by Sean Platt
“Clark?” Liam said, knowing it wasn’t.
“No.” Katrina shook her head, arms now uncrossed. She reached for her weapon. “He has a blaster, not a lead shooter.”
As if to answer Katrina and the gunfire, the sound of a blaster echoed the shots. Then, a tiny voice cried, “Sorry, I thought you were a zombie!”
From far off it sounded like a little girl. Up close, Liam saw he was wrong. She was much taller than he pictured from her voice. He could only see her from the back as he and Katrina approached, but her voice was smaller than her size. She was at least a teenager, if not an adult, and wore the blue that Egan had told them all the players were wearing.
“Put the gun down or I’ll shoot you,” Katrina said.
The girl was holding her gun on Clark, who looked as confused as Liam did. She half turned from the tattooed man to the newcomers, saw that they were both armed, and that Clark still had his blaster aimed at her. She aimed the gun to the floor, extended her arm, slowly squatted, and rested her gun on the ground.
“Please don’t kill me.”
“Get her gun,” Katrina instructed Liam.
He went over, keeping his own blaster trained on the girl, and bent to grab her pistol—an old revolver.
Liam stood, his heart nearly skipping a beat as he met her eyes and saw the girl’s face for the first time.
“Chelsea?”
“You know her?” Clark said.
“Yeah, she’s from City 6. We grew up together. She was a friend of Ana’s a long time ago.”
Something crawled onto Katrina’s face and died. Her eyes darkened and her mouth curled down at the corners. Her soured silence gave Liam a thirst to slap her. He turned to Chelsea.
She peered at Liam, studying his face. He remembered his hair, beard, and eye patch. He wondered if she knew who he was, then figured his voice hadn’t changed. He was about to identify himself anyway. She struggled for words and stuttered, “Liam? I . . . I th-thought you were dead!”
“No, that’s just what The State wanted you to think. How did you end up in The Games?”
Her face relaxed, ever so slightly. “Do you remember Alfonso Frailey?”
Liam thought, then shook his head.
“He’s your age. We’d been going out for a while, turned out his dad was in The Underground. Alfonso wasn’t, me neither. I didn’t even know his dad was until all of us were arrested—his mom and little sister too. I haven’t seen anyone but Alfonso since we were brought in.”
“They took you in?” Liam asked. “Just like that?”
Chelsea nodded. “The new Chief, Ives, he’s been going crazy since Keller left. Alfonso thinks it’s because he has something to prove. We weren’t doing anything wrong when City Watch came, just looking at old flix. They stormed in and dragged us off. I can still hear Samantha screaming.”
Liam could feel Katrina’s growing impatience and ignored it. “Have you seen Adam yet or anyone else from the City?”
“No. I spent last week alone in a cell, then was driven here in a van with five others, two more girls and three guys. But I didn’t know any of them. Only person I recognized at The Opening Rush was Alfonso, but he was all the way on the farthest side of the line and didn’t see me. At least, I don’t think he did.”
It looked like Chelsea was trying not to cry.
She swallowed, then seemed to catch herself. “What about you guys? Are you in The Games?”
Liam’s back was still to Katrina, but he could feel her stare and imagined her tapping foot.
“No, and neither of my friends are in The Games. They’re helping me.”
“Helping you with what?” The question left in a whisper, harsh, as if afraid of his answer. “And what about Ana? Is she alive too?”
“Yes, Ana’s still alive; she’s safe.” He nodded toward Clark. “They’re helping me find Adam. We have to get him and bring him—”
“That’s enough.” Katrina cut him off. “We need to get going. We’ve wasted too much time here already.”
Liam smiled at Chelsea, awkward and apologetic, then said, “I’ll be right back,” and walked to Katrina. Clark kept his blaster trained on the girl as Liam pulled Katrina to the side and whispered.
“We need to bring her along.”
“No,” Katrina barely let him finish. “Absolutely not.”
“You can’t be this cold,” he argued. “If we don’t help her, she’s dead.”
“You don’t know that, Liam. She could be fine. Plenty of people survive. We’re on a mission. Last thing we need is to be looking after some kid.”
“She’s not a kid, Katrina. She’s the same age as Ana and me.”
“And you’ve survived fine.”
“Barely, with a lot of help, and now a missing eye. She’s not a fighter—if we don’t help her, we’re consigning her to death.”
Liam realized he might have said the last part too loud and felt a flush of guilt for showing his hand.
“Exactly. She’s not a fighter; you said it yourself. She’ll slow us down at best. At worst, she’ll consign us to death.”
“How can you be so selfish?”
“I’m not being selfish, Liam. You are. You’re putting your need for warm fuzzies above the practical truth: your little friend could slow us down or get us killed. You left Ana so you could bring her brother back. How do you think she’s going to feel when you bring that back instead?”
Katrina nodded at Chelsea, as though she were a bag of garbage waiting for the dump. Again he wanted to hit her.
“Well, I’m not going to just leave her to die. If I can help someone, I will. What harm could one more person possibly be? Another set of eyes and ears, more senses to help us stay alive.”
“Another mouth to feed or scream too loud.”
“I’m giving her my gun, then. It’s the right thing to do. If you’re so concerned about our odds of survival, know that it’s your choices making them worse.”
“This is your choice, Liam. And a stupid one. Why give up your weapon, just to prove a point?”
Liam turned from Katrina and walked over to Chelsea, drawing his weapon on the way. He made his eyes as kind as he could. She opened her hand as if by instinct and Liam set the gun on her palm. She wrapped her fingers around it.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t come with us. We have to find Adam and can’t afford to take anyone. We’ve been out here for a while, and know what to expect. If you come with us, we’re all at risk.”
Her voice cracked as she tried not to cry. “But I can’t be alone. Please, you can’t leave me. You can’t go. You can’t do that to me.”
He squeezed her fingers tighter around the gun. “This will help you.” Then, knowing what he was doing, Liam added, “Do you know how to use it?”
She shook her head and burst into tears. “No!”
Liam wouldn’t turn to see but felt reasonably sure that her vulnerable wail, trying hard to stay strong, had to have some effect on Katrina. Plus, there was no way Liam was going to use that peashooter Chelsea was carrying.
He looked at Clark and saw the man’s resolve to side with Katrina slipping.
“I’m sorry,” Liam said sadly, setting a hand on Chelsea’s shoulder. “We have to bring Adam home, make sure he’s safe. We have to go.”
Chelsea tried harder to choke back her tears, but lost them anyway. “What do you mean home? Where are you living? Please, you can’t do this. Please take me with you. I’ll shoot whoever I have to, I’ll do whatever I can to help. Just please don’t leave me.”
Liam looked back at Katrina but didn’t give her a chance to recant. He turned back to Chelsea. “Sorry, we just can’t. We have to go.”
Liam patted her on the shoulder, then turned toward the exit. Chelsea erupted in fresh tears behind him, then audibly choked them back, forcing herself into steady breath, seemingly unwilling to lose any more pride than she already had.
“You can come with us,” Katrina said out of nowhere. Sh
e dipped down, grabbed the girl’s gun, and snatched Liam’s blaster back. She threw it to him.
Katrina turned to the girl. “Stay in the middle and keep your eyes out for everything. Got it?”
“Got it,” Chelsea vigorously nodded.
Katrina nodded at Clark, then the door, gesturing for him to go first. He stepped through the doorway, then Chelsea behind him. Before Liam could follow, Katrina pulled him back and whispered.
“If she slows us down even a little, I’ll put my sword right through her.”
Liam stepped through the doorway and muttered under his breath. “I don’t doubt that at all.”
CHAPTER 21—SUTHERLAND
Sutherland made a wide smile that Connor couldn’t see and stepped from the room’s only light, out of the shadows and into the dull flicker coming from behind the traitor.
Fingers woven in front of him, Sutherland made a long and loping orbit around the room, circling Connor’s lonely chair in the middle, hoping to drive the traitor’s temperature higher with every lingering pass.
Once finished, the throne room would be Sutherland’s favorite room in Hydrangea. For now, this confession room was the one he thought of most. It was special, because only here did people always find their god . . . before telling him truths they’d barely dared to whisper before.
All men were willing to sing the gospel once they had someone to show them the song.
Connor Vinson remained impressively frozen in his chair. Sutherland knew the man wanted to struggle or squirm, yank his restraints, and pull away from the chair. But he wouldn’t give his captors the courtesy of seeing his exterior crack. It would be admirable if it weren’t so explicitly stupid.
Connor was cuffed, hands behind his back, metal bracelets digging hard into his flesh. Gallus stood by the door, on the other side of a thin tangle of shadows, as required by The Patriots Constitution: a dog sitting by its master’s feet wagging its tail, while the master did as he pleased to the stray bitch trying to usurp his land.
“I won’t give you more than one chance. This is it, Vinson. Spend it as you wish. I’m innocent, I didn’t do anything, I don’t know anything, or even I’m sorry: none of these are acceptable. I want a full confession. And if your confession meets my satisfaction, I might leave you alive, though probably not. For sure I’ll spare you from the zombies, though, and that’s something, right?”
“I’m innocent, I didn’t do anything, and I don’t know a thing.” Connor’s lips cracked into a thin smile.
Connor and his stupid, stupid balls. Sutherland would have to slice the balls from his scrotum, then make the traitor eat them with jam. He chuckled at the thought, still grinning into the man’s treasonous glare.
Sutherland said, “You didn’t dare to say you weren’t sorry.” It dangled in the air like a question. In the room’s near silence, Gallus swallowed.
Sutherland looked thoughtful. He brought his fingers to his chin and started to stroke it. “Wasn’t it you, Connor Vinson—traitor extraordinaire—who tried to drum up support to get the good people here to rise up and vote me out?”
Connor looked at Sutherland like a petulant child. “Do we still have that ear kit?” Sutherland asked. He turned to Gallus. “The one we used on Sallinger last September?”
Gallus nodded like a good little number two.
“Never mind, it doesn’t matter.” Sutherland returned his eyes to the traitor. “Hearing problems have a way of working themselves out in here.” He cleared his throat and repeated, “Weren’t you the one rousing the rabble to vote me out of Hydrangea last year?”
“I don’t have to talk.” Connor looked like he wanted to spit.
“Oh, but you do.”
“I demand to see my representative, as afforded by law, and stated by Article 19 of The Patriot’s Constitution.”
Sutherland barked laughter. “Article 19! How did you know that one was my favorite?” As his laughter settled, he added, “Of course I could never forget Article 19. Gallus is your representative, as afforded by law, and stated by Article 19 of The Patriot’s Constitution.”
Sutherland nodded to the man in the shadows.
Connor was brazen and stupid enough to laugh. “Gallus isn’t my representative or anyone’s. He’s your little bitch and nothing more.”
Sutherland gasped and slapped his hand over his mouth as if suppressing laughter. “Oh, my.” He looked over at Gallus. “You’re not going to let him get away with that, are you?”
For the first time Sutherland was happy to see terror crack through the traitor’s veneer.
“You may think he’s nothing but a bitch, and I suppose you’d be right, but only if you compared Gallus to me. Compared to you,” Sutherland shrugged, “he’s nothing of the sort. Gallus would never wait until a man’s back was turned to scrawl profanity in feces on his favorite chair, nor would he commit acts of betrayal that are likely to get him killed. Gallus is more of a man than you’ll ever be, traitor, because he has enough balls to face his enemies. Are we enemies, Vinson?”
Sutherland leaned toward the traitor. Connor said nothing to him, though, just turned to Gallus and hissed, “You’re his little bitch, you know that, don’t you?”
Sutherland barked more laughter. To Gallus he said, “You’re not going to take that, are you? Go ahead and hit him—he’s practically begging you.”
Gallus looked uncertain.
“You can’t intimidate me,” Connor said. “I know my rights.”
“Show the man his rights.” Sutherland laughed. “Go on, Gallus. Hit him as hard as you can across his stupid traitor’s face. Then maybe we can start talking.”
The traitor stayed frozen as Gallus marched over, probably still stupidly certain this was only an act. He barely reacted, until Sutherland’s number two’s fists were bashing his face on both sides.
Sutherland roared. “You have no rights! You are in this room until I’m finished with you. And you will confess. All traitors eventually do.”
“This is bullshit,” Connor said, his jaw already swelling and probably throbbing. “I can’t just disappear, you know. People will look for me. They’ll know where I went. You can’t get away with this. You’re not even the leader.” As if it just occurred to him, he added, “I demand to speak with Jeffries.”
“Oh, my,” Sutherland said, as if worried. “You mean you didn’t hear?”
Connor’s bottom lip twitched—his version of No, I didn’t.
“He hasn’t heard.” Sutherland turned to Gallus and spoke in a hush. “Do you think we should tell him?”
Sutherland turned back to Connor and smiled. “Jeffries has been replaced by King Shit.”
Sutherland was pleased to finally see the traitor struggle in his restraints, making a valiant yet impossible effort to leap from his chair.
“You won’t get away with this,” he cried out. “My people will never allow it.”
“Your people?” Sutherland repeated. “May I ask what people you might be referring to? Last I heard you had no one. Your wife was too stupid to keep near the borders, and your daughter, well, it’s unfortunate that she was eaten so early, before the age of seven—so many of life’s best parts she never experienced. But I suppose that’s a father’s just deserts for not being careful. So, traitor, we’ve established that there’s no one to mourn you. Tell me, who are your people.”
“You can’t see it,” Connor said, looking like he could murder Sutherland with his eyes, “but there’s a revolution in Hydrangea happening right under your nose. People here don’t respect you. They want things back like they used to be—you’re just too drunk and buried in whores to notice.”
Sutherland knelt in front of Connor, daring the man to butt his head or try and bite his face. Instead, the traitor did nothing, waiting for Sutherland’s next move.
“Do you really believe you can take me out? Hmmm . . . I wonder if you can.” Sutherland paused, appearing to think. “I assure you better men have tried.”
“You’re a fool and a dictator, abusing your power. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. The Patriots stand for freedom and for living a true life outside The Cities. But you’re as bad as The State, forcing outliers to surrender earnings, bleeding them dry for nothing in return.”
“You must be joking,” Sutherland said, standing, genuinely affronted. “Nothing in return? The Barrens are badlands, offering little chance for survival. This is Hydrangea, the best of all the camps. We live in a state-of-the-art facility, outside The Cities, where people are safe, unless they do something stupid, as your family is prone to do. Before me, this place was no different from the others. Now it’s the safest place outside The Cities—and free. That makes it better than anywhere in the world. Do you really think I don’t deserve respect for that?”
Spittle flew from his lips onto the traitor’s unblinking face. “Fine,” he continued to spit. “I’d like to see how well you rats can scurry without me.”
Sutherland turned to Gallus. “Leave us.”
The traitor’s face drained quickly of color. Sutherland could see its pallor even in the dim room.
“No,” he began to beg. “Don’t go. You can’t leave me with him. You know what he’ll do. This isn’t the work of a Patriot!”
Gallus was already on his way to the door. Still the traitor pled.
“Get me representation. You can do it, Gallus. You don’t have to do this. You’re better than that!”
The door closed behind Gallus, sealing them inside.
“You really shouldn’t have called him a bitch,” Sutherland winked. “He’s quite the delicate flower.”
Sutherland turned from the traitor and walked to the room’s only piece of furniture other than the chair—a small end table bolted to the corner floor. A small metal box rested on top. Sutherland lifted it, holding his eyes on Connor.
“Would you like to know what’s in here?”
Sutherland waited several seconds for the traitor to speak, then shrugged. “This box has 17 ways for me to get you talking. I’m certain at least one will work.”
Sutherland brought the box over to Vinson and showed the traitor his many species of pliers and knives.
