“I feel like a fool, man. I should’ve guessed.”
“Yeah, you and me both. Anyway, I couldn’t stay after that, after I knew what we were really doing.”
“You never did like shooting live things,” says Bruce. “But now you’ve taken out Sarge. I still can’t process that, man. Sarge!”
“So now I’m with the rebels. Sort of. And you two need to decide if you’re in with us, or if you want us to drop you off somewhere.”
Lightning cracks nearby, loud as a .50 caliber rifle fired beside my ear. The rain pounds down heavily on the panels above. Sofia has found a grease-stained towel — perhaps what Cletus usually wipes his hands on — and we hold it above Robin, doing our best to shelter him from the drops of icy rain splashing down on us.
“First I want to know exactly what y’all are up to. What’s your agenda?” Bruce asks.
“We’re not out to aid the terrorists, whatever they may have told you at ASTA. We just don’t think that the government is going about fighting this war in the right way. They’re too focused on making profits and staying in power. They want to keep the civilian population scared and obedient. Did you know that rat fever isn’t spread by airborne contact, or by food or touching surfaces?”
“No?” Cameron asks.
“No. It’s more like AIDS — transmitted by blood and bodily fluids. Plus bites, of course.”
“Is there anything they’ve told us that’s true?” Bruce says, sounding irate.
I don’t reply, and in the silence that follows, I hear Robin’s breath coming in shallow pants. I pray it’s just from the pain, and not that shock is setting in from the blood loss. How much longer will this journey take?
Bruce is speaking again, asking me something.
“What?” I say.
“What do y’all plan to do?” Bruce asks.
“Uncover the truth, if we can, and let the country know.”
“I’m in,” says Cameron. “Told you I was on your side.”
“Yeah, I’m in, too,” says Bruce. “Just so long as you understand my fight is still with the terrs and the plague. A rabid comes anywhere near me, I’ll shoot it. If we find a terrorist, I’ll shoot him, and shoot anyone who tries to stop me from shooting him. And if I discover you rebels are doing anything to assist the terrorists —”
“Let me guess, You’ll shoot us, too.”
“That’s about the sum of it. And,” Bruce adds, “just as long as that leprechaun doesn’t piss me off too badly. Are you still with him?”
“Yes.”
“Like, with him with him?”
“Yes!”
“Just checking,” Bruce says, sounding disappointed.
At that moment, to my huge relief, the truck stops. There’s a knock on the panels. “It’s just me, don’t shoot,” Quinn says, before flinging them open. “Neil and his sister are here, they met us halfway.”
“Everybody out, we’re ditching the truck,” Evyan orders.
We’re parked in a dark, deserted side street. Bruce and Cameron lift Robin, carry him through the sheeting rain over to a black SUV, and lay him on the plastic sheeting covering the back seat. The rest of us grab all the bags and weapons and load them up in a blue panel van parked behind the SUV.
“You’re his sister?” says a plump woman with short, graying hair and a kind face. She’s sheltering under a large umbrella and carrying a black bag which I hope is filled with medical supplies.
“Yes, I’m Jinx. You must be Doctor …” I realize I don’t know Neil’s surname. The rebels only ever used first names.
“Call me Beth,” she says. “You come with us.”
She climbs into the back of the SUV and crouches down beside Robin. I clamber into the seat behind them and, not waiting for an invitation, Sofia follows, still clutching my bloodstained hoodie. Neil is already behind the wheel, and the engine is running.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to come with you?” Quinn asks from where he stands at the door of the SUV.
“No. You keep the others under control,” I tell him, wiping a hand across my wet face. “Don’t let Bruce shoot anyone.”
“Love you,” he says, sliding the door of the SUV closed before running back to join the others at the van.
Cameron is already inside the back, but Evyan and Bruce are standing in the downpour beside the van. They appear to be arguing over who gets to drive.
I neither know nor care who wins. Beth is handing me an IV bag to hold up above Robin, and a second after she slips the needle into a vein in the crook of his elbow, I yell, “Go, Neil, just go!”
Part Two
Chapter 11
Hiding out
October 9
I’m hiding out up in a giant hickory tree, trying not to move a muscle.
A woodpecker clings to the trunk of a nearby tree, cocking its head from side to side as if to see beneath the bark where a juicy borer beetle or some termites might lurk, blissfully unaware of their imminent death. It’s a handsome bird with a scarlet head and striking black-and-white plumage.
That red head reminds me of Zonia and Connor and their band of red-bereted rebels plotting assassination and other bloodthirsty missions in the woods.
The bird hammers away at the tree trunk with its short, sharp beak. The bursts of hard drumming are surprisingly loud, like the rapid fire of an automatic weapon.
I don’t want to think about weapons. Or Zonia and her rebels. I just want to sit here and watch the pretty bird attack the tree, and think of nothing.
My father once told me that woodpeckers slam into wood with such force that their eyeballs would fall out if they didn’t have an extra set of eyelids. He said they also have an especially thick skull which prevents brain damage by absorbing the shock of impact to their foreheads.
Sarge had no protection against the impact that slammed into his forehead. A sudden flash of memory turns my gaze inwards and backward, blinding me to the beauty of the bird and the trees. Again I hear the explosion and feel the recoil in my hand. Again I see that wound — jelly-red in the center and scorched black around the edges — and Sarge slumping to the ground, lifeless as a crumpled heap of old clothes.
I bang the heel of my hand against my own forehead, forcing myself back into the present. Startled by my movement, the woodpecker takes flight with an aggrieved qweah! It flies toward the thicker wood of trees at the far end of the property, black-and-white wings flashing through the air like a checkered flag at the end of a motor race.
We’re not at the end of our race — I’m not even sure we’ve started — and already there are casualties.
I stare back at the curved lines and flat roof of Neil’s adobe house, which is unlike anything I’ve seen before or could have imagined. The mud-brown exterior looks like it would fit better in a desert than this wooded corner of the south.
The whole house is off the grid. Two of the outer walls are made from plastic water bottles packed in concrete, studded with solar jars that collect sun in the daytime and glow softly at night. Electricity comes from the solar panels on the roof, water is pumped from a private well into faucets fitted with purifying filters, and used water passes into a hi-tech recycling unit, from where it goes to irrigate the fruit, vegetables and berries growing in greenhouse tunnels out back. While Neil would never allow animal flesh to pass his lips, he does keep a couple of goats for the milk and cheese in a small, fenced-off section. A few chickens mosey about in the long grass, so we always have fresh eggs, and he keeps a flock of geese too, but not for food.
“Geese are the best watchdogs. I let them wander loose at night and they’ll make an almighty racket if there’s an intruder. Attack him, too,” Neil had told me.
Inside the house it’s all open spaces, with exposed ceiling beams, wooden furniture and rounded cement benches. Brightly patterned Mexican rugs lie scattered across the polished concrete floor, Navajo woven baskets and Cherokee pottery nestle beside the massive stone fireplace in the living area, an
d Aztec figurines and Inuit carvings crowd every surface. Dream-catchers dangle over the front and back doors, and one expanse of roughly plastered wall is covered with a mural of bold raven, wolf, bison and sun motifs.
It’s all a bit overwhelming — especially the fiercely grimacing mask, complete with real-looking hair, that glares down at me from the landing when I climb the stairs to the second floor. It gives me the creeps.
Neil says the house is guarded by ancient spirits, but he’s hedged his bets with a high-tech security system which includes steel reinforced doors, surveillance cameras at the gate, infrared sensor beams which crisscross the front yard and driveway, and an electrified fence to rival ASTA’s — all of which are managed by a control panel located near the front door. Neil doesn’t trust the government further than he can spit it, and he’s paranoid about being invaded.
The yard behind the house is a tangled wilderness of weeds, long grass and trees which grow more densely toward the back of the property, eventually merging into the woods beyond. A suspended plank walkway connects the balcony outside Neil’s upstairs bedroom to the nearest tree, which in turn bridges out to a bunch of other trees. A couple of the trees have rope ladders hanging from their boughs, but the web of interconnecting walkways, branches and trunks eventually ends in an enormous loblolly pine situated well into the woods. Beth says that last tree hangs over the property line. On two of the trees in the yard, there are wooden platforms, and in another is the tree house in which I’m now sitting.
I asked Neil why he’d constructed this maze in the boughs, and he replied that sometimes he just likes to get away and sit in the trees to think. So, I’ve found, do I.
Which is why, on this sunny morning in October, with the leaves just beginning to take on the orange-and-gold richness of fall, I’m sitting up here alone. Thinking.
Thinking about Sarge — what he said, what he did, how he died. Thinking about how Robin very nearly lost his arm and could have lost his life. Thinking about the bad decisions I made and the trouble I got us into. Because that whole disastrous mission is on me.
We had no plan, no intel, and I made stupid mistakes. I was trying so hard not to let anyone get hurt that I risked us all. Guilt eats at me like the termites devouring the branches in the woodpecker’s tree. It’s my fault that Robin was shot, that even now he’s still weak as a kitten and confined to bed. And I’m obviously to blame for Sarge’s death. I also feel bad that Bruce and Cameron are here with this group of disorganized misfits instead of safe at home. They’ve had to order new clothes and toiletries online, because all their stuff got left behind at ASTA.
I insisted on paying – giving them the last of my cash cards — but Bruce waved them aside, saying, “Neil’s footing the bill, and trust me, Blue, he won’t miss a couple of C-notes. Guy’s loaded.”
We’ve been here four days, and we’ve accomplished nothing further — nobody seems to know what to do or where to begin. Evyan is impatient to get going, as long as she can follow Quinn. Quinn wants to follow the data and find out more about what’s really going on. Cameron told me that he’ll follow me. He ought to know better.
Bruce just wants to follow the sights on the end of his weapon. He’s itching to shoot something — his first choice would be a mutant rat or a terrorist, but I reckon if we’re cooped up here for much longer, he’ll settle for taking a potshot at Evyan, because those two get on like a pair of cats in a sack.
Neil doesn’t seem to want to follow anyone. He spends his days down in the basement, where he has a full-on network room filled with monitors, a huge 3D printer, and a bunch of servers and powerful computers connected via the forest of satellite dishes mounted on the roof to networks beyond. Back when I was with the rebels based in the state park, Nicky told me Neil was some kind of computer genius. It turns out that he was the founder of an IT start-up company back in the early nineties. He built it up from nothing, made a fortune when he sold up, and now lives as a recluse — when he’s not hanging out with the rebels in the forest trying to undermine the government he loathes — playing with his bits and bytes in the temperature-controlled basement of this odd house.
I don’t know who I want to follow. I only know that I’m not fit to be in charge of anything or anyone. I’m clearly incompetent as a leader, and I have absolutely no desire to be in charge again. I don’t want the responsibility of leading the others into danger, or of hurting, possibly even killing, another person.
Sofia and I have been alternating shifts at Robin’s bedside. When she’s with him, or when Beth is busy with him, like she is now, then I head for the trees — to think or nap or cry. To be alone.
If only the others would let me be.
Evyan was in the backyard earlier, visiting the goats. As she passed by my tree, she threw stones up at me.
“Will you stop feeling sorry for yourself already!” she yelled. “You’re pitiful.”
Bruce tried to tempt me down with his idea of an irresistible offer.
“C’mon, Blue, let’s go shoot some rats in the woods. I’m bored,” he whined. “I’m as bored as a shlong at an abstinence party. I’m so bored that I’m even considering hitting on the Goth girl.”
Cameron comes past every now and then, looks up at me for long moments, sighs and then disappears back inside.
The only one I allow up is Quinn. He sits with me, reassuring me that I’m not to blame. At night, he stands silently beside me as we gaze up at the night sky, squeezing my hand when we see a shooting star. Sometimes he just holds me close, running his fingers through my short hair. He seems as fascinated with the cherry-red ends as he was with the blue streaks I had back when my hair was still long and blond.
“Hey.”
Quinn’s deep voice breaks into my navel-gazing, and I look up to see him crossing the walkway to my tree. He carries a travel mug filled with coffee and a chocolate muffin. I think he’s afraid I’ll get weak from hunger and fall out of the tree, because he’s always bringing me snacks.
“Hey yourself,” I say.
“Good news,” Quinn says. “Doc Beth has finished her examination of Robin, and she’s given him the all-clear.”
I close my eyes in relief for a moment.
“She says he’ll only need to stay in bed for another day, and won’t be able to use his arm for several weeks, but there’s no sign of infection. And she says there’s no reason why, in time, he shouldn’t regain moderate functioning in that arm, and even some in the hand.”
Some function. Not most. Not all. I know, from Beth’s previous reports, that the bullet ripped through his wrist and shoulder, tearing ligaments, tendons and muscle, shattering bone, destroying nerves. That it caused permanent damage.
The spasm of guilt I feel must cross my face, because Quinn says, “Jinx — it’s good news! He’s going to be fine. In fact, he’s asked for all of us to have a meeting with him, says he’s got something big to tell us.”
“What?”
“His exact words were that we should all gather around his bedside this afternoon for a ‘spectacular show and tell’. He seemed pretty amped about it.”
I have no idea what it could be. I only hope it’s something good. I don’t think I could handle more bad news.
Chapter 12
Making out
“So what time is Robin giving us this big news?” I ask Quinn.
“When he wakes up. Beth insisted he have a nap and gave him something to make sure he did.”
“Want to go for a walk?” I ask.
“Some alone time for you and me? Yes, please. That house may be a wonder of the modern world, but there’s no privacy.”
Quinn’s not kidding. Everything is open plan — the only rooms that actually have doors are the toilets. Even the bathrooms are only partially sheltered behind waist-high adobe partitions. There’s no place where you can be alone, nowhere you can talk without being overheard.
Quinn pulls me to my feet and walks ahead of me across the plank bridge to t
he next tree, tugging me along behind him. When we reach the first platform, he pulls me close and hugs me tight. For a moment, I relax, breathing in the fresh scent of him, relishing the sensation of being surrounded by arms stronger than my own. I wish he could scoop me up and carry me off, like a real pirate. I wish we could sail off into the sunset on a schooner and drink tankards of rum, or whatever it was pirates and their wenches quaffed. I wish we could be on the opposite end of the world from this plague — with no responsibilities, no worries, no shame.
“I feel like we’ve hardly seen each other,” Quinn says, tilting my chin up to drop a soft kiss on my lips. “I miss you.”
“I’m here now.”
“No, you’re not. Not here, not really. You’re back there.” He jerks his head. “With Sarge.”
He knows me so well.
“Look, I know what you must be feeling. I killed a man who was about to shoot my brother, remember? If anyone knows what you’re going through, it’s me. And I say you’re being too hard on yourself.”
I give him a quick smile, but I guess it doesn’t fool him, because when I cross the next bridge, he follows me, saying, “It wasn’t your fault, Jinxy. He was aiming at me — he probably would have killed me. And he may have shot you or any of the others. We all would have been arrested and sitting in that damned torture chamber right now! You did what you had to do.”
My eyebrows lift in disbelief. “Never thought I’d see the day when you were justifying my shooting and killing someone.”
“I don’t think violence is the answer, but that doesn’t mean I think we should just lie back and let ourselves to be taken out without a fight,” Quinn says. “And anyway, Sarge was a soldier. He knew the risks of what he was doing.”
“I know. It’s just … I knew him, you know? I even once respected him.”
The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel Page 53
