But then, more shouts rang through the square. Zara’s cry had caught on.
“Set her free!” someone yelled.
“Release her!”
The murmurs hit a crescendo. Some people booed while others threw their shoes at the stage. Toward the back of the square, a group of miners shoved their way forward. Almost every Kleinbauer in Greenfield knew Mrs. Talley — she was the only midwife for thirty miles. For years, she had delivered screaming babies for factory workers and farmhands, for the poorest of the poor, who could only pay her in pennies and favors. The boos grew into a chorus.
“There will be order!” Colonel Eckhart said. He nodded at his guards.
Throughout the square, the soldiers knocked their rifle butts into the workers and pointed their muzzles at any naysayers. One of the guards marched toward Bastian and Zara, chewing a fat wad of tobacco and pointing at Zara’s nose.
“You. I saw you yelling,” he barked, his tone filled with bile. He swung his rifle at Zara’s head and, before she could even wince, the butt of the weapon smacked against her temple.
Zara’s vision flashed white, then blurred. The right side of her head exploded in agony, making her legs crumple, and she landed hard on her knees. Her hand flew to the side of her head, but there was no blood. Nothing broken. Yet the pain had knocked the breath out of her.
“Watch your mouth, Untermensch,” the soldier said before he stalked away.
Once the soldier was out of earshot, Bastian glanced at Zara, worry in his eyes. “You should stay down. It’s safer that way.”
Zara refused to sit. Not until Mrs. Talley was safe. Somehow she had to get her friend off that stage before the Nazis slaughtered her. Stumbling onto her feet, she ignored the throbbing in her head and watched as Colonel Eckhart motioned toward his SUV. A female sentinel emerged from the car. She stood over six feet tall, with blond hair that lay in neat braids down her back, reminiscent of a schoolgirl, but there was nothing girlish about her.
Zara’s knees trembled again. She had seen this sentinel on television before, standing right next to the Führer as a member of his Corps of Four. What was she doing here?
“Sentinel Braun.” Bastian’s jaw clenched as the female sentinel — the Protector, as she was known — strode onto the stage alongside his father, her blond head tilted high. He looked just as confused as Zara. “She should be with the Führer, shouldn’t she?”
The Colonel raised his megaphone as if he had heard his son’s question. “I am pleased to introduce Sentinel Petra Braun, one of the most esteemed members of the German Anomaly Division. She arrived in the capital yesterday to train the sentinels there, and she was gracious enough to spare a few hours with Fort Goering’s Anomaly troops. Before she departs back to Berlin, she insisted on attending this execution.”
Sentinel Braun nodded and waved at the audience like she was a foreign dignitary receiving an award. Zara’s head thudded all over again, and she went over her grim options. She could grab Mrs. Talley and fly them both out of the city, but the soldiers, especially Sentinel Achen, would be in close pursuit. Or she could send a gale-force wind at the stage and knock down the guards, but there were over a hundred armed Nazis in the square today. She couldn’t fight all of them. And what about her uncle? If she and Mrs. Talley fled from Greenfield, Colonel Eckhart would be sure to arrest him. Despair clawed up Zara’s throat. There had to be a way to save Mrs. Talley, but each idea wilted in front of her.
On the stage, Colonel Eckhart and Sentinel Braun exchanged a few words, causing the Colonel to grin gleefully. He turned back to his audience to announce, “In the name of the Führer, Sentinel Braun has asked to perform the execution herself. Heil Hitler!”
While the German onlookers clapped and cheered, Zara couldn’t move. Sentinel Braun was a fire wielder and an ice conjurer. With powers like that, Mrs. Talley would be sure to suffer — and Braun would make the execution as painful as possible.
Sentinel Braun approached Mrs. Talley, the two plaits of her hair thumping her back with each step, and she ran a gloved finger down her victim’s cheek. “Guten Tag.”
Mrs. Talley didn’t flinch. “I don’t fear you. Or death.”
Sentinel Braun laughed. With a terrible smile smeared on her lips, she removed her white gloves and held out her palm, commanding a pillar of flames to spring from her hand. The fire licked thirstily at her skin, lengthening until it spanned the size of a six-foot whip.
Despite her blinding headache, Zara beckoned for the wind. She knew her plan was insane, maybe suicidal, but she had to stop the execution. She couldn’t lose anybody else to the Nazis. Sweat gathered on her forehead as she looked at her hands, but she could only muster a puff of breeze.
Listen to me! she screamed at the air. Spin!
A slight draft blew against her shoulders, but it wasn’t enough. The hammer in Zara’s head kept smashing against her skull, cutting her connection to the air around her. She glared at her fingers, but it was no use.
“The Empire will fall!” Mrs. Talley shouted, her voice echoing over the masses. “The Territories will be free once again!”
Sentinel Braun released the whip of fire, lashing it across Mrs. Talley’s small form. A line of bright welts spread over the wrinkled skin, but the whip didn’t stop there. It curled around Mrs. Talley’s frail body, singeing off her hair, strangling her with smoke. Mrs. Talley shrieked.
A sob shuddered through Zara. She cried out for the wind, but it was too late. The whip coiled faster and faster until Mrs. Talley was drenched in orange flames. Her screams drowned out as the pillar burned hotter, as it towered higher.
“Arthur!” Her voice was fading. “Oh, Arthur …”
That was when Sentinel Braun unleashed her second power: a violent storm of ice. The foot-long icicles hammered into Mrs. Talley’s weakening body until she fell silent.
A woman fainted. Schoolchildren cried. A man standing not far from Zara started screaming, but a soldier elbowed him in the stomach.
Zara’s eyes clamped shut, but she couldn’t hide from that smell — the stench of cooked flesh.
She clawed through the masses, fleeing from that terrible scent, but it followed her, clinging to her clothes, lingering beneath her nose. An awful taste climbed into Zara’s throat, and she spilled her lunch onto the sidewalk. The people around her jumped back, but Bastian pushed through them and crouched next to her. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.
“Here, take this,” he said.
Zara stared at the kerchief, with his initials embroidered on it. Then she glanced up at him. Her hand clenched around the white cloth, but then she forced herself to drop it. She didn’t want his help or his kindness. Not after what his father had done.
“Was Mrs. Talley a friend of yours?” he said softly.
“Just … just leave me alone.”
Confusion clouded his eyes. “Pardon?”
“Just leave me alone!” Zara staggered forward, not caring about propriety. Bastian was a Nazi, born and bred, plain and simple. He was one of them.
Without another word, she ran.
* * *
Zara fled from the square. Around her, the screaming chaos continued — the shocked Kleinbauern, the wailing schoolchildren — but she ran past all of it. But no matter how fast she urged her legs to go, she couldn’t get Mrs. Talley’s cries out of her head. Or that smell. She wanted to scrub her mind clean of them, but she knew she would never forget.
Her knees buckled again, and her hands hit the pavement. Zara didn’t get up this time. Her heart wrenched into a thousand pieces so small that she would never stitch them back together again.
Because Mrs. Talley was gone.
Zara curled into a ball right there on the street, not caring about the people who had to walk around her. The sobs came finally. Only yesterday, Mrs. Talley had bustled around the St. James house, cooking dinner and playing rummy. Now, not even a day later, Zara would never see her friend again.
Anger bubbled in Zara’s chest, and the cut on her thumb from last night began to throb. The stinging started up again, the same needle pricking she had felt last night. Zara swore. She couldn’t deal with an infection right now, not after what she had witnessed.
Footfalls struck the cobblestones behind her, but Zara hardly noticed. She barely looked up in time before she felt a pair of arms engulf her in a tight embrace. It took her a moment to register who it was.
“Uncle Red?” she whispered.
“Thank God, you’re all right!” He looked her over and winced at the welt on her temple. “Why didn’t you stop? I was calling for you.”
She collapsed against him, something she hadn’t done since she was little. “Did you see it? The … the execution?”
“Only the very end. I was over in Ingleside at the livestock auction.” Each word came out more hoarse than the last. “I came as soon as I could.” Minutes passed before he pulled away. “Let’s get you home.”
Zara gripped onto his arm, blindly stumbling next to him. Each step felt heavier than the last, like walking in tar, and Uncle Red had to help her into the truck. His face was paper white as he pulled onto the road.
“Try not to think about it,” he said.
How could she not? Zara shut her eyes, but she could still see the execution, every little detail. The fire. The smoke. The smell.
Zara slammed her fists against her seat, her shock replaced with a surge of anger. “How could this happen? Mrs. Talley was so careful. She was so …” A hundred words rushed through her thoughts: smart, good-hearted, and she gave the very best hugs that left you smelling like lavender tea. But the Nazis had killed her anyway.
The tears came back. Zara wiped them from her eyes, only to have a new batch replace them. “They burned her, Uncle Red. And they stabbed her, too.” White-hot fury now coursed through her every pore. She could taste the bitterness on her tongue. “I couldn’t do anything. She was screaming, but I couldn’t help her.”
Her uncle pulled the car over and threw it into park. His arm wrapped her into another hug. “It’s going to be all right.”
“How can anything be all right?” She twisted free from him and huddled on her side of the cab, her heart splitting in half and then splitting again.
“This hurts for me, too,” her uncle said. His eyes welled. “We have to keep going, though. That’s what Nell would’ve wanted.”
“What about the Nazis? We’ll let them get away with this?”
“I know you’re angry —”
“Of course I’m angry! They killed Mrs. Talley over a few stolen supplies and a radio!”
“Shh, listen to me.” He tipped her chin up so she had to look at him. “We have to keep our wits about us, okay? The Nazis are going to make more arrests. They’re going to arrange more interrogations. We have to be cautious.”
“Cautious?” Zara seethed. “The Nazis murdered Mrs. Talley, and you want me to be cautious?”
“I’m trying to keep you alive. It’s only the two of us now.”
“But they killed her!”
He gripped her shoulders. “I told her that I’d care for you, and I’m doing my best to do that.” Tears fell from his eyes, and Zara’s mouth opened. He never cried. Not since Mission Metzger. “I lost her and now Nell’s gone and if I lost you next …”
At the sight of his tears, Zara’s squall of anger died down. He was talking about her mom, she realized. Her uncle never talked about her mother; it was too painful for him even all these years later. Zara’s heart sank, heavy as an anchor, and she thought about the horrible cards that her uncle had been dealt in his life: losing his sister, raising a little girl on his own. It hadn’t been easy. And yet, she couldn’t follow him on his road of caution.
“Promise me you won’t go looking for trouble,” he said, his gaze fastening onto hers. “You saw what the Nazis did to Nell.”
Zara swallowed. She didn’t want to lie to him.
“Promise me.”
But she told him what he wanted to hear. “I promise.”
Uncle Red breathed out. His hands slipped from her shoulders, and he started up the car again. The truck rumbled through the town’s streets, passing a German family at the bakery who were sharing a slice of streusel cake. Apparently, they had felt like celebrating after the execution.
A stiff silence fell inside the vehicle, and Zara rolled her last words over her tongue.
I promise.
Her gaze fixed on her uncle. She couldn’t keep this promise to him, not after what had happened today. Nine years ago, the Nazis had shot her mother dead, and six years after that they had killed her best friend. Now, they had executed one of the people she loved most.
Zara’s nails drilled into her palms. She couldn’t — she wouldn’t — let the Germans get away with this.
A few days later, as the stars winked across the sky, Zara tiptoed toward her uncle’s bedroom. She leaned her ear against the door until she heard the familiar sound. The soft fluttery snores.
Good, she thought. He’ll be out for a few hours at least.
Tiptoeing back, Zara glanced at her clock — 9:42 p.m. — and slid on her grandfather’s old wool coat. It was three sizes too big on her narrow frame, but it had ample pockets, which she would need for tonight. Even better, the coat should camouflage her figure. From far away, it would make her look like a man. Or, at the very least, a skinny boy.
With her fingers moving silently, Zara slipped a hunting knife into her right pocket and a can of spray paint into the left. She reached for the window latch, but her hand stilled when she glimpsed the photograph on her nightstand. Her fingers brushed against the frame, and the grief hit her all over again.
“Oh, Mrs. Talley,” she said.
Days may have passed since the execution, but Zara’s eyes had yet to dry. She stared at the wrinkled photo, one of the few she had of Mrs. Talley. It was taken right before Mission Metzger, one of the last remnants of the old Greenfield Alliance. Her thumb grazed over the faces that smiled up at her: Mrs. Talley up front, Zara’s mother behind her, Uncle Red to the right, Ms. Abigail Oh in the corner, and so many more. All of them smiling. Now, nearly all of them were dead.
When the Alliance first announced its plans to take over Fort Metzger, the Greenfield chapter had volunteered immediately. Zara’s mother and Uncle Red had spent months gathering weapons: Glock pistols, German rifles, and the occasional crate of C4. Zara remembered them huddled over the kitchen table at night, discussing logistics, using words she didn’t understand like high ground and culminating point. Oftentimes she found them asleep at the table in the morning, with her uncle snoring and her mom’s red curls a tangled mess upon her head.
They had made a good team. Uncle Red plotted the strategies while Annie drummed up new members. Together, they had grown their chapter from a mishmash of farmers to a bona fide player in the Alliance. And as a reward for their hard work, they had been given a prominent position for the attack on Fort Metzger — leading the southern charge.
But that night had ended in disaster. After Colonel Eckhart alerted the fort to the Alliance’s plans, the Nazis had struck with a hard and swift fist. When it was all over, thousands of rebels had been imprisoned and thousands more executed, wiping out over half the Alliance in one night. Zara’s mother had taken a bullet to the chest during the escape, but Uncle Red had managed to pull her to safety and had bribed a farmer to take them south.
The rest of their chapter hadn’t been so lucky.
Two hundred had perished during the raid, including Arthur Talley and Zara’s mother, who bled out on the way home. When Uncle Red arrived at the Talleys’ cottage, he broke the news to Mrs. Talley first before he found Zara in the bedroom, watching a German cartoon on the ancient black-and-white television. He crouched down next to her and hugged her so tight that she thought her lungs would stop working.
Where’s Mama? she had asked.
Zara couldn’t think about th
at day without her heart hurting. She had lost her mother and, in a way, she’d lost her uncle, too. Something had broken inside of him. Something more than bone and muscle.
She felt that same way now: broken, beaten, her insides hollowed out, a dull rage thrumming through her. But she wouldn’t let the Nazis defeat her, like they had defeated Uncle Red. She had to keep fighting. She couldn’t let caution overtake her soul anymore.
The clock’s hand hit 9:45, and Zara knew she had to be quick. She crept down the stairs and out the back door into the spring-sweetened air. The night was as black as oil, without a sliver of moon, but Zara had walked this path so many times that she only needed starlight to guide her. When she reached the town limits, she slipped through the alleyways, careful to avoid any Germans out for a stroll or a cigarette break. Fortunately, it was a Monday. Most of the residents had long since retreated to their homes to watch their Berlin television dramas or devour a second helping of cabbage rolls and fried potatoes. She was alone in the night.
The courthouse lay due north of her. Zara hid behind a broken streetlamp right before the cleaning ladies — three middle-aged women with pecan-colored skin — locked up the front doors. There were only a handful of blacks in Greenfield and nearly all of them worked at the mines, but a few of the women had landed janitorial jobs at night, long after the Nazis had headed home for the day.
The three women shuffled out of sight, and Zara pulled on a knitted face mask that she had spent hours making the previous night. The mask was a bit too snug — she wasn’t much of a knitter, like Mrs. Talley had been — but it would have to do. Now, all she needed was to run up to the courthouse, get the job done, and run back home.
It’ll be simple, Zara told herself, but her pulse thumped anyway. If she wasn’t careful, if anyone saw her, she would land in a jail cell, no questions asked. Perhaps she should have waited a couple more days — even her mother had spent weeks planning missions — but Zara wouldn’t lose her nerve now.
The Only Thing to Fear Page 7
