When I fantasized about escaping the confines of home and the smothering attention of Mom, and then the dangerous control of ASTA, I never dreamed that I’d wind up being a rebel janitor. It’s funny, I tell myself, not depressing. Funny.
I’ve almost finished cleaning the last toilet when, for no reason that I can figure, my hands start shaking, my heart skips into a rapid, fluttering beat, and I feel faint. I’ve been having fewer of the panic attacks in the last few days, but this one is bad.
I slump onto the cold concrete floor with my head between my legs and try to catch my breath. I’ve found that it helps to stare hard at something and analyze the details of its appearance, because that distracts me from the thoughts that I might actually be having a heart attack or, more probably, that I’m completely losing my mind. So I focus on the bare skin of my arms, noting that the bruises are fading, and the scars and welts are now pale, silvery lines. You wouldn’t see them unless you were specifically looking. The nail on my damaged finger is beginning to grow back.
My fingers find their way under the short sleeves of my black T-shirt and explore the scabby lumps of the electrode burns. A sharp pain tells me I’m picking at the sores again. I force myself to stop, to get up, wash my hands, grab my jacket and leave. At least I’m a bit calmer — though the feeling doesn’t last long.
On my way back to camp, I hear a scuttle in the undergrowth and catch a flash of low movement in my peripheral vision. I freeze and train my eyes and ears on a patch of wild azalea about ten meters away from the path, where a watermelon-sized patch of deep brown is just visible between the deep-green leaves. This time it’s a rat, I can sense it. If I had a rifle on me, I could confirm the sighting through the telescopic scope and take the threat out with a single shot.
For one short moment I miss my old job, and Cameron — and even Bruce — with a longing so fierce it winds me. But I can’t have that back, not without all the other dreadful stuff. There is no going back now.
Moving as slowly and smoothly as I can, I bend to pick up a fist-sized rock and hurl it at the bush. The huge rat flees in a blur of grayish brown and shifting leaves, then it’s gone. But it’ll be back. The mutant rats were bred to be curious, aggressive and bold. Somehow, I have to make these rebels take the threat of the plague seriously.
Chapter 27
Bull’s eye
I march back to camp, where Zonia and the rest of the group are so locked in a heated argument about whether there’s a need to source more weapons that they don’t even notice my arrival. Not wanting to be accused of eavesdropping on their conversation, I clear my throat loudly, and Darius stops talking mid-sentence.
“What’s the matter?” asks Evyan. “Run out of bleach? Get a blister on your mop hand?”
“We have a real problem,” I say directly to Zonia.
“With the facilities?”
“No.” Is everybody here obsessed with the minor details? “With rats.”
Neil looks instantly more alert at this, but everyone else sighs as if bored.
“I saw a mutant beside the path on the way back. And I’ve heard them near the camp and on the mountain. It’s dangerous, and it needs to be attended to.”
“What do you mean, attended to?” asks Neil, squaring his thin shoulders and thrusting out his lower lip.
“I don’t think we need to worry,” says Zonia. “We’re very careful to store the food supplies in airtight containers at all times, so we don’t attract any animals.”
“They’re not just after the food, they’re after us! That’s what they were expressly bred for — to attack people, to bite and spread the virus they carry.”
Although I never exactly enjoyed killing rats for the sniper squad, it’s the one part of my work for ASTA that I’m not ashamed of. It wasn’t enjoyable, but it was necessary.
“The risk posed by rats is greatly overestimated. They are gentle creatures who are more scared of us than we are of them,” says Neil.
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s just not true. Those mutants are scared of nothing. I’ve observed them —”
“Murdered them!” Neil’s beard is trembling with his agitation.
“Have you ever even seen one?” I challenge him.
“No. Which just goes to show how few of them there are.”
“It goes to show you’re unobservant. They’re out here with us, and probably getting bolder and coming closer by the day. I know what they’re capable of.” I look around from face to face, desperate to make them understand. “It’s just stupid to ignore the risk. You people are so focused on bloody bunny-hugging” — I point at Neil — “and vague future targets” — I say this to Zonia — “and grand plans to educate the poor ignorant masses with your precious truths” — this to Quinn — “that you’re ignoring the very real and immediate danger under your own noses.”
Bull’s-eye. I’ve succeeded in pissing off everyone.
Neil’s whole face is suffused with anger now. “Bunny-hugging!” he spits. “You’re just a bloodthirsty and ill-informed little girl, who believes all the government propaganda she’s fed.”
“Yeah, from what Quinn told me, she’s good at that,” Evyan snipes.
So Quinn told her all about me? Nice.
“Well, thank you for pointing out the error of our ways, Jinx. I’m grateful for your input,” says Zonia. She does not sound grateful. “And since you have the vision, you can have the job. So you’ll stand guard — against the hordes of dangerous rats out to attack us — for the rest of today and tonight.”
“Fine.” Someone needs to. “Can I go get a rifle from your store?”
“Well someone wants to get their hands on a gun,” says Darius, at the same time as Ross snorts in disbelief, Candace says, “No way!” and Neil clenches his hands into fists as if ready to punch me on my bloodthirsty, non-rodent nose.
“No,” says Zonia. “You cannot.”
“So what exactly am I supposed to do if a rat waltzes into camp? Politely ask it to leave?”
No one answers. One by one they peel away to go about other business.
“Quinn!” I grab his arm to stop him leaving. “Please, tell them. You saw, in intel at ASTA, you saw reports of rats and attacks and deaths. You know they’re not cute and fuzzy little pets.”
He looks down at my hand on his arm, and I pull it back.
“I can’t be sure how many of those poxy reports were accurate and how many were false — planted to pump up public fear and justify the government’s repressive controls.”
“Are you kidding me? Mutant rats — plague-carrying mutant rats — exist! They bite and infect humans and other animals. They are bioengineered terrorist weapons of mass destruction. What do you think our sniper squad went out shooting all those times?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
Great, we’re back to that.
He walks off, and I call after him. “This is on you. This is on all of you!” Then I slump down against the base of a tree on the periphery of the camp, ready to defend us from deadly mutants with a mop and couple of rocks.
Quinn parks himself on the other side of the camp fireplace with his back to me. It seems to be his favorite place to sit and brood, sending the odd gaze my way as if assessing me, while he practices his new hobby. He throws a pair of sharp knives into selected tree stumps and trunks, yanks them out by the long strings attached to their hilts, and tosses again. Over and over, for hours at a time. I can’t figure it. Shooting someone is wrong, but attacking them with a knife wouldn’t be?
Then again, perhaps he isn’t training himself to hit humans. Perhaps he’s preparing to wound trees. Jackass.
Nothing of any real interest happens until my sixth day in camp.
I’m back up the mountain, and this time I’m the one keeping watch while Quinn lies dozing in the midday sun behind the boulder, with Evyan beside him, probably murmuring sweet no
things into his ear. It’s a hot day, and the stitches in my scalp itch and tug, reminding me that they should have been removed already.
The compound in the valley below is an odd mix of old and new. The shingle-roofed, stone-and-log lodge and the smaller rustic cabins look like they’ve been there a while, as do the barns and stables. But other parts — the helipad, the maximum-security perimeter fence and gates, the golf green and basketball court out back — look like they’ve been added recently.
The binoculars are powerful enough for me to make out details. There’s a Televid communication panel mounted on a pole of the tennis court fence; a sunken hot tub on the lodge’s deck alongside an outdoor grill with a tall, stone chimney; and beyond the farthest cabins, there’s a semicircular area, backed by a split-rail fence, which has lines marked on the ground like a geometry-set protractor.
A man in khaki pants and a green shirt rolls the pool cover off the swimming pool then dusts down the wooden table and chairs on the deck. The windows of the main lodge suddenly brighten — someone inside has just opened the curtains or blinds. I figure they’re preparing for visitors, but I say nothing to Quinn or Evyan, one of whom would surely take over surveillance if I pointed out these signs.
I want to see who arrives, because I reckon that the owner is not only rich, but also important. There are at least half a dozen dark-suited guards on duty, and all of them are armed with semi-automatic weapons. I count two guards at the main gate, one at the front and another at the rear door of the lodge, a fifth patrolling the perimeter of the property in a quad bike, and another walking a pair of Doberman pinschers along the paved path which meanders in and out of the shady copse of trees and loops around a large pond. A round Securodrone Rover, about the circumference of a dinner plate, roams randomly over the grounds, presumably transmitting a video feed to a security monitor inside one of the buildings.
I keep watch, lying on my stomach under the rough hide, for about an hour. My lower back and elbows are aching, and I’m about to take a break when a uniformed soldier steps out of the gray stone gatehouse and salutes. The massive gates swing open slowly, and he waves through a convoy of three black vehicles, the middle of which is a stretch limo, and they proceed up the long drive to the lodge.
I stay still and say nothing. A bunch of men and women in dark suits pile out of the front and rear vehicles, and while the others keep their backs to the vehicles and scan the surrounding area, one guard, with a sidearm prominently displayed on her waistband, goes to open the back door of the limo. I adjust the focus on my binoculars. A man climbs out, yawns, stretches his arms, rolls his shoulders, and says something to the guard that makes her smile.
My jaw drops open in utter surprise. I recognize this man.
Chapter 28
I spy with my little eye
The man’s square face with its thick, wavy brown hair just greying at the temples is as familiar to me as my own. I’ve seen it smiling reassuringly on thousands of televised public service announcements, on the sides of dozens of Health and Wellbeing Regulation Fun Buses and billboards, and in online promotions, articles and game pop-ups.
No doubt about it, I am looking at Alex Hawke, president of the Southern Sector.
Next out of the limo is an elegantly dressed woman and two young kids — a boy carrying a teddy bear, and a pigtailed girl in denim shorts holding some kind of device in her hands. The guard at the front door steps forward, shakes the president’s hand and gives something to both of the kids. I can’t quite make out what the small objects are. Pinwheels? Giant lollipops?
If I had one of the powerful sniper rifle scopes from the ASTA armory, I’d be able to see clearly. I wonder what weapons are in the cache locked up in the van back at camp.
Hawke and his wife disappear inside the house, and his kids follow behind, skipping and waving their new treasures in the air. When the door closes behind the family, two guards — I guess they must be secret service agents — take up position with their backs to the door. I edge backwards out from under the hide and, keeping low on the ground, turn to face Quinn and Evyan, who are stretched out on the grass. His arms are folded across his chest, but her hands are stretched out beside her. The one nearest to Quinn is lying palm upwards as if she’s hoping he’ll thread his fingers through hers.
“Why are we spying on President Hawke?” I ask baldly.
That gets their attention. Quinn bolts upright, grabs the binoculars and belly-crawls under the hide.
“What did you see? What happened? Why didn’t you alert us?” Evyan whispers fiercely.
She creeps up behind Quinn and frantically scribbles notes in the little logbook.
“I thought, when he didn’t arrive last night, that he wouldn’t be home for the weekend,” says Quinn.
“So that’s why you’re hiding out on this particular mountain — to conduct surveillance on the president at his mountain retreat,” I say.
They don’t deny it.
“Why are you watching him?”
“None of your business,” snaps Evyan, but Quinn says, “Information is useful.”
“What information? We can’t see or hear inside the house. Are we going to keep a record of what he barbecues and who he beats at tennis?”
Apparently so. The rest of the day is spent logging every movement in the compound. Mrs. Hawke goes for a swim with the kids. A white-aproned man appears carrying a plate of raw steaks and proceeds to broil them on the gas grill. The family eats around the table on the deck. President Hawke drinks two beers and chats to the kids. Mrs. Hawke drinks three large glasses of white wine and reads a book. The boy prefers potato salad to tomatoes. The girl prefers texting on her phone to eating anything or talking to anyone.
About an hour before the end of our watch, Evyan says, “Someone needs to leave now to alert Zonia about Hawke’s arrival. She’ll want to send a team up to take over from us to do surveillance through the night.”
“Want me to go?” Quinn volunteers.
“Or I could,” I say. I could do with some exercise to work the kinks out of my muscles.
Evyan hesitates. I can almost see the struggle going on inside her. The person who brings this news to Zonia will surely win some brownie points, and Evyan does not want me to get any credit. So she’s torn between leaving me alone with Quinn, or spending the remaining hour and the walk back down to camp in my despised company. It’s what Sarge would call a lose-lose situation.
“Let Quinn go,” I say. “You and I can hang out up here, spend some quality girl time together.”
“As if,” says Evyan. “Fine, I’ll go. Just keep your eyes on him. On Hawke,” she clarifies, just I case I have my sights set on a different “him”.
I can’t help it, I give her an evil grin. “Don’t worry, Aquafina, we’ll cope fine with just the two of us here. Alone.”
A few minutes after she stomps off, Hawke comes out of the lodge carrying a shotgun and walks with a pair of guards to the semicircle area beyond the cabins that mystified me earlier — turns out it’s a skeet-shooting range. The prez is a lousy shot.
It’s the first time Quinn and I have been alone together since I came to the rebel camp, but any lingering hope that he’s cold and suspicious towards me only for the benefit of others, and that he might behave differently in private, now evaporates. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t utter a word. I find myself wanting to needle him just to hear his voice.
“So, Quinn, are you going to use those intel skills you learned at ASTA to analyze all the info you’ve written down and come up with some astounding, world-saving conclusion?”
“I’d rather use my skills than yours,” he says.
After that, neither of us says anything, but the tension of the unsaid things between us is as loud as a shout. We pack up when Ross, Candace and Bree arrive to relieve us, and walk down through the deepening gloom of the woods in tense silence.
Zonia and Evyan walk up to meet us as we enter camp — Zonia to receive our r
eport, and Evyan, apparently, to check that Quinn has escaped my clutches unmolested. She smooths his hair where it’s sticking up and shoots a filthy glance my way. Does she think I’ve been running my fingers through his locks? Not likely.
“Anything else?” Zonia asks after she’s scanned the entries in the surveillance logbook.
I rattle off the details of what I saw — who, how many, what each was wearing, the precise times of arrival at the main gate and at the residence, the number, sex and position of the guards, the model and caliber of their weapons, the exact timing of the different patrols, the registration plates of each of the three vehicles and the fact that, judging from their body language, President and Mrs. Hawke’s marriage might be in trouble.
Zonia looks impressed and invites me to join her for a little walk. It’s almost dark, so we don’t go far, but we’re out of earshot of the others when she says, “That was quite some surveillance report. You obviously have exceptional observation and memory skills. And you’ve already helped our surveillance teams by teaching us about camouflage and ghillie hides.”
I don’t bother to correct her terminology.
“You’ve also been useful in highlighting some of our weaknesses in keeping our camp undetected.”
I say nothing — I have no idea where she’s going with this, and besides, standing out here in the dark woods, I’m more concerned with keeping an ear open for an approaching rat than listening to flattery.
“I think, if we set aside our suspicions and mistrust, we could all learn a lot from you.”
“You do?”
The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel Page 36
