UnDivided (23 page)

The story, far too old to be corroborated by anyone living, is that when the old tannery burned down, it was so infested with mice that they all ran out at once to escape the fire. The massive pack of mice raced toward the nearby Tennessee River, landing in a flood of vermin that rivaled the plagues on Egypt. And so, henceforth, and likely forevermore, the place came to be known as Mousetail Landing.

In the spot where the tannery once stood is now a harvest camp so picturesque it is often the subject of watercolors
painted by vacationers camping across the river. The closest thing to mice at Mousetail now are the mild-mannered boys and girls all dressed in white, who arrive the day after their thirteenth birthdays. Happy children, all bright-eyed and trusting that the staff will ease them into a divided state with kindness and a reverence for the sanctity of their sacrifice.

The cabins of Mousetail Divisional Academy are heated in the winter by induction floorboards and cooled in the summer by multizone circulation systems that keep each tithe's sleeping area at precisely the temperature the tithe prefers. Spectacular meals are supervised by a chef who once had his own TV show and served by graduates of the International Institute of Modern Butlers.

Tithes are accepted to Mousetail through a rigorous and competitive application process akin to that of the most exclusive universities. To be chosen for the academy is a source of pride for a tithe and his or her family—and to receive a Mousetail transplant is something bragged about in society's highest strata.

Until recently, the academy's front gate was not locked. In fact, there's a sign just inside the gate in bright yellow and red that reads
THOSE WHO WISH TO LEAVE UNDIVIDED MAY EXIT HERE.
Yet in fourteen years of operation, there have been only four tithes who went AWOL. One of them was later found frozen in the woods. He was buried in a highly visible and well-maintained tomb in the camp, testifying to the love and care that Mousetail provides its guests—even the AWOL ones. And it also stands as a reminder to other tithes that the wage of cowardice is death.

In recent weeks, by request of the Juvenile Authority, the gate has been locked, and the minimal security staff has been augmented by three additional armed guards. It's nowhere near the protection required for more likely targets of Mason Starkey's wrath: nonvoluntary harvest camps, where the campers don't actually want to be there.

The new security measures frighten the tithes, reminding them that there's evil out in the world—but they take comfort in knowing that it won't be coming for them. Very soon the evil of this world will no longer be their concern. In fact they are taught to pity the kind of ignorance that leads to violence against harvest camps.

The tithes of Mousetail Divisional Academy do not know and cannot see the dark thunderheads growing to the south. It is a tempest far more devastating than they dare imagine, which threatens to end them before the scalpel can.

On the night before the Stork Brigade's planned attack, the tithes take to their beds after gentle prayer and the brushing of teeth, never suspecting that judgment will soon rain upon them with ballistic intensity, unless an unexpected front moves in to quiet the storm.

He is abducted in the middle of the night. It's different from the time the clappers came for him. This time his attackers are of the stealth kind, rather than from the school of brute force. They sneak up to him instead of bludgeoning their way through the rank and file. Without a commotion to alert him, Starkey has no warning before the tranq bullet pierces his thigh. Not a tranq dart, which is kinder and gentler, but a full-payload chemical bullet that explodes like a bug on a windshield but only after penetrating deep into the epidermis. Tranq bullets hurt like hell, even if they don't do any real damage.

The pain jolts Starkey awake just long enough to register that he's been tranq'd, then he's swallowed by unconsciousness once more.

•  •  •

He's awakened sometime later by a slap to the face. A hard one. Then another, because the first slap didn't quite do the job. The third slap is purely gratuitous on the part of the assailant, whoever he is.

“Awake yet, stork boy?” says a man with tousled hair and a severe expression. “Or do you need another one?”

“Go to hell,” Starkey grunts out. That summons forth another slap, this one backhanded and brutal. It would sting quite a lot if he weren't still numb from the tranqs. He feels blood on his face, though. The guy has a ring that cut Starkey's cheek.

“Whoever you are, you're a dead man,” Starkey tells him, trying not to slur his words. “My storks will find you, kill you, and string you up as a warning for all the other idiots out there.”

“Will they, now?” The man is amused. Sure of himself. This does not bode well for Starkey, and so Starkey takes a moment to measure the situation.

He's outside in the woods. It's chilly. Starkey can see only in scant grays and deep royal blues. It must be dawn. He's bound but not gagged, which means they want him to be able to talk. Negotiate perhaps. His attacker, however, is angry. Very angry.

“Let me go, and we'll pretend this never happened,” Starkey suggests. He knows it won't work, but how the man responds will define Starkey's parameters.

The man's response is a swift kick to Starkey's ribs, and he feels at least two of them crack. Starkey falls to the side, moaning in pain that can't be quelled by the tranqs still in his system. He now knows his parameters. They're roughly the dimensions of a coffin.

“Don't break him,” hisses a voice in the shadows. Barely a voice at all—more like the breathy rasp of ghost. Starkey sees a figure shift. The silhouette of a shoulder, but the rest is
obscured by a tree. “The less he's broken, the more he's worth.”

The man backs off, but he doesn't seem any less angry. Although he's not all that big, not all that muscular, his simmering rage makes up for it. Starkey tries not to let the pain in his side drive him toward panic. There's never been a trap he hasn't been able to get out of. He escaped from the Juvey-rounders who came to unwind him, and killed one of them in the process. He escaped from the Graveyard, even though he had to shatter his own hand to do it. The lesson? He can escape from any situation . . . but he must be willing to do the unthinkable.

“Let me kill him!” says the brutal one, clearly the enforcer of this team. “Let me kill him and be done with it.”

“Stick to the plan,” rasps the voice in the shadows. “He's worth more to us alive.”

Starkey tries to calculate how far he might be from safety. The growing light confirms that it's daybreak. They took him sometime during the night. He could be hours away from his storks, or just outside the gate of the abandoned power plant they've been calling home. The plant is on the banks of the Mississippi. He tries to listen for the river, but realizes that the river moves so slowly, you couldn't hear it if it were right behind you. You can smell it, though. He takes a deep whiff. The air does not have the unpleasant smell of organic decay married to chemical runoff that typifies the Mississippi. His panic begins bubbling to the surface again.

And this on what should be the day of his greatest harvest camp attack.

“What do you want?” he asks.

Finally the second assailant steps out of the shadows. There's a third one too. Shorter than the other two, lingering back. He holds something in his hand. Could be a weapon of some sort. While the enforcer's face is fully exposed, these other two wear
black ski masks hiding their faces in wool-knit obscurity.

“Beg for your life,” says the third assailant, with the same breathy hiss as the other masked kidnapper.

“I don't beg,” announces Starkey, and his posturing is met with silence. As his arms are tied behind his back, he has to squirm up to a sitting position. “But I'm sure we can work this out.”

“We know who you are,” says the enforcer. “There's a reward on your head—dead or alive. I prefer dead.”

Now he thinks he knows their play. They intend to turn him in for the reward—but they could have just kept him unconscious until they handed him over. They want him to make a better offer, and with the clapper movement behind him, he has the resources to do it.

“Name your price,” Starkey says. “I pay better than the Juvenile Authority.”

The enforcer seethes. “You think this is about money? We're not interested in yours, or the Juvies' money either.”

Starkey wasn't expecting that.

The enforcer looks to the second assailant as if for permission. Number two, who is clearly in charge, nods. Starkey suspects that it's a woman, but the shadows are still too thick to be sure.

“The Burmese Dah Zey pays in more than just cash,” the enforcer tells him. “It pays in respect. And career advancement.”

Starkey's fear, which had just been gnawing at him, now clamps down, driving its teeth deep. His blood literally begins to feel cold within his body, like his veins are being caressed with ice. “You can't be serious.”

But their solemn silence proves that they are. There's the black market, and then there's the Dah Zey.

Starkey tries to swallow, but finds his throat too dry.
“Okay . . . okay . . . we can work this out. You don't need to do this; we can work this out.” Maybe he does beg after all.

“Too late for that,” snaps the enforcer.

“No,” rasps the whisperer. “Let him talk.”

Starkey knows this will be the greatest escape act of his life, if he can pull it off. “I can supply you,” he says.

“We don't need supplies,” says the enforcer.

“That's not what I mean. If you free me, I can supply you with Unwinds to sell to the Dah Zey. They're AWOL storks marked for unwinding, so no one will miss them. Imagine that—a constant supply . . . and not just any kids—I'll give you the cream of the crop. The strongest, the healthiest, the smartest. I'll keep you flush for a long, long time, and get you that respect you were talking about.”

They just stare at him for a moment. Then the enforcer says, “You would do that? Sacrifice the other storks to save yourself?”

Starkey nods without hesitation. “What you don't understand is that they need me. They need me more than they need each other.”

Again, weighty silence as they consider it. Starkey wishes he could see their eyes better. He wishes he could see the expressions of the other two behind their ski masks.

“How many will you give us?” the whisperer asks, her voice still a toneless rasp.

“How many do you need?” Starkey forces a smile. “Ten percent? Like a tithing? That's right, they'll be like tithes!”

Starkey knows he's getting somewhere. As for the logistics, those can be worked out later. The consequences of this escape can be dealt with. The aftermath is always manageable. All that matters in the moment is the escape itself.

“How could you do that to them?” says the third one, and his whisper breaks, a bit of roundness coming into his timbre. In the back of Starkey's mind, that voice is familiar, but it's
so far back in his mind, he doesn't register it yet.

“I can do it because it's the right thing to do!” Starkey insists. “The idea of a war is more important than any of its warriors. And I
am
the idea!” Then he looks away. “I don't expect you to understand that.”

And suddenly the whispering woman isn't whispering anymore. “We understand a lot more than you think.” Starkey realizes who she is the moment before she removes her ski mask.

“Bam?”

She turns to the third attacker. “Are we good, Jeevan?”

Jeevan removes his mask as well, then fiddles with the small object in his hand. “Yeah, we're good.”

As the betrayal takes hold in his mind, Starkey finds his fear replaced by fury. He struggles against his bonds. He can escape from the ropes, but it will take time. He doesn't have time! He wants to tear free now, so he can tear them all apart.

“He should die now!” announces the enforcer, who now paces in the background. “If I still had my garden shears, I'd stab them through his heart right now!”

But apparently no one present has either the guts or the inclination to end his life. It's their weakness that will save him.

“There's been enough killing,” Bam says. “Go wait for us in the car. We'll be there in a minute.”

“Who the hell is that clown?” Starkey asks.

“That ‘clown' is the head gardener at Horse Creek Harvest Camp,” Jeevan tells him. “You blew up his wife last week. You're lucky he didn't blow your brains out just now.”

Starkey turns to Bam, realizing that this is still a negotiation, just a very different one. “Bam, let's talk about this. You've made your point, so let's talk.”

“I'll talk,” she says. “And you'll listen.” She's calm. Too calm for Starkey's taste. He much preferred when her anger was out of control. That anger is malleable. It can be shaped
any way Starkey wants. But this cool calm is like Teflon. He knows anything he says will slide right off it.

“You're going to disappear, Mason,” she tells him. “I don't care where you go, but you're going to perform a total vanishing act. You will not kill the tithes at Mousetail. You will never attack another harvest camp. You'll never fight for another ‘cause,' and most of all, you'll stay far away from the Stork Brigade, from now until the end of time. Or at least until the end of your miserable life.”

Starkey glares at her. “And why would I do that?”

“This is why.” And she turns to Jeevan, who fiddles with the device in his hands that Starkey had mistaken for a weapon. It's not a weapon at all; it's a small recording device. Jeevan hits a button, and it projects a hologram—a miniaturized version of the spot they still stand in, in high definition, just as clear as the real thing. Starkey watches himself say: