Resist (11 page)

We were warned about terrorists in training, and back then my mind filled with images of stocky, square-jawed youths wielding guns and throwing grenades. I didn’t picture anything as pitiable as this: a child being eased into death by a hollow-cheeked girl fighting for her own breath on a dirty, solar-powered respirator.

“I can radio the pod,” I say. I doubt Jude would help, but she’s a child, and I should try. It’s the least I can do after what I did to her home. Were her parents at The Grove? Were they killed?

“Touch any kind of radio and I’ll cut you,” Bea says.

I hold my hands in the air. “I understand,” I say.

She erupts, jumping up and pushing me. “How dare you? You don’t understand a thing!”

I stare at her and lean away. “My father died in the riots, too,” I say.

“It’s not the same thing. My parents were good. Your father was . . . he was . . .”

“He was an asshole,” I say, and she blinks. I pause. I don’t want to say something untrue. “But I
wish
I loved him more.”

Her eyes well with tears. “When people leave, you always wish you’d loved them more.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. And then she is sobbing and pressing her face against her arm to stifle the noise.

I’ve never been able to cry like this. My mother spent long days in bed, coughing and moaning, until one morning she was gone and the noise was replaced by silence. I cried only once—quietly and alone in my room. Why didn’t I honor her by mourning?

I delve back into my pack and pull out the radio. Bea looks up. “No,” she says, starting toward me again.

“If she doesn’t get to a hospital, you’ll be digging a grave.”

“They’ll kill her.”

“She’s dying anyway.” Bea chews on her lips.

I stand up and walk away.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“She could wake up and cry out while I’m making contact. I want them to think I’ve found the person I’m meant to be hunting.”

Bea doesn’t argue or ask any questions. “Her name is Jazz,” she says.

The rumble of the buggy’s engine can be heard when it’s still miles away. Bea pries each finger on Jazz’s hand from its grip on her arm. “You’ll be okay,” she says, almost like she believes it. She kisses Jazz lightly on the forehead, and stands up to gather her things. “What will you tell them?” she asks me.

“I found her alone and scared.” Jazz nods to show she’ll corroborate the lie. “Now find somewhere to hide and only come out when you hear the buggy leave,” I say.

Bea turns to Jazz. “You’re not as much of a brat as I thought you’d be,” she tells her, and laughs.

“Bye,” Jazz says. She chokes back her tears. And Bea doesn’t let herself cry either. She nods and backs away.

I watch her leave, then take Jazz out to the roadside where we sit shivering under the winking stars and sliver of a sickle moon. Her wounded leg is so bloated, I doubt they’ll be able to save it. Hopefully they’ll save her.

“Can you imagine what it must have been like to live out here before The Switch? So much space.” I am talking to myself more than to Jazz, who shuts her eyes. I hold her tighter. “People used to travel across the whole world. No one stayed in his own country. Now even Outlanders don’t get very far. We’re all trapped. Trapped in the pod or on this big island. Is there a difference?” Jazz reaches out, takes my thumb in her cold hand, and closes her eyes as the buggy trundles out of the shadows, its bright lights, like giant eyes, blinding.

I stand holding Jazz in my arms. The buggy slows and stops. Jude steps out and stands in front of the vehicle. With the lights behind him, he remains a silhouette in the darkness.

“Who’s that?” Jude growls. He is wearing loose-fitting trousers and an old sweater rather than his uniform and looks like a very ordinary man. A dad. “Where’s Quinn?”

“I haven’t seen him.” He wouldn’t have thought a RAT was worth the journey, so I lied when I radioed in: I told him I’d found Quinn.

“Then why the hell . . .” He stops, steps forward, and peers at Jazz. He sweeps her hair away from her face. “What am I meant to do with her?”

“She needs a doctor.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal.” He wheels around.

“I’m close to finding Quinn. And I want to take you up on your offer. I’ll become an auxiliary if it means I don’t have to kill anymore innocent people.”

Jude turns. “They weren’t all innocent,” he says, looking at Jazz, who he almost killed. “And anyway, why should I believe you?”

“I only lied about Quinn to help her. And I doubt I’ll find anyone else who needs saving,” I say, thinking of Bea.

He opens his arms. “Hand her over,” he says coolly, and without flinching, studies her leg.

“Is Niamh okay?” I ask.

“She’s still angry. Your sister has a good deal of your father in her,” he says. “You, though . . . you didn’t catch it.”

“Nope, and Quinn didn’t catch much of you either,” I say, in case he thinks that this spell of conscience and unexpected concern for his own son makes him some sort of hero. Jude stares, and Jazz squirms.

I step out of the glare of the headlights and into the shadows. “The drifters are vicious. Watch out for them,” Jude says on his way back to the buggy.

Carefully, he places Jazz in the rear seat and climbs behind the wheel. He reverses roughly over the rubble, and is off.

I return to the station. “Bea!” I call out. Within minutes she appears. She’s shivering. My heart lightens. I was worried she would have run off, and I don’t think I want to be alone out here anymore.

“Do you think she’ll live?” she asks.

“She has a chance,” I say.

The top buttons of her coat and shirt are open, exposing pointy collarbones and pale skin. I go to her, and she holds out her hand. “Thank you,” she says. I take her hand and shake it, and finally one corner of her mouth curls into a faint smile.

“I am glad you found us,” she says.

“Me, too,” I say.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

20

ALINA

Vanya orders us to finish eating our dinners—the troopers have everything under control. “But what if it’s the Ministry? They nuked The Grove. They could do the same here,” I say. Is it possible that the chatter in the room is masking the sound of zips and tank treads?

“I’m sure it’s nothing Maks can’t handle,” Terry says. He takes a spoonful of white powder from a bowl and sprinkles it over his steaming dessert, then pushes the platter towards my plate, but I’m too nervous to eat. Is nowhere safe? I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to run anymore; I want to stay in Sequoia and have it be home. Is that too much to ask?

I rub my face vigorously, to wake myself from pointless daydreaming, when the room stirs. Vanya stands and Terry climbs up onto the bench to get a better look. Then he hoots and dashes toward a growing crowd.

All at once, the hall is a volcano of cheers.

“Can’t I eat my grub in peace?” Maude complains, disinterestedly chomping.

“Come up on stage!” Vanya calls. The crowd edges forward and the first person to appear on the platform is Maks. He’s holding his pistol in one hand, a balaclava in the other. Vanya puts her hand to his chest.

A girl climbs up onto the stage after him, and when she turns to the side, it’s clear she’s at least six months pregnant. Yet she’s no older than fifteen. Her hair is lank and her clothes torn. She is still wearing a face mask, which Vanya rips off and throws aside.

“Jo!” someone at our table shouts.

“Welcome back!” Vanya says, and everyone claps. “And someone new. Welcome to you also.” Another figure, taller, mounts the stage. But it can’t be. I glance at Silas who, without even looking at me, nods. “Who are you?” Vanya asks.

“Quinn,” he says aloud. Everything around me goes fuzzy. Why is he here? And where’s Bea?

“And one more,” Vanya says, pulling the last visitor onto the stage. Is it Bea? I close my eyes. I can’t look.

I reach for the table as the room erupts in a round of riotous cheering.

“Open your damn eyes,” Silas says, shaking me. “He’s alive.” And when I see what he sees, I gasp.

Bea is missing, but Abel stands on stage. Abel is alive. He scans the room and our eyes meet. His mouth drops open. I hold up my hand in a half-wave and he shakes his head in disbelief. His face has the mottled yellow-and-purple look of someone who’s been beaten up, but he’s here. The Ministry didn’t kill him after all.

“I can’t believe it. He’s goddamn, bloody-well alive,” Silas says through his teeth.

“Yes,” I say. I’m smiling. For the first time in a long time, I’m happy, and I don’t care how ridiculous I seem.

And then I realize Maks is following Abel’s gaze. He looks at Abel, then at me. Abel and me. And although every one else in the room is cheering, Maks is frowning.

He is not very happy with Abel’s homecoming at all.

Without saying so, Silas and I decide to keep what we know about Abel to ourselves. Dorian, who I’d mentioned Abel to back at The Grove, doesn’t remember the connection. “At least he’s alive,” I whisper when we’re back in the cabin. Silas splashes his face with cold water.

“You say it like it’s a good thing,” he throws back. He’s right: we already knew Abel wasn’t Resistance and that he duped us, but we still don’t know why. “And you shouldn’t get your hopes up,” he adds.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“Just because he went missing and has turned up doesn’t mean he’s here because of you. You’re not to let your guard down again, Alina.”

I nod, embarrassed, and Silas pats me on the back awkwardly, lies down in his bunk, and pulls a blanket over himself. But Maude’s frantic. “If
Quinn’s
here, then where’s Bea?” she wants to know.

“We’ll find out in the morning,” I tell her, and reluctantly, she goes to bed.

My mind is racing; I can’t sleep. Not until I know what Abel’s up to, why Quinn’s here, or where Bea is. I lie awake listening to Maude and Bruce snore in unison. Dorian is in the bunk next to me. He turns over, mutters something, and restlessly kicks and coughs. Silas and Song are silent.

I throw my legs over the side of my bunk. The stone floor is biting cold. I put on my socks, my pants, and within seconds, I’m dressed and out the door.

The cabins, outbuildings, and main house are dark, but no sooner have I stepped onto the graveled pathway than a floodlight illuminates the area.

A girl carrying a gun confronts me. She doesn’t point the weapon, just blocks my way. “Where are you going?” she asks. She steps closer. “Oh, you’re one of the new ones. Someone should’ve told you that you’re supposed to stay in at night.”

“I didn’t know,” I say, trying to sound dense.

“Well, you do now,” she says.

“Where are Abel and Quinn?” I ask.

She glances at the main house. “Abel’s probably in his old room. I don’t know Quinn,” she says, and gestures at my cabin with her gun.

I walk back slowly, and when she heads in the opposite direction, I sprint toward the main house and slam my body against it. The floodlights go out, and I am in darkness.

I skirt along the edge of the house feeling for a way in, but every door is locked. I turn a corner and the guard is there, sitting on a bench reading an old paper book by torchlight. She looks up briefly, waves the torch this way and that, then returns to her reading. Another guard appears from a door behind her.

“That time already?” she says, slipping the book into her jacket and stretching.

“You can do my shift if you like,” the other one says. They laugh. “Any probs?”

“Pretty quiet. I found one of the newbies wandering around, but she went back to bed.”

“Which one?”

“The one Maks has his eye on. I wouldn’t like to be her.”

“Really? Oh, I would.” They laugh again and saunter toward the annex chatting. They activate the floodlight and the whole area is awash in light. I watch them go and try not to think about what it means that I’ve caught Maks’s notice.

The door the guard came through is open, and the guards are less than fifty feet away and making their way back. I hurry across the courtyard and almost break my neck tumbling through the open door and down a couple of uneven steps.

I scramble to my feet and scamper along a hallway to another door. It opens with a warning creak. I duck as I go through. Beyond it is a wider hallway with a series of doors on either side, and I creep along, examining the signs above them:
Dispensary—Research Lab 4—Research Lab 5—Screening—Library
. I scurry up a flight of stairs and find several doors with no signs. Surely these are the bedrooms.

I kneel and press my ear against the keyhole waiting for the sound of movement or a recognizable voice. The house remains wrapped in silence. I check the next door. Nothing. So I keep going, trying each door and waiting a few moments before moving on. By the time I’ve reached the end of the hallway, I’ve tried twenty doors. I stand with my back against the wall, feeling suddenly foolish. How did I think I’d find anyone?

I pick my way back down the hallway when I hear glass shattering. I stand rigid, waiting for lights to flash and an alarm to ring, then think better of it and sprint down the hallway and away. I round a corner and before I can stop, I yelp and clatter into someone running in the opposite direction. We both end up on the floor, but I jump up first and hold my fists ready. The person looks up and repositions his face mask.

“Quinn?”

“Alina?”

I pull him to his feet. “What are you doing in Sequoia?”

“Looking for you,” he whispers. He looks like he’s about to hug me, but changes his mind. “Jazz had a bad fall. We have to go and help her.”

“Jazz?” I can’t believe it. The Grove was falling in on itself when we left it, and Jazz had climbed into the trees covered in toxic foam.

“Yes,” he says hurriedly. Someone coughs in a room near us, and Quinn gestures with his hand for me to follow him. We tiptoe down the hallway and slink into a room.

He points to the floor where shards of glass glisten. “Be careful. I knocked the stool over and the water glass went flying.” The curtains have been drawn and the moon is barely illuminating the room through the clouds. A bed is tucked into the corner and next to it a stool is lying on its side. The window is wide open and a raking breeze makes the curtains flap and smack against the wall.