“Quinn,” I say softly. “I’ve got nowhere else to go. Nowhere.”
The silence resonates for long seconds. Then Quinn makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl of irritation.
“Evyan,” he says, “can you give us a few minutes in private?”
She cuts me a long, hard stare, then says to Quinn, “Don’t forget to check her.”
She swings out of the van and stalks off with the driver, who has been standing at the door, curious to get a look at the new arrival.
“Are you working for them?” Quinn asks quietly.
“No.”
He shouldn’t have to ask.
He reaches out an arm to me, and I sag in relief, because I know that he’s going to hug me. He was just acting cold and suspicious for the benefit of Evyan, but now that we’re alone he’ll pull me into an embrace. My own arms begin to move upwards, but Quinn merely pushes my shoulder to turn me around, and pulls my backpack off. He squats down on the corrugated floor of the van and upends the bag, shaking out the contents of every section and zippered pouch, opening my toiletry bag and dumping shampoo and mascara and tampons on top of the pile of clothes and underwear. I can feel my face burning hot with embarrassment and anger.
“Looking for anything in particular?” I snap.
“A gun.”
“I don’t own one.”
“Your phone.”
“I didn’t bring it — do you think I’m stupid?”
Quinn shrugs. “Any type of weapon, tranquilizer shots, a camera or recording devices.” He turns the bag inside out and checks the seams, feels along the lining. “Bugs.”
No, he doesn’t think I’m stupid. He thinks I’m not to be trusted, that I might still be working for them.
I blink fiercely at the tears which burn hot against my eyes. I don’t know what sort of a welcome I expected, but I sure didn’t expect this — to be treated like a suspected mole. Is this how they greet every new arrival? Or just me?
“You know what this reminds me of? The inspection of our stuff when we arrived at ASTA. I see you learned from the best,” I say, deliberately needling him, using anger to crowd out the other feelings.
No answer.
“Oh, look — you missed this.” I snag a mini multi-tool which I pinched from Robin, and wave it in the air. “A contraband weapon which I might use to slaughter the forces of rebellion.”
“I have to check,” he says.
“Fine. Whatever.”
When he’s satisfied himself that my belongings are free from any enemy device, he sits back, and I gather them up and stuff them back into the backpack. Boots on top of bras on top of lip balm.
“I have to be sure,” Quinn says, standing.
Those are the words Roth used. Suddenly I’m cringing, back in that room with the mirror and the steel chair and the wrist restraints.
And the pain.
An involuntary shudder passes through me. I try to wipe the flashbacks from my mind, try to breathe past the spasm in my solar plexus. Breathe in, and slowly out. And again.
Quinn must notice my reaction, because he asks, “Jinxy? Are you okay?” It’s the first time he’s said my name.
I stand and shove the bag at him. “You want to go through it all again because you have to be sure? Knock yourself out.”
“No, I mean” — he hesitates — “I need to check you, too.”
“Huh. Just like the guards at the detention center.” I unzip my jacket and hand it to him so he can inspect it thoroughly. “You guys have a surprising amount in common.”
“We’re nothing like them!”
“Do I need to take my pants and top off, too?” I ask past gritted teeth.
“Just your shoes.”
I kick off my running shoes, peel off my socks and then stand, legs apart, holding my arms away from my sides. He runs a handheld metal detector over my body, almost — but not quite — touching my skin. It buzzes when it passes over the chest area just below my left collar-bone. Quinn pauses, jerks his chin at it. I know what’s caused the buzz, and right now I would rather run naked through a field of mutant rats than show him, but he’s waiting, head tilted, eyes narrowed.
Mortified, I yank the neck of my top down and to the side to show him the silver earring — the one he gave me — looped over my bra strap. An expression I can’t read ripples across his face when he sees and recognizes it. I turn my head away to stare resolutely over his shoulder while he finishes scanning.
When he tosses the scanner onto one of the front seats, I turn around to lean up against the side of the van opposite the open door. I know that he must know that not all bugs and weapons are made of metal. My forehead and hands are pressed against the cold metal. My arms are stretched away from my sides, and my legs are spread apart.
I can feel the heat of Quinn close behind me, and then his hands are on me, patting me down to check for hidden objects made of plastic or ceramic or silicone. He crouches down, starts at my right ankle and moves up, briskly patting against my tight jeans, one hand on the outside of my leg, and the other on my inside. Up my calf and over my knee and up to the top of my thigh. My breath catches in my throat, but his hands don’t hesitate in their efficient pat-down and he moves to my other leg.
For me at least, there is something charged in the air now, something which divides time into fractions of seconds, and sucks my breath and my anger out of me. His hands, big and warm, feel along my hips and around my waist, and slide up my ribs. I draw in a ragged breath. I may be pissed off at his less-than-friendly welcome, but my body responds to his touch as it always has. When his hands move over my spine, up the back of my shoulders and neck, and dig into my hair, I shiver and only just stop myself from leaning back into his hands.
His fingers stop moving when they touch the line of stitches, the strip of emerging stubble that I’d hidden with a comb-over of long hair.
“What the hell?”
“It’s nothing.”
I tilt my head so that my hair falls back over the stitches, not wanting him to ask questions, not wanting to remember. After that last flashback, I’m only just managing to keep the memories at bay. Besides, I’m not there anymore. I’m here now, with Quinn. That’s all that matters.
“Quinn,” I breathe.
He spins me around, and I look up into his blazing silver eyes. There’s a heat in his gaze which pulls me closer to him. He may be angry and suspicious, but I can tell he still desires me.
He swallows hard. “What happened —” he begins.
But I don’t feel like talking. I’m not going there now — the past will only come between us. My hands slide up his arms to his shoulders, around the back of his neck, into his hair. If we can touch, if we can hold each other, he’ll remember me — the me he knows and trusts and cares for.
“Jinxy.”
He leans closer, his eyes still locked on mine. His hands slide around my waist to pull me in against his body. His lips lower — are just touching mine, when there’s a shout from outside.
“Quinn? Quinn!” Someone is coming to the van.
He pulls away, gives his head a quick shake as if to knock the desire for me out of it, and takes a step back. His gaze is wary again. I feel cold, empty, confused.
“Quinn? Is she clean?” It’s the damned Goth-girl again, checking up on us.
“Yeah. Yeah, she’s good,” Quinn answers, his voice a little rough. Then to me he says, “Follow me, I’ll introduce you to the rest of us rebels.”
Quinn grabs my backpack and steps out into the light.
Chapter 22
Violent energies
The band of rebel outlaws have set up camp in the clearing of a long-abandoned campground which lies in the depths of a thickly forested state park, a few hours beyond the outer boundary of the city metropole.
Water drips off leaves and splashes onto my head as we hike through the trees and underbrush, following an overgrown and barely visible trail through the woods. Quinn
leads the way with Evyan directly behind him, like some combination of guard dog and faithful pet. I bring up the rear, hot with shame at having basically thrown myself at Quinn. I need to be ruled by my head, not my hormones.
We pass by a small log cabin which must once have served as the campground’s office. The door is ajar, and I peer inside as we pass by. It’s a single room, with a small toilet cubicle just off it. It’s been stripped bare of all furniture, equipment and fittings except for a couple of framed posters nailed to the wall. One, of a burnt tree stump waving its scorched arms against a red sky, urges me to keep fire away from our national parks. The other advises me to steer clear of snakes and falling trees.
Great. I feel safer already.
A massive cobweb stretches from the old reception counter clear across to a far corner of the sagging, water-stained ceiling. Dirt, twigs and dry grass, swept in by the wind, litter the floor and collect in piles in the corners. They look like the nests of small animals. Perhaps they are. As we walk on, I keep an eye out for movements in the undergrowth which might signal rats.
Beyond the derelict office is another, bigger log cabin. The male and female signs above its twin entrances tell me that this must be what remains of the old communal restrooms and showers. My memory takes me back to the time before the plague, bringing up memories of facilities just like these, in state parks very similar to this one — images of hiking up mountain trails with my family, striking tents with Dad, waiting impatiently for Mom to thread fat, pastel marshmallows on a long stick so that I could roast them over the embers of a dying fire, listening to the nearby murmur of our parents’ voices as they talked and laughed softly in their tent while Robin and I munched our way through secret midnight feasts in ours.
“Toilets and showers over there.” Quinn indicates the long cabin.
“Do they still work?” I ask, surprised.
“Yeah, the water is piped directly from the stream up the hill, so it’s fresh and clean. But cold, of course, and there are no lights. Nothing like the fine comforts of your own en suite at ASTA — think you’ll cope?”
I ignore the jibe and stumble over a protruding tree root as I catch sight of what lies ahead.
In the center of a clearing that was probably once a picnic spot, there’s a cooking fire surrounded by a circle of logs, and then an outer semicircle of small tents. Standing and waiting for us is a group of a dozen people — male and female, black and white, and about half of whom are wearing red berets. Once again, I’m the youngest by at least a couple of years. One of the red berets, a square-jawed woman whom I estimate to be in her late twenties, steps forward and extends a hand.
“You’re Jinx?”
I nod, trying not to flinch under the pressure of her hard handshake and shrewd black gaze.
“I’m Zonia. Not my real name, of course, but it’s what you’ll call me.” Her face is completely serious.
“Right.”
“Everyone, this is Jinx.”
I give a wave and a small smile, but it fades quickly. No one is looking even the slightest bit enthusiastic about my presence here.
“Make sure you introduce yourselves this afternoon,” Zonia instructs them. “Right, let’s eat. We’ll talk after lunch.”
Everyone moves at once, as if in a practiced routine. Two girls, in their late teens or early twenties, position themselves behind a metal trestle table stacked with plastic plates, cups and flatware. Two burly guys in berets — by the look of them brothers and in their mid-thirties — grab large cooking pots off grids balanced over the coals, carry them over and swing them up onto the metal table.
A girl grabs me by the elbow and says, “Hi, I’m Nicky. I’ll show you how it works.”
She has red hair and is maybe four or five years older than me. At the table, she hands me a plate and spoon, and holds her own out to the girls.
“What’s on the menu?” Nicky asks.
“Beef Bourguignon and creamed potatoes,” says one of the girls behind the table. “I’m Kirsty,” she tells me, “and this is Kate.”
They are both wearing red berets, but Kirsty is wearing camo pants and a khaki T, and Kate is wearing khaki pants and a camo vest. Perhaps they divided the matching sets. I quickly stick out my plate for dollops of the food. It doesn’t look very appetizing, but I’m aware of the line forming behind Quinn and Evyan, who wait beside me. Just as I’m about to be served, Zonia steps up from the opposite side, and the serving spoons swing across and tip the food onto her plate. No lining up for her, then.
“Sorry,” says Kirsty — or is it Kate? — when Zonia moves off, “but we always serve her first. She’s our leader.”
“She’s not our leader. Connor is,” says Quinn.
“Yeah. But, like, he’s not here, is he?” she says, depositing gloops of meat and white stuff on my plate. “And she was his 2 I.C.”
Evyan snorts. “She may not be in command for long.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asks one of the K-girls.
“Just that there might be better leaders among us.” From the way Evyan’s eyes flick to Quinn, I can tell who would get her vote.
“Is Connor okay?” I ask Quinn softly, while the girls argue about what makes a true leader.
“They say he’s … He just needs some time to get better, but he’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”
“Good. I heard that one of you got shot on the mission.”
“No. It was them — one of them got shot.” He doesn’t sound pleased about it.
“Yes, a guard, Sofia said.”
“Sofia?”
“Yeah, she’s been helping me out.”
“Good, I like Sofia. I trust her.”
I have nothing to say to that.
Quinn has managed to get his food from the girls squabbling with Evyan, and we make our way over to the massive logs positioned around the fire.
“Did he die?” Quinn asks.
“Who?”
“The guard, in the raid.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Quinn sits down on a log. “So someone died all because we had to rescue Connor.”
“You blame me for that too, now?” I ask.
“He wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for you.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I can feel a hot flush of anger rising up my neck. “He would probably have been in the mortuary.”
Evyan pushes past me and parks her butt down next to Quinn. I leave him to her, and go find somewhere else to sit.
On the way I pass another huge log on which two pretty girls of around twenty are sitting. They look nothing like how I imagine rebels should. One is wearing a yellow sundress, despite the cool weather, and the other has on a pair of hungry shorts and strappy sandals. They’re both wearing makeup and nail polish, and they’re wrapped around each other, making out like crazy.
“For God’s sake,” says Zonia, giving their log a hard kick on her way back to the food table for seconds. “Can’t you two stop sucking face long enough to eat something other than each other?”
The girls giggle and go get their lunch. I perch on a log beside Nicky, since she seems the friendliest, and study the people sitting around me.
If I’m the youngest person here, then the oldest is a thin-faced, black guy with glasses and a straggly, graying goatee. He wears a yellow T-shirt with a decal of a grinning rat on the shoulder. Written across the front, in bold black letters, are the words: Blessed are the rats. When he turns, I see the back reads: For they shall inherit the earth. He perches cross-legged on the sandy ground near me and says, “I’m Neil. Aries.”
“Um, hi, Neil.”
“I like to be on the level with people, fully honest and upfront. So I need to share with you that I’m concerned about the energy you’re bringing to our camp.”
“The energy?”
“Yeah, the violent energy. You’ve killed rats.” He shakes his head slowly, like it’s the worst crime he could ever imagine.
>
“Yeah, I have. But they were, you know, infected. And dangerous.”
“They were children of the Earth Mother,” he says solemnly.
“Yeah. Uh, sorry.”
He nods, then turns around to face the fire.
I can feel Nicky’s shoulders trembling beside me, and a quick glance confirms she’s fighting laughter.
“He thinks we’re here to save the rats,” she whispers.
I wonder why the rest think they’re here. While I eat my food, which turns out to be a canned stew of some kind of tasteless, grayish meat and instant mashed potatoes, I study the band of rebels.
On the log opposite ours, Evyan sits close beside Quinn. She hangs on his every word, agrees with his every opinion and, when he’s not looking, tugs down the neckline of her T-shirt to show more of her cleavage. On the other side of her, and angled toward her, sits the driver of the van, who introduces himself as Mark. He watches with a wounded expression in his soulful brown eyes as Evyan laughs at something Quinn says, squeezes his shoulder and picks a leaf out of his hair. I look away, not entirely sure that my expression is any better than Mark’s.
While most of the crowd shoot me the odd wary — or at least curious — glance, the loving couple, whom Nicky tell me are called Bree and Candace, sit on the next log along and are completely wrapped up in each other.
Zonia sits in the middle of the longest log, with Kirsty and Kate perched on one side of her, and the two brothers, Ross and Darius, on the other. Ross seems mostly interested in his food, which he shovels in like a starved person, but Darius clearly has all the feels for Zonia.
Everyone has their eyes on someone here, and Zonia is no exception. Her stern gaze is fixed unwaveringly on me. She clears her throat, and silence falls among the rebels.
Here we go.
Chapter 23
The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel Page 33
