The four of us were left alone in the grove.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Sean.
My ears rang as I struggled to get free of the net. Whatever had spooked the boys was still here. In the distance, shouts of confusion filtered between the trees, a haunting warning of the danger just beyond our sight.
Chase reached me, untangling my legs. I winced when the thin strings tightened around my upper body. He bared his teeth and ripped the net, until finally I was able to wriggle out. I scratched the tattered pieces from my skin as if they’d been part of a giant spiderweb and stared down the alley for signs of who had fired those shots.
“That was the survivors, right?” Rebecca asked nervously.
Chase gave me a grim look. Someone else.
Sean had been in the midst of helping Rebecca up, but stopped suddenly and let her slide to the ground. She gripped his calves as he stood over her, struggling to see what had caught his attention.
I followed his gaze. Over Chase’s shoulder, something black and metallic glinted off a slice of sunlight peeking through the trees.
The barrel of a rifle.
“Chase,” I whispered.
As he turned, I stood slowly, shoulder to shoulder with Sean. Chase rose on my other side, his back to me. His waistband, where he’d held a standard issue FBR gun, was empty. I cursed the boys under my breath.
The leaves to my left rustled, and a man wearing a loose tan tunic and cropped pants stepped out into the light. He was cleaner than the boys, with neatly trimmed ginger hair, and old enough to be their father. A shotgun was wedged against his shoulder, aimed at the four of us.
And then they were everywhere. Men. Women. A dozen. Two dozen. More. Some were on horseback. They formed a circle around us and tightened rank, until Chase, Sean, and I were locked in a triangle over Rebecca.
“We should have stayed in reform school,” Sean muttered behind me.
CHAPTER
7
WE were ushered up the lane behind the man with the orange hair. He didn’t say anything. None of our captors did, but their guns spoke for them, and soon we had rejoined the rest of our party.
More men and women, dressed in the same uniform outfits, had surrounded the others. There was no evidence of the boys—no nets on the ground or pointed sticks. These people were definitely from a different group, and judging by the way they’d rounded up our people, we didn’t concern them in the least.
It looked as if we were the last to arrive. Sarah stood behind Billy. Both of them appeared unharmed. Jack was railing a woman for confiscating a set of knives he’d collected. Beside me, Chase craned his neck, probably looking for his uncle. I couldn’t see Jesse, but the group was packed so densely it was difficult to tell who was there.
“If you could lay down any other weapons you might have, that would be appreciated.”
A man stood before us wearing the same strange, loose clothing—a baggy beige shirt and straight, cropped pants that looked like they’d been hand-patched from someone’s old sheets. On his feet were boots, their laces held together by black electrical tape. He spoke without any sense of urgency, as if he had all the time in the world.
As we drew closer, I could see that his chocolate-colored hair was streaked white around the temples, and that his blue eyes were both intense and somehow familiar. At first I thought his face was dirty, but as Chase and I pulled to the front of the pack I could see the scars: a smattering of pink scratches and hooks across both cheeks.
He watched Chase and me, drawing us out of the crowd, and though I wanted to sink back into the others, I stood my ground.
Several men stepped forward, looking exceedingly more dangerous than their leader. Billy reluctantly gave up the gun we’d found at the house and slowly placed it on the ground.
“You won’t need those weapons,” Jesse bellowed from the center of the group. “We got refugees and children. A pregnant girl and a lame one, too. We’re not here to stir trouble.”
I huffed at Jesse’s assessment of Rebecca, and Sean muttered something I couldn’t make out. Beside me, Chase exhaled, out of relief or disappointment, I didn’t know.
The man froze, then reanimated as Jesse, previously hidden within the folds of the group, emerged. They appraised each other with a strange kind of challenge in their gazes—Jesse’s brows raised as if amused while the leader of the strangers pulled absently at his bottom lip.
“I find that most folks who tell me that usually intend the opposite.” The scars on his jaw flexed as he spoke.
Jesse scratched a hand over his chest. “Guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”
The man turned to where Chase and I stood. His head tilted in curiosity.
“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” he said. I suspected he was talking about the boys who’d trapped us, but I didn’t feel particularly lucky. Then his gaze returned to the group, a slight frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He was silent for a long moment, and in it I held my breath, feeling too exposed and vulnerable.
“Are you really all that’s left?” When no one answered, he nodded gravely. “So it’s true. The safe house is gone.”
* * *
AS the guards lowered their weapons the circle buzzed with whispers. My own blood was humming. How long had they tracked us? We’d scouted the area and posted perimeter guards each night—the possibility of us being watched without knowing it was unnerving.
“My apologies for our lack of hospitality,” said the man. “These days it’s better to be cautious.”
“Who are you?” Chase’s voice was raised in suspicion. His hand found mine and tightened.
“They’re from the settlement—the one in the South that Jesse was talking about—right?” asked Sarah. She smiled broadly, one hand on her round belly.
“Long as they’re not with those crazy kids,” Sean said.
The man’s mouth twitched.
“I can assure you the boys you encountered are not part of our group, despite our invitations,” he answered, leading Sean to stand a little straighter.
This bothered me; I wasn’t sure I could trust anyone who spoke of those devil children kindly. Still, I wondered how they’d gotten out here, and who, if anyone, watched over them.
“My name is Aiden DeWitt,” the man continued. “We’re friendly, despite what it may look like. If you come with me I can offer you a place to stay, food, and protection.”
Another surge of whispers. His name was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“It’s the scars,” I heard Billy say to someone beside him. “That’s why I didn’t recognize him. His mug shot must have come up a hundred times on the mainframe.”
I remembered then. Aiden DeWitt. Dr. Aiden DeWitt. He was one of the five suspects thought to be in collaboration with the sniper, as was I. Instantly, I was back in the Wayland Inn, listening to the FBR report as Wallace adjusted the radio: Dr. Aiden Dewitt, responsible for the murders of five FBR officers during a routine home inspection. And then I was on the street, outside the blood donation bus in the Square in Knoxville, and my photo was posted beside his. He’d looked younger when it was taken, maybe forty, and his face had been smooth and free of scars.
News of his attack on the MM and his escape was all the gossip at the soup kitchen five years ago. The crime had occurred someplace in Virginia. My mother even wondered if he might run west, toward our town. As much as the act frightened her, I think she thought of him as a hero. I wondered what she’d think if she knew I was here now, before him.
“Why should we trust you?” Chase asked. “Weren’t you just shooting at us?”
“Common mistake,” said Jack sarcastically.
DeWitt took a step closer. “Because you’re out of other options, Jennings.”
Chase’s hand gripped mine so hard I winced. My mouth went dry.
“How do you…”
DeWitt lowered his gaze to mine. “How do I know you? I know many things.” He was sp
eaking softly now, but those closest could still hear. “I know you two need protection now more than ever.”
An ice-cold finger of fear traced up my spine.
“You’re them,” said Sean. “Or him. Whatever. You’re Three.”
A hand closed in the back of my shirt, and I was surprised to see Rebecca over my shoulder staring evenly at Dr. DeWitt. Seeing her brave like that made me stand taller.
“All in good time,” said DeWitt. He backed away without further explanation, then turned and began to walk toward the main road where we’d entered the grove.
“That’s ominous,” commented Sean.
We followed DeWitt anyway.
It became apparent as we were herded after the doctor that the debris on the far side of the grove had been placed there deliberately. The junked cars and old washing machines on either side of the street created a sieve, one that grew tighter and tighter until we were forced to walk only two or three abreast with those on horseback flanking us. It was a human trap, a strategic move to capture any wanderers between two defensible rows, and though we followed him blindly, I couldn’t help but feel impressed.
In front of me, Sarah latched herself to Billy’s arm and leaned against him, feet dragging. He glanced back at me, cheeks red, and then trained his eyes straight ahead.
“Any ideas how he knows us?” I asked Chase under my breath.
“One or two,” he answered. “But no clue what he plans to do with it.”
“Maybe he’s just showing off,” whispered Sean over my shoulder. “Trying to get in your heads.”
“It worked,” I said. Nothing good had ever come of Chase or I being recognized.
The road gave way to a fenced area barricaded with parts of cars and houses and mounds of rock and brick and surrounded by a moat that ran the length of the fence like an empty river. Only one narrow strip of ground led to a gate, and it was blocked by a metal sheath and sheltered by an ancient, hunching oak, its branches dripping with gray moss.
As we approached, Dr. DeWitt slowed. I waited with bated breath as he turned to face us, hoping for a proclamation that this was indeed a resistance base.
“We call it Endurance,” he said. “Named by our first settlers—a small band of criminals and freaks hunted by the Bureau.”
At his callous tone, I felt myself smirk, because he was talking about us—all of us, himself included.
“You’re tired,” DeWitt said. “Hungry. Hurt and angry. We can help you.”
Though his words were encouraging, I found myself frowning. There was more to this than DeWitt was letting on—Wallace hadn’t been nearly so hospitable when we’d been brought to the resistance base in Knoxville. Three was made up of the most illusive rebels in the country, it made sense that they’d surrounded us and aimed guns at our chests. Offering us food and shelter without even verifying our story didn’t fit.
“What about the Bureau?” called the old man from the group of survivors. “What if they send their bombs again?”
A sympathetic smile stretched the scars on DeWitt’s face. “Inside these walls you don’t have to fear the Bureau.”
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
Dr. DeWitt glanced up, and as I followed his gaze I saw the gunmen, half a dozen of them, seated in slings in the trees on either side of the gate. Their clothing was the same as the others, only camouflaged to blend in with their surroundings. I wondered how many trees we’d passed that held the same silent watch.
“Only that you protect our secret,” said DeWitt. “And that you work. Everyone contributes in Endurance.”
With a clank and a squeal of metal, the gate pulled back, revealing an open field, split down the middle by a dirt path. On one side were gardens—rows and rows packed with leafy greens and crawling vines. Bushy plants I didn’t recognize, and bright red tomatoes, their tender leaves trembling in the breeze. Against the far wall, men and women, dressed like DeWitt but with broad straw hats, picked sickle-shaped beans hanging from trellises made of old doors and chairs. It was enough to fill my eyes with tears and make my stomach grumble in eager anticipation.
On the opposite side of the path the grass dipped down into a pond, and anchored to the shore by iron posts were two men attending to large mesh boxes. They looked up, but did not seem surprised by our arrival. Fish, I heard people whisper. They were harvesting fish. And ahead were pens of chickens, sheep, and goats. Those tending them leaned against the fence, welcoming us with nods and the occasional wave.
Too astounded to do anything but gasp, we entered without a backward glance. Past the gardens and the pond was a white barn. There were horses inside—brown with black noses and manes, dapple gray, and even one that was white with glassy blue eyes. They ran to the fence as we approached, and we all laughed as they huffed and stomped and smacked their lips, expecting treats.
Joy streaked through me, overriding the suspicion. It was better than what I’d hoped the safe house would be. It was better than anywhere I’d ever seen.
“These people are going to eat us,” Sean muttered behind me. “Or use us for fish bait. Or horse food. Something. This is way too good to be true.”
If I hadn’t wanted it to be true so badly, I might have agreed with him. But since we’d been inside, the guards had holstered their weapons and were trailing the group, joking with one another as if we weren’t there at all.
Finally we approached a wide, one-story brick building that stretched back from a simple white stone foyer. A cement pillar rose on each side of the entranceway. They’d once been part of an arch, but now were the connecting points for long clotheslines from which hung drying wildflowers and braided strings of withered vegetables. Over a boarded front door was painted one word: LODGE. Far to the right a crooked metal pole emerging from the ground had been bolted to the side of the building. It stretched ten feet above the roof.
“This was a school,” said Dr. DeWitt. I got the impression that he’d been talking for a while, but I’d been too awestruck to hear anything. “Now we call it the Lodge. We eat here, store food and supplies. Most everything we grow ourselves.”
He held the door, and with an impressed glance at each other, Chase and I followed the crowd inside.
It was much like the elementary school I’d gone to—a long hall with classrooms lining the right side and big windows on the left. Their mismatched shutters were cast open and the breeze that entered was tinged with the scent of the livestock across the pasture. The walls—decorated with charcoal drawings of stick figures and houses—were bathed in sunlight.
The sound of children’s voices floated down the corridor, easing the remaining tension in my chest. We came to an open door, and the classroom inside was bright and colorful. There were children of all ages sitting in plastic chairs attached to L-shaped desks like I’d used in school. The older ones, probably near twelve or thirteen, helped the younger ones, who wore just the straw-colored tunics that exposed their little legs. In the back, one boy sat alone, staring at us with a sour look on his face.
On the walls were clusters of water-wrinkled magazine photos. Cityscapes, smiling women wearing the tight clothes of the old days, and even pictures from the War—crushed buildings, yellow smoke, and people running. The images chilled me—a reminder of our bloody past, viewed from a failing television in my old living room.
I was reminded again of my mother. You wouldn’t believe the stuff they used to write in these things. I almost smirked, thinking of her story in one. She would have liked that. And even if only one person read it, and it made them stop and think, or maybe even fight back, it would have been worth it.
A woman with a short crop of black hair and skin the color of coffee wrote on a chalkboard at the front of the room.
“That’s Ms. Rita,” said Dr. DeWitt. “She’s on the council. Her daughter Jana’s next door with the infants.” He smiled at Sarah.
“What’s the council?” Chase asked.
The doctor looked at him for the fir
st time since he’d recognized us in the grove.
“The council is made up of members who vote on the direction of Endurance. Van Pelt, he works the fields. Panda’s our head cook, and Patch Connor trains the fighters.”
“And what do you do?” asked Jesse a bit rudely.
DeWitt took a slow breath. “Whatever I can to help the cause.”
My heart beat faster. I was certain now that the rumors of Three’s presence at the safe house had been false. This was their base, and clearly, DeWitt was someone of importance here. It appeared our luck had finally turned.
I was just about to move on when I saw the words Ms. Rita had written across the board: “Article 3.”
The class recited in unison, “Whole families are to be considered one man, one woman, and children.”
Instantly I was back in reform school, sitting in a stiff wooden chair, wearing an itchy wool uniform. The scars on my hands I’d been given there throbbed, and I fought back the urge to march into that classroom and tear up the Statute circulars I now saw in the hands of each one of the children.
“She’s teaching the Statutes?” I asked.
“We need to know our enemies,” answered DeWitt.
“They’re kids,” I tried to reason. “They should be reading books and learning, I don’t know, spelling. History.”
Jesse gave me an odd look. “This is their history.”
I flexed my hands from their tight fists. In public school I’d learned math and science; I’d read novels and poems. And then my sophomore year they’d taken the Bill of Rights from the curriculum as if it never existed and posted the Statutes in the hallways and told us that if there was ever a hope our country could rebuild after the War, we needed to comply. Now I doubted there was anyone left who didn’t know what the Moral Statutes were.
“Things have changed since I went to school,” I said.
Jesse snorted. “And you’re young. How do you think I feel?”
As he limped ahead of me, I couldn’t help but feel a little bad for sticking the fork in his leg.
We stopped at the cafeteria, but the hallway continued on around the bend. Two guards, like those that had hidden in the trees, blocked that path.
Three (Article 5) Page 8
