Dissidence

by Jamie Canosa

  I’m full-out sprinting for the storm cellar, with Peter right on my heels. Suddenly, going into the ground sounds like a fantastic idea. We’re less than five yards away when I see them starting to close the storm cellar doors. Not yet. Not yet! The first door is already latched in place, and the second is swinging shut, to form a flat seal with the surrounding landscape that even Mother Nature herself couldn’t penetrate, when I lunge for it. A slicing pain cuts through my palm as I slip my hand into the small gap, blocking the door from shutting all the way. I yank upward as hard as I can, ignoring the fiery pain lancing up my arm. Peter catches up, and slips his hands under the door, as well. The old, rusted hinges groan in complaint as we pry it back open.

  Slipping past a rather irate guard, we descend the stairs into complete darkness. I’m cradling my injured hand, and I can already feel a wet sticky substance seeping between my fingers. That’s probably not good. At the bottom of the stairs, I come to a stop, afraid of tripping over someone in the dark, and Peter collides directly into me from behind. Smooth. I feel his fingers wrap around my arm and he tugs lightly. I follow his lead across the room by what I assume is his sense of touch, unless he has some super human vision I don’t know about.

  Behind the stairs, we find a vacant spot and drop down to the floor with our backs pressed against the cool stone wall just as someone begins lighting lanterns throughout the space. Everyone looks terrified, huddled up with one another, or against the walls. Some are covering their ears to block out the intense howling sound of the wind coming through the cracks and crevices of the door directly above us. The room itself isn’t that big, and only about a hundred or so workers are inside. Connor isn’t one of them. I placate myself with the knowledge that there have to be other shelters throughout the camp. We were separated just after breakfast this morning, so he must have ended up in one of those. I’ll find him after the storm passes and everything will be fine.

  “Your hand,” Peter gasps, finally noticing the shredded, bloody mess that is my left palm.

  Yup, definitely no super human vision on that one. I’d tell him not to worry about it, but he’s Peter, and that would just be a waste of breath. He’s already peeling off his outer shirt. I watch him tear off a couple strips from the bottom and then he takes my hand in his.

  Wrapping the makeshift bandages carefully around the deep gash running the entire length of my palm, I hear him mumble something about bleeding to death. There’s my eternal optimist. He may have a point though, exaggerated as it is. Blood is already starting to come through the shirt even though he’s wrapped two separate swatches around the wound. He swears under his breath, grabbing my injured hand by the wrist and pulls it closer. The rest of his shirt is wadded up into a small ball, which he presses firmly into my palm. A sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth ends up coming out sounding like I’m hissing at him.

  “Stop moving,” he chides.

  I’m about to point out that he’s the one who keeps fidgeting when something—large by the sound of it—slams into the storm doors with a deafening clang, and I jump a mile. Peter’s arm slips around my back so quickly that I barely even notice it until he nudges me closer to him.

  “It’s all right. We’re safe down here.” He may talk a good game, but I can feel all of the muscles in his arms tighten around me. He’s just as scared as I am.

  Instead of arguing for a change, though, I decide to let his words comfort me. Some of the workers—most, actually—are shutting their eyes, taking any chance they can for a few extra minutes of rest. Maybe I should do the same. I lean into Peter, and try to ignore the myriad of sounds coming from above us, none of which are comforting.

  All in all, the storm lasts less than half an hour, and I get zero rest. In fact, the way my nerves are frayed the entire time, I’m coming out of it more exhausted than going in, and in more pain. My hand is a chorus of stinging, burning throbs. When they finally reopen the storm doors and begin herding us all back out of the cellar, I take the wadded up shirt from Peter and continue pressing it into my palm myself. Outside, Peter pulls me over to where a guard is watching the workers unload.

  “She’s hurt. She needs to see a doctor.” I try to shake him off, but Peter refuses to relinquish his grasp of my arm.

  “What she needs is to get back to work.” I can hear the warning in the guard’s words, but Peter seems impervious to it.

  “She can’t work with that hand, it could get infected.”

  “If she can’t work, then I guess she’s of no further use to us.” The guard reaches for his leather whip, which I notice is crusted with black flecks. When was the last time he used that thing? Not long ago from the look of it.

  “I’m fine,” I insist, pulling Peter away with me.

  “That’s what I thought.” The guard’s deep voice snarls at our backs.

  Once we’re far enough away that I’m sure we won’t be overheard, I round on Peter. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

  “No, I think you’re doing a good enough job of that on your own.”

  His mood swings are giving me some serious whiplash.

  ***

  “What happened to your hand, Girlie?” Connor cringes as he grabs hold of my wrist, studying the filthy, bloody ‘bandages’ plastered to my palm. The remainder of the day was spent cleaning up after the storm, and I am beyond relieved to be back in the dorms.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Hardly,” snorts Peter as he pulls me to the bathroom off the side of the dormitory.

  I watch people come and go, in and out of the stalls, as Peter fills a sink with water before plunging my bandaged hand into it. It feels like a thousand shards of glass stabbing my entire hand, and I yelp like a kicked puppy.

  Peter recoils at my pathetic noise. “Sorry, we don’t have hot water here, but we need to get those bandages off, so we can get a better look at that cut.”

  “You don’t have to take care of me, Peter.”

  “Somebody does, because you sure as hell don’t.” He returns his attention to my hand with a frustrated shake of his head. “Leigh, you—”

  “Please, no more lectures, Peter. I’m too tired. I know you’re mad at me for coming here, and everyone thinks I’m nuts, and maybe I am, but I just can’t—”

  “Can you just shut up and listen for a minute? I’m trying to say thank you. If we hadn’t gotten into that shelter, then who knows what would have happened. I just . . .” he sighs. “I don’t want to be your damsel in distress, Leigh. I was trying to save you, but instead, all I managed to do was get myself tossed in here. And now you’re here when you could have been free, and that’s on me. Instead of fixing things, I only made them worse.” He studiously avoids my eyes as he unwraps the sodden bandage, and carefully washes away the dirt and dried blood.

  “No, Peter, that’s not true. You’re only here because of me, because of my big mouth. None of this is your fault. It’s mine.”

  He opens his mouth intending to argue, but thankfully he’s interrupted. We could go around and around all day on the blame train and never get anywhere.

  “That doesn’t look so bad.” Connor’s holding a freshly shredded shirt. “Thought you may need these.”

  There’s a decent sized gash running across the middle of my palm from thumb to pinky finger, and it looks pretty deep, but at least the bleeding is under control. Most of it has scabbed over, and it’s only bleeding small amounts from a couple of spots.

  “Much better,” Peter agrees. Couldn’t have gotten much worse than ‘bleeding to death’.

  They both sound convincingly relieved, but I don’t miss the look that passes between them. They’re worried about infection, but neither of them wants to say it . . . so I will.

  “Yeah, as long as it doesn’t get infected, I’m golden.”

  Connor smirks. I think he appreciates my frankness. Peter only groans slightly. After my hand is rewrapped—which became a collaborative effort where Peter and Connor debated everythi
ng from wound care to bandaging techniques, and I was largely ignored—we find a spot to settle in. Tonight, Peter stays with us, and as annoying as the two of them are together, it makes me feel better knowing they’re both here. I wish they could just get along. They’re more alike than either of them cares to admit. Boys. Why are all of my friends boys? They are so infuriatingly illogical.

  ***

  For the second day in a row, Connor is separated from us just after breakfast and sent to work in a different section of the camp. I forgot to ask him what they have them doing over there, but based on the size of the people chosen to do the work, I’d guess it involves some serious physical labor. Evidently, there are some drawbacks to being that large.

  I spend most of the day trying to plant seeds with one hand, Peter picking up my slack as we go. Now, why does this seem familiar? They really should have just locked me up somewhere because I am a complete waste of space as a worker.

  The sun is especially hot today. If we don’t get serious about putting some sort of plan in motion soon, I’m going to burn to a crisp out in these fields. I’m just taking a quick break to wipe the sweat out of my eyes when a girl catches my attention. I recognize her. She’s the girl from registration, the one I watched get branded. She must be around my age, but she’s small, especially compared to the large brick wall of a guard bearing down on her. I have no idea what she did, but she just keeps repeating, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to,” as she crab crawls backwards away from him. As though there isn’t enough drama unfolding already, the guard feels the need to flick his whip menacingly at her before pulling it back over his shoulder.

  Déjà vu slams into me like a freight train on acid. It looks like a scene right out of my so-called ‘trial’. I know what I’m supposed to do in this situation, and I’m fairly well acquainted with what happens if I don’t, but I also know myself. I am who I am and, as stupid as it probably makes me, I’m not going to let them change that.

  “Leigh, what are you doing? Leigh!”

  She’s no more than five feet from where I’m working, so I make it to her in no time flat. I hear Peter shout my name one more time as I fling myself in front of her, throwing up my arm to protect my face. The whistle of the leather strap cutting through the air seems like the only sound on earth, and then pain blossoms around my forearm. Pain like I have never felt before. If I had known how much that was going to hurt, I may not be standing here right now. But I am, and it’s a little late to back down now. So instead of letting it show, I grab the whip with my free hand and yank it out of the guard’s grasp, unwrapping it from my blazing arm, and dropping it in the dirt at my feet.

  Chapter 17

  Ah, hell. The entire field has stopped working to stare at me, and the guard looks murderous. Seriously, why don’t I ever think things through? My brain is tripping over words, trying to string together some sort of coherent sentence when all of a sudden I hear a roar coming from behind the guard. At first, I’m certain that it’s more guards coming to his aid, and that I’m utterly screwed, but then I realize it’s not the guards . . . it’s the workers . . . and they’re all cheering. Part of me desperately wants to take a bow, but I’m afraid that may be pushing it.

  “You’re not so bright sometimes.” Peter’s standing beside me, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don’t know. Like what the hell’s going on?”

  “If I had to guess . . . I’d say you probably just did something they’ve all wanted to do for a long time.”

  Fantastic, go me, but I’m sure there’s a good reason none of them have done it before. Like, maybe they have a few more brain cells than I do. The guard seems to have recovered from his shock, and is waving over several others, who are pushing their way through the crowd toward us.

  “Um . . . maybe you don’t want to be standing right there,” I tell Peter, but the look he shoots me squelches any other similar comments I had forthcoming. The crowd inches closer around us, and the guard is starting to look more than a little uncomfortable without his weapon of choice, waving his friends on with more vigor.

  “Stop them!” Peter’s sudden shout makes me jump. “Don’t let them through!” He’s addressing the crowd, encouraging them to . . . what? Protect me? “Stand up for yourselves. There are more of us then there are of them. Do something about it! This is your chance!”

  Perfect! Like things weren’t bad enough before, now we can add inciting a riot to our list of offenses. I watch, horrified, as the workers turn their back on us and charge the incoming guards. They’re actually listening to him. Unbelievable. Could this get any worse? The guard’s whips fly through the air, landing indiscriminately. But, the swell of workers doesn’t cease. Within minutes, the whistling of the whips dies away, as the guards are overrun and disappear beneath the crowd of workers.

  I think its shock that keeps my brain from registering when the first wave of bullets pellets the ground. I just stand there, staring as bodies drop.

  “We need to find cover, now!” Peter takes hold of my hand, and I follow obediently until we reach the side of one of the metal buildings with an overhanging roof.

  Pressed up against the scorching metal, I peer out at what’s happening. The guards continue to fire from their perches on top of the fence, and large groups of workers are actually charging the towers. What have we started?

  “We need a weapon.” Peter’s voice takes me by surprise.

  “What? Are you kidding? What we need is to hide . . . or better yet, get the hell out of here.”

  “We can’t just watch them get shot down, Leigh.”

  “And getting shot down with them is the better option?”

  “Neither.” He points up at a guard tower, just feet from where we’re standing.

  The majority of the fighting is concentrated on the far side of the yard, and this guy looks like he is about to pee his pants, watching it all unfold. He definitely hasn’t seen us hiding here. Oh man, we are about to do something else really stupid.

  “Fine . . . and you call me an idiot.”

  We slip out from under the overhang and head straight for the ladder secured to the fence.

  “Stay here,” Peter whispers when we reach the base of the ladder, but I’m fairly certain he already knew the answer to that request before it ever came out of his mouth, or at least he should have, so I don’t even bother replying.

  I climb the ladder one rung behind him, amazed the entire time that this fool at the top has still failed to notice us. In fact, he’s so surprised when Peter vaults over the railing at the top that he’s disarmed and lying on the floor in surrender before I can even reach them. Guess I didn’t need to make the climb after all. So, now we’ve got a weapon. Really hope Peter’s plan extended beyond this point.

  “Tie him up.” Peter tosses me the guards whip, and I just stare at it dumbfounded for a second. We’re really doing this. I wrap it around the man’s wrists and behind him to the railing as securely as I can manage. It’s not like I have a lot of experience with tying people up.

  “Well, now what?” Peter’s already surveying the situation below us when I join him.

  Bodies are strewn all over the yard. A couple of other towers have been overrun by sheer force, but there are at least three more that I can see from here where bullets are still flying. As hard as I try, I can’t find Connor in the chaos unfolding below us. When I glance back at Peter, I see him lining up the gun he took off of the guard, aiming at the next closest tower.

  “Have you ever fired one of those before?” I ask, already sure that I know the answer.

  “How hard can it be?”

  How hard can it be? Did the guy holding the long range rifle seriously just say the words ‘how hard can it be?’

  “Peter, are you sure . . .” Before I get the chance to finish the sentence, he pulls the trigger and a deafening blast erupts from the gun barrel.

  Peter stumbles backwards, and I grab his arm bef
ore he can fall off the tower entirely. We recover just in time to see the guard in the next tower topple over the edge and plummet to the ground below. He did it.

  “You actually did it!”

  “You could at least try to conceal your surprise.”

  Why bother? Why bother concealing my surprise about any of this? Peter is already lining up another shot, and this time I opt to keep my mouth shut and let him concentrate. My eyes flick over the crowds out in the fields, looking for any sign of Connor.

  This time it takes three bullets to take down his target, but he does it again. I’m no less surprised the second time. While he’s busy playing Rambo, I’ve actually managed to catch sight of Connor, an impressive feat even with his extra-large size. He’s gotten his hands on a weapon from one of the fallen guards and managed to take out the final tower. The firing has ceased and, in the quiet that follows, my ears buzz. The crowds are cheering below us, several people are slapping Connor on the back—like he needs the extra ego boost—and everyone seems to be celebrating over and around the bodies of the dead and injured strewn across the fields.

  “What just happened?” My voice barely registers above a whisper because I can’t decide if I actually want to hear the answer or not.

  “I think . . . we just took over the camp.” Peter sounds as stunned as I feel.

  “Oh . . . okay.” What else is there really to say right now?

  “Leigh.” Peter just says my name and proceeds to stare at me. I want to ask him what he wants, but I don’t because, for the life of me, I cannot figure out what is behind that look in his eyes. “Leigh, I . . . I’m glad you’re here. I know I haven’t been acting like it, but I am.”

  It’s the closest to an apology/thank you that I’m likely to get, so I’ll take it. “You mean you’re glad I’m crazy?”

  “Obviously, otherwise none of this would have worked.” He laughs, really laughs, and I’m just so glad to have my friend back that I laugh too, which is completely absurd since we are still far from out of trouble yet.