Resist b-2

by Sarah Crossan

Abel steps onto the dock again, opens a compartment in his backpack, and takes out a protein bar that he breaks into pieces and shares with us.

  “Did you leave because of . . .” I point at her stomach. She looks down at herself.

  “Sort of.”

  “Shall we go?” Abel says.

  We move along the dock, up a short road, and find ourselves surrounded by hundreds of rusting cars positioned in perfect rows and columns. We weave our way through until we come out onto another, wider road, clear but for the odd fallen lamppost or overturned truck. Abel picks up his speed. Jo and I follow slowly.

  “Is Abel the baby’s father?” I ask, when I’m sure he can’t hear.

  “Abel? No.” She inhales deeply. “The father’s in Sequoia. He’s kind of vile.”

  “A lot of dads are,” I say.

  Jo comes to an abrupt halt and seizes my arm. “It isn’t a joke. If you cross Maks, he’ll kill you.”

  She releases me and walks on, linking arms with Abel. I watch, feeling a bit jealous that they have each other.

  I miss Bea.

  15

  RONAN

  The road is slush, strewn with cement blocks, sheets of broken glass, and misshapen metal poles. I would take pictures to use in a piece, but it isn’t exactly the time or place to be worrying about art.

  When Jude drove off, I took a moment to enjoy the solitude. I’ve never been alone before. Not truly. And I liked it: the feeling of space and freedom and sky. In the pod you’re never far from other people—a breath away. But those feelings are already wearing thin, and it’s only been a day. The reality is that The Outlands isn’t a haven for peace—it’s a graveyard. There’s nothing but human bones and the remnants of death everywhere: rotting mattresses, chipped teapots, dried-up pens, and shriveled tree stumps.

  The idea of hiding out here forever is foolish. How would I breathe once my airtanks ran out? What would I eat? Who would I talk to? I’d go mad or be dead within a couple of months.

  So I’m searching for Quinn because the only option left is to take Jude up on his offer—find his son and become an auxiliary.

  It’ll be better than death.

  It has to be better than death.

  Doesn’t it?

  16

  ALINA

  The nurse I’ve been sent to see is so tall and thin she looks like she’s been stretched. Even her nose is unusually long. She hands me a cup of water and three tablets: one white cylinder and two tiny red eggs. “Take these,” she orders.

  “What are they?”

  “Mandatory, that’s what they are,” she says.

  I swig some water, pretending to swallow the tablets but hiding them under my tongue, and as the nurse turns, I spit them into my hand and stuff them into my pocket.

  “Up here,” she says. I climb onto a table and lie down. She ties a rubber band around my arm and hands me a ball. “Squeeze this.” She taps the inside of my elbow a few times, and before I can react to what’s happening, sticks me with a needle. I jump but bite away the urge to squawk. “Stop wriggling,” she snaps as she unties the rubber band and fills a vial with blood.

  Once she’s got five vials, she spins around, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor, and stores my blood in a rack in the fridge. Then she reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a tiny bottle of clear liquid.

  “Time for your rocket.” She shakes the bottle, presses a syringe into the lid, and lifts the needle to the light, tapping it a few times with her finger. She studies a droplet of clear liquid rolling into the tip. We’ve been told this shot contains EPO, which will increase our number of red blood cells and drive down our need for oxygen. That’s the opposite effect from the vaccinations we were required to take in the pod, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be injected with anything. Not here. Not anywhere.

  I consider resisting, and the nurse, sensing it, looks at me over the rim of her spectacles. “Problem?” She dabs my arm with alcohol. I close my eyes, and she jabs me with the needle.

  I think we’re finished, and lift myself onto my elbows, but I’m wrong. The nurse smiles and tosses me a rough blanket. “Take off your pants and underwear and put this over your lap. I’ll be back in a minute.” She closes the door and is gone. I look down at the blanket and then at a string of unfamiliar metal implements lying on the counter. I stand up and pace the tiny lab.

  The idea of someone examining me down below is humiliating in more ways than one. Not only am I terrified to let the nurse look at me and insert things into me or scratch things away, but my hair smells like someone’s been sick into it, and when I took off my boots last night, my feet stank—I can’t even imagine what the rest of me smells like.

  I’m not a crier, but for the first time in a very long time, my eyes prickle. I rub at them roughly and when this doesn’t work, I slap myself sharply across the face. It stings, which is what I need. “Get a grip, Alina,” I say aloud.

  I kick my boots into the corner of the room and stare down at my baggy, damp socks, which I leave on, climbing out of my pants and underwear and throwing them next to the boots. As the door opens, I jump up onto the table, covering my legs with the blanket.

  The nurse quickly grabs a facemask from the counter, which she slips over her mouth and nose. It isn’t attached to any airtank; it’s to protect me from germs, though she’s probably wearing it to protect herself.

  She sits on a stool and releases a set of stirrups hidden in the table up and out. “Put your feet in these and lie on your back.”

  “What’s this for?” I ask. “I mean, the blood sample will tell you everything you need to know. I’m not carrying a disease if that’s what you think. I lived in the pod, you know. We have regular health checks there. I’m clean.”

  The nurse grimaces. “I’d hardly say you’re clean. Lie down.”

  I stay sitting. “What’s it for?”

  She tuts. “Shall I get Vanya to come in and explain? Maks?”

  I shake my head. What if they decided to stay and watch over the exam? No.

  I lie back. “Shift your butt to the end of the table,” the nurse says, jabbing something against my tummy, rolling it back and forth while she stares at a screen. She lifts the blanket and yanks my knees apart. “You’re going to feel some pressure,” she says, but it isn’t pressure—it’s pain, like I’m been sliced open. I clutch the sides of the table and hum. You’re okay, I tell myself. This is not going to kill you.

  After a few moments, she switches off the screen, pulls the blanket over my legs, and lowers the stirrups. “Get up now.”

  I stagger as I stand, using the blanket like a kind of skirt, and lean against the counter, my head between my arms. It’s a peculiar feeling, this weakness, and I don’t like it.

  “When did your cycle begin?” She unpeels the rubber gloves from her hands and tosses them in the trash can. I’m tempted to lie, because it’s none of her damn business, but I don’t know what these tests are for, or what the consequences of the results will be. So I tell the truth. “Nine days ago,” I say.

  She nods. “And how many days did it last?”

  “Six,” I say.

  She records the dates on an ancient-looking pad and opens the door. “Go to Room 28. Down the hall, take your first left, and it’s the fourth door on the right.” She yawns, revealing a mouth of missing teeth. “Do you want a napkin for the blood?”

  “Get lost,” I say, slamming the lab door, and hurtling down the hall and away.

  As I turn left, I almost collide with Maks. He towers over me, his arms crossed over his chest to accentuate the size of his biceps. “Done with your medical?”

  My face reddens. “Yes.”

  He presses his lips together into a taut smile and tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. I flinch, then hate myself for being so easily discomforted by him.

  “Well, that’s the worst test over with. Well done for making it through.” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. He rubs my chin
, smiles, and marches away. From behind I can see he has a pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers, and I don’t like it.

  We have surrendered our weapons.

  I peer through the round window of Room 28. Silas, Dorian, and Song are sitting at desks. I slink inside and they all turn around. “What are we doing in here?” I ask.

  “A written exam of some kind,” Silas says.

  “Well, it’s better than getting another medical,” Dorian says impassively.

  “I’m nervous we’re being recorded,” Silas says.

  Song rises and examines the walls, baseboards, and each desk. “Hard to tell,” he says.

  “You okay?” Silas asks.

  I wring my hands. “I’m fine.”

  “Did you do everything they asked?” Silas says.

  “Yes. Except swallow the tablets.” I pat my pocket and stare at the floor. “Anyway, what happened to you?”

  Silas, Dorian, and Song look at one another. “I don’t know what they do here, but it isn’t what we were doing at The Grove,” Silas says. Song is still checking under each chair and fiddles with the electrical sockets and oxybox. “They wanted samples,” Silas continues. My mouth drops open. He doesn’t have to say any more. After the physical exam I was given, it wouldn’t take a genius to guess what kinds of samples he means.

  “How could we do it?” Song says. “Not on demand.”

  “I did it,” Dorian admits, unabashed.

  “What?” Silas says.

  “We said we’d cooperate, so I was cooperating.” He scratches his nose.

  “Cooperating?” Silas clenches his jaw, working hard to control his temper. He roughly scratches his head.

  “Where are we meant to go if we get chucked out? Petra threw everyone in a cell for a few weeks. Is this that much different?” he says.

  “The nurse gave me a pretty thorough exam,” I murmur. I can’t look at any of the boys.

  Silas groans. “Oh, Alina,” he says.

  “It must be for some sort of genetic testing,” I say.

  Song shakes his head. “You can work out genetics using blood samples, and they’ve got plenty of those.”

  “Then what is it they want?” I ask.

  Song inhales deeply through his nose. “I think”—he pauses—“I think they’re checking to see how fertile we are.”

  17

  BEA

  After going back up to the pharmacy and rummaging on the floor for almost an hour, I find some ancient painkillers, and although I have no idea whether or not they’re working, I shovel them into Jazz every six hours. Even in her sleep, she moans softly.

  “Am I going to die?” she mewls, waking at last.

  “Of course you aren’t, silly,” I say, which is probably a lie. Even if Quinn finds his way to Sequoia, he has to get back here and by then it’ll have been weeks since Jazz’s fall.

  And what scares me most is that as each day passes, my hope wanes a little more, when hope is the only thing I have to hold on to.

  There was nothing I could do for my parents just as there’s nothing I can do for Jazz. I try not to remember their bodies lying limp on the makeshift platform, blood blooming beneath them while the crowd stormed the stage. All I could do was watch on Old Watson’s screen, so far away from where I was needed. At least I’m here for Jazz. And I have to be strong for her and wait until the worst happens . . . or a miracle.

  I cradle Jazz’s head in my lap and hum a doleful tune; I can’t remember any happy ones. It’s to calm her, but it’s for me, too, because if I don’t hum, I’ll cry, and Jazz shouldn’t have to see that.

  “Are you sleepy?” she asks, peering up at me. I pull her head tight into my body—all the pain she’s in and she’s worried about me. “I’ll be quiet so you can rest,” she says, and clenches her jaw.

  “I don’t need to sleep,” I tell her, one hand stroking her freckly face, the other hand clutching the knife. But my eyes sting from fatigue. My shoulders droop. My head feels so heavy. “Maybe I’ll try to get a few minutes,” I say.

  “Bea!” Jazz’s urgent whisper wakes me from a murky dream, which I forget as soon as I open my eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I tried to move. I shouldn’t have. It still hurts.” She is sitting up and shivering. Her little hands are frozen.

  “It’s okay. Relax now,” I tell her. I fumble for the pills. I was foolish to spend my life studying politics and philosophy, thinking that was the way to a better life, when I should have been learning how to survive in the real world. If only Alina were here. She’d know what to do, and Jazz might have a fighting chance.

  Jazz nudges me and squeals. A yellow discharge is seeping from her wound. I bend down to get a better look. “No, Bea! Look!” I follow the line of her finger down her leg to her feet, across the tiled floor of the station to the other end, where a pair of boots appears.

  A boy.

  I rub my eyes in case I’m still in a dream. Then I grab the knife and jump up, slicing the air with it.

  How much more am I meant to endure? When am I allowed to surrender? If it weren’t for Jazz, I might drop the knife and do just that. As it is, I swing the knife again. “Get out of here.”

  “Let’s talk,” the boy says. “All I want to do is talk to you.” Calmly, he unburdens himself of his backpack and holds his hands in the air. One hand is holding a gun.

  Jazz screams in terror.

  And so do I.

  18

  ALINA

  As soon as we’re done with the tests and back in the cabin, Maude hitches up her skirts. Her knees are bleeding and her hands are caked in mud. “What’s your answer to this, smarty pants?”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, what happened? Where were you all day?” Maude kicks me in the shin, and Bruce pulls her away before I retaliate. I don’t want to fight anyway; I have a raging headache.

  “It ain’t her fault, Maddie,” Bruce says. Maude removes her boots, hurling them at the wall and barely missing Silas.

  “Didn’t they test you?” Silas asks, rubbing his temples. We’ve spent the last four hours cooped up in that dingy room answering math, science, and logic questions as well as filling in surveys about our skills and hobbies. None of us are feeling very peppy.

  Bruce sits on his bunk and rubs his dirty, bare feet. “Just after yous lot left, we was given gardening gloves and told to dig,” he says.

  “No medical testing?” Dorian asks.

  “Of course not. Not if I’m right about what they want to know,” Song says. I want him to be wrong about the fertility screening, but none of us can think of another explanation for the intimate medical exams.

  “What do they wanna know? What’s going on?” Maude squawks. “I don’t wanna be no servant. The drifter life ain’t easy, but at least we was free.”

  Maks throws open the door to the cabin without knocking. With the light at his back, only his bulky silhouette is clear. “Dinner,” he says, stepping inside.

  “They’re exhausted,” I say, indicating Maude and Bruce. “Why were they put to work? They should be meditating and training to breathe on lower levels of oxygen. Are you trying to kill them?”

  Maks narrows his eyes. “If we wanted to kill them, we’d have them digging their own graves, not vegetable patches.” Silas tugs on my sweater, warning me not to answer back because that’s exactly what I’m about to do. Maks nods triumphantly and leaves.

  “We should think about finding somewhere else to live,” Silas says.

  “You think she’ll just let us walk out the way we came in? Petra wouldn’t have.”

  Song takes a lungful of air from the oxybox. “And it’s pretty well fortified here. They’ve used the old rubble and brick to build new structures. It’s solid.” He raps his knuckles against the wall of the cabin to demonstrate how sturdy it is.

  “You know what’s weird?” Bruce says. “No forest. We walked all round this compound today,
probably five acres, and nothing.”

  “Not a single tree?” I ask. It doesn’t make sense. “You probably missed them.”

  “Really? Oak trees and alders and whatnot? Yeah, cuz they’re a cinch to hide,” Maude says.

  “Maybe they know trees will lead the Ministry here,” Dorian says, buttoning up his jacket.

  “Then where’s the air coming from?” Song asks.

  “Greenhouse,” Maude says. “Big thing behind the annex. Some little trees in there, all right. Apples and pears and the like. But they got veggies mostly. And tomato vines.”

  “That won’t be enough to make a difference,” I say. The whole point in raging against the Ministry is to restore the earth to what it had been. Trees are a symbol of that, and also the only plants big enough to set people free. It might take us a millennium, but we have to start somewhere.

  “I suggest we go to dinner and discuss this later,” Dorian says. “They’ll be waiting.”

  We all nod in agreement. It’s best not to raise any suspicion just yet.

  The red brick annex is newly built using old materials. We file in along with everyone else and choose seats around a long table as far from the stage at the front as possible. The tables are empty apart from cups and water jugs, but as we sit down, servers appear from swinging doors holding platters of food over their heads. No one joins us at first. They file into the hall in pairs and seem to take their places in predetermined seats. I’m about to stand up in case we’re sitting where we shouldn’t when a young man with long, curly hair sits next to me, and some girls join him.

  “You found the loners’ table then,” the man says, and laughs. “I’m Terry.” He holds out his hand. “You can take off the masks. They pump a little air in here so we can eat comfortably.”

  “Alina.” I pull off my mask and take his hand.

  Opposite sits a girl with thin eyebrows and icy blue eyes who introduces herself as Wren. A black scarf is tightly wound around her head, covering up her hair. “We’ve never had a whole group join us before. Always individuals. The rumor is The Grove’s been destroyed. Is that true? You think others will follow you here?” she asks.