“I had nothing to do with the breakout.”
“You really expect us to believe that? Wasn’t your twin sister one of the organisers?” he said a little too loudly. Several students at the neighbouring tables glanced our way. That included three boys at an adjacent table, whom I recognised as the Italian, Greek, and Anglo-Saxon from my class, the ones who seemed rather excited when the homeroom teacher read out my name.
“I told her – all of them – not to do it.”
“So you admit you knew it was going down but expect us to believe you weren’t part of it?”
“The fact I’m here’s proof I wasn’t.” I kept my voice low, but not so low our audience couldn’t hear it. “Besides, can’t blame them for trying to get out of this dump of a town, can you?”
“What do they put in this stuff?” Mehmet interrupted, picking at his lunch. He harpooned some hapless pasta and green vegies and held it up for us to see.
“What are you doing?” Dylan asked him.
“What kind of vegetable is this supposed to be?” he asked. “Don’t taste like anything I know.”
“Mehmet!”
The Turkish lad shrugged his shoulders. What have I done wrong now?
“This isn’t something to make light of, mate. I lost my cousins in that breakout!”
“And I lost my little sister!” I said, butting in.
Dylan turned back to me. “Do you even feel guilty, or are you so relieved you didn’t go out with them you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“I do feel guilty–”
“Huh!” Dylan slapped the table triumphantly, taking in his friends with the gesture.
“–guilty because I didn’t go with them,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I could have made a difference if I’d gone. I could have saved them,” I said, looking down. And that was the truth. With my ability to echolocate, I might have spotted the Skel before they sprung their ambush. We may have been able to drive them away or avoid them entirely.
“And how do you figure that?” he scoffed.
I didn’t reply. Somehow, I didn’t feel comfortable sharing that I defeated a Skel once, it would have sounded like I was boasting. Not to mention I still had nightmares of the incident, especially the frightful bruises the Skel gave me.
“Hey, you ever seen a Skel?” Mehmet asked between mouthfuls. “I heard they wear suits of armour made from human bones and stink like rotting corpses. That so?”
I just looked at him, wondering why he was on a different page from the others.
“‘Cause if you have, I reckon that’d be all the convincing you need not to join the breakout. Ninety civies traipsing through the ruins must have been like a Skel mating call, I reckon. I’d have stayed behind too.”
“You actually believe what he’s saying?” Dylan’s eyes were as wide as saucers as he stared at his friend.
“Why not?”
“He’s lying!” Dylan turned to the so-far silent member of the group. “Tell him, Isaac.”
“He’s lying,” Isaac said, not taking his eyes from me.
“Believe what you want,” I said, wondering how I could extricate myself from this confrontation without looking weak.
“You admit you knew about the breakout, so you must also have known about the illicit goods your forager buddies were smuggling into town,” Dylan said.
“What are you on about now?” I demanded crossly.
“So how did you hide your complicity from the authorities?” A flash of revelation suddenly crossed Dylan’s young face. “You're a snitch, aren't you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You ratted out your forager buddies in return for a get-out-of-jail-free card, didn’t you? And you're still snitching for the Custodians now, aren't you?”
Several of the students listening in to our conversation gasped. It appeared that like most of the town’s population, the students held no love for the Custodians, and even less for informants. Informants like me.
I looked up at Dylan aghast, acting like I’d been struck. By making that accusation in such a public manner, he had effectively destroyed my ability to blend in with the students and come alongside any harbouring rebellious ideas. With the thought that I was a snitch in their minds, no one would trust me. I realised I had to nip the accusation in the bud before it took root. I didn’t want to come home from school today and tell Mr. Cho that my cover had already been blown.
I stood and did my best to look incensed. “You claim your forager friend said no one's seen me since the breakout? You don’t have to put two and two together to work out where I’ve been these past two-plus years.”
“How would I–”
“I’ve been in prison, you idiot.” I feigned anger by tightening my grip on my water bottle, scrunching it up in my fist. The lid popped off and water gushed out the top.
Dylan stared at me, dumbfounded.
“I was charged as an accessory to the breakout, smuggling, and drugs operation. They had no evidence, of course, but refuted my declaration of innocence and locked me up anyway. And you know what? The Custodians weren't happy about the two year sentence the magistrate gave me, so they put me in a hard labour prison factory.”
“What?” Dylan found his voice at last.
“Spent the past two-and-a-half years working my butt off from dawn to dusk repairing faulty washing machines and fridges. Spent the nights with three other blokes in a cell with a small window too high to see out of, a freezing concrete floor, and no amenities apart from the toilet, basin, and a cot that should have been recycled decades ago. Now, if you don’t mind, can I eat my lunch?”
A retort was already forming on Dylan’s lips, but Isaac stood, cutting him off. “Come on, mate, let’s go.”
“But–”
“My lunch’s getting cold.”
“Why don’t you do us all a favour and go back to prison?” Dylan snapped, before picking up his tray and storming off to the other side of the cafeteria. The tall blonde followed on his heels, but Mehmet hesitated after he stood.
“You going to get stuck into me too?” I asked.
“I was just along for the ride.” He smirked while he spoke, and then headed off after his mates.
“Great,” I muttered, hoping that by telling them I’d been in prison it would get them off the idea that I was a snitch.
I picked at my lunch, having lost my appetite. However, my ears picked up when the three boys from my class at the adjacent table started whispering furiously amongst themselves. I pretended to focus on my sandwich while listening to what they were saying, glancing surreptitiously in their direction a couple of times in order to match the voices with the speakers.
“What do you reckon, Jazza?” asked the dark haired, slim Anglo-Saxon. “Should we sound Brandon out? See if he’s interested in joining up?”
“Don’t know, Carver,” replied the muscular Italian boy. Jazza, it would appear.
“Don’t see why not. I don’t believe he wasn’t involved with the smuggling and drugs. The foragers who were doing all the illegal stuff were a tight knit bunch from what I heard.”
“Him spending two years in prison means the Custodians don’t believe him either,” said the Greek, the boy with short-cropped hair.
“All that tells us, Stefan, is that he’s a crook. With no regard for the law. Doesn’t mean he’s like us.”
“So we talk to him, and if need be, we’ll get him thinking in the right direction. That’s our goal, after all, yeah? To get more lads into the movement by subverting their way of thinking to our own,” Carver said.
“Normally I’d say yes, but Brandon Thomas? The Custodians have tried to keep it all hush-hush, but I’d wager every boy in the school has heard of Brandon and Chelsea Thomas. And now, suddenly, the brother’s here, back at school?” Jazza said.
“If you’ve got a point, can you get to it?” Carver said.
“I wanna run the idea of tryin
g to recruit him past the Patriot first. See if he’s heard something we haven’t.”
“What’s with you and the Patriot, man?” Stefan hissed. “Since we joined with him, you’ve become a stick in the mud. Won’t even tie your blasted shoe laces without his approval.”
“You going down that road again?” Jazza said.
“We got so excited when he recruited us with all his promises of going up against the chancellor and his Custodian lapdogs. But he’s been nothing but talk. How many sympathisers have we shamed? How many buildings have we torched? How many Custodians have we wacked? We’ve done nothing but talk. Meanwhile, my dad rots in prison,” Carver said.
“You going to talk about your dad being in prison again? You think your family’s the only one suffering because of the powers that be? Take what you’re going through and multiple it by a hundred and maybe you’ll get close to what my family’s endured at the Custodian’s hands!” Jazza said, his voice rising above a whisper. He managed to get his raging emotions back under control. “Look, I hate those dogs more than anyone and can’t wait to pave the roads red with their blood, but it’s got to be done properly, and at the right time, just like the Patriot says. If we go off half-cocked all we’ll do is get ourselves arrested like the idiots who staged the stop work meeting two years ago.”
“Bah!” Carver spat.
The three boys fell to talking about other matters then, so I zoned out and contemplated the fact that I had stumbled upon what appeared to be some sort of organised resistance to the establishment. But not just a group that was planning to change the town or overthrow the government, but that was planning to unleash a campaign of terror including arson and murder in achieve its ends. A group with a secret leader known simply as the “Patriot.” I never thought I would uncover anything so dire this quickly, but then I underestimated the waves my brother’s appearance would cause.
It was only because I was here pretending to be Brandon that Dylan and his group went to town on me, and that Jazza, Stefan and Carver were discussing getting me to join their group. And it was only due to my genetically modified hearing that I could overhear every word they said. Still, I wondered what Jazza alluded to when he said his family had endured much at the Custodian’s hands. What had they done to them?
* * *
I sat before Mr. Cho’s large mahogany desk, grasping my hands together tightly to counter the almost irresistible urge to fidget. I had just given him my report on my first day at school. I knew I had no choice but to report my findings, but I felt uneasy all the same. Once upon a time, I wasn’t that different from the three boys I just dobbed in. Actually, that wasn’t true. All I wanted to do was escape. I would have never been part of any plan that involved killing anyone, not even the Custodians, as much as I despised them.
“Good work, Chelsea,” he said.
“What happens now? Are you going to arrest them?” I asked. I tried to suppress an image of burly Custodians storming into the homeroom and arresting Jazza, Stefan and Carver, while everyone else in the room put two and two together and looked straight at me.
“It would be premature to take action now.” Mr. Cho fixed me with a harsh gaze. “I want you to watch them, drop hints that you disapprove of the authorities, and work your way into their confidence. Do everything you can to join their group so you can learn where the group meets, the identity of all of its members, and most of all, the identity of the man they call the ‘Patriot.’ Then we will arrest the lot of them in one swoop.”
“As you wish, Sir.”
“Dismissed.”
I retired to our quarters after the evening meal, too exhausted to join the others when they adjourned to the lounge room.
I sat on my bunk and tried to work through the myriad of conflicting emotions that raged through me from having reported Jazza and his two companions.
In the end, I picked up A Better Way, looking for something to distract me from myself current train of thought. I opened the book to continue where I left off and noticed another slip of green paper wedged against the spine.
Glancing over my shoulder to make sure I was alone, I teased it out and read the message. Does the chancellor really have our best interests at heart?
The mystery conspirator was trying to sow doubts in my mind about the chancellor. But towards what end? What were they hoping to achieve with these notes? Folding up the paper, I slipped it behind the wardrobe drawer, wondering yet again who was doing this.
Glancing at the clock, I put the book away and climbed into bed. Last thing I wanted to deal with right now was Romy when she got back from the lounge.
* * *
When I got to school the next day I was surprised to see the blocky, imposing bulk of a Custodian Bushmaster armoured vehicle parked outside the main gate. Four full armed and armoured Custodians stood at the gate, checking the students’ bags before allowing them into the school.
I was third in line from the gate when an altercation broke out.
“What’s this?” the sergeant demanded from a short, portly lad with spiky black hair.
“It’s my steak knife,” the boy replied with a touch of insolence.
“Weapons of any form are prohibited!” the sergeant snapped.
“It’s not a weapon – I use it to cut my meat. The plastic cutlery the cafeteria hands out is useless! Try it yourself if you don’t believe me,” the student snapped back. Craning my head past the students in front of me, I caught sight of the supposed “weapon” found in the boy’s bag. It did indeed appear to be a steak knife, and hardly what I’d call a weapon. All the same, everyone knew they weren’t permitted to carry knives.
The sergeant flicked his head towards one of his men, who stepped forward and slammed the butt of his gun on the boy’s head. The boy cried out and fell to the ground, blood pouring from an ugly gash across his forehead.
“Insolence will not be tolerated!” the sergeant bellowed to the rest of the students waiting to enter the school.
I felt sorry for the injured boy as one of the Custodian privates pulled him roughly to his feet and carted him over to their vehicle. He would be taken to Custodian HQ, charged with possession of a weapon and with disrespecting the Custodian’s authority.
After that ugly scene typical of Custodian brutality, the rest of the boys kept their heads down and answers short. When my turn came and the sergeant checked my bag, I was relieved I had the sense to keep my spare liner and sanitary pad in my jeans pockets these days. I still remembered the intense embarrassment I felt when Sergeant King tipped out the contacts of my bag two years ago and found a pad in it.
Receiving the sergeant’s nod to enter school, I made my way straight to homeroom. Most of the boys were already there, milling about, talking, or beating out rhythms on their desks with wooden rulers.
Head down, I headed for my seat, but stopped when Dylan stepped into the aisle to block the way.
“Thought you weren’t coming back today,” he said. All conversation in the room ceased as eyes turned in our direction.
Chapter Ten
“You wish.” I tried to make my way past him, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Come on mate, don’t do this,” Mehmet said, pulling on Dylan’s arm.
“Who’s side are you on?” he snapped.
“You said your piece yesterday, now let it go.”
Dylan glared at his friend but let me pass all the same. I dropped into my seat and put my backpack under the desk.
“He’s an okay guy when you get to know him,” Mehmet said as he sat beside me.
“I’m sure he–” My words died in my throat when the last person I expected to see in school walked through the door.
Ryan Hill.
The one who said he couldn’t live without me, and yet sent me into the Genetics Laboratory to find out what the geneticists were doing. The one who justified his actions by saying it was the only way to get me out of jail.
He wasn’t wearing his Custodian uniform
today but neatly pressed jeans, shirt and tie, and low-cut jumper. Typical teacher garb. He sought out my eyes, flashed me the briefest of smiles, and took his place behind the teacher’s desk at the front.
To say I was shocked was putting it mildly. My first thought was that he had quit the Custodians and had taken up teaching, but then I recalled he worked as an Undercover Operative. His presence here today was no coincidence but in direct response to the report I gave Mr. Cho yesterday. He would be here to investigate the teachers while I checked out the students. So this operation was now a joint taskforce involving the Custodians and Specialists. I wondered who was in charge. Probably Mr. Cho.
Seeing him sent me into a spin. I was in school and working undercover for the chancellor because Ryan sent me to the lab. However, I no longer knew if I could trust him after finding out about the fate of the escapees. He told me previously that the report of their deaths and capture by the Skel was just a rumour and that I could ignore it. Now I found myself wondering why he didn’t just tell me the truth. Was he trying to protect me from the horror of it all, knowing I would blame myself? Or, was he was trying to control me, having planned to send me into the lab all along, and didn’t want the knowledge to unhinge me? If that was the case, he’d made a major blunder, for Mr. Cho set me straight on that issue almost as soon as I stepped foot in the door. My blood boiled in either case – he had no right to hide the truth from me or manipulate me toward his own ends.
Moreover, if Ryan lied to me about the escapees, perhaps he also lied when he said he was working for a resistance cell plotting the downfall of the chancellor. For all I knew, he could be working for the chancellor, spying on the geneticists to find out if they were doing what they were supposed to be doing, or if they had their own private agenda.
“Take your seats, Class 12B,” Ryan said. He spoke with such authority that I almost didn’t recognise him.
“And who are you when you’re at home?” Jazza called out from the back.
“I’m Mr. Hill, your new homeroom and history teacher.”
Forager - the Complete Six Book Series (A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Series) Page 106
