Rebel Bound

by Shauna E. Black

  The stranger rubs a finger along his upper lip, scratching at the whiskers there. “I guess I owe you an apology.” His words lisp together as he talks. “I was upset last AM, worried about what would happen. I didn't mean to sound as ornery as I did.” Finally, he looks up at me and offers his hand. I don't take it.

  “The name’s Torres.” He pulls his hand back in and rubs it on a pant leg as though trying to get some of the dirt off. Is that why he thinks I wouldn’t take it? “And you are—?”

  I busy myself with securing my knife in the loop on my belt.

  He chuckles, a low, gravelly sound. “You’re leery now. That's good. You should be leery of strangers. Everybody looks to their own interests here.”

  He shifts position, and I can see in the way his features contort that his leg hurts.

  “Listen, girly without a name, you helped me, and I'm grateful. I may not o’ sounded grateful last AM, but I've had time to ponder on it, and realized you probably saved my life with that toilet stunt. I want to do something for you in return.” He lowers his voice, looking around. Most of the people in the shelter have already gone topside. Our nook under the stairs is completely deserted, a welcome change.

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he continues in a raspy whisper. His breath smells like rotten vegetation. “I really do got a stash. I need to fetch it before anybody else figures it out. It's good stuff—medicine, blankets, even cans of food.” He sees my eyes light up, and he nods appreciatively. “I can't get at it, my leg being all cut up. If you help me, I'll give you a share.”

  I think about his offer. He makes the stash sound much better than the one I found last PM. That quality of scavenge would keep me and Mardy in the shelter for at least a month.

  Torres licks his lips, watching my face eagerly. “You could even get a doctor’s visit with your share.” I give him a sharp look. He nods his head knowingly. “Yeah, you got it. You know, they give a cure for radiation poisoning in the Undercity, but it costs a mint. Bet your share would cover a visit and the meds. Otherwise, you'll probably die before another week is out and leave your sister alone.”

  I can't look at him. He’s figured it out. So far, I've been able to hide my illness from Mardy. She’s young and innocent. She believes me when I blame being sick on our poor diet, the awful living conditions of the shelters. Deep down, I’ve known all along the radiation would get to me eventually. That’s why scavs don’t live through their thirties. But I had hoped to at least make it a couple more years to twenty.

  I’ve never had enough scavenge at a time to pay for a doctor visit. There are a few who serve scavs in the top level of the Undercity. My first thought has always been to pay for Mardy’s shelter, but what would happen to her if I die? I know I’m getting worse. Torres is probably right—I won’t last the week. The thought of leaving Mardy alone, down here in the dark, is agonizing. If I had a share of Torres’s stash, even if it’s only half as wonderful as he says, I could get a doctor and medicine. I could be there for Mardy, take care of her like Papa did.

  But I'm still not sure that I trust Torres. He seems like a completely different person now, the opposite of the grouchy curmudgeon last AM. Is he really sorry for acting the way he did? Would he really make good on his offer?

  Before I can decide whether to trust him or not, Mardy arrives with bowls of food. We’ll have to hurry. I can see a new set of sentries making a sweep of the shelter beyond the stairs to encourage scavs to leave.

  Torres holds out his bowl, and Mardy pours some of the glop from hers into it. I frown, thinking that I’ll need to leave more of my own mush for Mardy.

  “Coalition crops must be booming,” Torres jokes as he fishes a small piece of red fruit from the sticky cereal. “Either that, or the Duponts are taking a vacation. I haven't seen a strawberry in years.”

  “What’s the Duponts?” Mardy tips her bowl up to gulp at her mush. Some trickles down onto her chin, and she wipes at it absently. “I haven't heard that name before.”

  “That's because they’re a topside gang,” I say quietly.

  She glares at me. “And you never let me leave this dungeon, so I know nothing about topside.”

  Torres interrupts our hostility with a benign smile. “They're the biggest gang in the city. Pretty bold.”

  “Just a bunch of daredevils,” I grumble.

  The smile slips briefly off Torres’s face before he plasters it back on. “The Coalition’s been after them for months now. They’re holed up in Dupont Circle about half an hour north of here. Rumor has it they’re behind the food raids on the Coalition fields inside the old skyscrapers.”

  “They’re stupid.”

  Torres raises an eyebrow at me. “Why do you say that?”

  My cheeks color as he addresses me directly. I don't want to answer him, but Mardy elbows me. I roll my eyes.

  “By all reports, they’re big, bigger than any other gang I've ever heard of. It's no wonder they have to steal food just to support themselves.”

  Torres nods. “You got a point there.” He turns to Mardy, changing the subject. “You're quite the artist, little girl.” He points a dirty finger at the mosaic design on the floor. “You must've been too young when the explosion happened to remember what trees look like. How’d you come up with this?”

  Mardy stares down at her empty bowl. The red rising to her cheeks contrasts sharply with her fair skin. “My papa read me a book when I was little. We read it over and over again before it got lost. I still remember the pictures from it.”

  I look down at the mosaic and realize that the tree does look like the pictures in that book. I also remember the day we lost it. A couple of men chased us out of a basement apartment, and we had to leave everything behind. After that, we stayed in an elevator shaft until Papa found enough scavenge to get us into a Coalition shelter.

  Torres scrapes up the rest of his mush with his fingers, then ties the bowl inside a rope mesh at his waist. With a groan, he shifts until he is able to stand without putting much weight on his injured leg.

  “Well, I better get out topside. I need to find some good scavenge so I can get in to see a doctor and get an antibiotic for this leg. Don't want to get infected, after all your good nursing skills.” He winks at Mardy.

  “But how will you search, with your injury?” Mardy asks.

  “I ain’t sure,” Torres says as though this has just occurred to him. “Guess I'll have to manage best I can.”

  Mardy elbows me again. It sends a shooting pain through my aching middle. “Go with him, Caelin. You know where all the best scavenge is. You can help him.”

  “Yes, Caelin,” Torres emphasizes my name just enough that I notice, but Mardy doesn't. “That's a great idea.”

  I scowl up at him, but I can't reprimand Mardy. She doesn't know about the conversation we had before she arrived.

  They’ve both backed me into a corner. I don’t know if I can trust Torres as far as I can shove him, but I decide that I’ll at least see where his stash is located. Maybe he’ll be true to his word and actually give me some of it. Besides, if I don't find some good scavenge today, Mardy and I will be topside come AM.

  I thrust my bowl into Mardy's hands. “Finish that,” I command, no longer pretending that I am not hungry. “And go to school today. I don't care if you think it's boring—you’re still learning something, and that might get you into the Undercity someday.”

  Mardy scowls at me, but she nods her agreement. I glance back at Torres as I’m pulling on my gloves. He has limped a short distance away and is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I lean toward Mardy and whisper, “I’ll come back.”

  “Do you promise?” This time, the words don't seem rote, like they have in the past. This time, Mardy really seems concerned that I might not return.

  “Always.” I pat her shoulder awkwardly, then stand up to join Torres at the stairs.

  CHAPTER 5

  Our boots ring loudly and echo on the metal ste
ps as Torres and I walk up to the exit.

  I ask in a low voice, “How far away is this place?”

  “The other side of the river, a couple of hours, in a residential neighborhood—a church. You'll never find it without me, though.”

  I nod. I wasn't expecting to. “And how much is my share?”

  He acts as though he is thinking deeply. Just as we reach the top of the steps, he says, “A third.”

  I stop, watching him limp toward the door. When he realizes that I'm not following, he turns back with a questioning expression.

  “You need me,” I say in a firm voice. I grip the handle of my knife to give me strength and think about Mardy waiting in the dark for me to return, think about the doctors and their expensive medicines that will keep me alive long enough to make sure Mardy gets into the Undercity someday. “Half,” I say, my voice breaking just a little.

  His eyes flash, and I catch a little bit of the crotchetiness I saw last AM hidden in their depths. But his jovial expression is quickly back. He runs a tongue along the inside of his cheek. Finally, he gives one sharp nod. “Fine,” he says. “Half.”

  We exit the shelter into the old museum. Most of the exhibits are crumbling, and I can’t read the writing that explains what they are. I see that Wimberly and Rockland cleaned up the water mess from the AM before, leaving no trace of the waste I caused.

  As we come out into the museum, Torres limps off in the direction of an old exhibit. He ducks down behind a group of oblong rocks with writing on them and pulls out a wad of fabric. Shaking it out as he returns to me, he hands me my jacket. It’s still a bit damp, but otherwise in good shape. I look up at him in surprise.

  Torres shrugs uncomfortably. “I got it out for you last night when the sentries took off to fetch more tools. Thought you might need it today.”

  I begin to think that maybe I have misjudged Torres. I put on my jacket and zip it up as we walk past the new sentries on guard and out into the dark of PM.

  We are not the only late risers. A few other scavs pass us as they come out of the shelter, and there are a handful of people on the crumbling street that circles the monument. There’s no smell of rain today. When it rains, we all stay inside. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of stars twinkling beyond the thinning veil of ash.

  My eyes quickly adjust to the deep dark of PM topside, and I can see well enough. Torres limps away to the right.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone moving toward me. I turn my head. There’s a man wearing a clear mask inside his hood, like the one I saw last PM watching me from the window. Did he follow me after all? But, no. This man’s face is different.

  Instead of a blonde beard, he is clean-shaven, revealing chiseled cheekbones and a firm jaw. A lock of dark curly hair is matted against his forehead behind the mask. Even at this distance, I can see the graceful curves of his eyes. They’re rimmed in long dark lashes. His movement reveals a muscular build inside the rags he wears, a subtle anomaly from most half-starved scavs.

  He hesitates when he notices I’m with Torres, then changes direction as though he never intended to approach me after all. I stop and watch him move to a dead tree, lean back against it with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He realizes I’m still watching and gives me a sharp nod. I nod back, as though we are old friends meeting once again on the street.

  “Who's the crippled one here?” Torres calls. I turn to him and see that he has gone ahead several feet along the circular drive.

  I look back at the stranger leaning against the tree. He’s gone, lost among the other scavs moving through the street.

  “Are you coming or not?” Torres sounds annoyed. I hurry to catch up to him.

  As we head for the intersection with Twenty-Third Street, Torres rubs his finger along his upper lip again. He acts nervous and jittery, looking around frequently, watching the other scavs pass with narrowed eyes. His tension makes me jumpy, and I grip the hilt of my knife. I want to slink into the shadows and hide against the buildings, but Torres limps confidently down the center of the street. His pace isn’t fast, but it’s sure.

  “So, were you kicked out of the Undercity for some trivial infraction, or have you never been able to get there in the first place?” he asks.

  I don't want to give him any more information than necessary, so I simply shrug.

  He looks sidelong at me, his expression shrewd. “Well, you're with your sister, so I guess your parents didn't want to split up the family to comply with the single child rule right after the explosion. That means you all stayed topside, even if your father was important enough to get an invitation to the Undercity.” He spits to the side before leading me from Twenty-third onto Ohio Drive. “I never wanted to be part of those uppity Undercitizens anyway. I used to be a mechanic before the explosion, but there ain't much need for folks like me anymore—no gas for scavs, and no cars for nobody.”

  “What's a mechanic?” I ask hesitantly. I figure that if I can keep him talking about himself, he won't ask any more probing questions about me.

  He looks surprised. “A mechanic? That's somebody who can fix engines, machinery that moves. I used to work on them big metal cars you see parked all over the city. I could fix anything back then, but I don't know what use my hands are anymore.” He looks down at his hands inside his knitted gloves as though condemning them for their lapse. “I guess nobody got any use for skills these days except for finding stuff.”

  We pass one of the smooth black domes that shields portions of the Undercity and cross the bridge, walking south until we reach the neighborhood of Alexandria. It takes over two hours, just as Torres predicted. He seems lost in the bad memories our conversation dredged up for him and doesn't talk much more. I keep pace with his limp until we approach a church with a steeple. It has wooden siding, and is painted a warm blue color. The moon has risen now behind the thinning ash cloud, giving a bit more light to see by, but also making it easier for others to see us.

  “Do me a favor,” Torres says. “Check the area—make sure there's no other scavs nearby. We don't want nobody to see what we’re about.”

  I nod in agreement and breathe a sigh of relief once I'm in the shadows. I pull my knife carefully from its sheath at my waist and creep along the wall of a nearby building. My eyes scan the streets around us. I don't see movement, but I stop frequently to study the shadows, make sure there is no one hiding in them. I make a complete circuit around the church. Finally, I’m satisfied, and I make my way back to Torres.

  He is sitting on the grass, or what was once grass, of the church yard and biting his fingernails. I come up behind him, and he jumps when I squat down next to him.

  “Dang, girl! You're quiet as a mouse.”

  His compliment warms me, and I remind myself that I am being careful not to trust him.

  “Is it clear?” he asks. I nod. “Good.” He lowers his voice and looks around, even though I just assured him that we’re alone. “The stash is hidden in the church steeple.”

  My eyes automatically move up the steeple, taking in the height of thirty feet. It rises on one end of the church in a rectangle. At the top is an open square inside of which hangs the bell. The wan light glances off the metal. I feel a trickle of alarm.

  “You'll have to climb up the outside because the stairs have crumbled.”

  “Either that,” I say, “or you destroyed them.”

  A sly smile comes over Torres’s face. He nods slowly. “You're pretty smart for your age, Caelin. I'll keep a lookout down here below and warn you if anybody comes near. Once you get up there, just reach underneath the bell, up inside. There's a blanket there wrapped around the stash and tied with string. Get it down here, and we’ll split it fifty-fifty.”

  I bite my lower lip nervously, looking up once again at the top of the tower. It seems very far away. “I haven't done much climbing before,” I say hesitantly.

  “You'll be fine.” Torres pats me on the back. I shy away from his touch, and he pulls
his hand away. “The siding makes good hand and toe holds. Just remember, don't look down.”

  I rub a hand against my temple, trying to ease the pain that is constantly pounding there.

  “We’ll split it fifty-fifty,” Torres repeats. “Why, just the medicine alone from the stash will be enough to buy you that doctor’s visit and some real food. Then maybe you can use the rest to get Mardy into an Undercity school.”

  I take a deep breath, chewing my lip. Finally, I force myself to move. I approach the tower. I stand there, examining the siding for several minutes, looking for hand and footholds. Finally, I work up the courage to place one hand on a wedge of siding, a foot on another. I begin to climb.

  It is slow going, but Torres is right. The siding is deep, the grooves big enough to give me enough grip with my fingers and toes to keep moving. I remember not to look down, only to concentrate on the movement of my hands and feet, on looking for the next hold. Halfway up, I realize that my gloves are making it difficult to climb. The knitted fabric is slippery, and I’m afraid of losing my grip. Besides, even their thin covering is too bulky. I stop climbing for a moment and hear Torres sharply take in his breath below. But I don’t look down at him. Instead, I pull one of my gloves off with my teeth. Then I grab it with my bare hand and tuck it carefully inside my belt loop. I repeat the process slowly with my other hand.

  The cold air makes my skin tingle, and I don't like to think about the radiation falling on my fingers. But I imagine the good life I’ll be able to give Mardy after this, and I keep climbing.

  My head swims a little as I get higher, the pain rising like a needlepoint inside. My stomach, always churning, threatens to betray me, but I fight it back. My muscles are not used to this action, and they ache and scream and protest. I concentrate on moving, on putting one hand above the other, one foot pushing my body upward, then the next. I tell myself that if I keep moving, I won’t fall.