Resist (6 page)

“Can we have a picture of Ronan at the border?” she calls. “Pod Minister Vine thought it’d be good PR if Cain Knavery’s son made a statement. The press are going back to work in a few days and they’ll lead with this.”

“Sure,” I say, and the Press Secretary opens her pad, snaps a picture, then smiles, waiting to record me. “After all the destruction we’ve brought about so far, I’d say that this mission is . . .”

“Write whatever you think,” Jude says, suddenly standing between me and the Press Secretary and cutting me off. He puts his arm over my shoulder and pulls me away. “Enough time wasting,” he says. I look back at the Press Secretary, who’s still smiling despite not getting her interview, which is probably because the story’s already been written.

The border is guarded by armed stewards, who stand aside for us, and we walk unobstructed through the gates and down the glass tunnel. We attach air tanks to our belts and slip face masks over our mouths and noses. It feels different from the other times we’ve marched outside. Before, I was excited to save the pod. But the best way to do that now is to go out there and do nothing.

We push through the revolving doors at the end of the tunnel and into The Outlands. Six robust buggies, their engines running, are waiting.

“I guess this is it,” Robyn says. She wrings her hands. The others mumble agreement and adjust their air tanks.

“We’ll drive you out about thirty miles,” Jude says. “Far enough to save some time, not so far they’ll hear you coming. Good luck.” And that’s it. Mary, Rick, Nina, Johnny, and Robyn each pick a buggy and climb in.

I look up at the pod. I could leave now and never return. Disappear by choice. Jude’s made it clear that the Ministry won’t release me, and if I try to resist, they’ll have me killed. But if anyone could survive in The Outlands, I could.

The question is, do I want to? In training we met our fair share of drifters driven so crazy by loneliness they didn’t know what planet they were on. One old guy was so hungry he tried to eat his own arm. And what about Niamh? I can’t leave her to fend for herself. Who knows what they’d do to her?

“Get a move on,” Jude says. He throws my backpack into the only vehicle without a driver.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m driving you,” he says. “We need to talk.”

We don’t talk. We drive in silence for a long time over the rutty terrain, and I watch the wipers swish back and forth across the greasy window.

Eventually Jude brings the buggy to a halt and cuts the engine. He sits with his hands on his knees staring ahead for several minutes. I don’t try to ease the tension. If he has something to say, he should say it.

“You know by now that Quinn was the one who almost brought the pod to its knees?” He turns to me.

“If you mean that he’s also responsible for the death of my father, then yes, I know,” I say. Our eyes lock. He waits for me to detonate. But I’m not really angry with Quinn. How could I be now I’ve seen what the Ministry was up to? If anything, I’m angry with myself for being so stupidly naive for so long and never standing up to my own father like Quinn did.

I wait for him to say more. “Quinn’s alive,” he says. He rests his forehead on the wheel and sighs, and for the first time in a week, I don’t despise him.

“Go on.”

“I did the wrong thing sending out here alone, and I didn’t want the army or zips sent out because if they find him, they’ll kill him. You, on the other hand . . .”

“You think I’ll
help
him.”

“You want out of the Special Forces, and I can give you that.”

“You said you couldn’t.”

Jude rubs his chin. “Everyone has his price, and I know the right people. I can get you and Quinn new identities—biometrics, the lot. It’s been done before. But it would mean becoming auxiliaries. It’s a high price. I can’t offer you any better.”

I gaze at the fogged windshield. I’ve been to Zone Three twice in my entire life. All I remember were the dirty faces of the children and the darkness. It was so gloomy. Is that what I want?

“There was a tracking device in the coat Quinn was wearing, and this is the last place the signal came from before the battery died.” He points outside. “All you have to do is find him and keep him safe. Then I’ll bring you both back to the pod with me. An auxiliary life won’t be much for either of you. But you’ll be alive.”

“So the others are on a wild goose chase?”

“They’re being driven far from here,” he says. “They won’t find anyone besides drifters unless there really is another cell somewhere. But finding another cell is about as likely as finding another pod.” We’ve been told since we were kids that there are other pods. Another lie. Another damn lie.

“I’ll think about it,” I say. I pull up the collar on my coat and tighten the belt.

Jude offers me a handgun. I take it and push it into the band of my trousers, then throw the semiautomatic I’m holding onto the back seat. I don’t want a gun like that. I won’t need it. “All I’m asking is that you do the right thing,” he says.

“I suppose that’s what you’d do,” I say snidely.

“Me? I wouldn’t even know what the right thing was.”

Jude leans across my lap and pushes open the passenger door. I climb out, lugging my backpack behind me and throw it to the ground. The road we’re on is warped and covered in plastic traffic cones, and the rest of the area is nothing but mounds of sad gray rubble and half-standing buildings with one or two walls fighting to stay alive.

“Do this one thing and you’ll never have to compromise your principles again,” Jude says. “You’ll be done with all the lies and killing.”

And without waiting for my answer, he shuts the door, revs the engine, and is gone.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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9

BEA

I kneel next to Jazz and place the back of my hand against her forehead. She’s still burning with a fever. The scarf I bound her leg with is sopping wet. I unpeel it and examine the wound. The skin around the gash is yellowing and the smell is gut wrenching. She’s losing so much blood, she’ll bleed to death before long, and if that doesn’t happen, she’ll die of the festering infection.

“Please stop the pain,” she begs in a voice so controlled and desperate, all I want to do is hold her and have her suffering seep its way into me.

I look at the escalator and wonder whether there could be a drug store up on the concourse. “I’ll be back,” I say, jumping up with my backpack. I could clean her wound and help stop the bleeding, but only if I can find what I need. And even then, it might not be enough.

“Please don’t go,” she whimpers. “Bea!”

“Two minutes,” I assure her, clambering up the escalator.

I pause on the sun-drenched upper concourse, taking in the row of stores on either side: their glass doors and windows are smashed in, the stock looted, and the signage covered in graffiti.

A store selling nothing but tights and socks has moldy merchandise strewn across the floor and an electronics store is littered with broken screens and leaking batteries. And as I should have guessed, the pharmacy has been hit worst of all—tubes, bottles, cans, and loose pills of every shape and color are scattered across the floor. I pick my way through the mess and go behind the counter. I use my toe to root around on the floor for anything intact, but the sedatives, painkillers, and antibiotics have already been eaten up by drifters. I do spot a travel-size sewing kit and a small bottle of methylated spirit, which I stuff into my backpack.

I leave the pharmacy and step into a store with faded pictures of exotic foods and drinks in its window. Maybe alcohol will be enough to kill her pain.

I scour every shelf, throwing aside bruised tins and empty cans. Then I lie on the floor to check that nothing has rolled out of sight. Defeat seizes me, and then, as I’m about to return to Jazz, I spot a door with a crooked STAFF ONLY sign hanging from it. When I push, it squeaks but swings opens.

Moldy cardboard boxes are piled high like children’s giant building blocks, and most are empty, but eventually I find six untouched bottles. I pull one out and try to unscrew it, but it’s been sealed with a strange type of lid hidden down inside the bottleneck. I have no time to figure out how it works, so I smash the bottle’s neck against a filing cabinet. The alcoholic stench sends me reeling. I pour a little of the liquid into my hand, sniff, and let the tip of my tongue taste it. Definitely drinkable, but unlike any alcohol I’ve tasted before. It’s thick and red and bitter. I look at the label—
Malbec
. I stuff the bottles into my backpack, and a scream echoes through the station.

“Jazz?” I fly from the store.

Jazz is writhing in half-sleep. I pull a bottle from my bag and smash it open, take Jazz in the crook of my arm, and pull the mask from her mouth. “Here,” I say, awkwardly filling my cupped palm with the red alcohol and holding it to her lips.

She sips from my hand. “Ugh,” she says. “What is it?”

“Medicine.” She continues to drink, and when she’s drowsy, I lower her onto the floor and reattach the mask. The alcohol calms her down, so I can look at her leg again. It’s bad. So bad, I’m not sure that what I’m doing is a good idea. But I have to try something.

She stirs. “Bite on this,” I tell her. I push a piece of thick cloth under her face mask and slide it between her teeth. I arrange everything I’ve collected on the tiled floor, then run a long piece of thread through the eye of the needle and pour the methylated spirit over it. Then I use the spirit to clean her wound. She squeals, but I quickly tie her hands and legs together with scarves so she won’t try to stop me.

“It’s okay,” I say. She lets out a groan muffled by the cloth in her mouth. “Stay calm,” I add, this time to myself because my nerves and nausea won’t help anyone.

I sit on her chest, bite the insides of my cheeks, and use the tips of my fingers to jam the jutting bone back in place, pulling the skin over it. She bellows and writhes and finally passes out.

I pinch her skin, sticky with blood, and slowly, with trembling fingers, pierce it with the needle and pull the cotton through. Jazz thrashes, as she floats in and out of consciousness, but I keep a knee on her chest, congealed blood seeping through my fingers as I pinch and sew back and forth, back and forth, until the stiches are halfway up her shin, the bone is hidden, and the wound closed.

I pull away her face mask and remove the cloth from her mouth. She’s still breathing. Gently.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, because I may have made things worse.

Now, all I can do is wait—for someone to save us, or for Jazz to die.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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10

ALINA

We’ve been walking for the best part of two days. My feet have blisters and my muscles are tight and burning. Even Song and Dorian are exhausted and have started wearing air tanks.

“That
has
to be it,” Dorian says.

We’re in the middle of nowhere, standing on the dip in a cracked road surrounded by miles of flat fields dotted with old brick houses and long-dead tree stumps. Silas unfolds the map, looks at it, and juts his chin toward a set of ornate iron gates, rusting but still standing at the end of the road. “There?” he asks.

“We’ve been circling in on the area all morning. This is the only place we haven’t checked,” Dorian says.

“We can’t waste any more air on maybes,” I mutter. I feel momentarily lightheaded and allow a little more oxygen into my face mask.

“We’ll see,” Silas says, stuffing the map into his coat and leading us down the road, his gun hanging at his side.

As we move closer I make out a lane beyond the gates. I press my face between the railings. “The lane bends. We’ve no way of knowing what’s down there,” I say.

“Then let’s check it out,” Dorian says. He waves Song forward and together they ease open the gates. Silas doesn’t stop them, and neither do I. But it seems strange that there’s no lock. “Hope they’ve got the kettle on,” Maude says. “I could do with a cuppa.”

The lane is overgrown with weeds and peppered in old bicycles and broken glass bottles, but on either side is a low, sturdy brick wall that looks newly built. Silas has taken the lead again, and I stick close to him.

Suddenly a disembodied voice punctures the silence. “Stop! The lane is protected with mines. One more inch and you’ll lose a leg.” Silas’s right foot is suspended in the air. He tilts his weight into his left heel and steps back.

“We come as friends!” he calls out.

“Resistance,” Dorian says.

“Friends don’t need weapons. Throw down your guns,” the voice calls out. We look at Silas for direction. “Put the guns down or we’ll open fire!” the voice booms. Silas places his gun gently on the ground behind him and we all do the same. Instinctively I put my hands up.

And then we are surrounded. Each of the twenty or so soldiers who appear are wearing balaclavas, but, crucially, no air tanks. They leap onto the wall and aim their rifles at us.

A beefy soldier in a tight tank top, arms covered with black tattoos, all thorns and barbed wire, lowers his gun. “Who’s in charge?” he wants to know.

Silas is, of course, but he doesn’t step forward, not when any one of us might disagree.

“I’m the leader here. Kneel before me, minion,” Maude says, and cackles. I shoot her a warning look; somehow I don’t think this guy is going to find her entertaining.

“
He
is,” Dorian says. He points at Silas. I can’t tell if he’s being cowardly or magnanimous.

“Yeah?” The tattooed leader jumps down from the wall. He doesn’t seem to notice the cold. The others, dressed in green fatigues, stay where they are, still aiming for our heads. “Well, you’re trespassing.”

“We’re from The Grove. We’re fellow Resistance,” Silas says.