Authors: Jeannie Waudby
One of Us
Copyright © 2015 by Jeannie Waudby
All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by The Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset, BA11 1DS, United Kingdom,
www.doublecluck.com
.
First printed in the United States by Running Press Book Publishers, 2015.
Printed in the United States
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2015930722
E-book ISBN 978-0-7624-5820-2
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Digit on the right indicates the number of this printing
Cover images:
Seamless Plaid 0018 © AvanteGardeArt Group of People © Thinkstock/Rawpixel Ltd. Cover and interior design by T.L. Bonaddio Edited by Rachel Leyshon and Imogen Cooper Typography: Trade Gothic, Heavyweight, and Fairfield
Published by Running Press Teens An Imprint of Running Press Book Publishers A Member of the Perseus Books Group 2300 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, PA 19103â4371
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For
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PETE
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RORY
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KIRSTEN
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CARA
CONTENTS
I'
M NOT AFRAID
of spiders or snakes.
I'm not afraid of graveyards at night.
I'm not afraid of deep, dark water.
I'm not afraid of ghost stories or horror movies.
And stations? I make myself get on a train every day.
But I am afraid of the Brotherhood.
Normally you can see themâyou know who they are, with their scarlet-checked clothes. They stand out. But today, as people hurry through the sleet to Central Station under umbrellas and raincoats and scarves, I can't tell the difference between us and them.
I keep watch through the slanting snow, because how can you face a danger you can't see? A person who looks like any other person, but who secretly wants to kill you and everyone like you? I don't know why I'm thinking like this now, when I have to make this journey to school every day. What would the odds be, for me to be caught up in another bomb at Central Station?
Slowly the crowd funnels into the station. I look up at the sign looming over the door:
One City, Two Ways
. That's not how it is, though. Everyone knows this is a divided city. Under the cover of the doorway, umbrellas swish down and people pull rain hoods off and unzip coats. Now I can see everyone for who they are. Ordinary citizens, dressed in the usual dark
clothes we all wear these days. And the Brotherhood. Dotted through the crowd in their signature check.
I edge into the station just as three Brotherhood boys are pushing their way out. One boy crashes into me, his hands fending me off. For a second his dark eyes stare into my face. Then he says something sideways to his friend. They all laugh. What did Grandma used to say?
Never make eye contact with a Hood, K. It's like dealing with an angry dogâif you turn away, it won't attack you.
So I turn away.
“Do not abandon your luggage at any time. If you see unattended baggage, move aside and alert staff . . .”
I hate these announcements
. I shuffle into the station along with everyone else.
They make me jittery.
Steeling myself, I head toward the elevators that take us down to the tunnels.
Deep underground, the platform's already crowded, and a man elbows in front of me as he struggles to get two huge suitcases closer to the edge so he can be first on the train. Someone jumps on my foot, and I wince. It's a little boy pulling on his dad's hand. He's looped the strap of his backpack over his forehead like a headband. That makes me smile.
It's then that I see the bag on the bench, brown paper with string handles. As soon as I notice it, I look around for the owner. It's habit. But I can't see who it belongs to. That means it's aloneâ“unattended.” And the more I look at it, the less it seems like just a bag. Who left it there? The Brotherhood boys upstairs flash into my mind. Should I pick up the phone on the wall and report it?
As I move toward the phone, the little boy points
at the bench. “Daddy!” he calls. “The cupcakes!”
His dad turns, still holding his son's hand, and darts across to the bench. He grabs the bag, and as his eyes meet mine for a second he half-smiles sheepishly. I hear someone tut.
Warm wind heralds the train, which rushes out of the tunnel and comes to a screeching halt: “Watch the gap. Move right down inside the train cars . . .” The doors swoosh open, and the man with the suitcases starts heaving them on. I wait behind the boy and his father. The train's packed, like it always is at morning rush hour.
I could wait for the next one, but then I'll be late for school.
I put one foot on board.
A bone-shattering, chest-crushing
bang
lifts me into the air.
And everything slips away.
W
HEN
I
OPEN
my eyes I can't see or hear a thing. There's just a heavy, ringing silence and a terrible smell, a
fearful
smell, that hits the back of my nose. Smoke and something else underneath. I start coughing and my hand flies up to cover my face but hits a rough surface right in front of me. A wall? Where am I? I feel the panic rising, then stop myself.
Stay still. Take little breaths.
Something trickles down my face. Blood?
What happened . . .? There was a noise, a blast, and I fell . . . Don't know where I am, but I have to get out . . . Get out, K!
I struggle to my feet, but there's no room to stand. Something solid's above me, forcing me to crouch. I try to move back, but there's no space there either. I reach up and touch a sort of metal ceiling, bulging in toward the rough wall in front of me, or is it not a wall . . . is it . . . is it the platform? I reach above me, and there's a gap.
Watch the gap . . .
That's when I realize:
I'm under the train.
At any moment it could tip over and crush me. Metal slides against the back of my hand. It's moving!
Now I'm panicking and screaming, screaming for helpâI know I am, except I still can't hear or see in the darkness. My hands scrabble at the wall, at the platform edge, reaching up from underneath the train. There's smoke in my eyes, in my throat . . . The smell's in my mouth . . .
Please
. . . I can't move, I can't breathe. Every mouthful of air is a choking cough, bringing poison, not oxygen, into my body, and all at once I see it clearly:
I'm going to die.
Then a hand clasps mine. A warm, soft, human hand. Strong and safe.
I feel my own hand close around it. I am never letting go.
Another hand reaches down and clamps itself around my other wrist, and little by little I am lifted up, up, squeezing through the gap and onto the platform.
I fall forward, my face smacking against the concrete. My mouth fills with blood and ash, dust mingling with iron, choking me. My eyes are streaming in the gray smoke.
Whoever lifted me out is still holding me, hoisting me to my feet. A man. I still can't hear anything,
just the blood thumping in my ears. I clutch at his clothes but can't hold on: he's wearing something hard and slippery. Dim light now, and I can see the train is right in front of me, the doors buckled over the gap where I was thrown. That's what was moving above me. And there's the man with the two suitcases. But he's lying half in and half out of the carriage. His eyes are closed and his mouth is moving. There's a figure kneeling next to him. They're holding hands.