I shrug. “I don’t think he loves it, which is why—”
“His tantrums whenever Wesley comes up are a good sign.”
I shrug. I should feel excited that someone else noticed, but I feel sad instead. Or maybe guilty. “The boys are ready to go. You almost done?”
Rhonda puts on one more layer of mascara and shoves it into the bag. “Yep.”
“Actually, I’m blonde too,” I say. “Mind if I borrow the mascara?”
“Like you need any help.” She rolls her eyes.
My jaw drops. “Are you kidding? I look like a ten-year-old boy.”
“You’re ethereal, innocent, and delicate. I’m like a she-man. . . Job with boobs.”
Laughter erupts from my belly, filling the small space and reverberating. She’s as far from a she-male as possible, but the image of Job with boobs? Priceless.
Rhonda places a hand on my arm. “I’m not upset you like Sam, because who doesn’t? If it has to be someone else, and believe me it does, I’d rather he end up with you than one of his fangirls.”
Every year after the seventeen year olds Path, the Council reassesses each settlement’s needs. Port Gibson gets transfers, mostly new adults, but some older people too. For the last few years, Sam’s acquired a gaggle of doe-eyed followers after each transfer. I didn’t even like Sam yet and they annoyed me. I can only imagine it’s worse if you work with him . . . and have feelings for him.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rhonda.”
She sighs melodramatically. “Honestly, it’s fine. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You’re different enough to be interesting, and maybe you appeal to his desire to save people.”
That stings a little, but I try to shake it off.
“You okay?” Rhonda asks.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just thinking about going back to my dad’s old lab.” Which actually depresses me, which is what sells it.
“You were so young,” Rhonda says. “Will you really recognize where you lived? Were you actually right on the beach?”
“Our condo was right by the water. It should be easy enough to reach by boat, if the building’s still standing.”
“Why wouldn’t it be standing?” she asks.
“Hurricanes are pretty common in Galveston. It’s been ten years. Who knows whether it’s even there anymore, and if it is, what kind of shape it’ll be in.”
“Yeah, so even if your dad had a cure, this is still a long shot. Understanding my parent’s reticence a little more.”
“Even if we do get past any WPN guards, and the building’s standing, we don’t know if the safe still works, and whether or not my blood will open it,” I say.
“Where’s it hidden?”
“Only my dad and I knew.”
Rhonda’s perfect eyebrows draw together. “And?”
I should tell her. If something happens to me, if anything goes wrong, she might need to know.
“You’re going to be fine,” Rhonda says, “but it’s better safe than sorry. Especially with the location of the cure for a virus that wiped out almost everyone alive, for instance.”
She’s right. “It’s behind a bookshelf in his home office. It’s about three shelves up on the right side, but you won’t see it without opening it. Even if you remove the books, it’s hidden by the seams of the woodwork in the bookcase.”
“Okay.”
“It wasn’t opened with a key or a combination or anything else. My dad had this Eiffel tower clock mounted on a built-in-desk next to the bookcase. He pricked his finger on it and some little mechanism inside registered his blood. If it was his, a wall safe opened. I asked him once why he’d want something that hard to open. He told me it was only for things so important he was willing to feel pain to keep them safe.”
“You think your blood will work?”
“In his journal, Dad wrote, ‘She can always find what she needs.’ What else could that mean? I must be able to reach the contents of his safe.”
“Why’d he tell a six year old, if it was a secret?”
“I saw him open it,” I say. “By accident. Some books fell out of the bookcase when a little door opened up behind them, and one fell on my foot.” I look at my feet now, so much larger than my little bare feet when the book landed on them.
Rhonda asks, “What was in there?”
She’s probably hoping I saw a vial labeled ‘the cure’ or something, but I couldn’t even read great then. “All I saw were papers.”
And my mom’s wedding ring. Dad told me I could have it when I was old enough. That doesn’t seem relevant, so I don’t mention it.
“That presents a problem.” Rhonda taps her lower lip with her flashlight.
“Why?”
“After you went to bed, we kept brainstorming. We thought maybe Job and Sam and I could go in, and you could stay with the supplies.”
“You planned to leave me waiting, with no idea whether you even made it in alive?”
“It sounds terrible when you say it like that.”
I lift one eyebrow. “How did you mean it, then?”
“We’d need our gear to get back home safely.”
Rhonda hears how pitiful it sounds once she says it aloud and she winces.
“So I’d be, like, watching the bags?” I raise both eyebrows.
“Now I think about it, maybe you do need to come along.”
“Yeah, maybe so.”
“What if something happens to you?” she asks.
I raise one eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Anything. You could be injured, or detained.” She doesn’t say I could die, but that’s a possibility too. “We should have a contingency. That’s all.”
“Like a blood sample?”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t want to get ditched. I’m not a little kid.”
“We really do need someone to watch our stuff. Besides, me and Sam and Job can all offer to join their Marked elimination team if they catch us. You aren’t a good enough shot.”
“How do you know?” I ask. “Sam gave me a lesson and I did okay.”
“He’s the one who told me that. Last night.”
Something’s pushing on my chest and it’s hard to breathe. They talked about me last night and Sam said I’m a lousy shot? “Fine, then. I guess you have almost everything you need from me.”
I pull my sleeping pills out of my bag. I dump them out of their little glass bottle and into my jeans pocket. I’ve been so afraid to be groggy lately, I haven’t used them at all. I pull out my scissors and slice the pad of my thumb before Rhonda can protest, pressing it over the top of the bottle. I squeeze for quite a while before it looks close to full.
“I don’t want to be left behind, even if you all think I’m a liability. But if we get separated, I’d hate for the mission to fail.” I think about my aunt, and about Wesley. “I doubt you’ll need that much, but it would really suck to get there and not have enough.” I shove the stopper in, and push the vial into her hand, warm and gross looking.
She takes it and traps my arm while she pulls gauze and tape from her bag. She wraps my thumb tightly without saying a word, then squeezes my hand.
“I’m not sure how long this will be good,” she says. “But it should last longer since it’s cold outside. We better get moving.” I realize I’m blocking her way out.
I catch sight of my face in the mirror. I do look young and innocent like she says—the face of a little girl. It pisses me off.
I step back, but throw one hand out. “I still need that mascara.”
“Sure.” She hands me her whole bag and walks away.
18
The guys don’t notice my makeup when we emerge, or if they do they don’t comment.
Rhonda notices, though. “What’s with the Mark on your head? We’re past Marked territory.”
I walk over to Job, dip my fingers in Rhonda’s pot of foundation and dab at his forehead, creating tiny bumps in the
right configuration. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t stop me. I rub blush over the bumps to turn them pink and then carefully dab with the edge of my damp shirt to wipe off the excess.
“What’re you doing?” Sam asks.
I turn to him. “You and Rhonda are next.”
“We’re headed for WPN,” Job says.
“It’ll be pretty easy to tell, once we get close, which group we’re dealing with. You told me yourself, the Marked travel down here to ask for WPN to marry them. We can always wipe the Mark off if we need to, but we can’t put a fake one on once we’re spotted. If we run into WPN, we can claim we’re here to be married.”
Rhonda balks. “We didn’t have time to wipe it off with the WPN patrol. They didn’t offer to marry us either. They almost killed us because of it.”
“They were idiots,” Job says. “The fat one even said that King Solomon would’ve wanted us brought to him for questioning.”
“Besides, we know better this time,” Sam says. “If it’s WPN, we can wipe immediately.”
“Wait, who’s King Solomon?” I ask.
“The idiot leader of WPN apparently started going by king sometime in the last few years,” Job says. “He did warn the world about Tercera before anyone knew what it was, and he negotiated the government into handing over everything valuable to him. He’s sort of their ultimate leader. Maybe it’s not an inaccurate title.”
I gesture for Rhonda to crouch so I can apply her Mark. “If he’s some kind of absolute ruler, why didn’t the two WPN guards follow his commands?”
“They were too scared of becoming infected themselves. Apparently they were wicked enough they didn’t believe God would protect them.” Rhonda shakes her head.
“Do they really think God decides who contracts a virus?” I ask.
“The man who saved them tells them that,” Sam says. “You can Mark me next.” He steps toward me, but I think about him telling Rhonda I’m a sucky shot. I imagine the two of them laughing at my ineptitude. Sam wanted me to stay and watch the bags while the three of them forged ahead.
I shove the bag at Rhonda and walk away. Let her Mark him. I don’t want to be anywhere near him.
They catch up with me before I reach the main road. Sam and Rhonda insist on slogging through the vegetation growing profusely alongside the road to avoid creating footprints WPN patrols might notice.
With my short legs, I warm up pretty fast trying to keep up with them. Even Sam eventually works up a sweat. He and Job peel their shirts off an hour or so into our brisk hike, but I’m not complaining. It greatly improves my view where I bring up the rear.
After a few hours, Rhonda takes the lead. Sam pulls a shirt on over his head and drops back by me. I wonder why he passes control off to her. It’s unlike him.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Sure. And in case you’re wondering, I’m not panting, just breathing heavy, which isn’t the same.”
He smiles. “If you need a break, we can take one.”
“I’m good, thanks.” I make a concerted effort to leave my lip alone. Rhonda gave me chap stick earlier, so it feels much better. I don’t want to backslide.
“We should be about a third of the way there, so that’s good news.” He hands me some water. “How’s the heel?”
“Fine.” It annoys me that he walks along so effortlessly, while I practically have to jog to match his speed.
“Now who’s uncommunicative?”
“Look,” I say, “don’t try to talk to me while I’m struggling to keep pace with three giants, okay?”
“We’re hardly giants, and we slowed down. You didn’t notice?”
“No, probably because slow for you is still fast for me. You’re all over six feet. Giants take giant steps.”
“Rhonda’s not quite six feet, or I don’t think so.”
“Close enough. I barely top five, which is probably why I’d be so great at watching bags.” I’m tired of talking at this point and growing crankier by the minute. My heel’s been stinging for over an hour, not that I intend to tell Mr. Amazing, especially since they’ve already slowed up for me.
“About that,” he says. “I wanted to apologize. Rhonda and Job want you safe, just like me, but it’s not fair. I know that.”
“It’s not.” I huff.
“Plus, I was being kind of a jerk earlier and I wanted to make sure you weren’t mad. We haven’t talked about it but—” He tenses up, a deer sensing a hunter.
That’s not right. No one would ever characterize Sam as any kind of prey. He’s far too eager and much too dangerous. A panther scenting another cat, maybe.
He jogs ahead and taps Rhonda’s arm. She and Job stop walking. I notice Job put his shirt back on, too. I stand on my tiptoes to see what lies up ahead. A large road branches off from the one we’re walking alongside. Some kind of expressway, judging by the signs.
Job points and shrugs as if to say he isn’t sure how much further. Sam holds up five fingers and makes an unintelligible swooping motion. Rhonda taps her arm and points another direction. I give up on trying to interpret. How the flip do they all know some secret hand language?
I walk as quietly as I can to where they are and stand utterly still, waiting for something to be decided. Eventually Sam breaks away from the pow-wow and motions for us to follow. He screws on his silencer as he walks, and Rhonda does the same. I reach under my shirt to pull my gun, but Rhonda shakes her head vehemently. When I pull it out anyway, she walks near me and whispers in my ear.
“We don’t want friendly fire, plus you don’t have a suppressor. Sam and I have this under control. Get yours out if you see Job draw his. Emergencies only.”
They think I might shoot one of them! I pretend that doesn’t smart. We leave the road we’re on, the Forty-five something, and follow the expressway. The raised road we were walking along disappears from sight and I relax, assuming we’re home free.
Until I hear a familiar sound, the whooshing that accompanies shots from a silenced gun. A muffled thud follows, and I turn toward the sound. Someone falls from a nearby tree and his gun slides from his gloved hand when he hits the ground. I whimper involuntarily at the sight. Sam glances sharply my direction, and I make as apologetic a face as I can manage.
Sam scoops up his gun with a gloved hand, releases the clip and throws the gun and clip in opposite directions. I avert my eyes from the fallen man as we jog around him and continue down the road. Sam, Rhonda and Job run even faster now, jumping over tree roots and ducking under branches easily. I scramble and trip and stumble, moving as quickly as I can, but I fall farther and farther behind. Sam looks back intermittently, probably to make sure they don’t lose me completely. Within half mile, I bring up the rear by a fair margin. Sometimes, I lose sight of them entirely.
Which is how I avoid the net that drops from a monstrously tall live oak tree to pin the other three to the ground.
I’m the worst person to have avoided it. Sam would’ve freed the rest of us in two minutes flat. I pull my gun, aiming at the half dozen people advancing on the drop site, but they’re armed too.
The net looks heavy, made of old rope almost as thick as my wrist. It knocks Rhonda, Job, and even Sam to the ground. Sam’s gun rests on the ground a few feet from him, on the other side of the net. Rhonda kept hold of hers, but she has the same issue I do. There are too many of them. She still might have been able to do something if she hadn’t landed flat on her face. She’s struggling to push up on her knees when one of our attackers speaks.
“Weapons down,” says a thin man with black hair and an angry red scar crossing his left cheek. He’s skinny, like unhealthy, emaciated, and bony. Next to Scar stand two girls, one thin, one thick. The large one, with a reddish complexion, holds a shotgun. The other girl, lank hair drooping down into her face, holds a bow, an arrow notched and pointed at Rhonda.
Rhonda lowers her weapon to the ground and Scar kicks it a few feet away. I’m ten feet from everyone else, far enough to sh
ift my gun until it points at Scar, since he seems to be the leader. I glance at Sam for direction.
He shakes his head tightly. What does that mean? Put it down? Don’t? I left Defense before the class on non-verbal communication.
“You might get me blondie, like your buddy got Dax,” Scar says, “but my friends’ll take you out afterwards. Tweak is awesome with her bow. We’ll shoot the rest of you too, just cuz you pissed us off.”
It’s Rhonda who saves us all.
“We’re not the enemy,” she says calmly. “Look at us. We’re Marked. We didn’t mean to hurt any of you. You scared us. We sensed you in the trees and thought you were a WPN attack team.”
Scar squints at her and spits at the ground.
As a show of faith, I lower my gun. Sam manages to sit up and nods at me. Apparently, the head shake meant, ‘Put your gun down, stupid.’
“You shot Dax. Why’d you do that if you were looking for us?” he asks.
“I didn’t kill him,” Sam says. “He was in a position of tactical strength. I clipped his shoulder to keep us safe, but he’ll be fine. We ran into a WPN patrol earlier, and they were particularly eager to kill us. It made me jumpy.”
“How do you know you didn’t kill him?” Scar asks.
“I always hit what I aim for, even with a suppressor.” As if on cue, a bleeding Dax stumbles up to us, gun outstretched. He apparently found the clip, or wants us to think he did.
“I don’t care what you fools say,” Dax says, “I’m shooting that one.” He aims his gun at Sam’s head.
I don’t think, I react, jumping in front of Sam, blocking his body with mine. “You can’t! I need him.”
Scar’s eyebrows rise. “You need him? For what?” He narrows his eyes and looks me up and down. “You don’t look pregnant.”
My jaw drops, and my eyes widen. “I most certainly am not!”
“She ain’t even old enough to be pregnant,” the beefy looking girl holding a shotgun says.
“I’m plenty capable of having a baby,” I say.
Job, Rhonda, and Sam all stare at me, wide-eyed. This entire line of questioning has gotten out of hand.
Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set Page 17
