The lights of Navy Pier shine against the darkening sky when my pocket buzzes. I practically shove a paper into the hands of an older woman and look for Atlas as I pull out my phone.
SOMETHING BIG IS HAPPENING. DAD HAS GONE INTO THE MAYOR’S OFFICE. I’M ALONE AND LOOKING NOW.
Rose’s message means we might have mere minutes before Marshals arrive. But if she’s just starting her search, we can’t clear out. We have to reach more people and keep her dad busy long enough for her to have a chance of finding the location of the Unity Centers.
I send the prearranged alert to the team and look around. Large clusters of people are on the other side of the street, moving toward Navy Pier. So I yell to Atlas to head for the crosswalk.
Sirens blare in the distance.
The glow of the top half of the slowly moving Navy Pier Ferris wheel shines in the sky.
The light changes before Atlas can cross. Cars zoom by, and I hurry from person to person, handing out the sheets Dewey designed with the word “VERIFY” at the top.
“Isn’t using paper like this against the law?” someone yells.
“Go find a recycling center.”
“Whatever that is, I don’t want it.”
“Please, take a look,” I urge. “It’s important.”
More sirens. Closer than before. And I haven’t handed out enough papers yet. I have to work faster.
I approach a group of people dressed in long satin dresses with rhinestones and suits and ties and fumble as I try to give them each a page as quickly as possible before moving on to the next group. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a guy standing under the Navy Pier archway just behind me—glaring at the paper in my hand.
Someone bumps me as I hurry to a group of college-age guys who push my papers aside with sneers and laughs, and I turn to look for someone else to hand them to. The sound of an electric bass coming from the pier pulses like a strobe light in my chest.
Fountains gurgle and spray.
Another siren screams in the air, and a police car comes into view.
I spot Atlas far to my left. He waves both arms over his head. He shouts something I can’t hear over the cars and the band and the people laughing and the sound of the water as it swooshes up and crashes to the pavement behind me. I take two steps toward him when he shakes his head, points to a woman twenty feet away, and mouths the word “Run!”
I don’t need to look at the shoes. The way the eyes of the woman in the jean jacket and button-down shirt narrow and how she begins to move when she sees the paper in my hands tell me all I need to know. I start to my right, then see a man in a dark jacket stepping out from behind a post. With my heart pounding hard in my ears, I turn toward the lights and music and run.
“Hey!”
I bump into a guy pushing a stroller, shout an apology, but I don’t stop, because I can hear other shouts that tell me the Marshals are on my heels. I jump atop the long seat of a red-and-silver bench, step on the back of it, and leap over onto the stone pavement. I don’t look behind me as I bolt toward the fountain park. Despite the chilly breeze coming off the lake, there are kids squealing as they skip through the dozen or so arching sprays of water. Pulling the bag of papers to my chest, I splash across the pavement, dodge the children, and veer right to the concourse side of the pier. The splashing footsteps that pound behind me tell me I can’t slow down.
Lights glow against the darkening of the night. I glance behind me as I weave around a performer made up to look like a statue. The woman Marshal is about twenty yards back and moving fast. The other one is nowhere in view. Neither is Atlas or any of the Stewards I recognize. For now, I’m on my own.
Fear pushes me to go faster. I weave around advertising screens touting restaurants and boat rides and other entertainments, and then run past people and streetlamps down the interlocked stone ground of the concourse. In the middle of the summer, the pier is packed with people. A larger crowd would be easier to get lost in. I could just wait for the Marshals to pass me by without venturing too far away from shore. But it isn’t wall-to-wall people today, which makes it harder to simply fade into the background.
The sounds of guitars, horns, drums, and the bass that still rings deep in my chest grow closer the farther onto the pier I run. Scents of roasting nuts, popcorn, and fried dough are carried on the ever-chillier breeze, or maybe it just seems colder because my feet are wet and I’m scared and desperate to get away from it all.
Dropping the slightly damp page in my hands into an open bag dangling off an older woman’s arm, I dash to the side of a snack booth to my right, which partially hides me from view. I take off the blue baseball cap and shake out my hair so it curtains around my shoulders. Then I pull up the bottom of my shirt and tie it into a knot above my waist. I drop the black duffel, now emptied of dictionaries, behind the stand, jam my hat into one of the other bags, and make sure they are each open enough for me to grab items out of them on the fly before slinging them over my shoulder.
As far as disguises go, it’s not great. But the Marshals saw me for only a few seconds. I hope they’ll focus on looking for the blue hat as I hurry toward the music.
I glance over my shoulder as I weave around a woman holding a small, crying toddler. There is a man in a dark shirt and dark shoes standing with his back to me about fifteen feet away. He turns in my direction, and the familiar sharp nose and scruffy jawline get me moving again.
The music grows louder.
The lights get brighter.
I zigzag through the growing number of meandering tourists, some holding the familiar red-covered dictionaries in their hands. The band I have been hearing is playing on a stage to my left, and I make a beeline toward the crowd in front of it. A guy shouts, “Hey, watch it,” to my right. I turn and spot the female Marshal shoving her way through the dancing and singing rock band audience. And her eyes are set on me.
I wriggle my way through a group of women with their arms slung around each other. A bunch of them swear or yell at me as I search for somewhere, anywhere, to run. One of my bags slides down my shoulder. I reach for the strap to shrug it back up when something catches on the strap and pulls.
I stumble forward, hit the ground, and ignore the pain as panic screams inside me. I turn and scoot backward. Cymbals crash over and over again. The female Marshal smiles and strides closer.
“Are you okay?” A guy steps in between the Marshal and me. I watch her reach around her back as I scramble to my feet and run.
“Screw you!” the guy shouts as I duck and weave and dodge through the crowd until I am close to the front center of the stage with the female Marshal and her scary smile advancing. From the other far side of the stage I see the hooked-nosed Marshal take a step forward and nod. The female Marshal pauses. Both watch me, waiting—like lions hunting prey—ready to pounce when I make a move. There’s an entrance to the inside restaurants to my right. I just need to get there, and I might have a chance.
Lights pulse. A guitar solo wails. I look for Atlas or any of the other Stewards, but if they are on the pier, they aren’t here now. But thinking of Atlas gives me an idea.
I ease the backpack off my shoulder. My attention shifting between the man standing at the end of the stage and the woman bobbing back and forth with the crowd to keep me in her sights, I reach into my bag.
The drumbeat gets faster and louder. The guitar solo gains in frenzy. I pull the papers out and launch them into the air like Atlas did when we last faced Marshals. The pages fly up in the gusting breeze. The guitar wails on a high note, and the crowd cheers. The female Marshal is knocked to the side as people surge forward, grabbing at the fluttering papers, thinking it’s part of the act, and I bend low and bolt for the entrance.
The female Marshal is not far behind me as I leap over a “Wet Floor” sign, dodge a family eating ice cream, and race through the wide, tiled indoor concourse that smells of grilled meat and fudge. The Marshal is still right behind me. I reach back into my bag and t
hrow more papers as I streak by a group of costumed people singing “Happy Birthday.” There are shouts of surprise, and I toss another handful of papers over my shoulder while dashing for the exit.
Immediately, I know I’ve gone the wrong way. The Ferris wheel looms in the air above me, inching in its slow arc of the sky, and grows closer with every step I take. But there is no going back the way I came because the Marshal hasn’t given up.
I see a man and a woman flanking a drunken friend. The friend’s head lolls to the side, and I realize that the girl isn’t their friend at all. Pink-streaked hair flutters, and piercings twinkle as they catch the light. The woman they are dragging is Flap.
Farther down the pier I spot Dewey’s hat. He leaps around a food cart with two men in pursuit.
I want to help them, but there is nothing I can do with my own Marshal closing in. I toss more papers, dart around tourists, and climb the wide concrete steps that lead to the next level. I am gasping for air as I reach the top. Lungs burning, I hurry toward the carousel that plays the same happy music I remember from when I rode the colorfully painted horses as a child.
Desperate, I circle the ride and head for the Ferris wheel, turning its large, enclosed gondolas lazily in the sky.
My legs tremble. No matter how scared I am, I won’t be able to keep running like this for much longer. Thankfully, the woman chasing me, who is now scanning the carousel, appears to have also slowed down.
The Ferris wheel crawls to a stop. The gondola doors slowly slide open, and when passengers start to unload I see my chance. I duck behind the pedestal of a statue that is near the line for the Ferris wheel and take several deep breaths. I have to get this right because I won’t have another opportunity.
The Marshal is still searching the carousel.
Screens filled with news or advertisements for cruises and restaurants flicker.
Crouching, I watch passengers climb off and new ones load on.
When the new passengers disappear through the door, I take a deep breath, wait for the doors to slide shut, and yell, “Hey! That girl cut in front of me. Hey!”
The Marshal’s head snaps in this direction.
“Stop the Ferris wheel!” I shout as the gondola begins to inch forward.
The Marshal takes a step toward it. Two. Then she starts to run.
I wait for her to pass the statue, then bolt in the opposite direction to the glass atrium building on the far side. There are gardens and fountains in there that my mother helped me draw. I know how to get to the front of the pier and the exit from there.
I reach the open doorway just as a hand latches on to my arm. Cold metal jams into the exposed skin at my waist and I go completely still.
“I don’t think so,” the hooked-nosed Marshal taunts. I had been so focused on the other Marshal, I’d never looked for this one.
I think about the pill in my pocket. This moment is why the deadman’s switch exists. To keep those who are still fighting for the truth—like Rose and Atlas—safe. I know what I’m supposed to do now, but I can’t. Maybe Scarlett was right about me not belonging in the Stewards. Maybe I’m not brave enough because I can’t make the choice to die.
“Turn around slowly and come with me. No reason to be a martyr for something you can’t possibly understand.”
My heart roars in my chest.
“People are going to know the truth,” I say as the Marshal yanks me out of the doorway. “They’re going to demand answers. You won’t be able to stop them.”
“You want to bet on that?” the Marshal asks.
“I’ll take that bet.” Spine’s voice comes out of nowhere. She spins. Kicks. Her foot connects with the Marshal’s arm. He stumbles, and I reach into my bag for the hard-covered book I used earlier today and slam it into the Marshal’s face. The man screams. Blood spurts from his nose as he lifts his gun toward me. I raise the book again, knowing it won’t stop the bullet, but suddenly the man reels backward as Atlas appears and latches on to the guy’s arm. The sharp crack of the gunshot makes me go cold. It strikes the nearby pavement with a loud bang. The Marshal wrenches his arm away, spins under Atlas’s punch, and rams his head into Atlas’s stomach, sending the two crashing to the ground.
The Marshal recovers first, gun still in his hand. Atlas starts to push up from the ground, but before he can get to his feet or the Marshal can take aim, Spine is there. She spins away from the Marshal’s jab, grabs his arm before he recovers, and jams her foot into his crotch.
“Get out of here!” Spine yells.
I help Atlas climb to his feet as the Marshal gasps. Together we run to the entrance of the atrium. We glance back in time to see the Marshal sink to his knees. Spine lands another kick, then punches his already bloody face before shoving him to the ground.
Eyes bright, Spine steps toward us. She swipes a trickle of blood off her cheek and opens her mouth to speak when three pops echo in the air.
Spine jerks. Her eyes go wide, and she takes a halting step forward.
Someone screams.
There’s another pop. Spine mouths one word—“Go!” Then she drops to her knees.
I spot the female Marshal near the carousel. Her gun is extended as it swings toward us.
Terrified shrieks fill the air. Atlas moves to help Spine, but I grab his hand and pull him toward the atrium entrance.
“She’s dead.” The words stab deep into my heart. Spine is dead, and it’s because of me. My steps slow. I insisted we fight. If I hadn’t pushed, she would be in the Lyceum—safe. Flap wouldn’t have been taken or killed. Dewey—
There is another crack of gunfire. The bullet clangs against the doorframe beside me, and I pull myself together and get moving. Spine gave her life to save mine. I won’t let that be for nothing.
People swarm off the carousel in panic, moving between us and the Marshal.
“This way!” I yell to Atlas, who gives one last look at Spine’s unmoving body before turning to follow me into the atrium. Crystal water sprays in dozens of fountains. Lights glisten off the water and make the flowers look otherworldly as people scream.
“There are Marshals in the next building. Go for the emergency exit!” Atlas yells.
“It’ll set off an alarm.”
“That’s the least of our problems.”
A Marshal appears at the other end of the atrium, and the discussion is over as we run to the emergency exit. A shrill, incessant siren echoes in the stairwell as we pound down the steps to the hallway below.
“Now what?” I pant. We’ve left the public part of the pier. I’m no longer sure where we are or where to run next, but we’re going to have to make a decision—fast.
“There are at least a dozen Marshals swarming the pier,” Atlas says as we head down the hall to who knows where. “They’ll be guarding the exits, and they won’t leave until they have checked every inch of this place.”
So we can’t simply stroll outside, and we can’t stay here. “What about the boats?”
Somewhere above us a door slams open. Footsteps sound as I dump the book I’m still holding in my bag and race to keep up with Atlas. He shoves open an exit door, and we head out into the night.
I can barely catch my breath as we fall in step next to a group of five guys and three girls who appear to be only a handful of years older than us. I force myself to walk as if we belong with these people, who are currently talking about whose house they are going to next. To pretend Spine didn’t just die before my eyes and her killer isn’t in pursuit.
In my head I am screaming that we should run, but I keep my pace unhurried and stay close to the others. Only the nearer we get to the end of the pier, the more Marshals and police officers I count. Some are picking up fluttering papers from the ground or ripping them from people’s hands. Others are stopping tourists and asking questions. A Marshal pulls a man out of a group and marches him over to the side where another waits with his arms behind his back. Neither arrested man looks familiar, but both have ric
h brown skin and short hair. Something that isn’t lost on Atlas.
He pulls me around the side of the concession stand and puts his hands firmly on my shoulders. “We have to split up.”
“What?” My heart jumps. “No. We have to stay together.”
“They won’t look twice at you as long as you walk through the exit with this group,” Atlas whispers. Nearby a speaker blasts upbeat music about the feeling of freedom.
“No.” I shake my head as the group we were walking with pass over their money and retrieve change. They’ll be leaving soon. “Please . . .” I look up at Atlas. “I’m not leaving you behind.”
“You promised me before tonight started that you wouldn’t be a hero. That when it was time to run, you would run.”
“Yes, but—”
He takes my face in his hands and cuts off my protests with his lips. They are hot and strong, and I grab his arms and hold as tight as I can because I don’t want to let him go. Not now that I have just found him. That we have found each other.
Atlas leans back and just like that, the kiss—our moment—is over. The music on the pier continues to play. The Marshals are still looking for us. The people providing our unwitting cover are collecting their nachos and drinks—getting ready to move on.
“Meri,” Atlas says, his eyes hot on mine, “I’m going to fight like hell to get off this pier and back to you. But to do that, I need you to trust me enough to leave me behind. I need you to do what you promised.”
I pull Atlas’s head down, press my lips against his one more time, and before I can change my mind, I rejoin the laughing, carefree group and walk away. One of the guys notices me and grins. I blink back tears and return the smile as each step puts more distance between Atlas and me.
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