“If you kill us, General Walker will kill you,” I say to her. “And you know it.”
She juts her chin out, her dark hair in soft waves around her face. It’s not fair that it still looks so pretty after hours and hours of hiking.
Suddenly Wes lifts his head, his ear cocked toward the door of the barn. “Do you hear that?”
Twenty-two listens, and I watch as the emotion drains from her face until she is carefully blank again. “It’s a helicopter.”
Tim takes a step forward. “It must be the Project, coming to find us. We should go out there.”
Wes grabs Tim’s arm to stop him. “Do you think the Project would be that obvious? It has to be the Secret Service. At this point maybe even the FBI and the CIA.”
“It’s an all-out manhunt,” I whisper. “Just to find us.”
“We tried to kill the president; what do you expect?” Unlike her expression, Twenty-two’s voice is still cutting, a new blade against my skin.
“They’ll have infrared,” Wes says. “If they scan the barn, they’ll know we’re here.”
“They might think we’re just animals.” Tim gestures up at the roof. “Infrared never works the way it should.”
“It doesn’t matter. We need a plan,” I say. “We can’t keep wandering through the woods.”
Twenty-two drops to her knees, gathering all the dirty clothes into a heap. “We have a plan. We go north until we hit Montauk. The safest place for us right now is with the Project.”
“The only way to reach the Facility these days is through an underwater tunnel, but I know the codes to access it. Going to Montauk is the best choice,” Wes puts in.
When the waters rose, Montauk was one of the first towns on the coast wiped away in the flooding. There is only a tiny island left where the firehouse used to be. But the Facility is encased in stone and it never flooded, perfectly preserved inside the rocky cliffs of Long Island. The Project decided not to move, and now the Facility is even more hidden, with secret tunnels leading down through the ocean.
Tim shakes his head. “The safest thing to do is wait. The Project will find us eventually.” He holds up his arm, revealing the thin scar on his wrist. “They’re probably tracking us now.”
“We can’t wait.” I turn to glance at the half-open door of the barn. “We don’t even know if the Project will come for us, and soon these woods will be swarming with soldiers.”
“They probably think we’re headed north to try to get to Canada.” Tim lowers his hand, clenching it around the shotgun, his eyes locked on Twenty-two’s curved back. He tenses every time she moves, though she seems oblivious to us as she straightens, the clothes in a neat pile at her feet.
“Which is why we should go south,” I say. “We can stay in the woods but follow the coastline until we’re past New Washington. It should throw them off; the last thing they’ll expect is for us to go back in that direction. We can head down into Virginia and then move north again from there. Maybe the Project will find us on the way.”
“By that point we might even be able to steal a car,” Wes adds. “They won’t be able to lock the grid forever. It’s a good plan.” He tilts his lips up at me, an almost-smile, but I turn away, still able to feel the point of the knife against my neck.
“Fine.” Twenty-two jerks her chin toward the ground. “But we can’t leave all this here.”
Wes finds a box of matches in the tack room and we start a small fire on the floor, burning our torn dress clothes, the bloody cloth I used to clean Tim’s wound. When they are ashes, we bury them in the dirt, smoothing it over until the floor is even again. Twenty-two and I shove our feet into the work boots I found, stuffing the toes with cotton to make them fit. I keep one eye on her at all times, but she is back in recruit mode, ignoring Tim and me, her emotions stripped away again. They are too unpredictable—her moods, her anger, and I am afraid that as soon as we’re in the forest she will try to kill me again.
And what do I make of Wes, who told her to let me go, who seemed ready to leap forward and rip her arm away? But he didn’t actually do it, and Tim was the one who lifted his gun to her, who fought for me.
We leave the barn and sprint across the exposed, sun-filled lawn. I can hear the helicopter in the distance, a metal hummingbird beating its wings. When we finally reach the woods, still dark from the heavy pines overhead, I should feel relief. But I stare at the harsh line of Wes’s back, the tense set of Twenty-two’s shoulders, and I know that I am far from safe.
Chapter 8
I step over a fallen branch, and the heel of my boot hits something hard. Concrete, dusty and eroded, covered in grass and moss. It is almost impossible to see, but it is still there, proof that once there was a road here, that once this was a place filled with people and homes.
We have been hiking for two days, using the stars to navigate our way south and keeping the ocean to our left. We are far enough inland that we don’t see the waves, but sometimes I can smell the brine, the salty air, and it reminds me of Montauk and home.
It is hot and humid for June, but climate change has raised the temperatures everywhere. By noon, it is well over 90 degrees, the sun beating down on us even through the trees. We do not stop, except for short breaks, resting against boulders, sitting on the hard ground. We eat as we walk; the few cans of food we could find in the barn are gone by the end of day one, and so far all we’ve had today are the berries we scavenged from a cluster of tangled raspberry bushes—the remnants of someone’s garden turned wild in the woods.
After that first night of running, I thought that I had nothing left. But I underestimated my new stamina, or maybe it is just the fear of knowing they are never far behind us, that the Secret Service will shoot on sight—either way, I have kept going. My leg barely hurts anymore, though I don’t know if it’s because it is healing or because I am numb. But I feel like I could keep walking forever, that constant repetition of foot over foot, leg forward, leg back.
By now the government has run our images through their databases, and they know that Michael, Bea, and Samantha don’t exist. The mystery of who we are will just make them more anxious to find us. We haven’t heard or seen any sign of the Secret Service yet, but I know it won’t last long. We may have tricked them into thinking that we’re headed north, but as soon as the trail runs dry they will start looking for us all over the eastern coast. We need to make it to Montauk, or hope that the Project will use our tracking devices to rescue us. But it has been days, and there’s no sign of them.
When I close my eyes I see Sardosky twitching on the floor, the rows of books towering over us, his lips turning blue. The Secret Service agent said he was still breathing, but who knows for how long? If he’s dead, then my supposed destiny is fulfilled, and the Project has no reason to come looking for me. Or any of us.
What happens to my grandfather if they abandon us out here? If he’s no longer collateral, then what value does he have to them?
I push the fear away. Tim is probably right. The Project will come for us eventually; we just need to stay alive until they do.
The woods are filled with remnants of the past—a heap of scrap metal covered in vines, the rusted-out frame of a car, saplings sprouting from the broken windshield. And in front of me is a different reminder of my past—Wes. I try not to, but I can’t help staring at the muscles in his back, at the way his black hair reflects the sunlight. He is usually in the lead position, though if he is too slow, Twenty-two is quick to speed in front. He will wait a beat, half a mile maybe, before he moves ahead of her again. They dance this way, back and forth, a silent battle for control. And though Twenty-two keeps her expression vacant, I can feel the tension coming off her. She is still angry—at me and Tim for not suffering like she did, at Wes for not helping her kill us.
Tim is sometimes next to me, sometimes lumbering behind. He is the loudest of us, snapping branches under his feet and heavily panting. When I turn to make sure he is still standing, he will giv
e me a strained smile, his broad face wet with sweat, his teeth clenched. I do not know how much longer he can keep this up.
Wes does not speak to me, he doesn’t turn around, but sometimes he will hold back a branch, pausing until I reach up with my own hand to keep it at bay. I feel him watching me on those short rests we take, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. There has already been so much unspoken between us, with his betrayal, with what I saw in the hallway, and now it seems like he and Twenty-two are pairing off against Tim and me.
I take a step, my boot falling on another jutting piece of concrete, when I hear a dull thud. I turn and Tim is on his knees, his right hand pressed into the dirt.
I crouch down beside him. “Tim,” I whisper, too soft for the others to hear. “Are you okay?”
He hangs his head and shakes it slowly back and forth. “I can’t keep going. I can’t. I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just hungry.”
“And tired, and about to pass out.” He takes in a gulping breath, his large shoulders rising and falling heavily. The short hair at his neck is dark brown with sweat and his shirt is stuck to his back. “At this point, I don’t even care if that girl wants to kill us. I need to stop.”
I hear footsteps. “What’s going on?” Twenty-two asks.
“We need to camp for the night,” I say. “It’s almost sunset. We haven’t truly rested in days. We need food and sleep if we’re going to keep this up.”
She scowls. Her lips are small but shaped like a perfect bow, and the sour expression sits oddly on her face. “You two have no stamina. If we stop now we might as well turn ourselves in.”
Wes moves to stand next to her, staring down at Tim’s bent shoulders.
“They’re miles away.” I gesture at the trees around us. “They think we’re headed north. We have a little bit of time.”
Tim lifts his head. There are black smudges under his eyes and the lines around his mouth seem to have grown deeper overnight.
I stand up, my own muscles aching. It is twilight and around us the woods are gray and shadowed. We left the pine forest half a day ago and now the trees are shorter, newer, with green leaves and crowded branches. “I’m not having this argument again. Thirty-one and I are camping for the night.” I pause, careful not to look at Wes. “You can both keep going if you want.”
Twenty-two glances over at him, but Wes is too busy glaring at me to notice. “I would never leave you here. We’re staying together.”
“We can’t stop now. They have trackers,” Twenty-two argues. “And infrared. It’s too dangerous.”
Tim keeps his head bent, wincing as I touch his shoulder.
“The trackers won’t work in the woods—there’s no reception.” Wes crosses his arms, his expression still dark. “And infrared only works if they can find us. They’re tracking us with manpower and dogs. We can avoid them, at least for one night.”
The trackers were invented a few years ago—small robotic scanning devices that look like remote-controlled airplanes. They follow movements, smells, and sounds, but like cell phones, they run on wireless technology. Out here in the miles and miles of wilderness, they have no way of transmitting information.
“We’ll stay,” Wes says. “We all need to rest.”
“Who put you in charge?” Twenty-two asks.
“No one.” Wes’s voice is calm, though he does not take his eyes off my hand, still hovering over Tim’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to leave if you want. But I don’t think you should. We have a better chance if we stay together.”
They are hardly words of love, but Twenty-two’s scowl melts away. Without her usual pinched expression she is even prettier, and I turn away from them both, reaching out to help Tim get back to his feet.
The four of us sit in a tense circle on a large patch of deep-green moss. We have no tent to set up and we cannot build a fire—without a roof the smoke would give our position away. The few supplies we took from the barn are spread out in the middle: an empty container for water, a solar- powered flashlight, and a rusted compass.
“We need food,” I say into the silence.
“We have the shotgun.” Tim lifts it up slightly. “We could hunt, though it’s probably too loud.” Ever since Twenty-two pulled the knife on me he has kept a firm grip on it, the bulky weight perched awkwardly in his arms.
“We can try and catch fish.” I point through the trees. “The stream isn’t that far from here.”
“I can fish.” Tim looks over at me and smiles. “I used to do it with my dad.”
Twenty-two straightens, her head snapping up. “You remember your father?”
Wes frowns, glancing between Tim and me as though he’s seeing us both for the first time.
“I’ll go with you,” I say quickly. “I’m not very good with fishing, but I can carry stuff.”
“Great.” Tim doesn’t acknowledge Twenty-two’s shocked expression. “You can be my helper.”
“No,” Wes cuts in. “Twenty-two can go with Thirty-one.”
Twenty-two blinks as though she just stepped out into the sun. “I’m not going to the water.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“I’m just not going.” She keeps her tone even, but I think of three days ago when we first crossed the stream. Twenty-two would not put her feet in the water; she simply jumped from bank to bank. I suggested following it for a while, but she refused, steering us back into the woods.
“Is it the water?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Are you scared?”
She doesn’t answer.
Wes’s mouth falls open just a bit, his eyes on the mossy ground. When he looks up he says, “Twenty-two will stay here. I’ll go with Thirty-one.”
I do not want to be left alone with her, and I feel the corners of my mouth turn down. Wes sees my expression and stands up, holding out a hand to Twenty-two. She stares at him for a minute before she folds her small fingers into his. They walk away until they’re out of hearing range.
Tim leans back on his arms, his legs stretched out in front of him. “What do you think they’re talking about?”
“Probably plotting our murders.”
“Eleven wouldn’t murder you.” He looks better now that we have rested for a while—his rounded cheeks are pink again and he no longer has sweat trickling down the edge of his hairline.
I pick at the moss in front of me. “I’m not so sure anymore.”
“I am. You don’t stare at a girl like that if you’re thinking of killing her.”
“Maybe it was a killing stare.”
He rolls his eyes.
Wes and Twenty-two bend their heads together, and I see how good they look standing side by side. Her coloring is more olive toned, but they have the same black hair and dark eyes. She is so petite it seems he will fold her into his arms at any moment.
They look comfortable, like they’ve known each other for years. I think of when I first saw her in 1989. Wes acted like they’d never met before, but now I wonder if he was telling the truth.
I keep picking at the moss, squeezing the spongy green between my fingers, pulling it up from the ground and exposing a small bare patch of the rock it grows on.
“It’s the color of your eyes.”
“What?”
“The moss. It’s the color of your eyes.” With another guy I might think he was hitting on me, but Tim says it in that easy way of his, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“Bentley green. It runs in the family.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize what I have just said.
Tim sits up again and rests his hands on his bent knees. “Bentley? That’s your last name?”
“I—”
He grins. “I’m wearing you down. You know it’s only a matter of time before you tell me all of it.”
I stare at the bald spot I’ve made in the gray rock, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Bentley. Like a luxury car. I like it.”
“I picked it out myself.”
He laughs, and I lift my head, startled not just by the sound but by myself—that I would make a joke again, however lame it is.
“Let’s go.” Wes’s voice cuts across the small clearing, and Tim’s laughter dies away. “If it gets too dark the fish won’t bite.”
“I know, I know.” Tim gets to his feet, but then pauses and looks down at me, pointing to the shotgun. “Keep it. In case she tries anything.”
“Thanks.”
He nods and makes his way to the tree line. Wes gives me one last look before he follows him, and then Twenty-two and I are alone.
I expect her to say something, but she just sinks back down to the ground, cross-legged with her hands folded in her lap.
We are silent for a minute, then two, then ten, and she seems content to sit there, staring at nothing. But I am getting bored, and the old me, the Lydia who’d wanted to be a journalist, who’d wandered down into that open bunker at Camp Hero just because I needed answers, has never been very comfortable with silence.
“So you’re not going to try and kill me again?”
She shakes her head, facing the trees. “Eleven said I couldn’t.”
“He did?”
“He said that you were too important to the mission, and if I killed you then he’d leave me here alone.”
“It seems like you’d rather be alone.”
She turns her head, and although we are several feet away from each other, I see the animosity in her gaze. “I’d rather you be gone. And the other one. But Eleven and I will complete this mission together, just as we have all the others.”
I scoot closer to her, ignoring the glare she gives me. “Exactly how many missions could you have been on together? W—Eleven introduced himself to you in the hotel room like you’d never met.”
She lifts one tiny shoulder. It is deceptively small; I have felt the strength in it when she held me pinned with the knife. “Five. Maybe seven. He was introducing himself to the two of you, not me.”
I feel my neck and face start to burn. “You’ve spoken before this.”
Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You) Page 8
