Resist (9 page)
Authors: sarah crossan
Abel ties up his own boat then pulls us in. Jo steps ashore first and arches her back and groans. “I’m so sore,” she says.
“Thought I was the only one flagging,” I say, climbing out of the boat.
“The wind’s too strong. It’ll be easier to walk,” Abel says.
The city is shrinking and fewer of the buildings here have been bombed by the Ministry’s rampage over the past few weeks.
“I remember where we are,” Jo says. Her face clearly betrays the fact that we’re nowhere near Sequoia, and I’m no closer to getting help for Jazz and Bea.
Abel jumps back into his boat and throws his supplies onto the dock.
“Why are you both so far from home?” It’s the first thing I’ve asked, and considering the questions whirring in my head, it’s a pretty timid one.
“I was on a mission,” Abel admits matter-of-factly. “A spy. Didn’t turn out quite as planned.”
“You were spying on the pod?” I ask.
“The Resistance, but I was in the pod. I was hoping to get into The Grove, but got caught and almost beaten to death by the Ministry.” He touches his bruised face and glances at the tattoo on my earlobe without changing his expression. “If it hadn’t been for the rioting I probably would’ve died. The place was chaos, so some big shot threw me out a back door expecting I’d suffocate.” He looks at Jo, and she smiles. It feels good to know that at least one person benefitted from the rioting, and I have a mild urge to tell him I was responsible. But too many other people died because of what I did, so I keep quiet.
“I ran away from Sequoia,” Jo says without being asked. “I was looking for The Grove and so was Abel once he got out. We met there. In the ruins. I’d heard about what Petra was trying to do. I’m sorry she’s gone.” I don’t tell her that Petra was a mad bitch.
“So Sequoia’s the next best thing,” I say. Then why did she flee?
“It’s a thing,” Jo says, her voice flat. “They’ve got air and doctors, and I need both. I’ll be punished when I go back. No one leaves Sequoia. They’re strict about that.”
“I’ll be there,” Abel says. He steps onto the dock again, opens a compartment in his backpack, and takes out a protein bar that he breaks into pieces and shares with us.
“Were you in trouble because of . . .” I point at her stomach. She looks down at herself.
“Sort of.”
“Shall we go?” Abel says.
We move along the dock, up a short road, and find ourselves surrounded by hundreds of rusting cars positioned in perfect rows and columns. We weave our way through until we come out onto another, wider road, clear but for the odd fallen lamppost or overturned truck. Abel picks up his speed. Jo and I follow slowly.
“Is Abel the baby’s father?” I ask, when I’m sure he can’t hear.
“Abel? No.” She inhales deeply. “The father’s in Sequoia. He’s kind of vile.”
“A lot of dads are,” I say.
Jo comes to an abrupt halt and seizes my arm. “It isn’t a joke. If you cross Maks, he’ll kill you.”
She releases me and walks on, linking arms with Abel. I watch, feeling a bit jealous that they have each other.
I miss Bea.
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The road is slush, strewn with cement blocks, sheets of broken glass, and misshapen metal poles. I would take pictures to use in a piece, but it isn’t exactly the time or place to be worrying about art.
When Jude drove off, I took a moment to enjoy the solitude. I’ve never been alone before. Not truly. And I liked it: the feeling of space and freedom and sky. In the pod you’re never far from other people—a breath away. But those feelings are already wearing thin, and it’s only been a day. The reality is that the Outlands isn’t a haven for peace—it’s a graveyard. There’s nothing but human bones and the remnants of death everywhere: rotting mattresses, chipped teapots, dried-up pens, and shriveled tree stumps.
The idea of hiding out here forever is foolish. How would I breathe once my air tanks ran out? What would I eat? Who would I talk to? I’d go mad or be dead within a couple of months.
So I’m searching for Quinn because the only option left is to take Jude up on his offer—find his son and become an auxiliary.
It’ll be better than death.
It has to be better than death.
Doesn’t it?
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The nurse I’ve been sent to see is so tall and thin she looks like she’s been stretched. Even her nose is unusually long. She hands me a cup of water and three tablets: one white cylinder and two tiny red eggs. “Take these,” she orders.
“What are they?”
“Mandatory, that’s what they are,” she says.
I swig some water, pretending to swallow the tablets but hiding them under my tongue, and as the nurse turns, I spit them into my hand and stuff them into my pocket.
“Up here,” she says. I climb onto a table and lie down. She ties a rubber band around my arm and hands me a ball. “Squeeze this.” She taps the inside of my elbow a few times, and before I can react to what’s happening, sticks me with a needle. I jump but bite away the urge to squawk. “Stop wriggling,” she snaps as she unties the rubber band and fills a vial with blood.
Once she’s got five vials, she spins around, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor, and stores my blood in a rack in the fridge. Then she reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a tiny bottle of clear liquid.
“Time for your rocket.” She shakes the bottle, presses a syringe into the lid, and lifts the needle to the light, tapping it a few times with her finger. She studies a droplet of clear liquid rolling into the tip. We’ve been told this shot contains EPO, which will increase our number of red blood cells and drive down our need for oxygen. That’s the opposite effect from the vaccinations we were required to take in the pod, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be injected with anything. Not here. Not anywhere.
I consider resisting, and the nurse, sensing it, looks at me over the rim of her spectacles. “Problem?” She dabs my arm with alcohol. I close my eyes, and she jabs me with the needle.
I think we’re finished, and lift myself onto my elbows, but I’m wrong. The nurse smiles and tosses me a rough blanket. “Take off your pants and underwear and put this over your lap. I’ll be back in a minute.” She closes the door and is gone. I look down at the blanket and then at a string of unfamiliar metal implements lying on the counter. I stand up and pace the tiny lab.
The idea of someone examining me down below is humiliating in more ways than one. Not only am I terrified to let the nurse look at me and insert things into me or scratch things away, but my hair smells like someone’s been sick into it, and when I took off my boots last night, my feet stank—I can’t even imagine what the rest of me smells like.
I’m not a crier, but for the first time in a very long time, my eyes prickle. I rub at them roughly and when this doesn’t work, I slap myself sharply across the face. It stings, which is what I need. “Get a grip, Alina,” I say aloud.
I kick my boots into the corner of the room and stare down at my baggy, damp socks, which I leave on, climbing out of my pants and underwear and throwing them next to the boots. As the door opens, I jump up onto the table, covering my legs with the blanket.
The nurse quickly grabs a face mask from the counter, which she slips over her mouth and nose. It isn’t attached to any air tank; it’s to protect me from germs, though she’s probably wearing it to protect herself.
She sits on a stool and tugs a set of stirrups hidden in the table up and out. “Put your feet in these and lie on your back.”
“What’s this for?” I ask. “I mean, the blood sample will tell you everything you need to know. I’m not carrying a disease if that’s what you think. I lived in the pod, you know. We have mandatory health checks there. I’m clean.”
The nurse grimaces. “I’d hardly say you’re clean. Lie down.”
I stay sitting. “What’s it
for
?”
She tuts. “Shall I get Vanya to come in and explain? Maks?”
I shake my head. What if they decided to stay and watch over the exam? No.
I lie back. “Shift your butt to the end of the table,” the nurse says. She lifts the blanket and yanks my knees apart. “You’re going to feel some pressure,” she says, but it isn’t pressure—it’s pain, like I’m been sliced open. I clutch the sides of the table and hum.
You’re okay
, I tell myself.
This is not going to kill you
.
After a few moments, she pulls the blanket over my legs and lowers the stirrups. “You can get up now.”
I stagger as I stand, using the blanket like a kind of skirt, and lean against the counter, my head between my arms. It’s a peculiar feeling, this weakness, and I don’t like it.
“Last thing: when did your cycle begin?” She unpeels the rubber gloves from her hands and tosses them in the trashcan as I pull my pants back on. I’m tempted to lie, because it’s none of her damn business, but I don’t know what these tests are for, or what the consequences of the results will be. So I tell the truth. “Nine days ago,” I say. I pull on my pants and boots.
She nods. “And how many days did it last?”
“Six,” I say.
She records the dates on an ancient-looking pad and opens the door. “Go to Room 28. Down the hall, take your first left, and it’s the fourth door on the right.” She yawns revealing a mouth of missing teeth. “Do you want a napkin for the blood?”
“Get lost,” I say, slamming the lab door, and hurtling down the hall and away.
As I turn left, I almost collide with Maks. He towers over me, his arms crossed over his chest to accentuate the size of his biceps. “Done with your medical?”
My face reddens. “Yes.”
He presses his lips together into a taut smile and tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. I flinch, then hate myself for being so easily discomforted by him.
“Well, that’s the worst test over with. Well done for making it through.” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. He rubs my chin, smiles, and marches away. From behind I can see he has a pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
We have surrendered our weapons.
I peer through the round window of Room 28. Silas, Dorian, and Song are sitting at desks. I slink inside and they all turn around. “What are we doing in here?” I ask.
“A written exam of some kind,” Silas says.
“Well, it’s better than getting another medical,” Dorian says impassively.
“I’m nervous we’re being recorded,” Silas says.
Song rises and examines the walls, baseboards, and each desk. “Hard to tell,” he says.
“You okay?” Silas asks.
I wring my hands. “I’m fine.”
“Did you do everything they asked?” Silas says.
“Yes. Except swallow the tablets.” I pat my pocket and look into the floor. “Anyway, what happened to you?”
Silas, Dorian, and Song look at one another. “I don’t know what they do here, but it isn’t what we were doing at The Grove,” Silas says. Song is still checking under each chair and fiddles with the electrical sockets and oxybox. “They wanted
samples
,” Silas continues. My mouth drops open. He doesn’t have to say any more. After the physical exam I was given, it wouldn’t take a genius to guess what kinds of samples he means.
“How could we do it?” Song says. “Not on demand.”
“I did it,” Dorian admits, unabashed.
“What?” Silas says.
“We said we’d cooperate, so I was cooperating.” He scratches his nose.
“
Cooperating?
” Silas clenches his jaw, working hard to control his temper. He roughly scratches his head.
“Where are we meant to go if we get chucked out? Petra throws everyone in a cell for a few weeks. Is this that much different?” he says.
“The nurse gave me a pretty thorough exam,” I murmur. I can’t look at any of the boys.
Silas groans. “Oh, Alina,” he says.
“It must be for some sort of genetic testing,” I say.
Song shakes his head. “You can work out genetics using blood samples, and they’ve got plenty of those.”
“Then what is it they want?” I ask.
Song inhales deeply through his nose. “I think”—he pauses—“I think they’re checking to see how fertile we are.”
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After going back up to the pharmacy and rummaging on the floor for almost an hour, I find some ancient painkillers, and although I have no idea whether or not they’re working, I shovel them into Jazz every six hours. Even in her sleep, she moans softly.
“Am I going to die?” she mewls, waking at last.
“Of course you aren’t, silly,” I say, which is a probably a lie. Even if Quinn finds his way to Sequoia, he has to get back here and by then it’ll have been weeks.
And what scares me most is that as each day passes, my hope wanes a little more, when hope is the only thing I have to hold on to.
There was nothing I could do for my parents just as there’s nothing I can do for Jazz. I try not to remember their bodies lying limp on the makeshift platform, blood blooming beneath them while the crowd stormed the stage. All I could do was watch on Old Watson’s screen, so from far away from where I was needed. At least I’m here for Jazz. And I have to be strong for her and wait until the worst happens . . . or a miracle.
I cradle Jazz’s head in my lap and hum a doleful tune; I can’t remember any happy ones. It’s to calm her, but it’s for me, too, because if I don’t hum, I’ll cry, and Jazz shouldn’t have to see that.
“Are you sleepy?” she asks, peering up at me. I pull her head tight into my body—all the pain she’s in and she’s worried about me. “I’ll be quiet so you can rest,” she says, and clenches her jaw.