I grab one of my knives from its sheath and hold it in front of me as I walk quickly up the stairs, my body pressed against the wall. The second-floor layout is the same as the first. I try the first door and see that it’s a file room, the musty air thick with dust. I slip inside and the lights snap on automatically, motion-activated. The sudden brightness makes me jump. After a quick scan, it’s clear there are only cabinets, a table, and some chairs strewn with files. I close the door quickly, hoping no one can see the light from outside.
I make my way to the first drawer and pull it open. The folders are alphabetized by last name, and when I look at the drawer I see it is marked A. With shaking hands, I yank open the O drawer, but his folder isn’t there. As I check more drawers and more folders, I realize these are files on the prisoners. I close the drawer and turn to leave, accidentally knocking into a chair piled high with papers.
My eyes immediately snap to the door and I hurry to hide under the table, waiting for someone to investigate the noise. I’m breathing too fast, my body tense.
After a few minutes my breathing slows as I realize no one is coming. I crawl out from under the table and am about to stand when I look down at the paper my hand is resting on. It’s a mug shot, and I recognize the face—Tank’s crony Pete. Keller, Peter M. was doing eight years for armed robbery. A handwritten note is scrawled across the top, Highly malleable personality. Recommend for guard duty w. Lawson, Ellis H. a.k.a. Tank.
When I think of Tank, I clench the paper so tight, it crumples. I debate whether to take the time to look for his file. Maybe if I knew something about him, I could protect myself better in the future. I look quickly through folders on the floor. When I can’t find what I’m looking for, I move on to the folders on the chair and quickly shuffle through them, then move to the L file cabinet. His file isn’t there, either.
I hate that I’m spending time on this and am about to leave the room to continue my search for more clues on Ken when I hear a loud whistling coming from the hallway toward me. I shrink against the wall, but the whistler soon passes. I can hear his heavy footsteps head down the stairs.
Curious, I slip out of the room and follow him. I make my way to the top of the stairs and catch a glimpse of the man as he trudges down the steps. He’s tall, dressed in a suit, but wearing a Stetson hat and cowboy boots. When he hits the ground floor, the whistling stops and he disappears around the corner. I follow, slowly, keeping a distance between us. He vanishes into the room that Doc’s voice was coming from earlier. The door closes. I make a dash for my examination room, freezing when I hear my name spoken in a gruff authoritative voice, then Doc’s slightly exhausted tone.
“That’s what she said. . . . I checked in for today and already gave my general report.”
“Did you sound the alert?”
“No. I wanted to tell you first. Should we detain her?”
“Let her in,” the gruff voice responds.
“You know I can’t do that. What about . . .?” I don’t hear what Doc says because a noise behind me takes me by surprise.
I turn to find Jacks motioning to me from the hall outside the door to my holding room. He opens his mouth in shock then wider as if to shout an alarm.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER TEN
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks in a loud whisper, waving me to the door. “Get in here before they find you.”
I pause for just a second before I hurry back to the room. Jacks shuts the door, his face scrunched. “You’re covered in dust. Where did you go? You were supposed to stay here.”
He looks at the knife I’ve been clutching the whole time.
“I’m not going to tell on you. Put that away.”
I hesitate then sheath it. I’ve got no choice now but to trust this guy.
“Quick, clean up before Doc comes in here.”
He motions to the sink where I quickly wash my face, the dark material of my synth-suit hiding the rest of the dust.
“Where were you?” he asks.
“I told you. I’m looking for someone. I thought I could just take a quick look around to see if I could find him.”
“And?”
“I found a disorganized file room. . . . Tried to look up Tank’s file so I could find out what he did exactly, but it wasn’t there.”
“You could have just asked me.”
“You were being pretty vague. . . .”
“I don’t like to talk about it.” Jacks looks down at the floor. “I have his file. If you promise not to wander off again, I’ll let you read it.”
“Why would you take Tank’s file?” I ask. He looks at his feet but doesn’t answer. “Can’t you just tell me what’s in it?”
He pauses. “He likes to hurt girls,” he says, his face full of pain. Jacks take a deep breath—and it feels as if he is sucking all the air out of the room.
“So, where’d you go, anyway?” I ask, trying to forget about Tank for a minute.
“A couple of guys were anxious for entry. It happens.”
The lights flicker and I glance at the ceiling. “What’s up with the electricity?” I ask.
“The electricity is powered by a diesel generator and only used for the perimeter wall . . . and the Warden’s suite. The rest of Fort Black is dark.”
“And you allow weapons inside?”
“Yeah . . . it’s not like there are rules, really. People have to defend themselves.”
He sits in a chair and stretches, allowing me to see that one wiry-muscled arm is patterned in tribal symbols surrounding a tree on his bicep, its roots hanging down his arm, reaching toward his hand. The other has a bright scene that is too cluttered to make out from where I sit, but I spot a bright gold ribbon that winds from his wrist and up his arm, disappearing under his sleeve and showing up on his neck, peeking out of his collar.
I’m still trying to make the tattoo out, when I realize he’s been speaking to me. My eyes snap up to his face. “Sorry, what?”
“How did you make it here?”
“I ran.”
He crosses his arms. “Come on. You owe me. I could have had your ass out the door just then.”
“That’s true. Thanks.”
“So?”
I think for a moment. How did I make it here? Because the Guardians taught me how to survive. But I can’t talk about New Hope. For one thing, I don’t know that would happen to me if I did.
I shrug. “Luck, I guess. Plus I’m fast. And smart.”
Jacks laughs. “Are you sure you haven’t been here before? You definitely talk the talk.”
“Well, like you said. I’ve made it this far.”
Jacks stands and goes to the counter. I tense, remembering the potassium chloride. I get ready to spring up and run for it, but Jacks just grabs a cup from the cabinet. He fills it with water from the tap and brings it to me.
“Uh, thanks,” I say warily, but I’m starting to trust Jacks. When I had him pinned, he never tried to fight back. Instead he stayed cool and talked me down. He doesn’t want to harm me. If he did, he could have told Pete to shoot me or let Tank have another crack at me.
“Well water. You get used to it.”
I taste it and wince at the rusty metallic taste. As I force it down, the door bursts opens and Doc and the man in the Stetson hat walk into the room. The wannabe cowboy is in his mid-forties, and has dark hair and a well-kempt beard. His bushy eyebrows nearly meet the hat pulled low on his forehead.
“Hello again, Amy,” Doc smiles thinly. “This is the Warden. He’s come to welcome you to Fort Black.”
“Hiya, Amy,” the man says with a heavy Texan accent. “I hope my nephew has been taking good care of ya.”
My eyes flick to Jacks in shock.
Jacks is the Warden’s nephew?
Jacks’s voice cuts through. “I have. As you can se
e, she’s still human. There’s no need to worry.”
“Not yet . . . but it hasn’t been the full twenty-four hours. It is important we take precautions,” Doc says, not meeting my gaze.
The Warden, on the other hand, looks me up and down. “Well, Jacks has given his word to watch her for any change, and Doc says she’s free of the Black Plague.” He smiles, and for a moment I see his resemblance to Jacks. “If you have any trouble, you just let me know,” he tells me. “We’ll find you a place to stay if you want.”
“I’m fine,” I say quietly.
The Warden ignores my statement and looks over my shoulder to Jacks. “Jackson, you take care of this little girl, ya hear?”
I stifle an incredulous snort.
“Bye now.” The Warden dips his hat to me and leaves, followed by Doc.
Once the door closes, I turn to Jacks, who’s awkwardly avoiding my gaze. “Your uncle’s the Warden?”
He shrugs and nods, looking down as if embarrassed.
I study him. He didn’t tell Doc or the Warden about my disappearing act. He seems sincere, not guarded the way Rice always was when he was trying not to tell me the truth about New Hope and the Floraes.
“Look, if you’re this hooked up, you must know how to get to this guy I’m looking for.”
“I know some things,” Jacks says. I look into his eyes. The intensity of the stare he gives me back makes me blush and look away. I can still feel his dark eyes on me.
“Well, maybe you know him. Ken Oh?”
He shrugs. “I’ve run across a couple of guys named Ken, I guess. Ken O, though? Like the initial O?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s his last name, O, h. He’s Japanese-American and might be working as a doctor or in a medical job.”
He thinks for a minute then shakes his head. “I don’t know any Asian guys named Ken . . . and Doc’s the only doctor I know of, and I’m his only help.”
Frustration wells up. Suddenly an image of Baby strapped to a table flashes through my mind.
“Then I’ve got to look myself. Am I clear to go inside?”
“Almost.” He stands and shakes his arms out. “Have a seat.” I sit back down on the examination table. He opens a drawer and pulls something out, plugging it into the wall. I realize it’s a tattoo needle. “I just have to mark you clean.”
I think of the scar that Rice and Baby share on the back of their necks. They were marked as part of an experiment. I swallow. “I don’t want a tattoo.”
“Sorry, but if you want to come into Fort Black, you need the mark. It lets everyone else know you’ve been tested and you don’t have the Pox.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“It’s like the chicken pox, but you break out in black bumps. It’s extremely contagious. You don’t want to touch the victim at all, especially not any of their sores. They either die or get better. Only about half make it.”
“Sounds fun,” I mumble. “So this tattoo . . . Will it hurt?” I wince at my weakness. After all that’s happened to me, why would a silly tattoo bother me so much?
Because it’s not my choice. It’s Fort Black’s.
“It’s not too bad, but you’re going to have to take off those gloves.”
I look at my hands. They aren’t gloves. They’re part of the synth-suit. I stretch down the fabric of my suit, the same as I did when Doc wanted to take my blood, freeing my arm through neck hole. The material bounces back to my body, making it look like an off-the-shoulder spandex top.
I sigh and hold out my hand. “I suppose I must just screw my courage to the sticking place.”
Jacks looks at me blankly. “What?”
“It’s Shakespeare.” Rice would have known Lady Macbeth’s famous quote. “It just means I have to stay strong. My father loved to read Shakespeare. . . . I used to read a lot of his plays, for fun.”
“Sounds like a laugh riot,” he mumbles. “Here,” he holds my wrist gently. “It sort of feels like your skin is being scraped with a really dull knife. It only hurts a little.”
Right. A little. I force a smile over the pain.
“What other tats do you do in here?”
“A lot. People like to look tough. And the women get tattoos once they’re claimed. . . . They get their man’s name on their arms to show they’re under someone’s protection.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope . . . There aren’t a lot of women here. This used to be a men’s prison, and last year a lot of the women died from some superflu that Doc couldn’t cure. He came up with an immune booster and injected them all, but most of them died anyway. It’s easiest for a woman to find a protector and keep safe.”
“What about the Warden. Isn’t he in charge? Shouldn’t he protect people?”
“My uncle . . . He’s just out for himself, really.” Jack’s tone changes yet again, and he shakes his head. “He keeps the walls guarded and has Doc keep track of the diseased, but he doesn’t do anything to keep things peaceful. I think he likes people scared. It keeps them from realizing what the real problems are, like him. Only murderers get punished. Everything else is allowed to sort itself out. He doesn’t protect anyone unless he sees an advantage to it.”
“Charming.” I’m seeing the Warden in a new light.
“All done!” Jacks removes the needle from the tattoo gun, throwing it away before placing the gun back in the drawer. I study my wrist: there’s just a small black square. It didn’t hurt that much. I place my arm back into the synth-suit, the material forming back against me like a second skin.
Jacks looks me over. “Hey, do you have any other clothes? That skintight catsuit thing you have on now will get you a lot of unwanted attention.”
I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. I know the suit leaves little to the imagination; I left the clothes I was forced to wear in the Ward where Kay dropped me, and my pack didn’t have room for anything else.
“Well, walking around here with that on will make you a target.” Jacks peels off his shirt, revealing more tattoos over a well-muscled chest and stomach. My face reddens when he catches me staring.
“Here, put this on for now.”
Jacks hands me his shirt, which I pull it over my head. It smells pleasantly worn. It’s too large, but I tie it off at my waist, so I can still easily reach my gun and the knives sheathed on either thigh.
“I can lend you some sweatpants later if you want,” Jacks offers, and I nod. I could always wear my synth-suit under my clothes. Part of the perks is that it seeps the sweat away from your body, keeps you dry and cool, and doesn’t need to be washed. It was designed for long-term wear. Also, I’ll feel safer with it on, in case I have to leave Fort Black in a hurry, or if I’m ever alone with Tank again.
“Are you going to keep those gloves on? It’s pretty hot outside.”
I smile and hold up my hand and wiggle my black-clad fingers. “Not gloves . . . They’re attached. . . . Or why wouldn’t I have just taken them off when you tattooed my wrist?”
“I don’t know. . . .” His face reddens. “I wasn’t going to ask . . .”
I can feel my own face heat up and wonder what’s gotten into me. “Here, look”—I pull up my hood and cover my face—“it’s all one piece. The hood attaches to the neck with a Velcro type fastener . . . except it’s quiet.” I don’t know why I feel the need to babble.
He’s staring at me with an amused look on his face. I pull my hood back down and stare at the floor. “Why don’t we just go?” I say awkwardly.
Jacks nods and leads me down the corridor, opposite the stairs, back to where I first met Tank and Pete. Two different men are standing guard. I get the same leering reaction from them I got from Tank and Pete, though. So much for the camouflaging magic of Jacks’s shirt.
“This the fresh meat?” one calls to Jacks.
The other chimes in. “You’d better claim her fast, Jackson,” he says as if I’m not even there. “She looks sweet as pie.”
I shudder and look at Jacks, who ignores them and opens the inner door for me. I hurry through, only to be brought up short by the bright sunlight. I shield my eyes as Jacks stops next to me. He turns and smiles grimly.
“Welcome to Fort Black.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first thing that hits me is the smell. The stench of unwashed bodies, of too many people and not enough space. Gagging, I put my hand over my nose and mouth.
“You’ll get used to it,” Jacks tells me. He grabs my hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling away from his grip.
“Trust me,” he says, taking my hand again. “You don’t want to look unclaimed.”
I look at him for a moment, then let my hand relax in his as he leads me through the open yard, crowded by amaze of shacks made of plywood and cardboard, with a few tents mixed in. People live so closely here that even the fact that they’re out in the open doesn’t get rid of the stink—or maybe it’s just the walls that keep the air oppressive and unmoving.
I try to place my feet on what little concrete is visible around the hovels, but there’s barely any room to walk. I drop my hand from my face and force myself to start getting used to the smell.
“This was the exercise yard,” Jacks explains. “It’s where the people with no skills live, and the children with no parents.”
“That’s awful.”
“No argument from me,” he says grimly. We keep walking.
“Where do you live?”
“In the cells. That’s what being the Warden’s nephew gets you. That and my cushy job as Doc’s assistant.”
“But you don’t know anything about medicine?”
“I’ve got the basics, enough to help Doc with his examinations. Mostly I take notes for him. Make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”
In the End Page 4
