Resist b-2

by Sarah Crossan

  Moldy cardboard boxes are piled high like children’s giant building blocks, and most are empty, but eventually I find six untouched bottles. I pull one out and try to unscrew it, but it’s been sealed with a strange type of lid hidden down inside the bottleneck. I have no time to figure out how it works, so I smash the bottle’s neck against a filing cabinet. The alcoholic stench sends me reeling. I pour a little of the liquid into my hand, sniff, and let the tip of my tongue taste it. Definitely drinkable, but unlike any alcohol I’ve tasted before. It’s thick and red and bitter. I look at the label—Malbec. I stuff the bottles into my backpack, and a scream echoes through the station.

  “Jazz?” I fly from the store.

  Jazz is writhing in half-sleep. I pull a bottle from my bag and smash it open, take Jazz in the crook of my arm, and pull the mask from her mouth. “Here,” I say, awkwardly filling my cupped palm with the red alcohol and holding it to her lips.

  She sips from my hand. “Ugh,” she says. “What is it?”

  “Medicine.” She continues to drink, and when she’s drowsy, I lower her onto the floor and reattach the mask. The alcohol calms her down, so I can look at her leg again. It’s bad. So bad, I’m not sure that what I’m doing is a good idea. But I have to try something.

  She stirs. “Bite on this,” I tell her. I push a piece of thick cloth under her facemask and slide it between her teeth. I arrange everything I’ve collected on the tiled floor, then run a long piece of thread through the eye of the needle and pour the methylated spirit over it. Then I use the spirit to clean her wound. She squeals, but I quickly tie her hands and legs together with scarves so she won’t try to stop me.

  “It’s okay,” I say. She lets out a groan muffled by the cloth in her mouth. “Stay calm,” I add, this time to myself because my nerves and nausea won’t help anyone.

  I sit on her chest, bite the insides of my cheeks, and use the tips of my fingers to jam the jutting bone back in place, pulling the skin over it. She bellows and writhes and finally passes out.

  I pinch her skin, sticky with blood, and slowly, with trembling fingers, pierce it with the needle and pull the cotton through. Jazz thrashes, as she floats in and out of consciousness, but I keep a knee on her chest, congealed blood seeping through my fingers as I pinch and sew back and forth, back and forth, until the stitches are halfway up her shin, the bone is hidden, and the wound closed.

  I pull away her facemask and remove the cloth from her mouth. She’s still breathing. Gently.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, because I may have made things worse.

  Now, all I can do is wait—for someone to save us, or for Jazz to die.

  10

  ALINA

  We’ve been walking for the best part of two days. My feet have blisters and my muscles are tight and burning. Even Song and Dorian are exhausted and have started wearing airtanks.

  “That has to be it,” Dorian says.

  We’re in the middle of nowhere, standing on the dip in a cracked road surrounded by miles of flat fields dotted with old brick houses and long-dead tree stumps. Silas unfolds the map, looks at it, and juts his chin toward a set of ornate iron gates, rusting but still standing at the end of the road. “There?” he asks.

  “We’ve been circling in on the area all morning. This is the only place we haven’t checked,” Dorian says.

  “We can’t waste any more air on maybes,” I mutter. I feel momentarily lightheaded and allow a little more oxygen into my facemask.

  “We’ll see,” Silas says, stuffing the map into his coat and leading us down the road, his gun hanging at his side.

  As we move closer I make out a lane beyond the gates. I press my face between the railings. “The lane bends. We’ve no way of knowing what’s down there,” I say.

  “Then let’s check it out,” Dorian says. He waves Song forward and together they ease open the gates. Silas doesn’t stop them, and neither do I. But it seems strange that there’s no lock.

  “Hope they’ve got the kettle on,” Maude says. “I could do with a cuppa.”

  The lane is overgrown with weeds and peppered in old bicycles and broken glass bottles, but on either side is a low, sturdy brick wall that looks newly built. Silas has taken the lead again, and I stick close to him.

  Suddenly a disembodied voice punctures the silence. “Stop! The lane is protected with mines. One more inch and you’ll lose a leg.” Silas’s right foot is suspended in the air. He tilts his weight into his left heel and steps back.

  “We come as friends!” he calls out.

  “Resistance,” Dorian says.

  “Friends don’t need weapons. Throw down your guns,” the voice calls out. We look at Silas for direction. “Put the guns down or we’ll open fire!” the voice booms. Silas places his gun gently on the ground behind him and we all do the same. Instinctively I put my hands up.

  And then we are surrounded. Each of the twenty or so soldiers who appear are wearing balaclavas, but, crucially, no airtanks. They leap onto the wall and aim their rifles at us.

  A beefy soldier in a tight tank top, arms covered with black tattoos, all thorns and barbed wire, lowers his gun. “Who’s in charge?” he wants to know.

  Silas is, of course, but he doesn’t step forward, not when any one of us might disagree.

  “I’m the leader here. Kneel before me, minion,” Maude says, and cackles. I shoot her a warning look; somehow I don’t think this guy is going to find her entertaining.

  “He is,” Dorian says. He points at Silas. I can’t tell if he’s being cowardly or magnanimous.

  “Yeah?” The tattooed leader jumps down from the wall. He doesn’t seem to notice the cold. The others, dressed in green fatigues, stay where they are, still aiming for our heads. “Well, you’re trespassing.”

  “We’re from The Grove. We’re fellow Resistance,” Silas says.

  The man laughs. “Resistance and gasping for air?” Dorian pulls off his mask and leaves it hanging around his neck. I elbow Song, who quickly follows Dorian’s lead. “So what? Some of you can breathe. Maybe Petra’s methods have improved, but you’re wrong about us. We aren’t Resistance. We want nothing to do with you people.” He peels back his balaclava, stuffs it into his back pocket, and crosses his muscled arms in front of his chest. He is handsome, despite a dark scar down one side of his face. But he knows it: he looks at me and cocks his head to one side. I swallow hard and wait for him to look away.

  “The Grove’s gone,” Silas says.

  “You’re lying,” he says.

  “It was destroyed by the Ministry. We have nowhere else to go,” Silas says, and a mild feeling of shame rises in me as I realize how weak we must seem.

  “This isn’t a refugee camp. There were hundreds of you at The Grove. We haven’t the space. I suggest you turn around and tell Petra the answer is no.”

  Silas drops his head. Dorian and Song exchange a look. Maude and Bruce shrivel into themselves. I step forward, and the man doesn’t warn me to stop. He raises one eyebrow. “We aren’t envoys. Petra’s dead, her people are dead, and the trees are gone. We’re all that’s left.” I feel the others watching me. Was I wrong to say what happened out loud?

  The man is silent. He puts a finger to his ear and nods. “The landmines have been deactivated,” he says. He has an earpiece in—he isn’t the leader at all. The other soldiers, all carrying guns, jump down from the walls and surround us, retrieving our weapons from the ground.

  “Get your manky hands off my gear!” Maude screeches, but the soldier taking her gun rams her in the ribs with it. She lets out a yelp.

  Silas’s eyes widen. “Tell your goons to behave properly,” he says.

  But the man smirks. “And why would I do that?” He looks at my airtank and then into my eyes, the only part of my face not covered with the mask, and I can tell he’s unimpressed by my need for it.

  “We aren’t useless. We’re all well trained,” Song says. “I’m a biochemist. I can help create a storage system
for oxygen.”

  “You only need one skill here,” the man says. He steps forward and pulls my mask away from my face. Silas only has to flinch and a soldier cocks his rifle to stop him from intervening. The man holds me by the chin and pulls me closer. I hold his stare, refusing to be intimidated, and he smiles and replaces my mask, gently pulling the straps tight at the back of my head. I take a long, deep breath from my dwindling air supply.

  “Let’s go and find out what Vanya wants to do with you,” the man says.

  Dorian is the first to follow, but the rest of us hang back, exchanging glances.

  “Did we come to the right place?” I ask under my breath.

  “We came to the only place left,” Silas reminds me.

  We round a bend in the lane and a wall appears. Although the bricks are old, the wall itself isn’t mossy or crumbling or threatening to collapse. It looks newly constructed, the cement cleanly holding the bricks together and the wall itself topped with broken pieces of multicolored broken glass to prevent anyone scrambling over the top. At each corner of the wall is a camera tracing our movements as we file under an archway protected by steel doors and a batch of armed guards. “Coming through,” the tattooed man says, and the guards heave open the screeching doors.

  Inside I expect to see an old prison or school or hospital, but Sequoia is none of these things: it is a giant white palace, virtually unspoiled, and sandwiched between two gleaming conservatories. A dry fountain adorned with flying copper angels sits before it, and swirling here and there are orderly pebbled pathways and edgings. Most of the Palladian windows in the palace still have glass in them, and those that don’t are covered in plywood painted over in white, so they blend in with the building. It looks nothing like the heaps of rubble in the city, and for a moment I am transported to what it must have been like before the Switch. Despite this, I don’t feel like smiling. Something’s missing.

  I elbow Silas. “No trees,” I say. A burning rises in my throat. I cough and hold on to him to stop myself from collapsing.

  “Dorian, your tank,” Silas calls out, holding me up. My empty airtank is unbuckled from my belt and replaced with another. Within seconds, I’m alive again. I blink at Silas. “Why didn’t you say you were low?” he chides. I shrug, and he rolls his eyes.

  Most of the soldiers are smirking, standing waiting for us between two undamaged colonnades. “Come on,” Silas says.

  We’re ushered up stone steps, through a pair of wooden doors into a cavernous foyer, and whisked up several flights of stairs decorated with faded, gold-framed oil portraits. Although the exterior of the building is virtually undamaged, inside is cold, with damp patches shining like fresh bruises on the ceiling.

  When we reach the top floor, the tattooed man flips open a box attached to the wall and pulls out a retractable mask. He presses it to his face and inhales. He sees me watching. “We’ve installed oxyboxes all over the compound. Pure oxygen,” he says. “Saves on pumping into each room.”

  “What about those who can’t breathe on a limited supply?” I ask, my hands fingering my airtank.

  “We’ve not many like that here,” he says, and passes the mask to another soldier.

  The hallway is long and lined with doors. Above each, is a sign: Meditation Room 6 – Yoga Room 10 – Testing 1 – Testing 2 – Dispensary – Propagation. I tug on Silas’s coat and point. He nods. Although we haven’t seen their trees, rooms like this imply that what they do is not all that different to what we did at The Grove. We might be safe here.

  The man waves away the soldiers still accompanying us when we get to a set of doors at the end of the hallway. Then he frowns. “Try not to piss her off,” he says.

  The room is lit by natural light filtering through vast casement windows, and in front of them, stretched out on a scuffed, velvet daybed, is a slim woman with short hair that looks like she’s haphazardly cut it herself. She’s wearing a plain black shirt and wide-legged pants.

  She looks up from a retro pad she’s reading and lazily rolls onto her side. “Maks,” she says, greeting the tattooed man. She stretches her arms to the ceiling, then slowly stands. “What a medley of mortals.”

  Maks laughs. “Understatement,” he says.

  The woman, Vanya, stops in front of Silas. “Hi,” she says, drawing her finger down his face. He looks away. “Do tell me you don’t need this thing,” she says, tipping her nails against his airtank. Her hands are lined, though her face is smooth and clear.

  “They do,” Maks says. He’s standing behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. “We almost lost this one a few minutes ago.” I wriggle but his hand remains where it is.

  “Well, we don’t use tanks here,” she says. “We’re close to needing nothing whatsoever.”

  “I don’t use one,” Dorian says. His face is awash with pride, and if he were standing closer, I’d kick him. We all had our roles within the Resistance. Silas’s and mine were in the pod. It isn’t our fault we need so much supplemental air.

  “I been suckin’ in fake air for fifty years, and no one’s gonna make me give it up now. I am what I am, and I ain’t ashamed of it,” Maude pipes up.

  Vanya’s nostrils flare. “Drifters?”

  “Actually, I’m a catwalk model,” Maude says. She wiggles her hips.

  “And what are we meant to do with them?” Vanya speaks to Maks through clenched teeth. He removes his hand from my shoulder, and I relax enough to check the gauge on the airtank and adjust the levels.

  “They’d make excellent benefactors,” Maks says. I have no idea what this means, no one does, but we don’t ask. Instead we listen.

  Vanya sniffs and looks at me from top to bottom like I’m something about to be sold. Rather than fighting it, I stand tall and clench my jaw to prove how strong I am. I must be desperate.

  “We want to join you. Help you,” Silas says.

  She puts her hand on his chest. “That sounds lovely,” she says. Maks snickers. Silas blushes. He looks everywhere but at Vanya. “But once you join, I won’t let you leave,” Vanya says. Her hand rests on his chest, but she looks at each of us in turn to make sure we understand that she is addressing all of us. She might be teasing Silas, but beneath the flirting is serious distrust. And I hadn’t expected anything less. Petra would never have welcomed newcomers without first threatening to kill them. When you live in fear of your world being destroyed, you have to be merciless.

  “We’re happy to stay,” Dorian says.

  Vanya smiles and steps away from Silas. “I’ll have Maks escort you to one of our cabins as a temporary measure. Tomorrow we’ll get to know each other a bit better.”

  “Of course,” Dorian says. Silas squints at him. His bootlicking is beyond irritating—it’s dangerously close to disloyalty.

  “But tell me: Did anyone else survive at The Grove?”

  My stomach hardens. The room is silent. We shake our heads and look to the floor. Holly survived, but no one will mention her.

  “We told ’em to leave,” Maude says. “We warned ’em. No one can say as we didn’t.” This is true, though it doesn’t make us feel any better, and I want to tell Maude to keep quiet.

  “You’re sure no one else made it out?” Vanya asks.

  “The whole place fell in on itself and was foaming the last time we saw it. We waited as long as we could,” Silas says.

  “I’m sure you did,” Vanya says. She turns her back on us.

  “This way,” Maks says, and we are led out and along the hallway. Maks marches ahead, leaving a gap between him and us.

  “At least they’re letting us stay,” I say.

  Within seconds, Song is between Silas and me. “Do you know who that was?” he whispers.

  “Shh,” Dorian says. He points at Maks.

  “Who?” I whisper.

  “Vanya is Petra’s sister.”

  “Her sister?” I say. I didn’t know she had one.

  “Vanya made wild threats, then disappeared. Walked into The
Outlands and never came back. We weren’t even allowed to mention her name.”

  “What are you lot whispering about?” Maks asks. He stops and waits for us to catch up.

  “I was admiring your tush, sweetheart,” Maude says. She winks at Maks. And we all laugh far too loudly, trying to cover up our doubt and panic. Why didn’t Vanya mention it? And why did she flee The Grove in the first place?

  11

  QUINN

  I stand beneath a rotten awning to get out of the rain for a minute and pull out the map. From the look of it, Sequoia is more than one hundred miles from St. Pancras, and I’ve walked less than half that. It’s only been a handful of days, and I’m already completely knackered. And I’ve used far too much oxygen. Jazz said I should follow the river as far as Henley, then take the old roads, which is easier said than done. In their search for The Grove, the Ministry has had their way with the whole bloody city, and the route along the river is blocked every few miles by fresh mounds of rubble.

  What was I thinking? Bea’s got no one except me, and I just up and leave her. Now I’m alone, and Bea’s practically alone, and I’ve no way of knowing when we’ll see each other again.

  The awning creaks under the weight of the water collecting in one corner, and I quickly step into the rain to avoid getting dumped on. The road’s narrow, dark, and most of the buildings have been demolished. In the dust are the marks of tank treads. I kick a sneaker lying in the road, pull up the collar on my coat, and move on.

  I round a bend and where the road should continue is a massive stack of rotting cars and trucks. I’ve no choice but to climb, using the car windows and wing mirrors as footholds. I slip and slide on the wet vehicles and when I reach the top, I’m relieved to see that the way ahead is clear and the river is in sight.

  And then something moves.

  Not one thing—two.

  Two people.

  They stop abruptly and look in my direction. I claw my way down the other side, catching my hand on a piece of jagged metal as I duck out of sight. The gash isn’t wide, but it’s deep. I wipe it on my trousers, and with nothing on me to use to clean it, I lift my facemask and spit onto the wound. It stings like hellfire. I curl my hand into a fist to stop myself from shouting. “Shit,” I say aloud.