Resist (5 page)

“So we let them get away with it?” someone calls out.

“We let the RATS escape?” another voice adds.

“We need to find another way,” Jude says, and seems to stare at me. “We could send scouts on a reconnaissance mission. Young people the RATS would trust. I could have the junior Special Forces ready in days.”

Niamh prickles up. “Does he mean
you
?”

Jude keeps his mouth straight and his hands clamped to the lectern. I should have known better than to expect any compassion from him—a man who sent his own son into The Outlands to die. How could he do that? I know by now that Quinn was the one who started the riot in the pod—but even
I
didn’t want him dead, not when all he did was tell the truth.

The chamber is heavy with silence and all eyes rest on me. Some ministers look troubled, but most are beaming, delighted by the scheme. Jude’s expression is impenetrable.

“Tell them you’ll do it, Ronan. For Daddy. Those bastards are responsible for this.” Niamh tugs on her black mourning robe. She looks like she might cry. I take her hand and squeeze it.

But I won’t advocate for this mission. Besides, I hardly think that what I say matters. They’ll send us whether I agree to it or not. Niamh pulls her hand out of mine and does start to cry.

“And in the meantime, you’ll recruit and train a new army?” someone asks. “If this is a reconnaissance mission, we have to be ready to attack once they’re found.”

“Of course,” Jude says. “I’ll begin recruiting today.” Is he smiling? I want to tear onto the stage and throttle him.

“Thank you, General,” Vine says, and moves on to item two on the agenda.

Because item one has been resolved: I am going into The Outlands again, whether I like it or not.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

7

ALINA

Silas lowers the anchor for the final time. He wipes his brow with his forearm and ties the roping in place. The deck moans as it collides with the jetty. We’ve come as far as we can in the boat: the river winds west and it’s time to head north.

Song unbolts the gate in the railing, slides a narrow gangplank between the boat and landing, and steps ashore. “Mind your step,” he says. His eyes are dull.

We haven’t talked about The Grove, and with Holly gone, we have something else to blot from our memories. Not that we can.

“You’re sure it’s north?” Silas asks Dorian.

Dorian nods. “Not far now. A couple of days at most.” It doesn’t sound like much, but we left The Grove over a week ago. We’re freezing and hungry and our air is dwindling quicker than we thought.

“Make sure we’ve got all the air tanks and weapons,” Silas says. He stands with his hands on his hips, his chin tilted up slightly. He’s good at this—appearing unbreakable. And that’s what we need now: someone to pretend everything will be okay, even though it’s likely it won’t.

Maude steps up to the gangplank and holds the rail. She coughs loudly. “Haven’t you got anything warm to put on?” I ask her. A persistent drizzle has replaced the pouring rain.

“What do you care?” she asks, elbowing me out of the way. She totters down the gangplank, then pulls an old, damp blanket around her like a cape.

“You don’t look too toasty yourself. Stick that on, love,” Bruce says to me, holding out his coat.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, even though I’m so cold I can no longer feel my toes or the tips of my fingers. He shrugs and puts on the coat himself.

I follow Maude down the gangplank and onto the jetty where the solidity of the land makes me wobble.

“I wish we could hide it,” Dorian says, looking up at the towering masts of the boat.

Silas tuts. “Let’s get a move on. Everyone stay close,” he says.

We march along the jetty and onto the riverbank. “It looks the same everywhere,” Song says. We’ve left behind the city’s high-rises and cathedral spires that seem to pierce the clouds, but all along the riverbank is the usual desolation: tumbledown buildings, smashed up cars, warped roads, and toppled lampposts. Bones are scattered among the debris; animal or human, it’s hard to tell. In the distance are folds of hoary, barren fields.

I used to think that if I traveled far enough and walked quickly enough, I’d find a cluster of untouched trees. It was a fantasy, and a childish one; beyond the city’s devastation is more devastation. It just happens to be of the rural variety.

“What if they won’t let us in?” Bruce wonders aloud.

“Do you have a better idea?” Silas snaps. His mood has been increasingly prickly.

“Take it easy.” I place a hand on Silas’s arm. He flinches and kicks the wheel of a rotten baby stroller, which spins and squeaks. Then he storms ahead, carrying a bag of guns, a full backpack of supplies, and several air tanks. Part of me wishes we could talk about what’s happened. Everything we’ve seen. But it’s too soon, and Silas isn’t one for talking anyway.

“People who go to Sequoia never come back,” Song says, turning to me, his voice as gentle as ash.

“Petra didn’t want defectors. If you went to Sequoia, you had to go for good. You had to choose a team,” Dorian reminds him.

Song bites his bottom lip and I stop to look at the sky. The sun is up, but thick, white clouds make it impossible to locate. I sigh and try to wiggle my toes. I still can’t feel them.

“Hurry up,” Maude says, pushing me from behind. “I’m freezing my berries off ’ere!” Bruce smiles and links her arm through his.

“They’ll let us in because we’re all on the same team,” I say loudly, so Silas can hear. “We all want the trees back. We all want to breathe again.” He doesn’t turn around or stop walking. Maybe he doesn’t hear me, but I don’t think that’s it.

“You’re a drifter now. No better than me,” Maude says. She laughs. No one else does. And a thread of fear trickles through me.

We rest only once, at dusk, when we find a stranded bus along a stretch of open road, frozen scrub poking through the cracks in the tarmac. We climb aboard, the vehicle creaking under our weight, and I choose a spot at the back where I throw off my backpack. Then I check the gauge on my air tank. A little over a quarter tank of oxygen remaining. Maybe I should ask Silas for the particulars on our air supply as he’s the one carrying the spare tanks, but if we don’t have enough air, I’d rather not know.

I’m too tired to care that the bus seat is stippled black with mold. If it kills me, it kills me. I lie down and curl up, my air tank between my legs.

Maude has chosen a row behind me and hacks until she spits up.

I close my eyes and wait for sleep to creep toward me. Maude is restless. She bangs the back of my seat. “Oi, you,” she croaks. I sit up. Everyone else is already lying down, only their feet poking off the edge of their seats visible. “You reckon Bea’s okay?” she asks, frowning.

“I know as much as you do.” General Caffrey only retreated from The Grove because fighting broke out in the pod. I wish I could be certain Bea was nowhere near it. Or Quinn. Is it possible that their return and the civil war were completely unrelated?

“You lied,” Maude grumbles. “I only rounded up all them drifters to help yous fight ’cuz I thought Bea would be in trouble if I didn’t. That were a dirty trick.” She points a finger at me, the nail broken and black.

“Technically, Petra lied to you,” I say. Then I add, “Bea’s tougher than she looks.”

“She’s ain’t the sort you meet everyday, tha’s for certain. A real doll.” She studies the cracked window.

This is the closest we’ve ever come to a real conversation. “Get some sleep, Maude,” I say, using what I think is a kind voice.

Maude glares at me anyway. “You ain’t my boss, missy. I’ll do what I bloody well like.”

“Well, I’m going to rest.” I turn away and curl up into the seat again. After a minute I hear Maude lie down, too.

I listen to the others snoring and try to picture something calming to help me sleep, but all I can see is Holly’s face as she let go of the railings. And then Abel’s face is next to her in the water. They are both being swallowed by waves. This wasn’t how it happened for him, of course; the Ministry murdered him. Probably turned him out of the pod without an air tank.

It’s been days since I thought about Abel, but now all the guilt and shame about his death steal back in: how he was only on that mission in the pod because I wanted to spend time with him; how I was too stubborn to abandon it even though he begged me to. He probably lied about who he was, but it doesn’t change the fact that I cared about him. And because I did, he’s dead.

I tuck my knees up under my chin. I feel so cold. Colder than ever before.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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8

RONAN

I’m leaving for the pod in less than an hour and I haven’t even packed. Instead, I’m in my studio smearing thick black and white swathes of paint across a board. It doesn’t look like much—just a choked monochromatic muddle.

I thought that coming up here would help me figure out how I was going to get out of this mission, but all I have to show for all the mulling it over are the paintings—no solution at all.

I’m not scared of The Outlands: We’re all being kitted out with enough food, air, and medical supplies to last a month, and no half-starved drifter would be a match for me. But to hell with gathering information on so-called terrorists for the Minsitry and Jude Caffrey, just so they can cut down innocent people. And I’d refuse to go if it wasn’t putting Niamh at risk—I’m all she has left.

I go to the sink and wash the brushes. Then I take one last look at the painting, what will probably turn into a devastated soccer stadium, and lock the studio door.

Once I’m ready to go, I meet Niamh by the front door. “When will you be back? I’m worried,” she says. I can’t remember the last time she’s said anything remotely affectionate, and it makes me gulp.

“When I kill the bad guys, I suppose,” I lie. I’m not killing anyone.

Anyone else.

I’m going to get out there and find somewhere to hunker down long enough that it seems like I tried, even though I’ll return empty-handed. If I do happen to find anyone, I’ll warn them.

“You will be back though,” Niamh says.

“Don’t be silly,” I say, and heave my bulging backpack up over my shoulders.

“Be careful, you big asshole,” Niamh says. She leans in and kisses me awkwardly on the cheek. Her lips are dry.

I laugh. “You be careful,” I reply, and without doing anything else that might trigger more emotion in either of us, head for the waiting buggy.

Jude Caffrey is standing next to the Press Secretary at the border. He raises his hand. I pretend I don’t see him and make my way to the gates where the rest of my unit is waiting. I have no intention of buddying up with him when he’s spent his life lying and embroiling his soldiers in the Ministry’s lies.

Robyn, the youngest member of the Special Forces, smiles as I approach. “Sorry about your dad,” she says.

“Thanks.” I pause. “We’ve all been rounded up, huh?”

“Everyone.” She stands back, so I can see the others. Mary, Rick, Nina, and Johnny all turn my way and wave. I raise a hand in greeting. “First time a junior unit’s been sent out alone. We heard you offered us up,” Robyn says. She pulls her thick ponytail tight.

“What? No.” I sound more defensive than I mean.

“Are we even ready to go out again?” Robyn asks. She looks at me askance, and I think what she means is,
do we want to?
None of us had expected the trees at The Grove. And it’s changed everything. For some of us, at least.

Rick comes forward. He’s eighteen but looks thirty. “Nice one, dude. I was bored to death at home. Kept saying we were ready to get out there again. I’m pumped to be doing this.
Pumped!
”

“I didn’t suggest it,” I say. Rick is a thug. He’s always been a thug.

“General Caffrey said you did.” Mary is pointing at Jude.

“We’re pleased,” Nina says.

“Better than spending the next year in the gymnasium,” Johnny adds.

Their excitement is palpable. I turn to Robyn, who bites her bottom lip. The others might be pleased, but she isn’t. And neither am I.

Jude steps forward and without any kind of pep talk, hands each of us a small pouch and launches into directives. “You’ve been issued new pads with long-range tracking devices for two-way communication. In case of a malfunction, you’ve also been given walkie-talkies. Primitive but functional. Make contact at least once a day, so we know you’re alive.”

“Alive?” Rick scoffs. “I don’t think you need to worry. A bunch of tree-hugging hippies won’t be a match for us.” He punches his own abdomen in a gesture of stabbing someone in the gut.

What’s wrong with him? Hasn’t he killed enough people? “Oh, shut your mouth for once, Rick,” I say.

Robyn gasps, and Rick scowls as he throws a punch at me. I grab his fist and twist his arm behind his back and up toward his neck. He groans. “All right, all right, leave it out,” he says, and I release him, pushing him away from me, as the others look on speechless. I’ve never turned on anyone before. But I should’ve shut Rick up a long time ago.

Jude shakes his head. “Lucky we aren’t sending you out together.” He pauses. “If we did, you’d be searching forever, so each of you is being sent in a different direction. As soon as you find something suspicious, make contact. We need a location. Once we have that, the army and zips can get out there and do some damage. Hopefully we’ll be back up and running by then.”

“Have we permission to kill?” Rick asks. He gives me a sideways glance.

Jude pulls at the sleeves of his military jacket. “Your job is to find the RATS. Radio in for further instructions.”

Robyn scratches the tip of her nose. “How long have we got?”

“As long as you can last,” Jude says, and makes to leave as the Press Secretary rushes over, her heels clacking against the ground.