The Unforgiven (The Propagation Project Book 1)

by Callie Bishop

  It’s a beautiful morning in Airport City. The sun glows round and bright in a cloudless blue sky. The fall air is setting in. Shane, Riley, Luka, Sarah, and I will leave here in just a few short hours, and who knows if we’ll ever come back. I pause for a few moments, packing the last item before zippering the bag. Try not to think too much. It’s better not to think too much.

  But it’s impossible not to think. As much as I try to empty out the space in my head, the thoughts creep back in. Images of Netty seep into my subconscious. The thought of baby Catherine, Uncle Will, Aunt Rhea, and Netty slowly trickle into my every waking thought and even my dreams. Last night, I woke in a sweaty fit, Luka hovering over me, his hands gripped around each one of my arms.

  Your nightmares have a way of tricking you into their altered reality. I held him in a tight hug, grateful he rescued me from my own brain playing tricks on me.

  Think about yesterday. Yesterday was an abnormally normal day. I introduced Gracie and Caleb to Ruby May and some of the other kids. They hit it off right away and took to a game of kickball.

  LaRoux returned late yesterday evening with two more pregnant girls. I looked on from far away as Scratch unloaded the truck with their things.

  “I wonder how many there are,” Luka said, sitting nearby.

  I shook my head mindlessly. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  LaRoux and Ellen had an emotional reunion, each one relieved to find the other alive. Margaret and Ellen examined each of the girls, and thankfully all were in generally good health, save for needing a few extra meals in their stomachs.

  Ruby May stands at the threshold of her room, a soft blanket held in one hand and a rag doll in the other.

  “Are you leaving again?” she asks me. She looks up with her almond-shaped green eyes. They remind me of Luka’s. I envision a daughter with Luka’s eyes and my dark hair.

  I stoop down in front of her in the hallway.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I gotta go.”

  Behind her, Ruby’s mother fiddles with sheets on the bed. She glances over in our direction but says nothing.

  “Will you be back soon?” Ruby asks.

  I don’t know what to say, since I don’t think I’ll be coming back at all. “Maybe,” I whisper. “Play you in a game of kickball if I do?”

  She nods and wraps her arms around my neck. I jolt backward, bracing myself against the wall.

  “Bye, Hazel,” she says into my ear. “Don’t forget about your lucky crystal.”

  I smile and pat the pocket where I keep it. “I’m counting on it.”

  * * * *

  Gracie and Caleb are already asleep in bed. I peer through the slightly opened door to get one last look at them before we leave. They’re both on the bottom bunk, curled into each other. It was hard telling them I had to leave, and for a moment I doubted whether it was a good time to go. But there’s no such thing as the right time. Staying here isn’t an option, and as bad as I feel about leaving Caleb and Gracie, my one relief is knowing they are in good hands. Margaret and Ellen have promised to look after them, and I would trust those two with my own life anytime.

  “You ready?”

  I look back and see Shane, his backpack slung around one of his arms.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “Ready as ever.”

  * * * *

  Margaret and LaRoux are chatting by Scratch’s truck. Justin and Luka are both leaning against the bed of the pickup, each yawning one after the other.

  “Where’s Riley?” I ask as we approach the group.

  An arm pops up from the bed of the truck.

  “Right here,” Riley says, waving his hand back and forth.

  Margaret puts both hands on my shoulders. “Be careful. Trust no one but each other.” Her hands are still gripping me, but she looks us each in the eye as she says it.

  I nod and try to think of something inspiring to say, something that will instill some confidence in Margaret and LaRoux and the rest of the group. All the words jumble in my head, and I just stare back at her, the blank expression on my face not helping to hide the doubt in my head.

  “They’re starting the chip installation tomorrow,” LaRoux says. “Pigeons will be everywhere, so be extra vigilant.”

  There’s one thing I need to know before we leave. One thing Margaret never told me that could be helpful the closer we get to Eight.

  “Margaret, who was the contact from Eight you were supposed to meet?”

  “Beeker,” she says. “Hayden Beeker. He came to visit me at the Antioch after the first reaping. He wants to help.”

  “Beeker?” I repeat. The name sounds so familiar, but I can’t seem to remember where I’ve heard it before. Then it hits me. “My aunt’s maiden name is Beeker.”

  “Your aunt is related to Whetherby’s brother-in-law?” Riley says.

  “I-I don’t know. I remember a story she told me about a rift with her brother. But I don’t remember his name.”

  Could the note on the picture connect to Beeker? It was enough to give my shattered hope a new layer of optimism. It’s a thin layer, but I’ll take whatever I can get. If Hayden is now playing against the Officials, then maybe he can keep everyone safe and alive.

  Chapter 39

  I wake up to the sound of an explosion. It rattles my teeth and vibrates through my muscles. I sit straight up, wiping the gravel and dirt from my face.

  “Come on,” Luka says. “We gotta keep moving.”

  I struggle to get up, and Luka offers me his hand and hoists me up. The group is already up, and everyone starts off on a slow trot. It’s still dark outside, and across the mountainside I can see the plume of smoke rising into the sky. It’s not unusual to see this type of thing in Salem, but we aren’t in Ward One anymore. Earlier today we crossed over Two’s boundary line and decided to take a break for a few hours to rest up. We’ve walked most of the way and my muscles burn.

  Shane is leading us through heavy brush near the overgrown part of the road. We’re almost to the address, and if we keep up this quick pace, we’ll be there within minutes.

  We all stop as the sound of another bomb going off echoes through the mountainside. A bright flash followed by another plume of smoke envelopes buildings.

  “What the hell is going on?” I ask as we all stare at the chaotic scene.

  “I don’t know,” Shane says. “But we need to keep moving.”

  Two explosions in Ward Two, and we haven’t even been here that long. Things like this don’t happen here.

  We make our way down the steep street until we get to a fork in the road.

  “Which way?” Luka asks.

  Shane points, which seems to lead right toward the explosion.

  As we walk closer into the neighborhood, the smoke is so thick it becomes hard to breathe. I cover my nose and mouth with the collar of my shirt as my eyes tear from the smoky burn.

  Then it happens. Another explosion, and this time it’s so close I feel flecks of debris against my face and some of the hair on my arms is singed. The thick smoke becomes even more suffocating, and the heat of the flames burning from the corpse of a burning car feels like it’s melting my skin. My ears are ringing from the deafening blast, and I can’t see more than a few inches in front of me. My first instinct is to run, and I do, straight through billowing smoke. I don’t see anyone. I keep running. Running until I see a clearing in the road.

  No one is out this early in the morning, but some have poked their heads out of doors or windows to see what has happened outside. People look out with confused expressions as they see the remains of burning rubble littering the road. They look at me as I run by, shooting me suspicious looks as if I were to blame for all the carnage.

  I keep walking, quickening my pace the closer to the house I come.

  I can’t stop now. I can’t stop now. Keep going.

  I want to go back and look for the others, but I have the sinking feeling that if I don’t do this now, I’ll miss my chance.

/>   Then, I see the numbers 3454 faded in black paint on a rusted mailbox. The house is small, yellow with white shutters and a white picket fence around the lawn. With its peeling paint and overgrown grass, it looks like everything else around here…forgotten.

  The house is dark, but at this hour it’s not unexpected.

  I look back and only see black and gray smoke curling into the sky.

  I head through the creaky gate of the fence and walk down the brick path toward the house, tripping over loose bricks. The heel of my boot gets stuck in a large crack where the bricks are missing.

  I hop up the porch steps and give the door a few good knocks. The seconds tick by and nothing happens.

  “I guess I’ll just invite myself in,” I say. I don’t know why but talking to myself is keeping me from turning around and running in the opposite direction.

  Just as I wrap my hand around the doorknob, I feel it jiggle from the other side. I quickly draw my gun from my waist and fall back from the door.

  The door creaks open just a few inches. “Who’s there?” a gruff voice asks.

  I inch closer to the door. “I’m not here to hurt you or your family. I’m a friend. I’m just passing through and thought I could bother you for a few minutes.”

  A head peers ever so slightly around the door, revealing a gray tuft of hair and part of a stubbly beard. The man behind the door scans my face.

  I inch a little closer.

  He opens it a little wider and steps beside it. He is unarmed and maintains a grip on the doorknob.

  “What’s with the gun?” he asks.

  “Can never be too careful,” I say.

  He stares, the look on his face telling me he’s not sure whether he believes me.

  “Is Rhea here?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No. She’s not here. Hasn’t been for years.” His voice is shaky with anger.

  I peer behind him to see if there’s anyone else in the house.

  “I have a note here,” I say, pulling it out of my pocket. “Does this mean anything to you?” I offer him the picture, and my arm lingers in the air before he finally grabs it. He squints in the low light, then shakes his head in frustration.

  “I need my reading glasses,” he says. “You can come in. No guns.”

  I hesitate, knowing if Luka and Shane knew I left myself unarmed, they would kill me themselves.

  “Fine.” I tuck my gun into my backpack and plop it on the porch floor. He doesn’t bother to wait for me as he heads farther into the house.

  “I’ll be fine,” I whisper to myself.

  I try to brush off the feeling that something is off about this man. The look in his eyes is snarled and bitter. His disheveled appearance adds to the overall crazy vibe I’m getting from him. But who knows if the Officials have been here already and what threats they have hurled his way.

  I take a deep breath, my beating heart pounding so hard it hurts. Pushing passed the door, I step into the dark house where I see him walking back from the hallway, his reading glasses perched low on his nose.

  “Come, come,” he says, waving me over with the note in his hand. “Close the door.”

  I slam it shut, rattling a picture off the wall and onto the floor. I walk over to the fallen frame and pick it up. Wiping the thin layer of dust off the glass reveals four people, two adults and two teenagers. I recognize Aunt Rhea and I assume the other is her brother.

  “Bed Blue?” he repeats to himself. “I’m sorry,” he continues. “I can’t say I know what this means.”

  He lays the note on the counter and removes his glasses. “Can I offer you anything?”

  I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

  At first glance, the house looks like any other with carefully placed furniture and odds and ends scattered around. Fake flowers in porcelain vases, pictures in frames, a snow globe on the fireplace mantle. The memory of the Pigeon dropping Netty’s last gift from Mom flashes in my mind.

  But when I take a better look, the furniture looks disheveled, as if it were moved and thrown back together in a hurry. The table isn’t centered in the middle of the room, and the chairs are scattered far from the table. The couch is sitting at a weird angle, and the pillows are tossed haphazardly on the floor.

  “How long have the Rusers been blowing things up around here?” I ask.

  He chuckles and pulls out a liquor bottle from one of the bottom cabinets in the kitchen. I recognize the label on the bottle. It’s a special brand of alcohol only found in Ward Eight. Bert carried it in the pawnshop and threw it in with some of the deals I made with him. It’s hard to get, especially all the way out here.

  “Those are not just any old Rusers,” he says, refilling his flask.

  I open my mouth to ask him what he means, but he cuts me off.

  “So,” he says before taking a swig, “how do you know Rhea?” He takes another sip and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Through family.” I shift uncomfortably, wishing I hadn’t agreed to leave the gun. The only thing that’s keeping me from screaming is sheer morbid curiosity about this mysterious note.

  “Do you mind if I just take a look around her room? I’ll be quick. I promise.”

  He slams the flask down on the counter. “It’s just you and me in this great big house.” He gestures both arms out wide.

  I look back at the closed door, an overwhelming feeling of dread taking over. What the hell am I doing? The rest of the group could be sprawled across the road bleeding and dying while I’m doing nothing to help them. It’s too late now. I’m here, and I have to figure out what the hell this note is supposed to mean.

  “Okay,” I say, not sure how to respond. I knew drunk when I heard it. “Do you mind if I have a look?”

  He walks around the kitchen counter. “Sure,” he says. “Down the hall.” He gestures the way with a nod of his head.

  I feel his eyes follow me as I start in that direction. I pass an opened door leading to a bathroom. The hallway leads into three bedrooms. The two on the right have closed doors, the last one on the left is open. Through it, I can see a disheveled bed and a sidelight that burns dimly.

  One of the closed doors of the other bedrooms has stickers and drawings taped to it. The name Rhea is sprawled against the dark wood. I turn the knob of the last door, pausing for a few seconds to look behind me. Mr. Beeker, I presume, is in the kitchen clanging around the drawers. He’s mumbling to himself and slamming the drawers shut.

  The door pops open, and I let it swing back. I flick the light switch and the bedside lamp flickers on. Aunt Rhea’s room is small, but neat and organized. The bed sits against one wall, a shelf on the other, each square inch filled with books. I stand in the threshold for a few seconds and scan the room. The house goes silent, and I smell the familiar burn of alcohol from someone breathing behind me.

  Chapter 40

  You know that feeling when something bad is going to happen? Your body tenses. The sweat starts to dew under your arms and behind your neck. Your heart thumps in your ears. Suddenly, you have the hearing of an owl and the vision of a hawk. Every cell in your body tells you that whatever happens next won’t be good.

  That’s how I feel right now.

  His heavy breathing behind me heats the skin on the back of my neck. I stiffen my stance, waiting for something to happen. Waiting. Waiting is the worst part. Your mind starts to come up with all sorts of crazy, messed-up scenarios. I clench my eyes shut, trying to clear my head.

  I turn slowly, knowing this was his plan as soon as I saw the picture that fell from the wall. His face is smeared with a greedy smile.

  “Mr. Beeker?” I say in just above a whisper. He doesn’t say anything…just stands there visually assaulting me. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  I back into the room slowly, never taking my eyes off him.

  “Maybe I can help you find what you’re looking for.” He follows me into the room, the light of the lamp reflecting in his glassy eyes.


  “Okay.” I scan the room looking for something to use to defend myself against this imposter. The closest thing I can reach is a teddy bear. Wonderful.

  The last thing I want is to find whatever it is I’m looking for with him in the room. The first place I need to look is the bed, but I head to the closet instead. I jiggle the doors, trying to pry them open. They won’t budge, but lucky for me, I feel someone right behind me, offering to help.

  “Here,” he says, wrapping his arms around mine. “Let me help you with that.” He slides his hand down my arms, making me wish I could crawl out of my own skin. I feel him nuzzle his scruffy face into my neck and breath deep into my skin. I swallow repeatedly to keep from throwing up. “I’ve always had a thing for blondes.” He brushes the short hair away from the front of my face.

  “I think I’ve seen enough,” I say, knowing he has no plans to let me go.

  “Ah…you haven’t seen anything yet.” He tightens his grip around me.

  His breath is hot, and the smell of alcohol makes my stomach churn. He grabs one of my arms and pins them against my sides. His rough, calloused hands wrap around my neck.

  “I’ve been here alone,” he mutters. “Waiting for someone to show up at the door. Wasn’t expecting you, but I’ll take what I can get.” His hand travels down my neck and over my chest.

  “At least look me in the face when you do it,” I tell him. “Or is that too much to ask?”

  He loosens his grip as he jerks me around so that we’re facing each other. I use the few seconds my hands are free to dig into one of my pockets while I use the other hand to distract him.

  At first, he bats it away, but with a few flutters of my lashes he softens. Two can play this game.

  “No need to be so rough, Mr. Beeker,” I say, trailing my finger down his face.

  He gives me a half-smile, his glassy eyes turning upward. I reach my hand over his neck and curl his hair around my fingers, pulling him in close. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”