Resist b-2

by Sarah Crossan

  I almost laugh, but rage tears through me, and I shove him so hard, he staggers backward. He has no idea what I’ve been through since he was caught and because of his lies. I look at him squarely. “I’m running out of energy,” I say. “I’m going to focus on this one last thing and then I’m retiring from saving the world. Maybe we’ll talk about how unlovable I am then. Okay?”

  40

  BEA

  Ronan’s attic studio is covered in paintings and drawings and a rainbow of color is splattered across the floor and walls. A large board with bands of gray and red smeared across it in thick, irregular lines is sitting on an easel. It looks wet, but it’s dry to the touch.

  “What does it mean?” I ask, approaching the easel.

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need my therapist,” he says, and grins.

  “I like it,” I tell him. Something about the fury of the strokes speaks to me. Maybe I could paint. In the future. If I have one.

  “Every color I use, I find in the sky,” he says. He points at the wide skylight in the roof. The only thing visible through it is the pod’s glass surface and the sun. The space is completely private. A refuge. If I were Ronan, I’d never leave it. But now that we know the Ministry is planning to cut off the oxygen in all empty apartments, he’s giving it up to hide Harriet, Gideon, and any other Resistance members on the Ministry’s hit list—there’s been no way for him to secretly get hold of enough airtanks to keep the wanted Resistance members alive in airless apartments.

  “You’re a good person,” I tell him, in case he doesn’t already know it.

  “Sometimes,” he says.

  He collects the cans of paint, plaster, and glue, piles them in the corner, and hangs the paintings resting against the walls on crooked nails to get them off the floor. He stops when we hear a light tap on the door and puts his ear against it. When Ronan unlocks the door, Wendy bundles into the studio carrying a stack of sheets and blankets. “This is all I have spare,” she says, throwing the bedding on the floor. “I’ll look in your room, too. We have to get a move on though. Niamh will be back soon. And what about food? How am I going to justify the expense?”

  “I can sort that out,” Ronan says. Considering what he’s doing, he’s very calm. It’s not even my house, and my heart is racing.

  “And what if they need the bathroom?” Wendy asks. She grimaces and I find myself doing the same. Ronan remains unruffled.

  He picks up a drop cloth from the floor and hangs one side to a hook in the ceiling, the other to a screw sticking out from the wall. “It’ll be no more than a bucket with a lid, and I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to empty it every hour with Niamh prowling around, but it’s the best we can do,” he says.

  “How many are there?” Wendy asks. She prods the bedding with her toe. They both look at me.

  “Around fifteen,” I say.

  “Once Niamh’s gone to bed, we’ll bring them up. But I still think it’s an awful risk hiding them here,” Wendy says. Keeping me in her annex overnight has been stressful enough, but the idea of hiding hordes of Resistance members in the house, right above Niamh and any visiting ministers, has Wendy on edge.

  Ronan picks up a blanket and shakes it out. “No one will think of looking here,” he says. “Would you?”

  Wendy shakes her head. Still, keeping everyone fed, clean, and quiet won’t be easy.

  “Did you bring up my stuff?” I ask Wendy.

  She blinks and looks at Ronan. “There’s no need for you to sleep here with everyone else, love,” she says. “After what you’ve been through, a little privacy is what you need.” Ronan coughs and Wendy stops talking. She pulls her lips into her mouth. He must have told her what happened with the drifters.

  “It wouldn’t be fair if I got special treatment,” I mumble. I wish he hadn’t said anything. Quinn never would have. He knows how to keep a secret.

  “I’ll see if I can dig out more sheets,” Wendy says, opening the door and tiptoeing away. Ronan locks the door behind her. “You don’t have to be a martyr, you know.”

  What? Is that how he thinks I behave? “I act like a martyr?”

  “Bea . . . I don’t mean it like that. Please stay in the annex with Wendy.” He tilts his head and looks inconsolably sad.

  I turn away from him and step closer to one of his paintings: a series of blue circles along with smaller, seemingly arbitrary turquoise splotches. “You don’t paint real things. And there’s a violence to them. Why?”

  “People see what they want,” he says. “And you see violence.”

  I ignore him and reach out to touch the painting. The color looks like it might drip down the board and onto the floor, but it’s hard and rubbery. “Do you think we can recruit enough people to make a difference?”

  He squats next to me. “We have to try, don’t we?” he says.

  “No, Ronan. We have to win.”

  “And we will,” he says.

  Ronan powers up a radio and a thick beat thunders through the studio. Everyone looks at him. “I play music when I paint,” he tells us.

  “Well, you were right. Two hours ago the air in the apartment got siphoned off,” Harriet says. She unrolls her sleeping bag next to Gideon’s, then puts her hands on her hips and studies the other Resistance members unpacking their meager belongings. A group of girls is beneath the skylight setting up. When they see me, they smile. Some men and boys are at the far end of the studio whispering and arranging.

  I’ve already chosen a spot by the door, and Wendy has given me an extra blanket in case I get cold.

  “What now? We’re useless in here,” Gideon says.

  “You’re alive,” I tell him. Plenty of people aren’t.

  Ronan runs his hand through his hair. “Tonight Old Watson and I will round up more applicants for the army. When we have enough people and they’re all armed, we fight.”

  “Could be a long wait,” Gideon says.

  “And we can wait,” Harriet says. “Bea’s right. Not being dead or imprisoned is enough for now.”

  “And what if his sister comes up here?” Gideon asks, speaking to everyone except Ronan. I keep quiet when what I should do is remind him that Ronan has just saved his life—he could be a little more grateful.

  “It’s thumbprint activated, and mine is the only one registered,” Ronan says.

  “A thumb pad. That’s safe,” Gideon says sarcastically.

  I can’t listen anymore. “Ronan is doing his best. If you want to go out and live in the alleyways until you get picked up, do it. This is no one’s ideal situation,” I tell him.

  Harriet frowns at her husband. “Gideon’s grateful. We all are,” she says.

  Ronan rubs his hands together. “I’ll be up once a day, if I can. I’ll bring food.” He switches off the music. Everyone in the studio looks at him. “You should tiptoe and avoid raised voices,” he says.

  I join Ronan by the main door. Suddenly I don’t want him to go. I hold on to the tail of his shirt. “You’re in charge,” he says. He looks at my hand, which is still clutching him, and touches it with the tips of his fingers. If I asked Ronan to take me with him, he would. But I have to keep order up here.

  I release him. “Goodnight,” I say, and he slips out the door.

  I go to my sleeping spot and lie down facing the wall. I close my eyes and see Quinn. For a while I thought I might never see him again, even clearly in my mind. But that was only because I was scared of losing him forever.

  I don’t think I’m scared anymore.

  41

  QUINN

  Every time the dining hall doors open I hope it’ll be Alina, and after I’ve given up on her, she marches in. She gives me this stony look and takes a seat with the other troopers. A server lays a red dessert at the other end of my table, and the academics ladle out hefty portions for themselves, ignoring our end. “I’ll get us some,” Clarice says.

  “Not for me,” I say, and push my bowl of green food away. I rest my chin in my han
ds, waiting for dinner to end. I can feel Clarice watching me, but I don’t bother making conversation.

  After a painfully long time, the bell rings and we’re allowed to leave. I make for the doors, and Alina, when there’s a tug on my arm. “Are you trying to lose me?” Clarice asks teasingly.

  “Of course not. Come on,” I say. The last thing I need is her running to Vanya to tell her I’ve been inattentive.

  I pull on my facemask as we get outside, where Alina’s waiting. “Hey,” she says. She ignores Clarice.

  “Can I catch you up, Clarice?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says. She smiles and goes ahead.

  “She seems friendly,” Alina says.

  I roll my eyes. “I wish she wouldn’t be.” Now that I’ve stopped acting like an idiot when Alina’s around, we’re easy with each other.

  “We leave tonight,” she whispers.

  “Good,” I say. We haven’t had any time to prepare, but if Alina thinks it’s time, I believe her.

  She pulls me into the shadow of the main house. “We have to get Maude, Bruce, and some others before we go. We’ll meet on the second floor of the east stairwell at midnight. Be there, and make sure Dorian and Song are there, too. I don’t know if I can tell them. Maks has me on a leash.” She stalks off without any further discussion.

  I chase after her. “And the pod?” I ask. I shake her without meaning to, and she pushes me away.

  “Relax. We’re going to go fight alongside Bea and my aunt and uncle, but we’ll keep it between you, me, and Silas. No one else needs to worry about that yet.”

  “I think we should head straight for the pod. No detours.”

  Clarice suddenly appears. “Seriously? Are you going with the troopers?” she asks.

  Alina glares at me, like Clarice’s superhuman hearing is my fault. And I’m about to make up some lie when I remember the conversation back in our room. Clarice mentioned being glad she wasn’t in the pod, and I thought she meant because of the riots. Did I misunderstand? “Only a few people have been told we’re going back,” I say slowly.

  “Oh.” Clarice looks over her shoulder. “Did Maks tell you when you’re leaving?” Alina gives me another look, but this time it’s because Clarice must know something we don’t, and she wants me to get her to talk.

  “Tonight,” I say. I push Clarice’s hair away from her face and grin. This is how I used to flirt with girls. It didn’t always work and, unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work with Clarice. She steps back.

  “But none of the other academics are going,” she says. I shrug and Clarice kicks a stone against the main house. “Why should I lose my partner? It isn’t fair. Maks said it would only be the troopers going and that’s why they’ve been training so hard. Is it because you know the pod? Is it because you have inside information or something?” She stops speaking as someone comes up behind us. She waits until he passes.

  “My dad’s the army’s general,” I say hesitantly.

  “And you agree with what Maks has planned?” she says. “I want a new place to live, like anyone here. But cutting the tubing on the recycling stations? Isn’t there another way to destroy the Ministry?”

  Alina and I freeze. Can it be true? Would Vanya and Maks really murder so many innocent people? I start to panic, and have to increase the volume of oxygen coming into my facemask. I’m thinking of Bea and my brothers and mother. Of my father, who saved me in the end. And I’m even thinking of Riley and Ferris, who are royal pains in the butt, but were my friends in another lifetime. Even they don’t deserve to suffocate.

  “How did you find out about the mission?” I ask Clarice.

  “Jo,” she says nonplussed. “Maks told her, I think.”

  “Shit,” Alina says. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. When I see Abel . . .” She screws her hands into fists.

  “Abel knows?” I ask.

  “Of course he knows. He’s very selective with his information.”

  A group of troopers passes us on the path. “Alina, you coming?” one of them asks.

  “Sure,” she says, and walks backward toward them mouthing one word to me: midnight.

  42

  ALINA

  Maks won’t sleep. He’s in the bed, and I’m on the floor. Every time I open my eyes he’s ogling me. And when he sees I’m not asleep, he smiles. Sometimes he winks, but usually it’s just the cool smile, like he knows what I’m planning. “You can climb in here with me, you know,” he says at one point, and pulls back the covers, unveiling his thick, tattooed torso and a faint musty smell.

  “No thanks,” I say, and close my eyes.

  It’s close to midnight and everyone will be waiting. Still, I try to relax, and after what feels like hours, his breathing changes. I sit up and crawl over to the bed to get a better look at him. Although one of his eyes is half open, he’s totally out.

  His pants are hanging on the back of the door. I slide my hand into one pocket and then the other to feel around for the keys. They aren’t there. I rummage in one of the back pockets where cold metal finally licks my fingers. As carefully as I can, I pluck the clump of keys from his pocket. Maks gibbers in his sleep. I could do anything I wanted to him now. He isn’t so tough snoring with his mouth open. But I haven’t time to waste. I have to get out of here.

  I pick a key from the bunch at random and try it in the lock. It doesn’t fit. The next one slides into the lock but won’t budge. And on and on until, after trying nine or ten keys, one of them slides into the lock and turns, and with a low groan, the door opens. I tiptoe into the hallway, using the key to lock Maks in the room, and run.

  They are waiting: Silas, Song, Abel, and Quinn. And they’re all carrying several airtanks and small bags. “Where have you been?” Silas whispers.

  “Maks wouldn’t go to sleep.”

  “The keys?” Abel asks. I pass them to him and he curls his fingers around them like I’ve handed him a hunk of gold.

  “Where’s Dorian?” I ask.

  “He must have decided to stay,” Silas says, unperturbed.

  “He wouldn’t do that. I’ll go find him.”

  “We haven’t time.” Silas grabs my arm. “And he’s obviously made his choice.”

  “He told us himself he doesn’t want to live as a drifter,” Song says.

  “We can’t go without him,” I add. We came together and that’s how we should leave. Besides, we won’t be drifters if we can oust the Ministry.

  Voices echo from one of the floors above. “Keep it down,” Abel says. He slides the painting to one side. “Are you coming?” The voices from above are getting louder and are accompanied by footsteps. If we stand around prattling, we’ll be caught and then no one will be able to leave.

  “I’m coming back for him,” I say. And I mean it. I’m not saving Maude and Bruce only to leave Dorian behind. He’s been with the Resistance since the beginning, and I’ve known him too long. He hasn’t changed overnight. I know he hasn’t.

  “Come on,” Silas says.

  Abel ushers us behind the painting. The door clunks shut and we descend slowly, careful not to slip and tumble on top of one another.

  “I’ll lead the way. I’ve been observing The Sanctuary for a few days now, so I’ve a good idea of the lay of things,” Abel says.

  “And the plan?” Silas asks.

  “We get in, unbuckle as many benefactors and kids as we can, and get the hell out of there,” Quinn says. Thankfully he doesn’t mention the pod or Bea.

  One thing at a time.

  Abel unlocks The Sanctuary door, and as we’re about to creep inside, a voice calls out. Damn. We have no weapons; wrestling with a nurse or several nurses isn’t part of the plan.

  “Everyone get back,” Silas whispers. We jump away from the door. A shadow hovers over the light.

  “Vanya?” The voice is tight and cautious, and as the light is being sliced away, Silas leaps out of the night and on top of the nurse. We pile in after him. The nurse thrashes on the tiled floor in
her white overalls, screeching like a tram coming into a station. I pull a T-shirt from my bag and stuff it into her mouth. Abel holds her arms, and Quinn and Song stop her kicking.

  Silas stands up and pokes her in the side with the toe of his shoe. “Tie her up,” he says. She continues to writhe. He roots in his bag and pulls out a T-shirt of his own that he rips into pieces. I quickly tie the ends of the fabric together and use them to bind the nurse’s hands and feet.

  “Some of us should go and release the benefactors while you take care of her,” Abel says. “The nurses only check in when the oxygen levels change, so we have about twenty minutes.”

  Silas thinks for a moment. “Where’s the air?” he asks. We can’t go anywhere if we don’t have a decent supply.

  “There’s a room down the hall where they give the benefactors tanks and make them climb and run. Look in the closet. Here,” Abel says. He throws the keys to Silas and Silas pulls a handgun from the nurse’s belt and throws it to Abel.

  And we’re off, Song, Abel, and I, hurtling along the hallway and leaving Silas and Quinn to deal with the nurse.

  The room we enter is unlit apart from a thin moonbeam. Abel pulls out a flashlight, which he shines around the room. It’s the same ward I saw yesterday, beds along each side and people tied to them. The machines by the beds hiss and beep.

  “Over there,” Abel says, aiming the light at the far corner of the room. “Jo!” He goes to her, shakes her awake, and unfastens her wrists and ankles. He pulls the tubes from her mouth and nose, then looks down at the IV in her hand.

  “I can take it out,” I say, pushing him aside. I’ve never done anything like this, but I know what Abel’s hesitations have led to before. I put pressure on the needle and slide it from her hand. She squeaks. She points to her mouth and gasps and Abel puts his own facemask over her mouth to help her breathe.

  “You came,” she says, pushing the mask away. She hasn’t had the baby yet; they’re experimenting on her while she’s pregnant.