Lockdown (The Fringe #4)

by Tarah Benner

  Pulling the ice off my swollen eye doesn’t do much to improve my view. The dim light of the tunnel is blocked by an imposing leathery man standing just outside my cage.

  He’s old by compound standards — probably late fifties or early sixties — but his sharp eyes aren’t filled with malice. He looks almost as though he feels sorry for me.

  “Let’s go, darlin’ . . .” he says in a gravelly drawl.

  My eyes drift from his graying gunslinger mustache to the name embroidered on his uniform: Woodhouse. His insignia tells me he’s the chief deputy and warden of the cages.

  “Where?” I ask groggily.

  “Visitation. It looks like your lawyer finally showed.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. I’ve been asking for my lawyer for the past twenty-four hours. If he’s here now, maybe that means somebody posted bail to spring me from this shit hole.

  I back away from the door and hold out my arms for the warden to cuff me. After he swipes in and restrains my wrists, he chains the cuffs to a leather belt around my waist and pulls me out of my cell.

  That’s when the jeers and howls of outrage begin. Ursula’s cell is empty, but the other inmates’ contemptuous scowls follow me all the way down the tunnel. A few bang their steel water cups against the cage bars, and those menacing sounds feel like a thousand tiny paper cuts.

  An old familiar panic swamps me, and it’s all I can do to keep moving and breathing. My face and neck are flushed with heat, but I set my jaw and stare straight ahead. I will not let them intimidate me.

  The main lobby is blocked by another set of bars. The warden whistles impatiently at a skinny, clueless first year manning the door, who scrambles off his stool and swipes his key card to let us through.

  When we round the corner, I’m standing in the main lobby of the Control Station, where two sleepy controllers are slumped behind the dispatch desk. A handful of harmless burnouts are cuffed to the benches along the wall, waiting to be processed or released.

  Before my eyes can fully adjust to the bright artificial light, Woodhouse pushes me down another tunnel. I nearly smack right into the fat mustachioed controller who tortured me when I was arrested for the bombing in Systems, and he gives me a sneer as if to say, “I knew you’d be back.”

  I glare daggers at him, and the warden has to give me a push to keep me moving down the tunnel. I want to feel relief as the controller’s footsteps fade behind me, but we’re approaching the interrogation room where I was electrocuted and grilled for information.

  Woodhouse steers me toward a dim windowless closet with a steel door and a tiny safety-glass window.

  “You’ve got one hour,” he drawls, unchaining my cuffs from the belt so I can move more easily. “I’ll be outside the entire time, so don’t try anything cute.”

  I nod.

  Woodhouse throws the door open, and I step inside.

  Even with the door closed, there’s barely enough room to navigate around the tiny laminate table and chairs that have been bolted to the floor. Sitting in the chair to my left is a thirty-something guy wearing a tight-fitting black suit.

  He has sandy-blond hair and a face like a baby. He’s got one foot propped up on the opposite knee, jiggling his foot to a nonexistent beat as he peruses the open file in front of him.

  When he gets a good look at me, he blanches and then clears his throat loudly. Ursula must have done a number on my face.

  “Hey there,” he says in a nervous voice, extending a hand even though mine are cuffed together.

  “Hi.”

  He holds his hand there for a moment and withdraws it slowly when he realizes I’m in no position to shake. He gestures to the table, and I slump down in a chair.

  “Wyatt Thompson,” says Baby Face, trying to keep his voice casual. “I’m the public defender Recon hired to work on your behalf.”

  “Thank god. I have to get out of here.”

  “Yeaaaah. Well . . .”

  I stare at him expectantly, and he squirms under my gaze.

  “Unfortunately . . . that doesn’t seem like much of a possibility.”

  “Why not?” I ask, trying to keep the edge of indignation out of my voice.

  Wyatt raises both eyebrows in an “Are you serious?” expression and flicks my file open with his thumb. “Well, to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what you were even arrested for. Half your file is sealed.”

  “What?”

  “I do know they’ve charged you with illegal smuggling and labeled Shane Adams as a person of interest in your case,” he says in a hurried voice. “That’s a pretty powerful ally to have. My guess is that they consider you a flight risk.”

  “Shane isn’t an ally,” I snap. “He tried to kill me.”

  Wyatt sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not how Control sees it.”

  Irritation and disbelief flare through me. “Let me get this straight: You’re supposed to defend me and you can’t even see what I was charged with?”

  He flips the file closed and shrugs.

  Of course my file is sealed. I was charged with colluding with drifters, and as far as the board is concerned, the drifters don’t exist.

  If people knew there were survivors out on the Fringe, Recon wouldn’t just be able to pick them off indiscriminately. There’d be protests and debate and people lobbying to let them into the compound.

  “So if I tell you what it is, can you get me out of here?”

  Wyatt scrunches up his face as though he’s preparing for an apology, but then he concedes with a sideways nod. “Possibly.”

  “Fine. But what I tell you has to stay between us.”

  “Of course. I’m your legal counsel.”

  “Right. Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Well, this is going to sound crazy, but . . . there are people living outside the compound . . . thousands of them.”

  Wyatt lets his chin drop forward so that he’s looking at me head-on. He thinks I’m crazy, but he’s listening.

  “Recon’s job is to keep those people — the drifters — away from the compound. When we go out onto the Fringe, we’re not just collecting soil samples or trying to gauge the livability of the outside. We’re patrolling the perimeter and visiting towns near the compound to kill drifters.”

  I shift in my seat and lean forward so I’m a few inches closer to Wyatt. “My commanding officer ordered me and my partner to take out a specific drifter — someone who’s close to their leaders. Only, that drifter is my partner’s brother. Eli couldn’t kill him, so he lied and told Jayden he was dead. I helped cover it up.”

  I stare down at the long crack running down the middle of the table. “I told Natasha Mayweather that Eli and I had brought back illegal relics from the Fringe. Constance spotted the drifter we were supposed to have killed on camera, and when Jayden searched Eli’s compartment, she found a photograph of Eli and his brother when they were kids. It didn’t take long for her to put the pieces together.”

  It feels strangely liberating to unload the truth on a complete stranger, but when I look up, Wyatt is still staring at me as though I might break out in song and dance at any moment.

  “The part of my file that’s sealed is the ‘colluding with drifters’ bit. My commander thinks my partner and I were plotting against the compound.”

  “So the rumors are true,” says Wyatt.

  “No,” I snap. “We weren’t trying to bring down the compound. But someone else is. The Recon operatives who went missing . . . They’re carrying a virus that could wipe out everyone here. I need to be released so I can warn the board and find my partner. He’s being held as a traitor . . . probably tortured by Constance. You have to help me get out of here.”

  A long minute passes in strained silence, my words hanging between me and Wyatt as he tries to comprehend what I’m telling him.

  Finally, he breaks into a crooked grin and lets out a short barking laugh. “Are you shitting me?”

  “No . . .”

  “Because
what you’re saying sounds fucking nuts. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but only because no one knows about the drifters.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” he asks. “You’re trying to tell me that Recon — the Bid Day rejects with IQs so low they aren’t fit to scrub toilets — are the people charged with protecting the compound from . . . bogeymen out in the desert?”

  That stings more than I’d like to admit. I’d always known tier-one workers looked down on Recon. Hell, I’d looked down on them, too. But hearing Wyatt’s uncensored opinion makes me clench my fists in anger.

  “The drifters are real.”

  “No offense, but no one is going to believe that. No one could have survived the radiation this long. And if they had, the board would have brought them into the compound — no question.”

  “There’s no room for them all,” I sigh in exasperation. “We’re talking hundreds of thousands. The compound couldn’t possibly sustain that many people.”

  “Even if that were true . . . and even if they were hostile . . . don’t you think the board would send someone else out to defend this place? Someone a little more qualified?”

  Now I’m pissed. Wyatt wouldn’t last one day out on the Fringe. Part of me longs to tell him that he only landed his prestigious tier-one position because of his superior genes, but the other part knows that throwing in the bit about the VocAps conspiracy is too much for him to digest. He’s already on the verge of dismissing my story entirely.

  “Of course they’d send tier-three people,” I growl. “They’re the only ones the board can force to do that type of dirty work. Do you know how many Recon people die every year protecting this compound?”

  Wyatt opens his mouth to blubber some bullshit statistic from Information, but I cut him off.

  “I’m sorry. That’s a trick question. Of course you don’t. You don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on because you don’t care — just as long as it doesn’t interfere with your perfect little life.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” says Wyatt in a placating tone. “There are survivors outside the compound. You were charged with conspiring with them . . .”

  I sigh and slam back into my chair. How the hell am I supposed to get out of here if my lawyer won’t even accept my testimony?

  “You know what?” I say finally. “If you don’t believe me, go to the medical ward and find Sawyer Lyang. She’s one of you. Tell her you’re defending me, and she’ll confirm everything I just said. Except she probably doesn’t know I’ve been arrested, so you should lead with that.”

  But Wyatt is already shaking his head. “Miss Riley . . . Harper. Can I call you Harper?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “I’m going to be straight with you because I don’t want to give you any false hope. It doesn’t really matter whether I believe your story or not. Lying to your commanding officer . . . refusing orders . . . those charges would normally be handled internally by your section. You’d be court-martialed, not arrested, which leads me to believe that they’re just looking for an excuse to put you away.

  “Whatever’s in that sealed portion of your file . . . That’s what’s motivating them. But the part they can prove — the fact that you were smuggling illegal goods into this compound — that’s what’s going to stick. You incriminated yourself, and they recovered those relics to use as evidence against you.

  “Now, we can work to get that sentence reduced, but from what I’ve heard, you’ve pissed off a lot of people in Control. You need to prepare yourself for the worst-case scenario.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ten to twenty.”

  “Years?”

  Wyatt nods slowly, and for the first time since I walked into this room, he looks genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry. But that’s the truth. Whatever you’ve done, they don’t want you getting out of here.”

  For a moment, I just stare at him. I’m completely lost for words.

  I knew they’d send me a crappy lawyer, but I thought he’d at least try. Wyatt isn’t willing to lift a finger on my behalf because he thinks I’m a lost cause.

  It’s not until I hear the cuffs rattling on the desk that I realize my hands are shaking with rage.

  Before I lunge across the desk and try to strangle Wyatt Thompson, I lean back and kick the door twice to alert the warden that I’m ready to go. I’d rather be rotting away in the cages than sitting across from some tier-one brat who thinks I’m guilty.

  The door opens slowly, and Woodhouse takes his time fastening the handcuffs to the belt at my waist. Wyatt is staring at me with an uncomfortable expression.

  I’m not sure if he was expecting tears, anger, or gratitude, but all he gets is chilling silence.

  Once I’m fully shackled, the warden opens the door. Wyatt looks as though he wants to say something else, but I’m done listening to him.

  As I step over the threshold, I turn over my shoulder and mutter, “Thanks for nothing, ass wipe.”

  four

  Celdon

  As long as I live, I’ll never get the sounds of a slowly drowning Eli out of my head.

  I left Constance’s headquarters as quickly as I could on the pretense of executing Jayden’s orders. I had to get out of there.

  Eli’s strong — too strong. He’ll die on that table rather than give up his brother’s whereabouts — if he even knows where Owen is.

  If I’d stayed, my conscience would have gotten the better of me. I would have jumped those guards and pulled him off that table, but it wouldn’t have helped anybody. I’d just be another casualty of Constance.

  I’d never know the truth about my mom. I’d never have the chance to look her in the eyes and ask her why she gave me up when I was just a baby.

  Part of me already knows she was probably some lowlife junkie whore, but knowing for sure is the only way to put it behind me and become a functional human being.

  It doesn’t make sense, but it is what it is. When you grow up unwanted, you need to know there’s a reason. You need to know it’s not you. You need to know you’re not worthless.

  My mind is spinning as I walk down the tunnel, but my legs carry me to the megalift automatically. Instead of taking the lift up to Systems, I press the button for the mid-levels and head to Control. As the lift drops¸ I scroll through the news feeds quickly to make sure I didn’t just miss the story of Harper’s arrest. Nothing.

  If that wasn’t in the news, the board must have made a deal with Constance to kill the story. Jayden was the one who leaked the news of hostile survivors in the cleared zone that led to the ExCon strike, but the board still hasn’t publicly acknowledged the drifters’ existence. If Jayden agreed to keep this quiet, it can’t be good news for Harper and Eli.

  The lift dings, and I step into the Control Station. The yellowish florescent lighting, dusty plaques, and horrible smells have become almost familiar to me, which is a bad sign in and of itself.

  I still don’t know what I’m going to say to Harper. I can’t tell her how I know that Eli’s being tortured by Constance. I can’t tell her anything that could make her suspicious. If Harper knew I was working with them — even temporarily — she’d disown my ass.

  When I finally emerge from my clusterfuck of thoughts, I’m standing at the dispatch desk, staring into Paxton Dellwood’s pointed, weaselly face.

  “Well, look who it is,” he snarls, sniffing loudly and crossing his arms over his chest.

  I notice that Dellwood has put on a few pounds since Bid Day — probably due to controllers’ steady diet of greasy canteen takeout and donuts from the commissary. His greasy blond hair looks just as douchey as ever, but he’s added some extra-long sideburns.

  “Eating for two, Dellwood?” I ask, patting my own stomach and staring at his pooch. “You’re looking a little rounder than usual.”

  “If you’re here to bail Riley out, you’re wasting your time,” he snarls. “The bitch is looking at ten to twenty — plus whatever they
tack on for assaulting a controller.” He shakes a little as he tries to sneer. “But I doubt she’ll live that long.”

  I let out a huge breath to keep myself from strangling the bastard. That would certainly delay things. “Assaulting a controller?” I crack a grin to keep myself calm. “Riley get a little feisty on you?”

  Dellwood’s jaw hardens as though he’s biting the inside of his cheek, and I let out a mocking laugh. “She can’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, Dellwood! You can’t handle that action?”

  “You should tell Riley to be a little nicer to me. I’m the only action she’s gonna get in here.”

  “As if.”

  He smirks. “It’s only a matter of time, really. Once an Institute slut, always a —”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m launching myself across the desk and grabbing Paxton by his hideous pig uniform.

  Unfortunately, I lunge a little bit too far and tumble ass-over-teakettle onto the desk.

  Dellwood goes down with me, and I hear an expensive-sounding crash of monitors. His wide eyes flash in front of me, right before I wind up my fist and lay into his preppy upturned nose with everything I’ve got.

  I hear a wimpy yell and a slight crunch. My already bruised and busted knuckles scream in protest, but I keep hitting him until I feel a pair of beefy hands pulling me off Dellwood by the armpits.

  “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!” barks a panicked voice. “Knock it off!”

  The stranger is struggling to pull me off Dellwood, but he’s surprisingly strong for an old washed-up controller. A second later, Dellwood scrambles out from under me, clutching his gushing nose.

  “You saw that, right?” Dellwood splutters. “He attacked me! This fucking lunatic marched up to the desk and attacked me!”

  Arguing with him seems pointless at this juncture, so I don’t say anything.

  “Oh, I saw, all right,” grunts the other controller, locking his arms under my shoulders and dragging me a safe distance from the blond buffoon. “But I also heard the foul things comin’ out of your overactive trap.”