Resist b-2

by Sarah Crossan

  Those still alive abandon the tower and make a run for it. I watch them through my scope, but I can’t get a good shot, and they escape.

  “They’re heading for the south station,” Silas says. “Caffrey said it was the control tower.”

  “Damn!” I say. “If that goes down . . .” I don’t need to finish. Alina and Silas zoom away again. Anyone would think they’d been training with the Special Forces. I follow, but no sooner are we away than a rebel with a thick neck and tattoos down each arm is barring our route. He isn’t wearing a helmet nor carrying any kind of shield. And he has an assault rifle trained at us. The others all had simple rifles. We stop running. We haven’t got a choice.

  “Drop the guns,” he growls.

  “Maks?” Alina says. Her voice quivers. But the only thing that scares me is the fact that he’s stopping us getting to the south station.

  “Guns down, hands up,” he repeats, and we throw our guns to the ground and put our hands in the air. “On your knees.”

  “Get on with it,” Alina says. I can feel her shaking. I’d grip her hand, but I have a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate it. And neither would this thug.

  “Where are the others?” Maks asks. I look at Silas, not sure who he means.

  “They’re safe,” he says.

  “They won’t be when I find them,” Maks says.

  “I should’ve killed you in your sleep,” Alina says, acting more like herself. She spits into the dirt. Maks laughs.

  The zip fires and showers us in small rocks and shards of metal. We shrink from the shrapnel and Maks is thrown to his knees, his gun knocked from his hands. It gives me just enough time to retrieve my own and aim it at him. He puts his hands up and grins. Silas and Alina snatch up their guns, too, but they don’t shoot him, so neither do I, though one bullet is all it would take.

  “You’d rather fight alongside the Ministry than fellow rebels,” he sneers at Silas and Alina.

  “Thousands of innocent people live in the pod. You’re lunatics,” I tell him.

  Alina approaches Maks and his chest puffs out. She rams her gun against it. She pauses, and I think she’s about to say something, but without warning, she pulls the trigger.

  Maks stares at Alina in disbelief and falls forward. His face hits the clay and his green jacket darkens where the blood soaks through.

  Alina looks at me. “He would have killed us.” She doesn’t have to explain; I should have done it for her.

  “The south station,” I remind them, and we take off, leaving Maks to bleed into the earth.

  We squat behind the sandbags again, scanning the battlefield teeming with bodies and soldiers for a safe way into the station. “Straight through,” Silas says. Alina nods in agreement as one of our tanks grinds past.

  It fires and hits the zip. Shrapnel showers down and both Sequoians and Ministry soldiers are injured.

  Everything stops, giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to get to the tank. The hatch opens and a figure appears, lifting the visor on his helmet. It’s Jude. He shouts, but over the thunder of engines and distant gunfire, it’s impossible to tell what he wants.

  And then a round of gunfire rattles the air and Jude reels like a spinning top. He falls from the tank. I turn to see Maks on his elbows holding his gun, smiling. Silas and Alina flog him with bullets. This time he stays down.

  But Jude is down, too. A soldier is next to him. “Medic!” he shouts, and I run to them. I pull Jude’s radio from his inside pocket. “General Caffrey has been shot. Send a stretcher.” No one responds. Just static.

  Silas and Alina are next to me. Neither of them tries to help, and I don’t bother appealing to them. I wrench off my jacket, and place it beneath Jude’s head.

  “Is he dead?” Alina asks.

  “He’s got a pulse,” the soldier says.

  Jude opens his eyes, and I take a relieved breath. “It’s too late,” he croaks. “They’re at the south station. Get the people out of the pod. Get them all out.” He pulls at his collar. He’s been hit in the only unprotected place—his neck. I rip the arm from my shirt, scrunch it into a ball and press it against the wound. He can’t die. We need him.

  “There’s no time to evacuate so many people,” I tell him.

  “The south station,” Silas says coldly. He isn’t looking at Jude. He doesn’t know what Jude has become or that he’s spent these last few weeks protecting the Resistance.

  “Go,” I say, and they are gone, as is the soldier who clambers through the tank’s hatch and rolls away. Sequoia’s zip aims for the tank, barely missing it.

  Within a minute the piece of my shirt against Jude’s neck is soaked through with blood. My stomach clenches. I try appealing to whoever is on the other end of the radio again. But I may as well be talking to myself.

  Jude fingers his facemask. I increase the density of oxygen, for all the good it will do.

  “What now?” I ask, hoping he knows how to save himself.

  He coughs. “You seem capable, Ronan. You tell me.”

  57

  QUINN

  The blasts outside have covered the pod in a film of dust, so it’s pretty much impossible to see what’s going on. And Zone One is a mess. Alarms are ringing in every Premium building as auxiliaries loot them. There are bodies everywhere. No one’s safe, and the Ministry is visibly absent.

  You’ve got to wonder if this is a bit like The Switch—people so hungry for air they’d do anything to hang on a bit longer. And in the end, they all died anyway.

  I have Jazz on my back, and Bea is holding Lennon and Keane’s hands. We are on our way to the border. A figure rushes at me, and I hold tightly to my tank. I’m about to lash out, when I realize it’s Gideon. And he’s carrying a massive backpack. “I broke into the biosphere. Got bulbs, seeds, and a few cuttings: everything we need,” he says. He eyes Lennon and Keane.

  “My brothers,” I say. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “They went on ahead.”

  We turn into Border Boulevard and stop short. A group of men with airtanks and broken bottles sees us and charges. “Keep back!” Gideon says, waving a kitchen knife. The men come to an abrupt halt a few feet from us.

  “We could leave via the trash chutes?” Bea says, backing away from the men.

  One of them points at me. “You’re the Premium who spoke at the press conference. They said you were dead.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You said we could breathe outside,” the man continues. The rest of the gang listens. A larger group—kids my age wearing balaclavas—stop and watch.

  “It’s that guy from the screen,” one of them says. “Oi, everyone, it’s that Premium guy!” Within seconds we’re surrounded.

  “So can we breathe out there?” the man repeats. Looking at their faces—afraid and guarded—I realize that they don’t want to attack us; they want to be shown the way out of their miserable lives.

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  The crowd presses in. “What do we do?” someone demands. “You’re the one who started this.” A couple of months ago I didn’t believe I could start anything, and even now I’m not sure I can lead.

  “Tell them what to do,” Jazz murmurs in my ear.

  “It takes dedication,” I say. “But you can train your body to exist outside. And we can help you do it.”

  “Stuff that. I’m getting out of here and joining the Resistance. They’ll know what to do,” someone says.

  “We’re all that’s left,” Bea says. “The Ministry killed the others.”

  “You think we’ve been growing avocadoes and beets just in case you ever found the guts to leave? Get real. You need air but you need food, too. Nonperishable food. Everything you can find. We’ll wait for you at The Cenotaph,” Gideon says.

  “And be ready for it to get tough out there,” I warn them.

  “Right,” the man says, and the crowd disperses. They’ll probably loot for food, but if anyone can afford to have some stuff
nicked, it’s the Premiums. It’s no use worrying about them, when the poor can’t even breathe.

  Harriet, Old Watson, and the rest of the Resistance are at the border waiting for us. They’re loaded down with tanks, food, and weapons. No one’s guarding the border. “It’s a war out there,” Harriet says, as we trudge down the glass tunnel. She opens her backpack and hands out a slew of guns.

  “And in a couple months when we’re out of air and food?” Bea asks, speaking to me from the side of her mouth so no one else hears.

  I point at the bag of clippings and seeds Gideon’s carrying. “We’ll grow it,” I say, pushing on the revolving doors at the end of the tunnel and leading everyone out into the war zone.

  A solider is standing by the exit. When he sees me he gawps. “Quinn Caffrey? General Caffrey’s son?” He lets the empty stretcher he’s holding on his back fall to the ground and pulls up the visor on his helmet, so he can look me in the eye. “Your father’s been shot.” I am silent. Bea seizes my hand. “I was about to bring the stretcher. Come with me,” the soldier says.

  Surely I should stay with Bea and help the Resistance escape. But when I look at her, she shakes her head. “Go,” she says.

  I grab one end of the stretcher and follow the solider into the battlefield. I have to find my dad.

  58

  ALINA

  Silas and I lie on the ground. Dust swirls around us. “Where are they?” I say, eyeing the south station for Sequoian troops.

  Silas rubs the mirrored surface on the scope of his rifle and looks through it. “If they know this controls the supply for the other stations, they’ll be back,” he says. So we make for the tower, expecting to be met by defending Ministry soldiers on the other side of the sandbags. The area’s deserted.

  The gunfire lulls to almost nothing.

  It’s weird because Vanya didn’t strike me as a quitter. “Something’s not right,” I say. They must be planning an attack, and if they are, Silas and I won’t be able to hold them off alone. And then it dawns on me. “Oh no,” I say.

  Silas realizes it as I do. “We’re cornered,” he says. “Let’s try to get into the station.”

  And it’s then that Vanya’s voice rings out like she’s talking through the clouds. “I wouldn’t go near the tower, if I were you,” she says.

  “The west tower,” Silas says, and points. Recycling Station West had its tubing cut long ago, and Vanya must have taken control of it. I peer through the scope. She’s standing on its balcony, a megaphone to her face.

  “It’s going to blow,” she says.

  “Don’t bombs need oxygen?” I ask Silas, not that he’d know.

  But he does. “They only need fuel and an oxidizer. I’m sure someone in Sequoia would have thought of that.”

  “She really means to blow everything up?” I wonder aloud. The biosphere is located at the south side of the pod. Could the blast be so bad it destroys that, too? And what would we be left with? A smattering of people, no trees, and no pod? It would be worse than The Switch. I can’t let it happen. I dart toward the door, Silas behind me.

  Without a valid thumbprint to get inside, we have to shoot at the locks. A bullet whispers past my head and sears through the door.

  Vanya’s shooting at us.

  The door jiggles in the frame but still won’t open. I lie on the ground and kick with every ounce of strength left in me. Silas rams it with his body.

  “Troopers!” Vanya calls out, and within seconds a band of Sequoians is pounding toward us.

  But finally the door moans and falls open. I jump up as Vanya’s troopers come at us in one angry herd. Silas pulls me into the tower. “Find the bomb and do what you can. I’ll . . .”

  He doesn’t finish because what can he do against almost thirty of them? He peers around the door frame and starts to shoot.

  The winch squalls its way to the top, where the door to the control room is open, but it’s empty. I rush onto the balcony where four snipers are lying dead, their blood dripping over the ledge, and next to them is a solar respirator.

  I lean over the railing.

  The Sequoians are almost at the sandbags. I shoot wildly, unable to take a steady shot. And then I spot them—a gang in plain clothes who are following Vanya’s troopers.

  I squint and can’t help punching the air—it’s Uncle Gideon, Aunt Harriet, and the Resistance, shooting and almost in line with the Sequoians.

  They need my help, and I’m about to take the winch back to the ground when I glance at the respirator and see what I missed before—a box wrapped in yellow plastic with a panel of digital numbers on it has been taped to the back. Vanya’s bomb.

  The numbers flash: two hundred and nineteen, two hundred and eighteen. Seconds? How many minutes is that? I haven’t time to do the math, and I’ve no idea how to disarm it. I’m not Song.

  Two hundred and fourteen, two hundred and thirteen, two hundred and twelve . . .

  I could leave the bomb and make a run for it, but if I survive and nothing else does, what’s the point? If I can’t defuse the bomb, I’ll have to take it with me and get it as far from here as possible. It’s too big to carry except on my back, but I can’t do that with my own airtank tied to my belt. I unbuckle it, pull off my facemask, and put the solar respirator’s filthy apparatus over my mouth. It stinks. And it’s so heavy, it’s like carrying a boulder.

  The digital screen and numbers on it are now out of sight, which is probably for the best.

  I scrape my way to the winch and take it to the ground. Silas has gone. When I look outside, he is restraining a trooper on the ground. My aunt and uncle aren’t far away, warding off troopers with their guns. The Sequoians are strong, but they weren’t expecting the Resistance to reinforce the Ministry soldiers.

  I sprint around the back of the tower and stumble into the open land.

  The air coming from the solar-powered respirator is damp, and the mask scratches my face. I’d be better off without it, so I pull it off and throw it aside. The oxygen in the atmosphere is thin, but it’s enough after my training.

  A voice cries out. “Put it down, Alina! Put it down.”

  But I can’t. Not until I know everyone will be safe. I don’t care how heavy this thing is, or how scorched my throat feels.

  When I eventually look behind, the pod is lit by the setting sun. I think I’m far enough away to save it, so I shrug off the respirator and, without looking at how much time I have left, jump away from it. I just run. I run as fast as my lungs and legs will carry me.

  The voice comes at me again. It’s Silas. “Run, Alina! ALINA!” But he doesn’t need to worry. “ALINA!” he shouts.

  And I smile.

  59

  QUINN

  A blast throws me forward and onto the ground, where I smash my face against stones and scrape the skin from my hands. The air is suddenly gray. I stand up, but the steward doesn’t, so I roll him onto his back. He groans. “You all right?”

  “My leg,” he says. But I can’t help him, be with my father, and go back and deal with whatever caused that explosion.

  I have to make a choice.

  “Stay there,” I tell the steward, and run to my father and Ronan, who are sitting in the open by one of the stations. Ronan’s hand is against my father’s neck.

  “Is he alive?” I ask.

  “He’s slipping in and out of consciousness,” Ronan says. The gunfire in the distance stops. Ronan and I look at each other. Can it be over?

  “Dad,” I say. “Dad?”

  He pulls off his facemask and coughs blood all over himself. “Quinn?”

  “It’s me.” I use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe the blood from his face. I try to move his mask back into place, but he rolls his head from side to side to stop me. Ronan lets go of the fabric he’s pressing into my father’s neck, revealing a sinewy wound.

  “He was shot,” Ronan says, like I can’t figure that out for myself.

  My father moans and coughs a jellied
blood clot into his hand. This time he doesn’t resist when I try to refit the facemask. “The stations have faucets in them for filling tanks,” he wheezes. “Even if they manage to . . .”

  “Don’t talk,” I say, seeing how the effort hurts him. “Let’s try to get you inside.”

  “Quinn . . .” Ronan begins, and puts a hand on my arm.

  “Help me!” I tell him, and together we lift my father onto the stretcher. On the ground beneath him is a dark puddle, dry at the edges. I’ve never seen my father bleed, and in some childish way I thought he couldn’t.

  Blood pools on the stretcher, and it’s too hard to carry him because he’s struggling so much. We put it back down and I kneel next to him.

  “The twins. Your mother,” he says.

  “They’re fine,” I say, or at least I hope they will be. “Mom had the baby.”

  My father squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them, they’re wet. He raises a finger and gestures for me to move closer. I put my ear to the blowoff valve in his mask. “I’m not the best father,” he says.

  It’s true; he’s been an awful father at times. But it kind of felt as if he just didn’t know how else to be. I pull back and meet my father’s eyes. “Ronan told me you sent him to find me. Thank you.”

  A shot breaks the stillness and Ronan lifts his rifle. “We’re sitting ducks,” he says. He tries to lift the stretcher. I don’t help him. There’s no point.

  “You said once that in another world we could have been friends.” I pause and wait for him to show he’s heard me. I have to know he’s listening.

  “Stop,” he whispers.

  “And I think you were right.” He rips the mask from his face and this time flings it several feet away. Blood trickles from his nose. His eyes are vacant.

  Ronan jumps up to get the mask. But my father won’t need it.