“She’s a new bird,” Ponytail Guy says. “Not worth getting bent over.” He glances toward a uniformed official strolling by the bars.
The red-bearded guy takes a deliberate step in my direction. “She should know better than to listen to other people’s conversation.”
“I wasn’t,” I say.
“I’m supposed to believe you?” The red-haired man advances. I step back and glance around. A few of the others in the cell are watching. Most, however, keep their heads turned away, but the tension in the way they sit or stand says they are aware of what is happening and if I’m attacked, they will not do anything to stop it.
“Transport one is ready for loading!”
The two men in front of me swing their heads toward the trucks as several uniformed officials approach a cell on the far side of the garage. There are rattles and metallic clangs as an official opens the door to one of the other cages and shouts for everyone inside to get moving.
The order draws pleas from those inside.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Please.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“My mother needs me.”
The officials don’t speak to anyone as they herd the dozen or so people in their dirty, washed-out pink-gray matching outfits and black jackets out of the cell. Some keep pleading—saying the names of their wives or mothers or father or children. One woman screams. Most move like they are sleepwalking as they are prodded and pushed onto a ramp and up into the first truck.
“The girl is a nobody,” Ponytail says to his friend. “Forget her. The guards will be coming for us soon.”
The red-bearded guy points a dirty finger at me. “Stay the hell away from us, or you’ll learn what we did to three of the officers that brought us in here.”
The two walk back to their spot by the fence. Ponytail forgets about me, but Red Beard’s glares make me shiver with a new kind of fear. I’d assumed that everyone inside the bars was like me—that they had been put here because they knew the truths the government was trying to hide. That the danger I needed to be on guard against was from those not in the cages.
Stupid.
I’d forgotten that just because I think something is true, doesn’t make it real. I can’t forget that lesson again. Not if I want to get through this.
Red Beard and Ponytail watch the loading of the trucks. I move to a different section of the cage and press myself against the bars, squinting into the dim spaces for Isaac or any signs of the girl who once owned the shirt with the sparkles and the positive message.
“Get group two ready,” the loudspeaker voice calls.
Uniformed officials scurry to the next cell.
Metal clangs when the door opens.
There are more shouts this time—not just from the people in that cell, but from the others who are soon to have their numbers come up. Voices yelling for lawyers or to call their families or screaming that this is a mistake. There’s even one I hear above the din who’s shouting about the mayor.
I listen for Isaac’s voice and move down along the bars when I spot someone with his build. The hood of his jacket is pulled up so I can’t see his face. If only he turned. . . .
“Move!” A uniformed official backhands the man. The hood falls back, revealing blond hair as the man goes down to one knee.
Not Isaac.
I keep scanning the faces of the people who marched out of the cages. Then the next cell is opened. More people are led to the ramps and up onto the trucks.
Everyone in my cage is on their feet now. Some join me: faces pressed against the cold bars, watching as others like us are urged forward. The ramp for one truck is removed. The back doors are slammed shut. Then our cage door rattles open and a dozen uniformed officials stream in.
I’m shoved and bumped and step on something that squishes under my thin bootie. When I reach the door, I glance around for somewhere to run even though I know there is nowhere for me to go. There are too many uniformed officials and the one standing off to the side, at least ten strides from the others, is holding a gun.
My heart strains in my chest. I put one foot in front of the other, taking shallow breaths of stale air while desperately trying to push aside the waves of fear. Pay attention to every detail. Look for Isaac and Atticus. Trust the tracker will help Atlas find me as long as I don’t do anything stupid to attract attention.
Believe.
“You’ll answer my questions now!” A deep, booming voice cuts through the terror. I know that voice. “I’m here on behalf of the mayor.”
I pull up the hood of my jacket and look around for the man who belongs to the voice who could make this terrifying situation even worse. He knows I am not MaryAnn Jefferson, disruptive Wisconsin student. He can tell the Marshals who my mother was—and that I have worked with the Stewards. They’ll know I am someone who can tell them where the Lyceum is hidden and what the Stewards know. They might not care about MaryAnn and her secrets, but they will care about mine.
“The mayor has questions he needs answers to about the prisoners held here.”
“Subjects.” The official looks up from his tablet. “They are referred to as subjects.”
“Fine. The mayor needs a list of all the subjects who have come through this facility, and I want to speak with . . .”
“Get moving!” An official shoves me.
I lurch forward and ram into the back of the man in line in front of me. He stumbles. I gag at the intense odor as we both tumble to the ground. My knee cracks against the concrete. Pain sings up my leg. The man who went down with me groans.
“What are you doing? Get up!”
A uniformed official yanks me to my feet. My hood slips. I pull it back up to cover my face as the familiar booming voice snaps, “You!”
A man in a deep gray suit grabs my arms and pulls me out of line.
“What do you think you’re doing?” an official shouts as the line of my cellmates go around me. “Mayor or no mayor, we have to get these subjects on transport and out of the city before curfew ends.”
“You have your orders to follow and I have mine. My orders involve her. And she’s not going anywhere.”
No way out, I think as I look up into the face of the man in the suit who long ago helped me ride a bike—Rose and Isaac’s father—Marcum Webster.
Nine
“Please, let me go,” I whisper.
“Is there a problem with this subject?” A bald official appears beside Mr. Webster.
“You could say that.” Mr. Webster’s hand tightens on my arm. His dark eyes that I have seen crinkle with laughter are stony now as he stares down at me. “Do you know who this girl is? We have been—”
A woman’s scream cuts off whatever Mr. Webster was going to reveal and I turn toward the sound as the ponytailed man snaps the neck of a female official from behind. Her slack body sinks to the ground as the red-bearded man jabs something into another official’s stomach. Red Beard shoves his victim into three other officials and makes a break for the front of the trucks as all hell breaks loose.
The men disappear from my sight. The bald official shouts, “Go to full lockdown!” and then races into the fray.
A whooping alarm sounds. Lights go from dim to blazing white.
Some of the “subjects” who had yet to board the trucks attempt to flee even though they have to know there is nowhere for them to go. There are screams. Desperate shouts. The man I tripped on bolts in the direction of the elevators and is tackled to the ground by an official who punches him over and over again until he goes to the floor. A nearby woman is shoved face-first against the cage bars.
Another group of officials stream out of the elevators and Mr. Webster grabs my arm and yanks me behind a table.
“Please, Mr. Webster. They think I’m a girl named MaryAnn. Don’t tell them who I really am.” If he doesn’t reveal my real identity, the officials here won’t take steps to learn what I know. They won’t be able to
force me to betray the people I care about.
A gunshot cracks beyond the trucks. Another.
Mr. Webster flinches at the sound of the gunfire, then shakes his head. “The city has to be protected. You are going to help the Marshals do that. You see what can happen if they go hard on you. If you cooperate . . .”
“Do you know what the word ‘verify’ means?” I ask, looking back to where several officials are dragging a man into view. The man’s face and red beard are streaked with blood from the gunshot hole in the center of his forehead.
“Do you know why it scares them enough to do that?” I point at officials unceremoniously dumping Red Beard’s limp body next to a cage. “Or this?” I point to the barcode riveted into my ear, hoping to see some regret in Mr. Webster’s face.
His expression is like stone.
The whooping alarm is cut.
Two officials drag another body away while the others once again herd subjects into the trucks.
“Mr. Webster, do you know what the truth is?” I ask desperately as the bald official steps over a body and walks in our direction, two other officials following in his wake.
“I know we can never go back to the way things were,” Mr. Webster says, tightening his grip on my arm.
“There’s always a few who think they can get away.” The official stops beside Mr. Webster and wipes his hands on his pants. “It makes for a calmer transport if we remove the instigators on this end, but it tends to throw off the schedule. We need to get this subject boarded with the rest so the trucks can leave. Take her to truck number three.”
“Actually—” Mr. Webster’s fingers dig into my wrist when I step toward the waiting officials. “This one is going to come with—”
“Isaac,” I blurt. Mr. Webster goes still. His deep-set eyes burrow into mine.
“No one is talking to you,” the official snaps.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, searching for the right words. Hoping I don’t get this wrong. “Before you came back, he wanted to know how I ended up here. I’m here because of a boy named Isaac.”
A horn honks.
“Let’s go!”
A female official waves her arms over her head at the back of the only truck that still has its doors open. Nervous faces—some dirty or streaked with blood—peer out from the shadows. I don’t want to climb in with them, but if Mr. Webster takes me to the Marshals, Atlas and Dewey will never get to me and I’m not sure I will be able to stay strong enough not to break. If I do—any hope we have to change things will be lost. Everything my mother gave her life for . . .
“You don’t know about him, do you?” I ask.
Mr. Webster shakes his head. Tears spring to his eyes. “You’re here because of him. Do you think . . . you’ll see this Isaac again?” Mr. Webster asks, ignoring the official who is insisting that I be loaded into the truck—now.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I answer carefully, hoping he sees the truth—the plea in my eyes. Whatever I will face going into the truck cannot be as bad as what will happen if Mr. Webster reveals who I really am or if they find the device hidden in the knot of my shirt.
“Are we clear?” a uniformed official standing by the trucks shouts.
“We have to roll.” The bald official lets out a frustrated sigh. “Since you think this one is so important, her transport can wait. Just put whatever is left of her back into one of the cages when you’re finished.”
The bald official turns back to the trucks and waves them on. Tears burn the back of my eyes.
“Wait.” Mr. Webster frowns and shakes his head. “I’ve gotten all the answers the mayor is looking for today. If we need more I’ll ask another one of your subjects.” His eyes meet mine. There is anger and maybe I’m imagining it, but I also see hope. “Send her with the others.”
He squeezes my arm, then slowly takes three steps back for the bald official to take charge of me. The man snaps at me to hurry and leads me to the ramp of the still-open truck—away from Mr. Webster and the threat of discovery.
A female official at the bottom of the ramp pulls out a handheld scanner. She waves the black device in front of my injured ear. When it beeps, she looks down at the screen and nods. “She’s logged. Get up there with the others.”
I climb the tarnished metal incline toward the others already packed into the cab that looks even smaller now that I approach. The minute I step onto the truck, officials pull the ramp away. I catch sight of Rose’s father in the distance, staring at me with an expression I can’t begin to name. Then the doors close. First one. Then the other—plunging everything into darkness. The engine rumbles to life. The cab walls and floor vibrate. Then the truck lurches forward.
Tears I fight against and am powerless to stop slip down my cheek. I wrap my arms around my waist, then lean against the back corner of the cab and close my eyes. Not to block out what is happening around me. I can’t. It’s impossible to ignore the weeping, the gasps, and rattle of metal. I can’t risk taking pictures without the GPS recorder being seen and trusting all these people with that dangerous secret. So instead, I do what I always do when I feel alone or afraid—I draw.
I imagine the strokes I would use to create rough texture of the desk where I was told I would be transported. How to make the S-shaped contour of the grayish-beige chair with the dark brown straps where I was tagged as if I was not even human. I try to recall the exact pattern of sparkly color that peeked out in the bin with the discarded starched collared shirts, ripped denim shorts, and plain black pants. I may not have a camera to collect the images, but if I am able to work on a tablet again—no, when. When I draw on a tablet again, I will be able to re-create every detail. Every sharp line of the connected cages and hollow, betrayed look in the eyes of the people behind those bars will ring true.
The floor beneath me shudders. I bang my shoulder against the truck’s wall and jerk my eyes open. There are thuds and shrieks from the others as the truck swerves sending bodies tumbling. I grab the wall and shift my balance to keep upright as the truck veers sharply again.
Then everything settles down as if nothing happened.
I rub my shoulder and scan the interior of the truck. Thin threads of golden sunlight that sneak through the top and bottom seams of the door chase away some of the darkness. There are at least twenty of us in this truck going to who only knows where. The lack of stops and starts implies we’re driving on an expressway. Without knowing the time we have been traveling or the direction we’re going, it’s impossible to guess where they’re taking us or what will happen when we get there.
If they were just going to kill us, there would be no point in loading us onto these trucks. Keeping us alive—transporting us on roads that others travel—is a risk they wouldn’t take if we were simply going to end up like Red Beard and Ponytail. At least, that is what I hope.
“If you’re going to go to sleep again, I would advise sitting down.” The vaguely familiar whisper rings like a bell as the man I met in that hospital-like room—Wallace, I think the Marshal called him—steps out of the shadows.
His dark curly hair is more unruly than it was before. The bruise on his cheek more pronounced. The dried blood and barcode cuff on his ear are the greatest differences from our first meeting. The curiosity and slightly mocking look in his brown eyes, however, is exactly the same.
Several heads turn at the sound of our voices where there has been nothing but silence.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” I say quietly.
“Your eyes were closed.”
“Do you know many people who sleep standing up?”
“No.” He checks his balance as the truck hits a bump. “But there’s always a first time for everything. I was hoping to be impressed.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I shoot back. “I didn’t realize I was putting on a show.”
“I’m Wallace,” he says with a grimace. “If you want me to like you, you’ll never call me Wally. And you are?”
&nb
sp; “MaryAnn.” I give him the name the Marshals think belongs to me, then add, “But I prefer Mary. How did you get here?”
“The same way you did, I would imagine.” He shrugs and leans his head back against the door. “Through the parking garage and up the ramp.”
“I didn’t see you in the cages.” As far as I could tell, the officials didn’t lock anyone else up after me.
“They just finished putting this thing in my ear by the time they began loading the trucks.” He frowns and touches the edge of his ear. “I guess I should be grateful I missed hanging out in the holding zones. They didn’t look like much fun. Not that this is any better.” He holds out a small bottle of water. “Thirsty?”
I glance at the others, then back at the bottle—yearning to wash the stale taste of the drugs and the scents of the cages from my mouth. “Where did you get that?”
“There’s a box of supplies stacked in the back.”
“There’s more?” I ask.
“You might want to go easy on how much you drink.” He looks down at the bottle. “We don’t have a bathroom.”
I laugh. It’s not really funny, but I can’t help it. I’ve been drugged, tagged, seen men killed, and am now a prisoner in this truck to who knows what hell—and he’s worried about where I’m going to pee.
He cocks his head to the side, which makes me laugh harder. Heads turn—eyes widened at the happy sound, and my laughter fades like smoke.
“I was worried about everyone else,” I explain, taking the bottle. Careful not to spill, I uncrack the seal. “I didn’t want to drink if there wasn’t enough for everyone.”
He studies me as I put the bottle to my lips and take a small sip. The fresh liquid slides down my throat and I let out a sigh. I allow myself just one more swig—because now he’s gotten me thinking about the lack of bathrooms—before putting the cap back on.
The walls rattle. Wedged in between the sounds of the truck are whispers from the others in the cab. Maybe it was my crazy laughter that made them realize there weren’t any officials around. Or maybe they just couldn’t take the fear-filled silence any longer. Whatever the reason, I’m glad for the quiet chatter, which makes me feel a little less alone.
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