“Aspen asked for you yesterday,” she says. I freeze.
“What do you mean?”
“Aspen,” she says. “She doesn’t say much, but she did say your name. Yesterday.”
“She’s alive?”
Her mother nods, swallowing hard. This woman has known nothing but grief. Her own husband beat her in the nighttime hours. I’m having trouble forming words for her.
Finally, I say, “Where is she?”
Aspen’s mother steps to one side and gestures toward a mattress behind her. “She’s here. Sleeping…”
I rush past. First the red hair comes into view, bundled on top of Aspen’s head. She lies on her back, eyes closed.
“What happened? What are her injuries?”
“Her injuries are minor,” she says. “Mostly small bruises and…well there’s a cut on the side of her neck.” She stares at her daughter. “But she won’t talk. Not until she said your name yesterday. And not since.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and I want to pull her into a hug. I don’t though, because I’ve seen how jumpy she is to touch. I’ve seen how she flinches when a person gets too close. Maybe I should hug her anyway, but I don’t move.
“What’s your name?” I should have asked it long ago, before this.
Her eyes flick to mine, then back to Aspen. “Renee,” she says softly.
“Renee,” I repeat. She looks at me again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t protect her. I could have—I tried to stop her.” Tears wet my eyes. I want to spare this woman grief. I want to reverse the bad things that have happened to her. There is nothing I can do to mend her.
I’m surprised when she walks up to me; more so when her arms wrap around me. She pulls me close to her, and I feel the way she shakes.
“You are the best thing that ever happened to her,” Renee murmurs. “Her first friend.”
She pulls back as quickly as she approached, shrinking again, avoiding looking at me. I wipe at my cheeks.
“Do you mind if I wake her up?”
“Go ahead. I’ll leave for a while.” She slips down the main aisle, disappearing into the hall.
I drop to my knees beside the mattress, hesitating a second before I carefully place a hand on Aspen’s shoulder.
“Aspen,” I whisper. There’s a thick bandage on the side of her neck. Another small one on the side of her face, near her ear. My insides are knotting, my mind conjuring images that might not be true. Maybe she got out easily. Maybe the Watchers never caught her.
Aspen shifts, a small moan tumbling out. She opens her eyes slow, blinking too many times while they adjust. Turning her head, she catches sight of me. Her face twists, tears filling her eyes until they pour over, falling in thick streams into her hair. There’s a breaking feeling in my chest. I am cracked open and raw. Aspen is trembling—shaking so hard the blanket shudders.
“You’re alive,” is all she says. Her voice is a fragile thing, a dug-up sound calling out from her throat. I wrap my arms around her. She curls against me, and I don’t let go until the shaking has stopped.
I sit with Aspen for over an hour, waiting in the long pauses when she doesn’t speak. I want to know what happened, but I feel that I shouldn’t push her too hard. There’s something unsteady about her eyes. The wrong question, and I’m afraid she’ll shatter.
“Jace is dead,” she whispers. “They’re all dead, I think.” Her gaze is empty, stuck somewhere on the dark corner of the room. Around us are the sounds of snoring and heavy, sleeping breaths.
“How did you get out?” I whisper back. I haven’t stopped looking at her, but she won’t look at me. Her eyes are too wide, her lips parted. I touch her arm.
“Aspen, what happened?”
She scoots forward and lies down, turning her body away from me.
“Aspen…” I whisper again, but her eyes are closed.
I sit next to her for a while, my back to the wall, hugging my knees. My eyes close, and I say a thank you for her life. She isn’t dead, and knowing that relieves some of the weight on my chest. Just enough that after a while I feel myself drifting. I slide to the floor beside Aspen’s mattress, and fall easily to sleep.
11
I open my eyes to yellow, rectangular lights running along the center of the ceiling. I hold my breath against bursts of pain when I push off the hard floor. Aspen is awake, sitting with her back against the wall and her knees to her chest. Around us, some of the Workers are gathering their things, stuffing extra clothing into empty pillowcases. I stand confused for a few seconds, trying to process what I’m seeing. Whatever they’re doing, no one looks happy to be doing it.
In the hall, I lift to my toes, scanning the growing crowd. People murmur to one another as they all shuffle in the same direction, eyes fearful. I spot Takeshi several yards down and push against the flow of bodies to reach him.
“What is this?” I say. “What’s going on?”
Takeshi turns at the sound of my voice. Sweat glistens on his forehead. He dips his head toward me, speaking low.
“We can’t manage this crowd anymore.”
My eyes narrow. “So you’re sending them back?”
“Of course not,” he says, eyebrows pulling in. “They’ll never go back. But we can’t function like this.” He lifts his gaze, eyeing the tired Workers shuffling toward the Infirmary doors. “There’s another facility across the street. We’re only moving half.”
I don’t like it. Pangs of warning hit me, but what can I say? He’s right that this place is too full.
“Who will protect them?”
“We’re sending soldiers. Don’t worry,” Takeshi says, setting a hand on my shoulder. “It’ll all be worthwhile in the end.”
He turns to leave, but I grab his arm. “What about me? Am I moving?”
Takeshi shakes his head, his lips quirking up in the corner. “Not an option.”
He continues down the hall, angling past the slower walkers. I stand in the middle of the crowd, shifting my feet each time a body pushes past. They don’t want to go; it’s written on their faces plainly. But what choice is left?
“Hannah!”
I turn fast, and there is Sam, his little arm trapped in the large hand of a soldier. He isn’t being dragged—their walk is slow, but his eyes beg for help. I remember the first day, when a Watcher pulled him from my arms. I was too confused to act then, but now I move without hesitation.
“Sam!” I call to him, shoving my way through the crowd. I lift my hand, trying to signal for the soldier to stop. Sam reaches toward me, his little fingers stretching.
“Stop,” I say to the man. “Please! Please wait!”
The soldier is older, a graying ex-Watcher with eyes the color of copper. He turns, keeping a firm grip on Sam.
“Where are you taking him?” I say, breathless, when I reach them.
“That isn’t your concern,” the man says. “You should get back in line before the good beds are taken.”
“I’m not part of the line,” I say, my face heating. “And this boy is with me. I need to know where you’re taking him.”
“Are you his mother?”
“No—”
“His sister?”
“No, I’m not—”
“Then he isn’t your concern. Please, miss. Get back in line.”
He moves to leave, but I step in his path. “Just tell me where he’s going. Please.”
“Is there a problem here?” Solomon’s voice cuts through the tension. I turn quickly to speak to him, but the soldier beats me to it.
“It’s under control,” the man says. “This boy was causing trouble—upsetting others around him.”
“And where are you taking him?” Solomon says.
The man shifts his eyes, looking between Solomon and me.
“To a quiet place to calm him down, sir.”
Solomon nods, his eyes thoughtful. He kneels in front of Sam and places a hand on the little boy’s arm. The Watcher lets go of his grip.
&
nbsp; “What has you so upset, young man? Is there something I can do to help you?”
Sam sniffs, and a large tear rolls off his cheek.
“I can’t leave them,” he says. “I’m supposed to go, but I can’t leave them alone.”
“Who?” Solomon asks. “Who are they asking you to leave?”
“His siblings,” I say, and Sam looks at me. I nod at him. “That’s right, isn’t it? Your brother and sister?”
Sam nods, wiping the back of a hand across his nose. Solomon stands, and I turn to him.
“They can stay with me,” I say. “I’ll take responsibility for them.”
Solomon chews his mouth. After several seconds thinking, he says, “I can’t allow it.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he stops me with a hand up. “I’m sorry, Hannah. But the selection process was impartial, and one exception will lead to many. If I let the boy stay, others will require the same treatment.”
“But he’s with me,” I insist. “If people question it, tell them he’s mine.”
Solomon’s head shakes. “You’ve become involved in this revolution,” he says. “We may need you. Your time can’t be spent minding children. I truly am sorry I can’t help further.”
He squeezes my shoulder and walks on. I’m left standing alone in the crowd, watching Sam cry as the soldier leads him away.
“I’ll watch over them!” I call to him, but I don’t think he hears me over the noise. I turn, searching for the little boy and girl who belong to him. I push against the crowd, but there are too many coming at me, and I’m trapped in their movements.
12
I find Cash in the corridor.
The wind in this hall steals my breath when I first step through the doorway. Some of the gaping window frames still hold jagged edges of glass, but most have been cleared to make way for the soldiers standing guard.
Cash is just outside one of the wide-open frames, a rifle slung over his back and a pistol strapped to his leg. He stands tall: spine straight, hands at his sides. His fingers tighten into fists, then release; he does this repeatedly. I feel a leaping in my chest at the sight of him. All the things I know, all the history lessons I’ve learned of his life, make him something more to me. I slow my steps and watch him while he can’t see me. I have to press the surge of emotions down to a deeper place to keep it safe for later. Now that we’ve returned to the valley, I feel the need to fight the feelings. Maybe in another life, on the other side of this war, I can allow them full freedom. An ache gnaws at my middle. I long for that other life.
Cash senses my movement and glances over his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, and there is no smile. But his eyes hold mine while I walk the final steps toward him.
“Good morning,” he says. Finally, there’s a small lift of his lips. I return it.
“Morning.”
We fall into easy silence, and both our gazes settle on the snowy street. The sky is gray today from heavy clouds, too much like the smog that blanketed my childhood.
“Aspen is alive,” I say after a time. I’m relieved to say it; I feel another weight lift. Cash meets my eyes again.
“That’s good,” he says, his eyebrows raising. Aspen’s life is a spark of hope; maybe not all our nightmares will come true.
Eyes on the street again, I say, “Sam was moved. I can’t find his brother and sister, but I promised to watch over them.”
“Why were they separated?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But Sam was upset.”
Cash nods. “He wants to protect them. Sam’s a good boy.”
I smile. “He admires you.”
I get a sideways look and a raised eyebrow.
“It’s true,” I say. “Sam believes you’re the bravest of them all.”
His head shakes. “Sam is the brave one.”
A hand lands on my right shoulder, and I jump. Drew wedges himself between Cash and me, arms draped on our shoulders.
“I’m ready to get this thing started. How about you two?”
He lifts his hands and pats us each simultaneously.
“Things will get started soon enough,” Cash says. “Enjoy the quiet while you can.”
Drew drops his hands and presses them into the pockets of his pants. He lifts his shoulders with an inhale through the nose, then drops them on the exhale. His breath fogs in a thick cloud in front of his face.
“It’s so cold here,” he says, shuddering.
“Do you live near the ocean?” I ask. “Is it warm there?”
I didn’t know of the ocean until Meli gave me that book of pictures. Now it’s always somewhere in my mind.
“Takes about an hour to drive there, but yeah. We’re pretty close. My parents are, at least. I visit during the holidays.”
I glance at Cash. He sees the question in my eyes.
“There are special days, usually historical events, that are celebrated,” Cash says gently. “Similar to the way we celebrated your birthday. They’re called holidays.”
Drew looks at his feet. I don’t want him to feel bad for forgetting my ignorance.
“What days do you celebrate?” I ask him. He meets my eyes, and I see a million words dying to tumble out of his mouth. There must be many holidays where he lives.
An explosive crack fills the air, the echoes bouncing off the high factory walls. All our heads jerk toward the streets. Soldiers along the stretch of this building slowly step out from the glass, guns raised and eyes sharp. When a second blast hits our ears, my eyes go wide, and I grab Cash’s arm.
“The barricade!” he shouts, maneuvering the rifle from his back to his hands. “A dozen men stay at this entrance. The rest of you—let’s go!”
He turns, walking backwards, and looks at me while the men around us take off running toward the barricade. I have these seconds to make my choice: will I stay back in relative safety? Or will I follow into danger, prepared to do whatever it takes to survive? I know he won’t decide for me. Like re-entering the valley, this is my choice.
I reach behind my back for my gun.
“Safety off from this point on,” he says. When his gaze slides off mine, I catch on a small flicker of sadness, like I’m making a choice I won’t be able to take back, and there’s nothing he can do. But I’ve already seen and done enough to know I can’t stay in the factory and rock on the floor while others throw their lives away for my sake. I watch his retreating back for another few seconds before my feet move to join him. My finger slides the tiny lever to the red dot, and just like that, I am more dangerous than I’ve ever been in my life.
I think about the position of my shooting finger the whole time I’m running. We sprint breathless toward the barricade. I hold the gun low, careful that I’m not too close to the trigger. My whole body is heavy with fear, but I’m learning there’s a power in saying yes. It keeps the panic at bay knowing I chose this. Until now, every dangerous moment of my life was forced on me.
The shouting hits our ears before we see anything. We’re running a dank alley, thick with snow sludge and filth. I have to focus on every step to keep from slipping.
“This way’s faster,” a man calls back, before turning a corner to the left. We follow another block, then he turns right. The alley opens to a large empty square. Speakers are mounted high on the walls, and the old Councilman’s voice echoes in my memory.
Is he tired? I’d asked my mother. I was young, and my mother had taken me with her to collect our rations. My tiny hands were full of cans that balanced on my chest to keep them from toppling. As we were walking home, the speakers crackled to life, summoning all the Workers for an announcement. I have no memory of what was said, but I remember the voice.
My mother looked down at me and shook her head, moving her lips in a silent instruction to be quiet.
He sounds sleepy, I’d said, unaware of the danger in talking. Around me, Workers shifted away, putting room between themselves and the disruptive child. Mother met my eyes and held them
with a gaze too stern for her face.
No talking, she whispered. Her gaze darted around the square, then back to me. People were glaring, some widening their eyes in a desperate plea to shut me up. I sensed the seriousness of the moment and stopped. It was then that I learned to associate fear with the man in the speaker.
I peer over my shoulder one last time before following the others into another alley. The scent of burning wood fills the air around us. Cash is beside me now, and I can feel his eyes shifting to watch me. I tighten my jaw and fix my gaze ahead. I don’t want him to worry that my memories will break me.
The walls open, and my boots skid to a stop. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Fire burns hot over mounds of mangled furniture and equipment. The long stretch of barricade that once blocked this road is now scattered, and soldiers lie bleeding on the ground. A few are motionless, and I’m hit with the familiar sickness that comes with standing so near to a gruesome death. Heat creeps up my neck, burning my face. Anger boils hot under my skin. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Titus promised a war, and I’m sure this is only a taste.
Some of the soldiers, including Cash, run down the street, searching for the enemy. I shove my gun under my waistband and run to the closest moaning body, dropping to my knees before what I think is a young man. I can’t tell, because so much of him is burned.
“Help me,” he cries. “Please—” His words are cut short when his face contorts in pain. His mouth gapes, his body trembling. Then the cries turn to sobs. I’m afraid to touch him. I think the pain will be worse if I do. Instead I try what Cash did for me in the desperate moments after Edan died.
“Take a deep breath,” I say. “With me.” I make a show of breathing slow, filling my lungs and exaggerating the rise and fall of my chest. I’ve always thought that breathing steady through pain had a soothing effect. In most cases when I was growing up, it was the only relief available. The young man tries to copy me, his eyes wide, his gaze glued to mine. The breaths only lead to coughing. Blood leaves his mouth, and my heart drops.
Hero (Book Two) Page 7
