Strikers (29 page)

He waves a hand at me, telling me to wait, while he chokes on his laughs and then quiets a little. When he looks at me, he starts laughing again and we go through the entire cycle once more.

Right about the time I lose my last bit of patience, which doesn’t take long, he says between laughs, “The arguing! They’ve been arguing the whole time. While we were…”

He trails off with more laughter but I don’t see what’s funny. And then I do. While we were jumping off a bridge, possibly to our deaths, and fighting the river, they were arguing and making incredibly slow process. And they did it all while remaining entirely unaware of our circumstances. It’s sad, yes, but also hilarious in a very twisted sort of way. I chuckle too and soon we’re both laughing so hard it hurts.

When the fit is done and our amusement has tapered off, we look at each other a little awkwardly. Jovan coughs and says, “That probably wasn’t that funny.”

I nod, because it wasn’t, and answer, “No. But I sure do feel better.”

And it’s true. Beautifully and wonderfully true. The fear and tension that has bound me like ropes, the dread I felt when I looked down at the dark river so far below me, the sadness of losing a father I’d only just begun to know; they are all gone. Loosened and fallen away, I feel free. It might not last. Tomorrow I may be just as frightened, just as sad, but for now, this moment, I feel unfettered.

He grins at me. It’s open and warm, everything a girl could ever hope to see in the face of the boy she loves. And it’s all for me. Rather than do what I’d like to do, which is jump on him and kiss that grin from one corner of his mouth to the other with a hundred tiny kisses, I look away and slap my hands on the ground to break the moment.

“We should go. Meet them downstream when they finally get their act together,” I say.

He looks disappointed for a moment, and not about us needing to start walking. It makes me perversely happy to see that, the possibility that he was thinking something along the same lines as I was. But he stands, offers me a hand up, and we go.

It turns out that it is far more than merely uncomfortable to walk in wet jeans. They’re cold and heavy from the thighs down and warm in a way that makes me think of someone peeing their pants above the thigh. And they are chafing and pulling at my skin, guaranteed to leave me raw and red if we keep it up.

A quick glance at Jovan confirms he’s uncomfortable about something too, and the wet rubbing sounds he makes with each step tell me we’re probably in the same boat. When I stop, I put an arresting hand on his arm and say, “My pants feel like they’re made of wet sandpaper. I can’t walk like this.”

“I’m so glad you said that. I thought you’d think I was being a wimp if I said something,” he says, relief clear in his voice.

This is about to become one of the most embarrassing situations I could imagine. It almost rivals that dream I have once in a while where I wind up realizing I have no clothes on in the middle of school.

I start to untie the line that I use for a belt and try to sound casual when I say, “The pants have to go until they dry.”

He gapes at me until my expression makes it clear he should not be looking at me quite so closely. He turns around and, after a great deal of hopping around trying to get wet denim off, we are both pantsless.

It’s just as horrifying as my dreams indicated it would be. I’m just glad it’s dark and my underwear are relatively new and a plain dark blue color. Jovan isn’t so lucky. His look like they might be some sort of tan color very similar to the color of the Texas Army uniform, so they stand out like a beacon under his brown shirt.

We both hang our jeans over our shoulders so that the cool night air will dry them, and head downstream without further conversation. The chill quickly overtakes any sense of embarrassment and we’re shivering within minutes. The sound of the river is loud beside us, but our frequent calls to check on the location of the others go unanswered.

Right about the time I start to worry that they’ve overturned their boat or had some other calamity befall them, I hear a response from ahead of us. Jovan and I share a look and then dash toward the sound as one. They should—at least I hope they do—still have their packs and while that won’t help us with dry clothes, they at least have the empty burlap sacks we can use to wrap around us. And they have water. After drinking half the river during my plunge, I’m surprised to find that I’m incredibly thirsty.

We arrive to find them on the shore, dry and waiting for us, the little boat they used pulled up on the bank and secure. With the moon almost down, there is less light, but there’s still enough for them to see that we’re half-naked and soaked to the bone.

“Uh, why aren’t you wearing pants?” Cassi asks rather loudly after she gives me a hug in greeting. She turns to hug Jovan as well but stops, eyes his legs and steps back. The way Connor keeps looking at me, his eyes mostly on my face but dipping down and away like he can’t stop himself, makes me laugh.

“We sort of fell in the river. It made for an interesting swim,” I answer, preferring to leave the details for a time when I’m not shivering and wet.

All three of them turn as one and look back out at the river, perhaps remembering how much trouble they had steering their boat in the swift current. Then Connor digs a couple of the burlap sacks out and tosses us each one. Maddix flicks on a flashlight, leaving it on the low setting, so we can see each other better while we talk. I’m not entirely sure seeing each other clearly is what I’d like at the moment.

“Maybe a fire?” Connor suggests after seeing the way we grab at the rough sacks and wrap them around us.

I shake my head and explain, “We got away from Creedy, but we don’t know if he might have talked his way out of things by now. If he did, he could be coming down this river right now to see if we survived.” I glance over at Jovan and add, “He’s quite committed.”

“What happened to taking him out if necessary?” Maddix asks, exasperation clear in his tone.

“We managed to drive off their horses and the other guy ran after them. I doubt those horses will stop for him. The horses weren’t in great shape and probably just want to go home. Um…” I trail off there, not sure how to explain the loss of Jovan’s gun because I don’t even know.

Jovan, a big bag wrapped around his middle like a skirt, looks abashed but he answers. “I tried to tackle him—because I’m an idiot—and lost my gun. But, I managed to whack him a good one and we got away. Sort of.”

Maddix scrubs a hand across his cheek, clearly containing his frustration only with effort. “So, the bottom line is that we still have him to worry about. Have I got that right?”

There’s no weaseling out of confessing this unpleasant truth so I nod. Mostly, I get frowns in return. Except for Cassi, of course.

She claps her hands to break the mood and says, “Well, the border is somewhere back there and we just have to get that far and we’ll be safe.” She shoos us toward the woods and grabs a sack. “So, let’s get moving.”

Dawn is still an hour or two away and the woods are dark, a maze of thick undergrowth and no paths that I can see. We’ve got only two flashlights left so I find myself stumbling along behind the beam trying to remember what obstacles it illuminated a few seconds before. Given the number of times I trip, I’m not doing so well. Given how many curses and exclamations of pain I hear from the others as they do the same, I’m not the only one who’s having trouble.

By the time the wall appears through the trees, I’m covered in what will soon be rising bumps, scrapes that sting with every step and tender spots that will surely blossom into an unattractive array of bruises come the day.

Before we leave the protection of the trees, Maddix stops us and says, “Listen, when we get to a gate, or meet anyone from the other side of that wall, we’ll need to be careful. Strikers from Texas can come to the Southeast, but not if they’re considered a danger to society.”

“Uh,” I say, “strikes equal crimes, so how does that work?”

Maddix waves away my concern and says, “It’s not the same. They have all this stuff about human rights and stuff—I don’t understand it—so they don’t look at strikes the same way, especially if you’re under eighteen. Anyway, be careful what you say. Also, they take this border seriously. No one, and I mean
no
one
, gets past without the proper and official checks.”

It seems a little weird to me, but I suppose I have no idea what to expect from any other place aside from Texas. I’ll just go with what seems right at the time. There are nods of agreement all around.

We stumble out of the trees into a cleared space in front of the wall at least fifty feet wide. We get only a few moments of peace to catch our collective breath and stumble a half-dozen paces into the clearing when a floodlight from above blinds us.

As one, our hands come up to cover our eyes as the darkness is torn apart. An amplified voice comes from the wall. “Stop where you are. Keep your hands in sight. State your purpose.”

I’m not sure what I expected at the wall, but an emotionless and authoritative command from some unseen person behind a blinding light is not it. This doesn’t feel welcoming, or even like a passage we’re allowed to try to travel. It feels exclusive, like I’m not on the list.

Maddix seems to collect himself first. He holds his free hand out and calls, “I’m Maddix Blake. I’m a registered citizen. We’re being pursued.”

There’s a beat before we get an answer, but it comes. “And the others with you?”

Maddix points to each of us in turn and yells, “Connor Blake, my brother. I pre-registered him before I crossed the border. Karas Quick, a pre-registered citizen and daughter of Jordan Quick, a citizen. She’s a land-owner and these two—Cassidy Langfer and Jovan Foley—are being sponsored by her as workers.”

It all sounds very official and formal. I’d be convinced if someone told me all of that with such certainty. It hurts to look up at the light, but I can’t help it. I can’t see past it to the person doing the talking but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

There’s a much longer pause this time before the tinny, amplified voice comes back and tells us to hold on. I hear the crackle of someone talking on a radio behind the voice so I imagine that they are communicating with whoever it is that holds records to verify what they can.

While we stand around in the cold, Jovan and I put on our pants, which is doubly embarrassing with that giant bright light illuminating every bit of us. My heart is warmed, if not the rest of me, when Jovan holds up his burlap bag to shield me from any eyes above.

A gray dawn is lightening the sky by the time we hear more from the wall. The searchlight doesn’t bother me as much now that the sky isn’t quite so pitch black. It’s either that or I’ve gotten used to it. My attention is drawn back to it when it moves slightly away from us, as if to keep us easily viewable, but not blind us. I take it for a good sign.

“The names Maddix and Connor Blake and Karas Quick check out, but you’re about eighty miles from the crossing you left through. And the log lists Jordan Quick, but he’s not with you. He’s your primary. Where is he?” the voice asks. The tone has changed slightly, become more conversational, but still wary and cautious.

Maddix glances quickly my way and at my nod, answers, “He was killed during our trip back by the same people still chasing us. Texas wasn’t too happy with us bringing out the others.”

It’s an incomplete answer, but still honest enough that I can justify it for the moment as the right one to give. Once we’re over the border and safe, I’ll be happy to tell them all that they might want to know.

“Are you guys the ones involved in the fuss at Logan’s Crossing?” asks the voice.

The other three don’t know much about that fuss, only that Jovan and I wound up in the water somehow and that gunshots echoed along the river, which they had assumed were the result of their theft of the boat. Maddix looks like he’s about to ask what fuss the voice is asking about, so I touch his arm and motion that I’ve got it.

“Yes,” I yell up toward the light. “That was Jovan and me. We barely got away, as you probably already know if you’re asking about it.”

To my surprise, a laugh comes down at us from the speaker above, harsh but friendly. “Yeah, we heard. If you’re wondering about the guy chasing you, they kept him for a while, but let him go for some reason. He must have some pull. They usually aren’t so accommodating there. Someone from the Crossing will come and sell us the news later this morning and we’ll get the whole story then.”

There’s a warning in those words that I take to heart. It means that our story had better match, or at least mesh, with the story they’ll get from the town. I decide to take up the gauntlet the voice just tossed down.

“Good! Then you’ll have no reason to doubt us. Just to be clear, I’ll tell you what I can,” I say and give Jovan a look. His lips press into a line, but he gives me a tiny nod so I continue. “The man chasing us is named Creedy and he works for Jovan’s father. He’s telling people we kidnapped him, but that isn’t so. Jovan is standing right here and he can confirm what I say.”

I motion for Jovan to speak up and he yells, “I’m here willingly. I’m a Striker.”

He looks a little pale at those words, like it’s just now hit him that he is, in fact, a real Striker. Not a young cadet out on a lark, or a student on a camping trip or even a friend helping another friend. A Striker. Even without a single tattoo on his neck for any crime, he’s officially an escapee. A defector.

I touch his shoulder, wanting to comfort him if I can, because he needs it even if he doesn’t know it. He tilts his head down, like he’s about to brush my hand with his cheek, but stops himself and just gives me a sad smile instead.

“I’m okay,” he whispers.

The others are watching us from a few steps away. Cassi’s the only one who seems to grasp what Jovan’s going through and it almost looks like she might cry. I nudge Jovan and he gives her a wink and a smile that brings the brightness back to her face.