Lockdown (The Fringe #4)

by Tarah Benner

  Then I see her.

  Relief and happiness surge through me like a shot to the heart. That bullet wasn’t meant for Harper. She’s alive.

  At first, all I see is her hair rippling in the wind and her long, graceful gait. Lenny is walking beside her, red curls whipping wildly behind her.

  But as the girls draw nearer, I see that their faces are streaked with tears. Harper is crying silently as she walks, and I nearly trip over my own feet to meet her halfway.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask as soon as I’m within earshot.

  “Blaze,” she gasps, pulling off her mask to mop her face. “Blaze is . . . Blaze is dead.”

  “What?”

  A particularly heavy wave of sobs rolls through Harper, and she collapses against my chest. I put an arm around her shoulders and look to Lenny, unable to comprehend what Harper is saying.

  “They sh-shot him,” Lenny stammers.

  “Who?” I demand.

  “The controllers,” she says, looking up at me with haunted eyes. “He refused to go out on the Fringe, and they shot him.”

  I shake my head, completely speechless. I can’t ever recall a controller shooting someone within the compound. The controllers are violent sons of bitches, sure, but they rarely even carry guns, much less use them.

  “They aren’t gonna get away with this,” I growl, glaring up at the compound. With the sunlight reflecting off the ceiling-to-floor glass windows, it feels as if it’s mocking us with its beauty.

  We’ve done everything to protect that place. We’ve killed. We’ve been shot at, blown up, and shunned. I know people who drank in so much fucking radiation that their hair fell out and their organs shut down. But to the compound leaders, we’re no better than animals.

  Harper’s uncontrolled shaking eventually draws me back to the present. She’s probably in shock, and the heat is only going to make it worse. She needs to drink some water and recover in the shade.

  Putting an arm around her, I pull her down the path in the hope of finding a good place to rest for a while. My vision starts to go blurry as we pass row after row of blue solar panels. All I can hear are the girls’ quiet footsteps and the occasional sniffle.

  As we walk, I become aware of Lenny’s uneven stride. It’s much more pronounced on the rough ground, and I feel renewed amazement that she managed to survive her first deployment. She couldn’t have run very fast.

  Finally we emerge from the rows of solar panels, and I see what looks like a makeshift supply station over by the ExCon latrines. Long metal poles and canvas tents are piled in neat rows next to pallets of food, large jugs of water, and clean uniforms. People are milling around in clusters of two and three, picking tent mates and trying to decide what they need.

  That’s when reality sets in: They actually expect us to stay out here. That thought sobers me at once. Harper and I might have some weird mutant radiation resistance, but the others don’t. If this drags on, people are going to get really sick.

  Feeling lost and helpless, I lead the girls over to a large group of Recon people who’ve started setting up camp between the fields and the new perimeter fence. After everything all of us have been through, it’s amazing that section lines still hold.

  Now that we’ve reached the end of the line, Lenny seems to be on the verge of losing it. She sinks down onto her bundle and puts her head in her hands. Harper looks as though she wants to reach out and comfort her but doesn’t have the emotional energy.

  They’ve both been through the ringer, and I feel a surge of rage at the thought of a controller shooting Blaze right in front of them.

  “I’m gonna go get some supplies,” I murmur.

  “I’ll come with you,” says Harper.

  Judging by the look on her face, Lenny isn’t going anywhere. And when Harper glances up at me, I can tell she just needs to keep busy.

  We wander over to the supply station in silence. I load Harper up with a few of the lightweight tent poles and grab two heavy canvases. By the time we get back to the little Recon tent city, Miles has found Lenny and started putting up a tent of his own.

  I know I should bunk with Miles and let the girls share a tent, but after everything that’s happened, I don’t plan on letting Harper out of my sight for even a second. She’s the one bright spot in this dark shitty mess, and from now on, my sole focus is going to be keeping her safe.

  We assemble our tents in total silence, all of us consumed with worry about the virus and grief over Blaze. Harper works like a machine, hammering stakes into the ground and helping me secure our canvas over the tent frame.

  Once our temporary home is assembled, she unrolls the bundles from Operations. Each bundle contains a bedroll, a flat pillow, sunblock, and a black baseball cap with “112” embroidered across the front like some pathetic parting gift.

  “That’s sure nice of them,” I mutter, unable to disguise the contempt in my voice. But I put the hat on backwards to protect my neck and then head to the supply area to grab some food and water.

  By now, the last few stragglers have left the compound, and the Operations workers seem to have closed the entrance for good.

  Squinting up at the highest levels, I wonder what’s going on in the medical ward. Surely it’s more chaotic than out here. Our people aren’t as worked up as they were inside. They seem to have resigned themselves to our banishment.

  When I return to our tent, Harper is sitting on the ground outside with her elbows on her knees. She’s pulled her tangled waves into a ponytail and tucked it under her new hat, but the wind is still whipping her long hair into a frenzy. She’s staring out at the Fringe, looking lost in thought and a little confused.

  “What’s up?” I ask, sitting down next to her and putting a hand on her knee.

  “I borrowed Carter’s interface,” she mutters, gesturing to a private who’s struggling to secure his canvas in the heavy wind. “Video messaged Sawyer.”

  “And?”

  Harper shakes her head. “She didn’t answer.”

  “She’s probably just busy treating all the people who came down with the virus,” I say.

  Harper swallows and nods too quickly to be convincing. “Maybe.”

  I bite my lip. If the medical ward was ground zero for the virus, it’s probably the place that was hit the hardest. If the AWOL operative managed to infect a large number of people before anybody noticed, there’s a good chance Sawyer was among them.

  “I wanna know how they got this virus in the first place,” says Carter, who seems to have been listening in on our conversation. I’ve seen this kid around in training, but I’ve never spoken to him before.

  “People are saying it hit 119 a while back.”

  “One-nineteen?” squeaks the girl I asked about Harper. “That’s where Ash went after Bid Day.”

  “Yeah,” says Carter. “And no one has heard from him since.”

  “Your friend Ash is dead,” says Harper in a hoarse voice.

  The other two fall silent and stare at her.

  “I’m sorry. The virus wiped out everyone at 119.”

  The girl looks stricken. She glances at Carter and back to Harper, looking startled and confused. “How do you know?”

  Harper glances up at me, and I shake my head once.

  “That’s just what I heard,” she murmurs.

  The girl’s big blue eyes fill with tears. “Oh my god! I can’t believe it. What if that happens to us? What if they can’t stop the virus from spreading?”

  “They caught it early here,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “We have a better chance than they did.”

  But the girl is already hyperventilating.

  I throw Harper an exasperated look. The last thing we need is to start a panic, but she’s completely checked out. She’s staring out at the desert as though Blaze might suddenly materialize on the horizon, but then her face changes. Her eyes narrow into a squint, and her expression undergoes a rapid succession of emotions: confusion, comprehens
ion, and then terror.

  Harper rises into a crouch, unable to tear her gaze away from the fence. “Everybody get down!” she shouts.

  A few people nearby catch her petrified expression and turn their attention toward the electric fence.

  Half a second later, she grabs my arm and yanks me down into the dirt.

  That’s when a gunshot cracks the air.

  Several people scream, and Lenny and Miles throw themselves onto the ground.

  “Get down!” I hiss at Carter and the hysterical blond.

  With my hands on my head, I squint through the fence for the shooter and see not one, but four drifters armed with automatic weapons.

  All around us, chaos ensues. Some people hit the dirt; others start sprinting back toward the compound.

  The shooters unload another round of bullets, mowing down several ExCon workers camped out near the fence.

  “We have to get away from here,” I choke to Harper. She nods and makes eye contact with Lenny.

  I suppress a groan. With Lenny’s bum leg, the shooters will have no trouble picking her off.

  “Stay down,” I instruct, digging my elbows into the dirt and pivoting toward the solar fields. Trying to stay hidden behind Carter’s tent, I army crawl toward the compound and jerk my head for the others to follow.

  As I claw through the dirt like an animal, a wave of animosity swells inside of me.

  Jayden was so focused on eliminating the drifters’ leaders that she convinced the board to do away with the armed patrols. And when the board banished us to the Fringe, they stripped us of our weapons so we couldn’t retaliate. Now we can’t even defend ourselves.

  I use that fury to propel myself forward. My elbows are screaming from dragging my lower body over the sand and dirt. Even worse, we still have ten yards of open ground to cover.

  The shots have picked up, which makes me think more shooters have joined in the hunt.

  “We’ve gotta make a run for it,” I call to Harper.

  I glance over my shoulder to make sure she and the others are right behind me.

  Harper is just inches from my heels, but Lenny and Miles are several yards behind.

  “Come on!” I yell. “Hurry!”

  Lenny is red in the face as she struggles to pull herself along, and Miles grunts as he propels himself forward.

  “One . . . two . . . three!”

  In one jerky motion, I push myself into an upright position and grab Harper by the hand.

  I don’t look back. I just run.

  That short sprint is the hardest of my life. Every second, I’m certain I’m going to hear Harper or Lenny or Miles scream in agony as a bullet tears through them, but I keep digging my feet into the earth and pulling Harper along.

  Finally, we enter the shadow of the solar panels, and Lenny’s labored breathing tells me she’s right behind us. We keep running until we emerge on the other side, where a handful of Recon operatives are panting from the run.

  I still hear intermittent gunshots in the distance, but at least we’re out of range.

  Harper falls against me, but something is wrong.

  My gaze flits from her to Lenny and back, my brain struggling to identify who’s missing.

  Finally I realize that Miles isn’t with us. He’s nowhere in sight.

  As I struggle to catch my breath, that familiar desperation wells up inside of me, and it’s as though I’m waiting for Harper to emerge from the compound all over again.

  More people break through the rows of solar panels, but I still hear screams and gunfire from the camp. There are a lot more Recon people than ExCon workers gathering around us, and my gut wrenches when I realize that they must have been completely blindsided.

  They all heard there were some hostile survivors out on the Fringe, but I don’t think they ever anticipated an organized attack. Some of them are speechless from shock; others are yelling for their friends or looking around in horror.

  “Where’s our armed patrol?” one man demands.

  “They were supposed to keep us safe.”

  “They never told us the survivors were armed. What the hell is going on out there?”

  Then another man sinks down to the ground and starts weeping uncontrollably.

  My heart goes out to them, but all I can think about is Miles.

  I’m starting to feel genuinely terrified. If anybody survived, it should have been him. Miles is strong and fast and smart. He’s dodged death on the Fringe too many times to count.

  But maybe his luck finally ran out, says a small, horrible voice in my head.

  “I’m sure he made it,” whispers Harper, squeezing my arm in reassurance.

  But judging by her death grip on my elbow and Lenny’s wide eyes, they must be thinking the worst.

  I’m about to run back through the solar fields when Miles’s sweaty face appears between two gleaming blue panels. It’s strained in exhaustion, but his eyes are bright and focused.

  Relief surges through my chest as he emerges, but my elation is short-lived.

  Draped over his shoulder, nursing a wound in his side, is Marshall.

  My only ExCon friend is shaking and blubbering like a child as the splotch of blood expands on his dirty white T-shirt.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, rushing forward to help Miles.

  We lower Marshall to the ground, and I start a tear near the hem of my shirt to rip off a bandage-sized piece.

  Marshall is breathing hard and fast through his mask, staring up at me with wild eyes.

  I barely know the man, but watching him bleed out in front of me is a harsh reminder that we don’t matter. The board knew what they were doing when they allowed Jayden to pull the armed patrols in favor of an electric fence and sent us out here unarmed. They just didn’t care.

  Quickly and carefully, I maneuver the sad bandage around Marshall’s chest to staunch the flow of blood, but it quickly soaks through the thin fabric.

  Frustrated, I pull off my shirt and hold it against the wound, but Harper reaches down and places a firm hand on my arm.

  “Eli . . . he needs a doctor.”

  “Yeah, no shit,” I choke, fighting to keep the useless T-shirt in my shaking hand.

  “They’ve closed off the medical ward,” says Miles, reaching under his mask to mop his sweaty face. “They’re never going to bring him in there.”

  “I know,” she says. “I said he needed a doctor.”

  Lenny and Miles exchange a puzzled look, and Harper throws up her hands in exasperation.

  “All the doctors who weren’t in the medical ward this morning are in there,” she says, pointing to the compound.

  At first, I don’t really get what she’s saying. But then I remember all the Health and Rehab personnel holed up in the main hall.

  “It’s worth a shot,” I mutter, repositioning the T-shirt with one hand and pulling off my belt with the other. “But he needs surgery.”

  “Yeah,” says Miles. “And we need our fucking weapons. Whose bright idea was it to send us out here like live bait, huh?”

  He’s pacing back and forth, shaking his head in that slow way of his that indicates he’s about to lose it.

  Apprehension bubbles in my gut. On the surface, Miles is always a little harsh in his ways, but even when he’s beating a man to a pulp in the ring or swearing up a storm, he’s always in control. I’ve only seen him insane with fury a few times, and it wasn’t pretty.

  I look up to check on Harper and Lenny, but Harper is nowhere in sight. For a second I panic, but then I spot her over by the entrance to the compound.

  She’s banging both her palms on the airlock doors, trying to get the attention of the worker on the other side.

  My heart sinks.

  If Seamus is still overseeing the evacuation, Marshall doesn’t stand a chance. Seamus wouldn’t lift a finger to help an ExCon worker if it meant disobeying a direct order from Jayden.

  But then to my immense surprise, the airlock doors open with a hiss.


  A few people make a mad dash for the compound, and I suppress a groan. Harper is gesturing toward Marshall and breathlessly pleading our case, and to his credit, Seamus pokes his head out of the door and stares at Marshall for several seconds.

  I can only see his eyes over the top of his mask, but in that moment, I can tell he’s wavering. He glances from Marshall to Harper and then back to Marshall and finally locks eyes with me.

  He’s too far away to hear me, so I just give him a look. It’s shorthand every lieutenant knows: Someone’s life is hanging in the balance, and it’s up to you to save him.

  For a second, I think he might cave and let us bring Marshall inside. I see missions where cadets died on his watch flash before his eyes.

  But then his gaze flickers to the mob of scared workers rushing toward him. I see his cowardice before the decision is fully formed in his brain. Then he shakes his head and slams the door in Harper’s face.

  twenty-one

  Harper

  As the sun rises to its apex and begins its descent, the numbness I felt after seeing Blaze shot returns in full force.

  Once Seamus slammed the door in my face, some of the survivors staggered back to camp to gather the dead. Others huddled along the exterior wall of the compound, talking and crying and tending to the wounded.

  Miles and Eli do what they can for the injured ExCon man, but I can tell from the looks on their faces that he doesn’t stand much of a chance. My heart aches for Eli, but after watching the light leave Blaze’s eyes today, there’s no room left to grieve for the fallen strangers around me.

  I can’t believe he’s gone. That controller took his life as if it meant nothing.

  Blaze — the boy who survived Shane and Recon and the Fringe — was brought down by a sadistic controller in the main tunnel of the compound.

  I should have stepped in. I should have made him back down, but I couldn’t. Blaze was right. The board has been dehumanizing tier-three people for decades.

  Somebody had to take a stand; Blaze just happened to be the one who finally worked up the courage to do it.