Resist b-2

by Sarah Crossan

  “Ronan’s on our side, Niamh. You know that.” I get to my feet.

  “You poisoned him against us,” she says.

  “No we didn’t. He joined of his own free will, and you could, too.” The alarm is still blaring.

  Niamh’s neck reddens. “And become like you?” I don’t do any more to convince her. I rush forward, knocking her to the floor, and lie on top of her in the doorway to keep it from swinging shut. She scratches my face, but I don’t retaliate. I raise my hand and Quinn lifts me up and into the hallway, dark apart from the red lights.

  Niamh scrabbles to her feet. “You’re going to be sorry.”

  “No, I don’t think I am,” I say.

  She looks like she is about to say more, but instead runs away along the hallway, shouting for a guard who will never appear.

  “The pod’s under attack,” Quinn says.

  “Then we better hurry up.” I grab his keys and open the cell door opposite. Old Watson is slumped in a corner. I didn’t even know he’d been caught. “Watson!” I drop to the floor and shake him. He doesn’t respond. I put my ear to his face, but I can’t hear breathing. Am I responsible for his capture, or was it his plants?

  I rip the facemask Quinn gave me away from my own face, press it to Old Watson’s, and pull his legs from under him so he’s lying flat. I pump his chest, leaning hard on my hands, and Quinn tilts back the old man’s head and breathes into him.

  Once. Twice.

  But nothing happens.

  “Breathe, dammit,” I say, and try compressions again.

  Quinn stands up. “It’s not working, Bea. We have to get out of here.” He doesn’t understand: Old Watson saved me when I had no interest in saving myself. I won’t leave him here.

  “I’m trying again,” I say, and lay my hands over his heart. I count out the compressions, one to thirty, and Quinn kneels back down and blows into his mouth, filling him up with air.

  And it works! Old Watson gasps. I push the few strands of hair he still has away from his eyes and he opens them. “Don’t try to speak,” I say, and help him sit.

  I throw Quinn’s keys back at him. “The other cells.”

  “You’ll be okay?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Of course, I will.”

  53

  QUINN

  Bea, Old Watson, about thirty Resistance members, and I flee the Justice Building. Auxiliaries crowd the streets, frantically darting this way and that, and most of them are carrying a weapon of some sort. I stop a boy about my age as he gallops by. “What’s going on?”

  “The bastards have cut off the air to Zone Three apartments.” He pulls himself loose from me and runs away as best he can. A humanoid voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Air rationing stage three in operation. Premiums must return to their homes. Air rationing stage three in operation. Premiums must return to their homes.”

  We look at one another anxiously and then Gideon, Silas’s father, turns to me. “We need airtanks.”

  “This way,” I say.

  “Where are we going?” he asks, racing alongside me.

  “Research Labs.”

  We careen along a street, which is quickly clearing as auxiliaries jump over gates and high walls to get to Premium homes. It’s complete chaos: windows are smashed and gunshots fired. I slow down. “My brothers,” I say.

  Gideon shakes his head. “We haven’t time.”

  “I’m getting them,” I tell him.

  “Fine. We’ll meet you at the border in an hour. Give me the keys and we’ll find the tanks,” Gideon says. I throw the keys at him.

  “What about Jazz?” Old Watson asks. He’s right next to me, but his voice sounds far away. He’s way paler and more hunched than he was when I last saw him. He isn’t cut out for all this. Then again, who is?

  “The infirmary isn’t far. I’ll get her,” Bea says, stepping forward, her chin high.

  I seize her by the shoulders. “We keep bloody leaving each other,” I say, which wasn’t part of the plan. The plan was to find Bea and never let her go.

  She smiles. “Some things are more important than us,” she says, and I kiss her. There might be a million things more important than us, but I can’t think of anything more important than her. “The border in an hour,” she repeats.

  The auxiliaries are pressing in on my street with broken bottles and pipes. I gallop past them and up to my house. My brothers and mother are watching the news on the screen—explosions and rising dust.

  Lennon glances at me and waves. Keane does the same. Then, simultaneously realizing I shouldn’t be here, they jump up and throw their arms around me. “Quinn, is it you?” Keane asks. He jabs me in the ribs. My mother turns like a mechanical doll, and her mouth drops open.

  “I told you he wasn’t dead,” Lennon says. I kiss the top of his head and hold Keane close. Man, I missed them.

  My mother totters toward me using the back of the couch for support. Whoa—she’s so big, she looks as if she’s going to pop out my new brother any minute. “We’re leaving,” I tell her.

  “Oh, Quinn, my darling.” She clutches my arm and looks like she really wants to feel something. But her eyes are empty.

  “We have two minutes before auxiliaries come crashing in here,” I say. Something booms in the street and my mother jumps. Maybe we have one minute. “Come on.”

  My mother smiles condescendingly. “We’re safe here. Don’t worry about us.” She tries to coax the twins away from me, but they cling even tighter. It isn’t right that they’d rather be with me than her. But if they leave, at least I’ll be able to save them.

  “They’re coming with me,” I say. “That’s nonnegotiable. Are you coming, too?” I ask. I don’t want her to die. She’s my mother, after all.

  “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? Your father hasn’t been the same since you—” She presses her thumbs against her eyelids, draws in a quick breath, and holds her belly.

  “Mom?” Keane says. I keep a tight hold of him. She’s faking it.

  “You’ve destroyed this family.” She starts to sob—big, blistery tears. But they’re not for me.

  “I’m taking food and airtanks,” I say.

  “Take what you want, but please leave the boys,” she whimpers. A rock hits the living room window and she screams. She drops to her knees and puts her hands over her head.

  “Go get a few things! Quickly!” I push my brothers toward the stairs. “Mom, we all have to go,” I say. I can’t leave her at the mercy of marauding auxiliaries.

  She looks up from the floor. “You’ve chosen your life, stop dragging us all down with you.” Another window smashes and a screwdriver lands on the couch. “What’s happening? The world’s gone mad.”

  I lift her up. “The world’s changing, that’s all. And you have to change with it.”

  “They’re going to destroy my beautiful home,” she says.

  “You have to pack some stuff,” I say, and steer her into the hall and then her bedroom.

  I sprint down the hallway and into the basement, where I snatch as many airtanks as I can carry. By the time I’m back, Keane and Lennon are standing at the bottom of the stairs, packs slung over their backs. They’re ready to leave everything behind and join me.

  “Mom!” I call out.

  She appears wearing a heavy coat. She doesn’t look angry anymore. She holds her stomach and winces.

  “The baby’s coming,” she says.

  54

  BEA

  I leave the other Resistance members to loot the Breathe headquarters and head for the infirmary on the Zone One–Zone Two border. The oxygen in the streets is dwindling, but it’s more than I had in the cell. I walk quickly, passing brawling groups of men and women, until I turn a corner into a quiet street where two boys are grappling over a mini-airtank lying next to them. I snatch it, cover my mouth and nose with the facemask, and speed off. They holler things after me, but I’m faster than them. Stronger. Running hurts my legs a
nd my breathing gets short, but it feels like a small triumph against the Ministry.

  When I get to the infirmary, a broad white building taking up an entire block, the security hut is empty, and the gate is open. I scamper along the lane and into the deserted lobby where the switchboard is madly ringing and blinking and cots and wheelchairs are strewn in every direction.

  A doctor with a stethoscope around her neck and blood spots on her white coat stumbles from a room. “We don’t have any spare oxygen for visitors,” she says, and tries to jam me back through the revolving doors.

  “I’m looking for a child,” I say.

  She lets me go and rushes to the switchboard, where she mutes the ringing. “Auxiliaries have been moved to Premium wards upstairs. We’ll lose our jobs over it, but looks like we won’t have jobs anyway.” The building shudders and the doctor takes a long look me. “I have my own kids. I have to go,” she says, and scrambles through the infirmary doors and away.

  I take the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The hallway is alive with brittle chatter and crammed with people coughing or hooked up to IVs. I weave my way through the throng and make out Jazz at the end of the hallway, her leg in a heavy cast, her curly red hair heaped like spaghetti on top of her head.

  Thank goodness.

  “Jazz!” I shout. She hops down the hallway holding her crutches.

  “You took your time,” she says, and hits me hard in the stomach.

  I’m unable to resist kissing her fist. “You ready to get out of here?”

  “I was ready yesterday,” she says, and continues to hop all the way to the staircase. She clings to the handrail and takes the steps two at a time. “Hurry,” she says as a door at the bottom slurps opens.

  I grab Jazz, ready to defend her if I have to, when Keane and Lennon appear, followed by Quinn, who’s supporting his mother. “We need a doctor,” he shouts. His mother’s bump has dropped. I don’t believe it. Today of all days.

  “Stay there,” I tell Jazz, and help haul Mrs. Caffrey to the third floor. She screeches and writhes when we lay her on the floor. “Someone help us!” Quinn calls out.

  “The doctors have all left,” an auxiliary with a bandage taped to his eye says.

  Cynthia Caffrey howls and grips her stomach. “I have to push,” she says.

  Quinn turns to me. The blood has drained from his face. “She has to push,” he repeats.

  55

  QUINN

  Every bed in the ward is taken and the people in them avoid meeting our eyes. I’m about to flip out when a pale woman with wispy hair drags herself out of bed so my mother can lie down. “There isn’t a nurse in the whole bloody place?” I ask. Alarms start to whir all over the building.

  The woman shakes her head. “All the medics who bothered to stick around have gone to deal with a burst appendix,” she says. She lifts a set of stirrups attached to the side of the bed and places my mother’s feet in them.

  My mother clutches the mattress. “Get me Doctor Kessel!” she shouts.

  “There are no doctors, Mom,” I say.

  She tries to stand. “I won’t do this here. No. No.” And then she screams and squeezes her eyes shut.

  Bea rolls up her sleeves and turns to my brothers. “You shouldn’t be here. Go and take care of Jazz, the girl who was with me on the stairs.” Keane looks like he might cry. “Be brave,” she adds, and they both run off.

  “We need hot water,” I tell the pale woman. I don’t know exactly what for, but I’ve heard it said and hopefully we’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.

  “Yes, yes. And other things,” she says, and rushes away.

  Bea pushes my mother’s skirt up past her knees and pulls down her underwear. I hold my mother’s hand and she looks up at me. “You’ve changed,” she says. I nod; I have, but I’m not sure whether or not my mother means this as a compliment.

  “You don’t need to stay, either, Quinn,” Bea says. A month ago I might have been squeamish and wanted to get as far away from here as possible, but as the alarms ring and more screams and shouts filter up from the streets, it isn’t seeing my mother give birth that’s worrying me; all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to make it out alive, and what’s going to happen if we do.

  The woman returns with her arms loaded. She joins Bea at the foot of the bed. “I need something for the pain,” my mother pleads.

  “Too late for that,” the woman says. She nudges Bea. “Ready?”

  Bea pulls her lips into her mouth. “Yes.”

  “Where did you get that stuff?” I ask the woman, looking at the gauze and scissors.

  The woman waves distractedly toward the hallway. “Closet was smashed open.” My mother’s face is maroon.

  “Go and get what we need,” Bea says. She doesn’t know that we’ve gathered up dozens of kids from Sequoia, but she realizes we’ll need supplies. “You have time. I don’t think babies come shooting out.”

  I zigzag my way along the hallway until I find the closet. Bottles, linens, and pacifiers have been tossed everywhere. I find a sheet and spread it out on the floor, then scan the shelves. I throw all the formula I can find onto it then Band-Aids, acetaminophen, codeine, blades in sterile packets, cotton wool, alcohol wipes, and one of everything else, just in case. I fold the ends of the sheet into the center, tie them together, and as I step into the hallway, I hear my mother. She is so loud, everyone goes silent and turns toward the ward. I shudder and rush back.

  Bea is staring down at a messy purple bundle in her hands. “Well, I guess he was in a hurry to see everyone,” she says.

  The woman uses a towel to reveal a puckered face.

  My brother—with sticky black hair and a flat nose.

  He squirms and cries. Bea hands him to my mother. A part of me wants her to be indifferent, to prove what kind of person she is, but she’s crying, too, and kissing the top of my brother’s head and filled with all the love I imagine she had for me—once. Sixteen years ago I was perfect and pure and anything was possible. I just didn’t grow into the person she wanted.

  “We can’t stay,” Bea tells me. “Did you get everything we’ll need?”

  “And more.” I stare at my brother’s tiny toes. He has toenails. “We have to take them with us.”

  My mother looks up. “I’m staying here,” she says. Despite all the noise and blood and people, she is smiling. I’ve never seen her like this—I’ve never seen her happy.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “The pod’s my home. I won’t leave it.”

  “You want the baby to grow up here?”

  A siren sounds somewhere beyond the infirmary and does battle with the alarm on the lower floors. “I doubt Premiums will be very welcome wherever you’re going,” my mother says.

  Bea puts her arm around my waist. “Quinn,” she says.

  “But . . .” I begin.

  “It has to be her choice.”

  “His name is Troy,” my mother says. She breathes him in. He scrunches his toes, and I stretch out my arms to take him from her.

  “No,” Bea says, and blocks my brother from view. “It’s not okay for him to lose his mother.” And she should know. I should know, too.

  I kiss Troy and my mother turns her cheek toward me, so I can kiss her, too. But I can’t. I step away.

  An explosion booms through the pod and the ward of the hospital. Bea takes my hand. “We’ve done all we can,” she says.

  “I just . . .” Words stopper up my throat.

  “She knows you love her,” Bea says.

  My mother is sniffling. Maybe she loves me, too. I take one last look at Troy, and turn around.

  We have to go. There’s a war on, and we’re needed.

  56

  RONAN

  The bottom of the tower is being pummeled from outside and the door has a sizeable dent in it. The gunfire makes my teeth vibrate. Shots are fired and the thumbprint panel on the wall sizzles and sparks. “They’re almost through,” Sila
s says.

  “We only kill if we have to,” Alina says. Silas looks at her warily.

  “We have to,” I say. I sound sure. I don’t feel it.

  We reload our rifles and crouch beside the door. It’s a pack of them and three of us. In place of fear, impatience streams through me—I want us to have won already.

  The locks are bombarded with bullets, the door crashes inward and with it, a band of Sequoians. They charge the spiral staircase, not bothering to check behind them and giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to unleash a round of ammo. Shots ricochet through the tower and blood flecks my face. I keep firing. Better to shoot than to think.

  Many of the rebels fall backward down the stairs, their limp bodies cracking against the floor. It’s hard to tell in the dimly lit tower which of them are dead and which injured, but they’re all young. They’re as young as I am.

  Silas and Alina go to the pile of groaning bodies to collect the guns. One boy lying on a low step clings to his rifle, and as I make a grab for it, he tries to kick me with both feet. I dodge him and use my own rifle to jab one of his legs. He howls and releases his gun. I seize it and jump over him to get to two others, but they’re quite still, their eyes glinting. I look away; the last thing I want is to see their eyes.

  “Ronan!” Alina calls. I join her and Silas at the door. The enemy has overpowered our inexperienced army and charge toward the door to Recycling Station East. Our soldiers are either lying dead or with their hands behind their heads, their faces in the dirt. Now I know Jude was right; you can’t train an army in weeks.

  What now?

  Before I can decide, Silas and Alina are gone, sprinting toward the station. I try to catch them, but they’re too quick. They leap over the station’s sandbags, use them for cover, and begin firing. I drop next to them and do the same.

  Half the rebels trying to get through the door collapse under our gunfire. The rest turn their car door shields around trying to protect themselves. But the doors aren’t bulletproof and within a minute we’ve taken down all but a few. It’s easier than it should be.