Among the Brave sc-5

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  How can I be relieved to see the Population Police? he wondered.

  He just didn’t want to face another mob.

  Backing blindly away from the bridge, he felt around in all directions, desperately hoping that his hand would brush a hubcap or a fender. But there was no truck hidden here.

  “No,” Trey moaned. The muscles in his legs began to tremble, exhaustion and panic catching up with him. If he didn’t find the truck soon, he had no hope of rescuing Mark. Why had he agreed to such an impossible plan? How could he possibly find the truck now?

  He peered up and down the river once again, looking for another bridge. Why hadn’t he paid closer attention when he and Mark were hiding the truck? Why hadn’t he memorized every detail of their surroundings? Why wasn’t it daylight so he could see better?

  No, he didn’t want it to be daylight When it was daylight, Mark would die.

  In desperation, Trey looked around yet again. This time, when he was swinging his head back and forth, he caught a glimpse of something shiny on the opposite shore — metal, or maybe glass, catching the dim reflection of the lanterns on the bridge.

  Trey locked his head in place and stared. Maybe, maybe…

  What if this was the right bridge, but the truck was on the opposite side?

  Trey squinted, trying to turn the small gleam into an entire truck, tucked away under leaves and branches.

  Did I cross a bridge over the river? Could I have done that without noticing?

  Of course he could have — when he was running away from the mob, or even before, when he was trying to stay in the shadows. He remembered the way Mark had taunted him, “I think if I’d never seen the outdoors, I’d keep my eyes open once I was in it” Trey’s not paying attention had almost cost Mark his life.

  And it still might turn out to.

  Trey stepped tentatively back into the water, but it was cold and the current rushed at him. The riverbed sloped so severely that he could tell: Only a few more steps and the water would be over his head.

  Why hadn’t Lee included swimming in the roster of athletics he pushed at us back at Hendricks? Trey thought ruefully.

  But he hadn’t, and there was no time to waste regretting that now.

  Trey was going to have to cross the bridge.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  Trey had barely begun climbing up toward the bridge before the sentry began yelling at him. He had practically forgotten about the sentry. He’d been more worried about the lights.

  “No one’s allowed to cross this bridge!” the sentry screamed. “Turn back or be shot!”

  “Relax,” Trey said, remembering how well bluffing had worked before. “I’m a Population Police guard come to, uh, requisition a contraband vehicle parked over there.” He pointed at the opposite shore and then, for good measure, lifted his arm to show the insignia on his sleeve. But now that he was in the light, he saw that the insignia was hanging by two threads from a ripped place in his sleeve. His pants were ripped too, he noticed, and mud stains covered the uniform from his waist down.

  The sentry regarded him suspiciously.

  “A mob attacked me,” Trey said. “They thought I had food.”

  “No mob would dare lay a finger on a Population Police official,” the sentry sniffed.

  “This one did,” Trey muttered.

  “Where’s your travel pass?” the sentry asked.

  “Look, I’ve got authorizations,” Trey said, reaching into his shirt pocket. But the authorizations only concerned transporting prisoners. The guard back at the Grants’ house hadn’t known that Trey would need authorization to cross this particular bridge.

  The guard was reaching for Trey’s papers. Any minute now he’d discover that Trey was a fraud.

  “See? Now out of my way. I’m in a hurry,” Trey said, shoving the papers back into his pocket

  “Wait! I couldn’t—”

  Trey took off in a dead run past the sentry.

  “Stop! I have to sign the authorization!” the sentry was shouting behind him.

  Trey reached the edge of the bridge and took a flying leap over the railing as soon as he saw firm ground on the other side. Except that it wasn’t so firm — he began slipping and sliding down the mound of dirt, crashing through branches and leaves.

  He stopped only when he slammed into the truck’s tire.

  Trey resisted the urge to hug the tire in relief and just lie there for a while. Instead, he scrambled up immediately, jerked open the door of the truck, and jumped inside, jamming the keys into the ignition. He’d planned to spend a few minutes studying all the dials on the dashboard, maybe reading the owner’s manual from the glove compartment. But there wasn’t time for that now. He turned the key.

  Nothing happened.

  Oops. What was that pedal I was supposed to push— the clutch?

  He tried the key again, this time stabbing his feet at the pedals on the floor. The engine roared to life, but died while Trey was reaching for the gearshift.

  Behind him, the sentry was leaning over the edge of the bridge, screaming at him.

  “Sir! I insist—”

  Trey ignored him, and concentrated on coordinating his feet and the gearshift. The truck lurched forward, toward the river.

  No! No! Reverse! his mind screamed, and he shifted, grinding the gears horribly The engine started to die again, and he panicked, hitting the gas pedal as hard as he could. The truck raced backward up the hill, toward the road. Branches scraped at the side of the truck and saplings broke off beneath the tires, but Trey didn’t care as long as none of the obstacles stopped him.

  The truck died again at the top of the hill, as Trey was trying to shift gears into forward.

  “Sir! You are forcing me to conclude that you are not on a legitimate Population Police mission!” the sentry yelled at him. “Get out of that truck or—”

  Trey started up the truck’s engine yet again, and zoomed past the sentry, going as fast as he could in first gear. The engine made a terrible noise, but Trey couldn’t take the chance of trying to shift into second.

  “I warned you!” the sentry screamed.

  Trey heard gunfire, but nothing struck him, and nothing struck the truck as far as he could tell. He rounded a corner onto a new street, so that a row of buildings now stood between him and the sentry.

  What if he radios for help? They wondered. What if every Population Police official in the country starts looking for me?

  Trey pulled into a dark alleyway and shut off the engine. It was torture not to know. He silently crept back toward the bridge, staying hidden in the shadows the entire way.

  The sentry was still standing on the bridge, but he wasn’t screaming into a radio. For some strange reason, he was taking his shirt off Puzzled, They watched as the sentry lay the shirt on the ground, walked a few paces away, and fired his gun at it. Then he put the gun away and held the shirt up in the air. Light shone through the gunshot holes in the front and back. Then, laughing, the sentry tossed the shirt over the edge of the bridge and waved at something or someone in the shadows on the other side. Several dark shapes emerged from the shadows — men in dark shirts and pants, all carrying huge bags on their shoulders. The bags appeared to be burlap, or some similar material meant for holding food.

  Food? Were these smugglers?

  The shirtless sentry tucked his gun into his waistband and grabbed a bag of his own. Then all of the men disappeared into the dark, walking in the opposite direction from Trey.

  Did the sentry just desert from the Population Police? Trey wondered. Or was he only pretending to begin with?

  Either way, he didn’t seem worried about chasing down Trey, now that Trey was out of sight. Feeling vastly relieved, Trey crept back to the truck, started it, and began driving cautiously back to the Population Police headquarters.

  After everything Trey had witnessed out in the streets, who could say what awaited him there?

  C
hapter Twenty-Six

  Getting back to the Grants’ old house took only a fraction of the time it’d taken to get to the truck. But the whole time, Trey worried about the noise of the engine; he worried about another mob swamping him. He worried every time he accidentally killed the engine trying to shift gears and had to struggle to restart it. Every time that happened, he knew he was a sitting duck, a perfect target for anyone who might happen along. But nobody appeared.

  Maybe the truck noise scares them off Trey tried to tell himself. Maybe it’s good I’m making so much racket.

  Between the mob, the smugglers, and the easily fooled Population Police patrol, nothing seemed to fit with the strictly regimented world his parents had always described.

  Has everything changed? Trey wondered. Is everything still changing?

  He peered into the area illuminated by his headlights as if the air itself might suddenly become different.

  Hey, Dad? he thought. There’s no way you could have prepared me for all of this. I know you did the best you could.

  The sky was still blessedly dark when Trey pulled up to the gates of the Population Police headquarters. The sentry guarding the gates yawned over Trey’s authorization forms, and barely glanced at Trey.

  “Permission granted to proceed,” he mumbled.

  Trey drove around to the back, hoping that he could manage not to kill the engine yet again right in front of headquarters. The truck did die a few feet away from the servants’ door, but Trey decided to pretend that he’d parked there on purpose. The guard Mark and Trey had bargained with came rushing over immediately.

  “Great!” he said. “Help me get the cage.”

  Trey followed him through the door and down a dark hallway toward the basement stairs.

  “Why don’t you just unlock the cage and let Mark walk?” Trey asked.

  The guard shook his head.

  “Can’t,” he said. “Bring me back my friend, and then I’ll give you the key to your friend’s cage.”

  “That’s mighty manipulative of you, isn’t it?” Trey joked, though he’d already agreed to that part of the deal.

  The guard gave Trey a warning look as they came up to another guard sitting at a desk.

  “Hey, Stan,” the first guard said to the second one. “This guy just showed up with authorization to transfer our prisoner out to Nezeree.”

  “Huh?” the other guard — Stan? — said. “I thought he was going to be executed at dawn.” He, didn’t sound like he cared. He sounded like Mark’s life didn’t matter any more than a gnat’s or a flea’s.

  “Maybe they’re doing the execution out there,” the first guard said with a shrug, as if it didn’t matter to him either.

  Stan peered carefully at the authorization papers.

  “‘Should we call Commander Bresin and double-check?” he asked.

  The first guard shrugged.

  “You can if you want. I don’t feel like getting in trouble for waking him up.”

  Stan seemed to be deliberating. He looked at the papers again. Trey sincerely hoped that every forged signature looked authentic. Then Stan looked at Trey.

  “They let guards dress that sloppy out at Nezeree?” he asked.

  Trey was suddenly conscious of the rips in his uniform, the dirt caked on his shoes, the mud streaked across his pants. And when had he lost his cap?

  ‘Aw, Stan, they’ve got a rough crowd out there in Nezeree. He was trying to subdue one of their prisoners and. .” The first guard shrugged, as if the rest of the explanation should be obvious.

  “Remind me not to get transferred out there,” Stan said. He handed two of the papers back to Trey and laid the others down on his desk. “if the documents say our prisoner’s going to be transferred instead of executed, I guess he’s got to go. Need help loading?”

  “Thanks, but the two of us can handle it,” the first guard said smoothly.

  Trey followed him down the stairs. This time the guard hit the light switch. Mark gasped at first, then grinned when he saw Trey.

  “Act like you still think you’re about to die,” the guard whispered.

  Mark nodded, then began to flail about in his cage.

  “No, no,” he screamed.

  “Quietly,” the guard commanded.

  Mark switched to making a horrified expression and tugging uselessly on his bars.

  “That’s better,” the guard said. He picked up one end of the cage, and Trey took the other. It was a strain, but together they managed to carry the cage up the stairs. The other guard, Stan, stood aside and let them pass.

  “You’re signing off on the paperwork on this,” he told the first guard. “I don’t want nobody blaming me for nothing.”

  “No problem,” the first guard said. “Why would anybody blame anybody for anything? All the documents are right there."

  He and Trey continued carrying Mark on out to the truck. With great effort, they managed to hoist the cage into the truck bed. Too late, Trey thought that he should have faked weakness, forced the guard to let Mark out. But the guard probably wouldn’t have. He probably would have just gotten Stan to help.

  The guard handed Trey even more papers.

  “These’ll let you pick up my friend. Once the warden at Nezeree signs them, you’ll be authorized to pick up your other friends, too. They’re at the holding camp in Slahood. But I arranged these documents so you can’t get your friends without picking up my friend first If — if you try to double-cross me, in any way, I’ll find out You’ll both be on the most-wanted list. You’ll be shot on sight by any Population Police officer in the country”

  “I understand,” Trey said, trying not to think about it.

  The guard looked at his watch.

  “It’s five thirty-three. The transfer order for picking up your friends expires at ten. Just like we agreed.”

  Trey wanted to bargain for another hour or two. What if the officials at Nezeree were slow delivering their prisoner? What if he couldn’t drive fast enough?

  “One more thing,” the guard said. “Just to make it look legitimate, I wrote on these documents that all the prisoners you’re transporting are being sent to Churko — the worst prison of all. So… don’t let anyone else take over your delivery job.” He laughed, but without any humor.

  “Okay,” Trey said. He slid back into the driver’s seat. His knees were shaking, but he somehow managed to start the truck and shift it into reverse.

  “Good luck,” the guard said. He tilted his head to look up at the truck, and his cap slid back on his head. For the first time, Trey got a good look at the guard’s face in the glow from a security light overhead. The guard had kindly eyes that somehow looked familiar. And he was older than Trey had thought. Short gray hair spiked out from under his cap.

  “Liber,” Trey whispered.

  He thought he’d spoken too softly to be heard over the engine noise. But the guard answered him.

  “Free,” he whispered back. “God free us all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Trey had barely driven out the gates of Population Police headquarters when Mark began tapping on the window behind him. Trey turned around to look, practically driving off the road in the process. He slammed on the brake just in time to avoid ending up in the ditch. Of course, that killed the engine instantly.

  With shaking hands, Trey opened the window behind him so he could talk to Mark.

  “Good grief! Who taught you how to drive?” Mark asked jokingly

  “You,” Trey said.

  “I think I was safer facing execution,” Mark moaned.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Trey muttered through gritted teeth. His heart was still pounding hard, though. What if they had landed in the ditch, gotten stuck, and missed their deadline for rescuing Lee and the others?

  “Okay, here’s what we do,” Mark said. “There’s a tool chest under the seat Find the wire cutter in there, set me free, and then let’s go straight to picking up Luke.”


  Trey glanced around quickly, as if he was afraid someone would hear. They were in a deserted stretch, but he’d already learned that deserted-looking areas might hold the most danger.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he whispered back to Mark. “Didn’t you hear the guard? If we double-cross him — if we don’t pick up his friend first — we can’t get our friends, and we’ll be shot on sight by any Population Police officer.”

  “What if he was just bluffing? What if this is all just a trap that’s going to get us both killed — and Lee and the others, too?” Mark asked.

  Trey hadn’t considered that possibility He’d been too focused on the challenges of getting to the right place at the right time.

  “What if the guard’s friend is dangerous?” Mark continued.

  “I don’t know,” Trey wailed. The dashboard lights flickered. “Does that mean something bad?” he asked Mark.

  “Yeah, you’re starting to drain the battery. Look, just hand me the toolbox, and start the engine again and keep driving. Once I get out of here, I’ll take over the wheel. Then you can look through the documents and see if you spot a trick”.

  In the dark, Trey searched around under the seat until he found a large metal box. He stepped out of the cab only long enough to put the toolbox in the truck bed beside the cage, well within Mark’s reach. Mark handed him something round in exchange. Trey stared at it, puzzled.

  “It’s an apple,” Mark said. “Remember? Food? The guard gave me my knapsack back You’ve got to be at least as hungry as I am.”

  “Thanks,” Trey said.

  He slid back into the front seat, and took a bite. The apple seemed to be the most delicious food he’d ever tasted in his life.

  Good thing that mob’s not chasing me now, he thought, as he started the engine again and drove cautiously back onto the road.