Resist (27 page)
Authors: sarah crossan
“No,” Bea says, and blocks my brother from view. “It’s not okay for him to lose his mother.” And she should know. I should know, too.
I kiss Troy and my mother turns her cheek toward me, so I can kiss her, too. But I can’t. I step away.
An explosion booms through the pod and the ward of the hospital. Bea takes my hand. “We’ve done all we can,” she says.
“I just . . .” Words stopper up my throat.
“She knows you love her,” Bea says.
My mother is sniffling. Maybe she loves me, too. I take one last look at Troy, and turn around.
We have to go. There’s a war on, and we’re needed.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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The bottom of the tower is being pummeled from outside and the door has a sizeable dent in it. The gunfire makes my teeth vibrate. Shots are fired and the thumbprint panel on the wall sizzles and sparks. “They’re almost through,” Silas says.
“We only kill if we have to,” Alina says. Silas looks at her warily.
“We
have
to,” I say. I sound sure. I don’t feel it.
We reload our rifles and crouch beside the door. It’s a pack of them and three of us. In place of fear, impatience streams through me—I want us to have won already.
The locks are bombarded with bullets, the door crashes inward and with it, a band of Sequoians. They charge the spiral staircase, not bothering to check behind them and giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to unleash a round of ammo. Shots ricochet through the tower and blood flecks my face. I keep firing. Better to shoot than to think.
Many of the rebels fall backward down the stairs, their limp bodies cracking against the floor. It’s hard to tell in the dimly lit tower which of them are dead and which injured, but they’re all young. They’re as young as I am.
Silas and Alina go to the pile of groaning bodies to collect the guns. One boy lying on a low step clings to his rifle, and as I make a grab for it, he tries to kick me with both feet. I dodge and use my own rifle to jab one of his legs. He howls and releases his gun. I seize it and jump over him to get to two others, but they’re quite still, their eyes glinting. I look away; the last thing I want is to see their eyes.
“Ronan!” Alina calls. I join her and Silas at the door. The enemy has overpowered our inexperienced army and charge toward the door to Recycling Station East. Our soldiers are either lying dead or with their hands behind their heads, their faces in the dirt. Now I know Jude was right; you can’t train an army in weeks.
Even with my mask on I can taste the grit in the air. What now?
Before I can decide, Silas and Alina are gone, sprinting toward the station. I try to catch them, but they’re too quick. They leap over the station’s sandbags, use them for cover, and begin firing. I drop next to them and do the same.
Half the rebels trying to get through the door collapse under our gunfire. The rest turn their car door shields around trying protect themselves. But the doors aren’t bulletproof and within a minute we’ve taken down all but a few. It’s easier than it should be.
Those still alive abandon the tower and make a run for it. I watch them through my scope, but I can’t get a good shot, and they escape.
“They’re heading for the south station,” Silas says. “Caffrey said it was the control tower.”
“Damn!” I say. “If that goes down . . .” I don’t need to finish. Alina and Silas zoom away again. Anyone would think
they’d
been training with the Special Forces. I follow, but no sooner are we away than a rebel with a thick neck and tattoos down each arm is barring our route. He isn’t wearing a helmet nor carrying any kind of shield. And he has an assault rifle trained at us. The others all had simple rifles. We stop running. We haven’t got a choice.
“Drop the guns,” he growls.
“Maks?” Alina says. Her voice quivers. But the only thing that scares me is the fact that he’s stopping us getting to the south station.
“Guns down, hands up,” he repeats, and we throw our guns to the ground and put our hands in the air. “On your knees.”
“Get on with it,” Alina says. I can feel her shaking. I’d grip her hand, but I have a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate it. And neither would this thug.
“Where are the others?” Maks asks. I look at Silas, not sure who he means.
“They’re safe,” he says.
“They won’t be when I find them,” Maks says.
“I should’ve killed you in your sleep,” Alina says, acting more like herself. She spits at his feet. Maks laughs.
The zip fires and showers us in small rocks and shards of metal. We shrink from the shrapnel and Maks is thrown to his knees, his gun knocked from his hands. It gives me just enough time to retrieve my own and aim it at him. He puts his hands up and grins. Silas and Alina snatch up their guns, too, but they don’t shoot him, so neither do I, though one bullet is all it would take.
“You’d rather fight alongside the Ministry than fellow rebels,” he sneers at Silas and Alina.
“Thousands of innocent people live in the pod. You’re lunatics,” I tell him.
Alina approaches Maks and his chest puffs out. She rams her gun against it. She pauses, and I think she’s about to say something, but without warning, she pulls the trigger.
Maks stares at Alina in disbelief and falls forward. His face hits the clay and his green jacket darkens where the blood soaks through.
Alina looks at me. “He would have killed us.” She doesn’t have to explain; I should have done it for her.
“The south station,” I remind them, and we take off, leaving Maks to bleed into the earth.
We squat behind the sandbags again, scanning the battlefield teeming with bodies and soldiers for a safe way into the station. “Straight through,” Silas says. Alina nods in agreement as one of our tanks grinds past.
It fires and hits the zip. Shrapnel showers down and both Sequoians and Ministry soldiers are injured.
Everything stops, giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to get to the tank. The hatch opens and a figure appears, lifting the visor on his helmet. It’s Jude. He shouts, but over the thunder of engines and distance gunfire, it’s impossible to tell what he wants.
And then a single gunshot rattles the air and Jude reels like a spinning top. He falls from the tank. I turn to see Maks on his elbows holding his gun, smiling. Silas and Alina flog him with a round of ammunition. This time he stays down.
But Jude is down, too. A soldier is next to him. “Medic!” he shouts, and I run to them. I pull Jude’s radio from his inside pocket. “General Caffrey has been shot. Send a stretcher.” No one responds. Just static.
Silas and Alina are next to me. Neither of them tries to help, and I don’t bother appealing to them. I wrench off my jacket, and place it beneath Jude’s head.
“Is he dead?” Alina asks.
“He’s got a pulse,” the soldier says.
Jude opens his eyes, and I take a relieved breath. “It’s too late,” he croaks. “They’re at the south station. Get the people out of the pod. Get them all out.” He pulls at his collar. He’s been hit in the only unprotected place—his neck. I rip the arm from my shirt, scrunch it into a ball and press it against the wound. He can’t die. We need him.
“There’s no time to evacuate so many people,” I tell him.
“The south station,” Silas says coldly. He isn’t looking at Jude. He doesn’t know what Jude has become or that he’s spent these last few weeks protecting the Resistance.
“Go,” I say, and they are gone, as is the soldier who clambers through the tank’s hatch and rolls away. Sequoia’s zip aims for the tank, barely missing it.
Within a minute the piece of my shirt against Jude’s neck is soaked through with blood. My stomach clenches. I try appealing to whoever is on the other end of the radio again. But I may as well be talking to myself.
Jude fingers his face mask. I increase the density of oxygen, for all the good it will do.
“What now?” I ask, hoping he knows how to save himself.
He coughs. “You seem capable, Ronan. You tell me.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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The blasts outside have covered the pod in a film of dust, so it’s pretty much impossible to see what’s going on. And Zone One is a mess. Alarms are ringing in every Premium building as auxiliaries loot them. There are bodies everywhere. No one’s safe, and the Ministry is visibly absent.
You’ve got to wonder if this is a bit like The Switch—people so hungry for air they’d do anything to hang on a bit longer. And in the end, they all died anyway.
I have Jazz on my back, and Bea is holding Lennon and Keane’s hands. We are on our way to the border. A figure rushes at me, and I hold tightly to my tank. I’m about to lash out, when I realize it’s Gideon. And he’s carrying a massive backpack. “I broke into the biosphere. Got bulbs, seeds, and a few cuttings: everything we need,” he says. He eyes Lennon and Keane.
“My brothers,” I say. “Where’s everyone else?”
“They went on ahead.”
We turn into Border Boulevard and stop short. A group of men with air tanks and broken bottles sees us and charges. “Keep back!” Gideon says, waving a kitchen knife. The men come to an abrupt halt a few feet from us.
“We could leave via the garbage shoots?” Bea says, backing away from the men.
One of them points at me. “You’re the Premium who spoke at the press conference. They said you were dead.”
“I’m not.”
“You said we could breathe outside,” the man continues. The rest of the gang listens. A larger group—kids my age wearing balaclavas—stop and watch.
“It’s that guy from the screen,” one of them says. “Oi, everyone, it’s that Premium guy!” Within seconds we’re surrounded.
“So
can
we breathe out there?” the man repeats. Looking at their faces—afraid and guarded—I realize that they don’t want to attack us; they want to be shown the way out of their miserable lives.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
The crowd presses in. “What do we do?” someone demands. “You’re the one who started this.” A couple of months ago I didn’t believe I could start anything, and even now I’m not sure I can lead.
“Tell them what to do,” Jazz fizzles in my ear.
“It takes dedication,” I say. “But you can train your body to exist outside. And we can help you do it.”
“Stuff that. I’m getting out of here and joining the Resistance. They’ll know what to do,” someone says.
“We’re all that’s left,” Bea says. “The Ministry killed the others.”
“You think we’ve been growing avocadoes and beets just in case you ever found the guts to leave? Get real. You need air but you need food, too. Nonperishable food. Everything you can find. We’ll wait for you at The Cenotaph,” Gideon says.
“And be ready for it to get tough out there,” I warn them.
“Right,” the man says, and the crowd disperses. They’ll probably loot for food, but if anyone can afford to have some stuff nicked, it’s the Premiums. It’s no use worrying about them, when the poor can’t even breathe.
Harriet, Old Watson, and the rest of the Resistance are at the border waiting for us. They’re loaded down with tanks, food, and weapons. No one’s guarding the border. “It’s a war out there,” Harriet says, as we trudge down the glass tunnel. She opens her backpack and hands out a slew of guns.
“And in a couple months when we’re out of air and food?” Bea asks, speaking to me from the side of her mouth so no one else hears.
I point at the bag of clippings and seeds Gideon’s carrying. “We’ll grow it,” I say, pushing on the revolving doors at the end of the tunnel and leading everyone out into the warzone.
A solider is standing by the exit. When he sees me he gawps. “Quinn Caffrey? General Caffrey’s son?” He lets the empty stretcher he’s holding on his back fall to the ground and pulls up the visor on his helmet, so he can look me in the eye. “Your father’s been shot.” I am silent. Bea seizes my hand. “I was about to bring the stretcher. Come with me,” the soldier says.
Surely I should stay with Bea and help the Resistance escape. But when I look at her, she shakes her head. “Go,” she says.
I grab one end of the stretcher and follow the solider into the battlefield. I have to find my dad.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Silas and I lie on the ground. Dust swirls around us. “Where are they?” I say, eyeing the south station for Sequoian troops.
Silas rubs the mirrored surface on the scope of his rifle and looks through it. “If they know this controls the supply for the other stations, they’ll be back,” he says. So we make for the tower, expecting to be met by defending Ministry soldiers on the other side of the sandbags. The area’s deserted.
The gunfire lulls to almost nothing.
It’s weird because Vanya didn’t strike me as a quitter. “Something’s not right,” I say. They must be planning an attack, and if they are, Silas and I won’t be able to hold them off alone. And then it dawns on me. “Oh no,” I say.
Silas realizes it as I do. “We’re cornered,” he says. “Let’s try to get into the station.”
And it’s then that Vanya’s voice rings out like she’s talking through the clouds. “I wouldn’t go near the tower, if I were you,” she says.
“The west tower,” Silas says, and points. Recycling Station West had its tubing cut long ago, and Vanya must have taken control of it. I peer through the scope. She’s standing on its balcony, a megaphone to her face.
“It’s going to blow,” she says.
“Don’t bombs need oxygen?” I ask Silas, not that he’d know.
But he does. “They only need fuel and an oxidizer. I’m sure someone in Sequoia thought of that.”