Freedom/Hate (Freedom/Hate Series, Book 1)

by Kyle Andrews

  He walked through the building as softly as he could, across the small lobby and up the stairs. More than one of those stairs squeaked under his weight. He expected to see curious residents poking their heads out of their apartments, but none of them did.

  When he reached the third floor, he stepped into the hallway. He crept across the floor, ducking beneath each door's peephole as he passed, just in case.

  At last, he reached the apartment that he was looking for. In his head, he double checked that fact over and over again before putting his hand to the door and tapping. Three quick taps, two slow, and four quick.

  The person inside must have been shocked to hear Freedom knocking at their door after curfew. Collin could hear them shuffling around inside. He could hear a fork or a spoon dropping against a plate or cup, followed by footsteps.

  When the person inside came close to the door, Collin's instinct was to duck away from the peephole, but he resisted that urge. Instead, he looked right at it, heart pounding in his chest. Palms sweating. He held his breath as the door was unlocked and swung open.

  He didn't even see the woman who opened the door as she stood behind it and quietly said, “Get in.”

  After he walked through the door, she shut and locked it once again. Collin turned and saw a small woman with olive skin and white hair. She looked to be in her seventies. She was the last person that anyone would have ever suspected of being a part of the violent extremist group that was plastered all over the news.

  The woman stood near the door with her hands on her hips, looking Collin up and down. Then she said, “You look taller on TV.”

  He couldn't help but smile. After spending so much time alone, on the run, fearing for his life and fighting to defend it, those were the first friendly words he heard.

  “You're hurt. We'll deal with that first. Then you'll eat and take a shower, because you smell like you've been hiding in the tunnels. I have some of my husband's old clothes around here somewhere. I hope you don't mind vintage.”

  The ability to carry on a normal conversation seemed to be lost to him. All he could manage was to shake his head, letting the woman know that he didn't have a problem with it.

  She led him to the kitchen table and helped him take off his jacket. His arm was more stiff than before. He could feel bruises all over his body too, but he still felt better than he had in a while.

  “My name is Sophia,” she told him, as she put on her glasses and looked over the wound. She then went to a drawer and pulled out a towel. She wet it at the sink and returned to Collin to wipe away the blood. “I don't have peroxide or much of anything proper to treat a wound like this. I think I can sew you up though, if you don't mind some pain.”

  “I... I'd appreciate it, Ma'am.”

  His voice was weak and shaky. He felt like he was on the verge of falling apart.

  “You're Collin, right?” the woman asked. She obviously knew the answer, but was trying to keep him together.

  He nodded and said, “I'm sorry. I should have introduced myself.”

  “You're a celebrity.”

  It wasn't the first time he'd heard someone tell him that. The memory of the chaos in the subway station flashed through his head. It seemed like so long ago now.

  “Are they calling me a murderer?” He asked.

  “That's probably one of the nicer things they've called you,” Sophia smiled.

  As she continued to treat his wounded arm, Collin watched her hands. On one of her hands, there were patches of lighter skin. He didn't mean to stare, but he found himself studying the shapes of those spots. It helped to take some of his attention off of everything else that was going on.

  “Of course, the rest of us know the truth,” she told him.

  “The truth?”

  “We know you're not a murderer.”

  As she said those words, Collin felt an unexpected emotion. The back of his nose was tingling and his eyes were filling with tears.

  Sophia put her hand under his chin and forced him to look her in the eyes. She told him once again, “We know you're not a murderer.”

  After swallowing hard, he told her, “I killed people.”

  “Who were trying to kill you. There's a difference.”

  He didn't argue with her. Logically, he knew that she was right. In a situation like that, he didn't have a choice but to fight back. He couldn't claim that he would do it any other way, if given the chance. But at the same time, there was some small part of him that didn't feel that logic. He'd never killed anyone before, and the thought of doing it again made him nauseous. Somewhere deep down inside of him, he felt like he'd done something wrong. It was against the laws of humanity to take a life.

  “That thing you're feeling,” Sophia said, still working on his wound. “That's what makes you different from them.”

  10

  As Libby walked to school the next morning, the street around her seemed a bit more quiet than normal. It could have been her imagination, but it seemed like everyone was keeping to themselves. Not that she could blame them. For all she knew, any one of those people with a hat or a hood could have been Collin Powers. She was avoiding people as much as anyone.

  It wasn't unusual for Libby to take shortcuts on her way to school. She would sometimes meet up with Sim or her friend, Ona, by cutting through an alley or two. Sure, cutting though an alley might take her slightly off course, but it gave her a chance to socialize before the rush of the day swept everyone in different directions.

  Ona hadn't been to school for several weeks. The last thing Libby heard about Ona was that her mother had been reassigned to another city. There had been no time for goodbyes. Libby wasn't holding her breath for phone calls or letters. They'd been drifting apart anyway. Ona was one less person that Libby had to worry about.

  On her way to school that morning, Libby was torn between wanting to see Sim, and not wanting to be caught by herself in an alley. Eventually, she decided to risk it. She started to jog through an alley, planning to intercept Sim a couple of blocks away from school. She started to think about what she wanted to say to him, but all she really wanted was to not be alone for a while.

  As she went, Libby scanned the alley in front of her, looking for anyplace where a man could hide and jump out at her. Every trash bag and dumpster was a potential threat.

  The deeper she got into the alley, the more her decision began to feel like a mistake. Surely, she could have rushed to see Sim at school before class started, but she wanted more time. She wanted some comfort and reassurance. Instead, she got paranoia.

  When she heard an unfamiliar sound behind her, Libby nearly jumped out of her skin. It was a gravelly, metallic sound that repeated itself over and over again, bringing images of hooks and shovels into Libby's head.

  She turned to see what was making the sound, and found an empty garbage can, rocking back and forth on the uneven ground, tapping against the pavement.

  Even knowing this didn't ease Libby's nerves. She was still disturbed by all of the things that that garbage can could have been and how little she could have done to save herself if the worst had happened.

  Libby wanted out of that alley. The reports on the shootout the night before were all centered on an alley. Even the police couldn't save themselves. If she was attacked, she'd be completely helpless.

  As she turned to continue on her way, Libby's eyes were drawn to the wall in front of her. There, written with bright yellow spray paint, she saw the words: WE ARE FREEDOM.

  When she saw those words written on the wall, the paint became the only thing that she could smell. It was so strong that she couldn't believe she'd overlooked it before.

  She stepped closer to the wall and felt the paint. It was still wet. Whoever wrote those words on the wall had been there only moments earlier.

  What did it mean? Who was freedom and why did they feel a need to make this declaration on a wall?

  As she pondered those questions, Libby suddenly realized that she
was standing next to those words with paint on her hands. If someone saw her there, they might think that she was responsible.

  Backing away from the wall, Libby looked around the alley for something—anything—that could get the paint off of her hands. She found a dirty scrap of cloth on the ground and wiped her hands. The paint smeared, but didn't come off entirely. She spit on her hands and rubbed harder until finally the paint was gone. Then she threw the cloth onto the ground and looked to make sure that nobody was watching her. Once she was sure that she was alone, she took off running. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Her mind was swirling with curiosity and fear. Her lungs burned as she ran farther than she had run in years, but she refused to slow down until she was at school.

  The smell of the paint stayed with her all morning. Questions about the message lingered in her mind. She feared that others would smell the paint on her, but nobody did. She caught herself starting to doodle the words in her notebook during class, but stopped herself before completing the first word.

  What would happen if someone saw that sheet of paper in the recycling bin and connected it to her?

  With everything that was going on in the city, she wondered if the words were meant as a sign of solidarity toward the police officers who had been killed. Or were they some sort of message from Hate themselves? Either way, it was too vague to have the desired effect.

  At lunch, Libby was supposed to sit with Sim. Instead, she found herself sitting alone, picking at a hamburger that smelled as though it had been made a week earlier. The french fries on her tray were soggy and undercooked. The juice cup that they gave her to drink tasted more like the cup than it did juice. None of this was unusual, but her meal seemed particularly unappetizing that day. Maybe it would have been different if she weren't alone.

  On the other side of the lunchroom, she could see Uly eating his lunch with Marti and Justin. They were laughing and having a grand time. It wasn't that long ago when Libby would have Sim on one side and Ona on the other. They didn't always laugh, but they would talk about their days and all of the stupid things about life. They rarely talked about the important things at lunch, but at least she had someone to talk to back then. Now, she couldn't even depend on her boyfriend to be there when he was supposed to be.

  Justin looked up from his tray and caught Libby staring at them. She hadn't meant to stare. She hated knowing that he'd think she was jealous of whatever they were laughing about. She forced herself not to look away when he saw her. Instead, she gave him a half-smile and a wave. They weren't enemies, after all. They just weren't really friends anymore either.

  Justin smiled too, before turning back to his conversation. Libby couldn't even tell whether he was smiling at her or smiling at what the others had said. Did he even remember when they were friends?

  The more she ate the food on her tray, the more sick she felt. She decided to throw away the rest of her lunch and head out of the cafeteria before the period was officially over.

  Throwing away the food was frowned upon. If she was seen by a teacher who was in a bad mood that day, Libby could be assigned to cleanup duty after school, until the cost of that food could be repaid. She didn't have that extra time to spare, but sitting there with nothing to do but think was driving her crazy. She needed to walk.

  Just as she reached the trash can, Sim and several of his friends walked into the cafeteria. He looked happy. As he made his way over to her, Libby saw one of the school's coaches walk through the door behind him. The coach walked over to Uly's table.

  “You're not going to believe this,” Sim said as he joined her.

  He put his arms around her and gave her a kiss before continuing, “There was some kind of vandalism a few blocks from here this morning. Some kid was seen tagging Hate messages on a wall or something.”

  “I saw one on a wall,” Libby nodded.

  “You did? Why didn't you tell me?”

  Libby shrugged. “It was stupid. I wasn't even sure who wrote it.”

  “Well, Hate did. And with the police and HAND spread so thin, looking for that cop killer, the school is putting together a sort of neighborhood watch.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that instead of extracurriculars after school, some of us are being picked to hit the streets and keep an eye on things.”

  “They're using kids to look for terrorists?”

  “Not terrorists. Some stupid punk sympathizers who carry paint cans, not guns or bombs.”

  “And what do you do if you see them?”

  “We restrain them and call for help.”

  “Why would they have you do this?”

  “Why wouldn't they?” Sim grinned, looking as though he just won the lottery. “We are an untapped resource. We're strong. We're smart. We're capable. Well, some of us. Which is why they're not picking everyone.”

  Libby didn't like what she was hearing. She had enough to worry about without her boyfriend joining some junior police squad. But she knew that Sim didn't want to hear about her worries, so she tried her best to look as happy as he did. After all, neither one of them had much say in the matter. The choice was made. She could either be happy about it, or whine about it. She chose to believe that whoever had made this decision was probably a lot smarter than she was. They knew what they were doing.

  As she was putting the fake smile on her face, one of Sim's buddies walked past her, carrying a lunch tray. On it was a much heartier burger than she'd been given. It looked like actual meat.

  Libby leaned in and gave Sim a kiss. She then put a hand on his cheek and looked him in the eyes as she said, “Don't do anything stupid. If you get hurt, I will come and finish you off myself.”

  Sim's lips twisted into a sly grin.

  Libby rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You know what I—Forget it. I'm leaving now. Go eat.”

  She gave him another quick peck on the lips before walking out of the cafeteria. As she left, Uly rushed up to her from behind and started to walk with her. He didn't say anything. He just walked, as though they had someplace to go together.

  After a few seconds, Libby stopped and asked him, “Did you need something?”

  “I was just headed to the gym. I'm supposed to talk with my coach about this 'Junior Guard' they're working on.”

  “You were picked for that?”

  “Yeah. I guess your boyfriend was too?”

  Libby nodded. She was concerned about the situation, obviously. She didn't like the idea of her friends and family hunting down extremists or sympathizers, but she said nothing. Instead, she stood there with her arms crossed, waiting for Uly to say something.

  He looked her carefully in the eyes, as though he could read her thoughts. He then stepped closer and told her, “I'll keep an eye on him, if I can.”

  “I never asked you to do that.”

  “ Some things, you don't need to ask,” Uly smiled. “And that includes sitting at my table for lunch. Eating alone when we're all right there is ridiculous.”

  “I was waiting for Sim. I didn't think he'd be welcome at your table.”

  Uly took a deep breath and looked as though he were going to respond to what she said, but he stopped himself. Instead, he told her, “This isn't the way it's supposed to be. We're family.”

  “I'm not sure I even know what that means.”

  “Can we be done fighting?” he asked, extending a hand.

  Libby hesitated for a second or two, trying to think of a good reason why she should stay angry with Uly. They had been arguing for such a long time. She knew that there had to be a good reason for it, and she didn't want to suddenly remember it later, after she'd already agreed to be friends again.

  But she couldn't think of the reason. So, she gave him a slight nod, looking down at his extended hand and slapping it.

  He punched her in the shoulder and said, “Awesome. But I really do have to go, so I'll see you later.”

  As he walked off, Libby stood there, wondering i
f that was really it. Was that the big, dramatic conclusion to their conflict? It seemed rather unimpressive to her. There should have been more yelling and fighting. Isn't that what family was all about? Conflict? Struggle? Pain? Standing there in the hallway, alone, Libby couldn't help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

  That's when she saw the spot of yellow paint on Uly's pants.

  11

  Willa's office was more comfortable than Libby's home. It was decorated in autumn colors; warm and inviting, with a comfortable couch and large, puffy pillows. It smelled sweet enough to make Libby's mouth water as she took a seat.

  Libby waited for Willa to arrive for their appointment, holding a pillow in her lap. She was listening to the seconds tick by on a clock that hung on the wall, wishing that she could just leave. But she couldn't. She had to sit there until the counselor came and said whatever needed to be said. They were supposed to discuss all the reasons why Libby was constantly late for class. It was almost humorous that Willa would be late for that particular meeting.

  While she waited, Libby studied posters that were hanging on the wall. They were the typical, super cute posters that someone in Willa's profession would use to make someone feel more at ease. There were a lot of kittens playing with yarn, and puppies dressed like people. And, of course, the standard image of a HAND officer sitting next to a little girl's bed at night, watching over her as she slept.

  The poster had been part of the original HAND promotional campaign when the department was formed. It had been reproduced ever since, due to its popularity.

  Now the picture tied her stomach in knots. She couldn't stop thinking about the spot of paint on Uly's pants, right next to his pocket.

  She tried to convince herself that he could have gone to school the same way that she had. He could have touched the wall, just as she had. Then, he could have put his hand in his pocket. It was easily explained. It didn't mean anything. Except, it felt like it meant something.