicious aroma wafting in from the kitchen reminds me of my empty stomach.

Mrs. Pettigrew enters the apartment in time for dinner. I don’t try to be polite. My appetite returns full force, and I eat my fill and then some. Arkin’s fake parents smile at my clean plate.