Lockdown (The Fringe #4)

by Tarah Benner

  Blaze is the one who stuck with me when I confronted Shane about my parents, and he was the one who told me to stop feeling sorry for myself when I nearly lost it in the cages.

  Belatedly, I realize Blaze might be one of the bravest people I’ve ever known.

  I still haven’t moved from the narrow corridor between the compound and the solar fields. Even with a quarter of the workers still hunting for their wounded comrades among the rows of panels, it’s crowded and noisy.

  We can’t camp here. Eventually we’ll have to return to the open desert between the fields and the fence and face the prospect of another strike.

  A few hours after the attack, the airlock doors open with a hiss. Murmurs erupt among the waiting crowd as two figures emerge wearing full-body hazmat suits.

  They’re toting a heavy-looking metal trunk between them, and for one horrible moment, I think they might dump out Blaze’s lifeless body as a warning to anyone thinking of refusing orders.

  The men’s faces are covered by their masks, but Seamus’s air of entitlement is evident as he surveys the men and women huddled along the side of the compound.

  As they draw closer, I realize the second man is Captain Jon Kruger, another one of Jayden’s underlings. Unlike Seamus, Kruger is soft-spoken and meek. When I first joined Recon, one of the privates told me Kruger clawed his way to the top — not by killing drifters, but by slipping in and out of their ranks undetected and reporting valuable intel back to Recon.

  A few people get to their feet, and I can’t tell if they plan to beg for reentry to the compound or spit at Seamus’s feet.

  The men deposit the trunk on the ground with a heavy thud, and the onlookers shift angrily.

  Seamus fumbles with his mic and turns to address the crowd. “Today . . . has been a horrible day,” he booms. “First . . . our home was violated by traitors carrying a virus . . . and now we’re under attack from the same deadly enemy.”

  Dark murmurs bubble up in the crowd at his use of “we.” The fact that Seamus was safely inside the compound during the attack isn’t lost on anyone.

  Sensing that the crowd is turning against him, Seamus deftly pivots the conversation to shift the blame. “The compound leadership seemed to think that putting up a fence would keep our enemies at bay without risking more Recon lives.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect. “Apparently, life in glass towers has clouded their judgment. They’ve lost touch with our reality. But after today’s tragedy, they’ve decided to reinstate the perimeter patrol.”

  To show he’s serious, he kicks the lid off the metal trunk and withdraws two rifles. He tosses one to Miles.

  Miles catches it but doesn’t relax his hateful expression. Seamus passes the other to a cadet standing nearby but seems to lose steam after that.

  “Why did Commander Pierce do away with the patrol in the first place?” asks Miles.

  There’s a flurry of agreement in the crowd.

  Seamus glares at Miles and drags in a nervous breath. “I assure you that Commander Pierce did not arrive at that decision on her own.”

  “But she was involved in the decision.”

  Seamus’s face grows red, and he swallows several times before answering. “If she was . . . I’m sure she had her reasons.”

  There’s another angry uproar from the crowd, and several people shake their heads.

  “I assure you,” Seamus adds, “Commander Pierce is working tirelessly to make sure Recon’s interests are heard on the board.”

  “And what about ExCon’s interests?” yells a man in orange. “I haven’t heard a word from Undersecretary Griffin.”

  Seamus looks to Kruger and then gives the crowd an apologetic shrug. “I can only speak for what’s going on in Recon, but I’m sorry for the losses you’ve suffered today.”

  The crowd of ExCon workers ripples as people shuffle angrily, and the tide of protests seems to rise in volume. Seamus and Kruger look as though they’re about to make a quick exit, but the crowd is hemming them in on both sides.

  As people jostle closer, I start to feel nervous and overheated. My heart is pounding in my chest, and the sun is suddenly beating down on my forehead with excruciating intensity.

  The heavy mask over my mouth isn’t helping. My breathing is already heavy and labored, and I can feel it condensing on the inside of the mouthpiece.

  I pull it off to get some air and try to breathe deeply. I’m teetering on the verge of a nasty panic attack, and this is not the time or the place.

  “What about that boy who was killed?” demands the vocal ExCon man. “I heard a controller shot an unarmed Recon boy in the main tunnel for refusing to move out here.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” says Seamus, backing away nervously with his hands held up before him.

  “It’s true!” pipes one of the cadets we spoke to before the attack. “Ask Harper!”

  Several dozen pairs of eyes shift to look in my direction, and I find myself regretting the notoriety that my arrest earned me in tier three.

  “You were there,” says the girl. “Tell them!”

  I glance at Eli, who’s looking at me with a mix of sympathy and understanding. He can read the panic in my eyes, and I sense he’s about two seconds from jumping in to keep me from having to relive Blaze’s murder.

  But with all those eyes on me, I realize I have an opportunity to finish what Blaze started.

  Suddenly my anxiety evaporates, and my breathing begins to return to normal. My heart is still hammering, but it feels like a war drum.

  “It’s true,” I say, standing up and clenching my fists at my sides. “Blaze Adams was a cadet in my squad. He was only twenty-one years old. He did what we all should have done: He refused to march out here . . . because he knew his life was worth more than that.”

  I glance at Eli, who spurs me on with a gentle nod.

  I take a deep breath before continuing. “But all Control saw was a tier-three worker who didn’t deserve the same as the people in the main hall — the people right in there,” I say, pointing through the thick glass. “The same people who won’t lift a finger to help those who were wounded today.”

  There’s a murmur of agreement, and Seamus shoots me a look of pure loathing. The crowd is good and riled up now, and Kruger is beginning to look extremely nervous.

  I imagine the doctors and nurses from Health and Rehab are all gathered near the windows watching the drama unfold, but the glare from the sun makes it impossible to tell what’s going on inside the main hall.

  All I see is the reflection of the solar fields behind me: row after row of gleaming blue cells — countless hours of ExCon labor.

  Suddenly, an old memory floats to the surface — a conversation I had with Celdon right after I discovered the truth about Bid Day.

  People have to do their jobs. If they didn’t, the compound would collapse.

  Then I get an idea — an idea so explosive and so dangerous that I’m afraid to say it out loud.

  We may be stuck out here on the Fringe, but the rest of them are stuck in there, and they rely on the power supply ExCon maintains.

  “The drifters took out a bunch of solar panels today,” I say, gesturing out at the fields behind me. “I imagine it’s going to be a lot of repair work.”

  Seamus’s upper lip twitches. He knows I’m about to make his life a lot harder.

  “How much of the compound’s power comes from the solar fields?” I ask, turning to a nearby group of old ExCon guys. “Seventy-five percent? Eighty?”

  “Eighty-six point five percent,” one of the men clarifies in a proud voice. “And increasing every day.”

  “Eighty-six percent,” I repeat, turning back to Seamus. “That’s a lot of power. Grow lamps for the ag labs . . . life support machines for Health and Rehab . . . computers in Systems . . .”

  I take a deep breath and fix Seamus and Kruger with my toughest glare. “You tell the board that if they want power . . . we need medical care
for the wounded.”

  “I can’t make any promises,” Seamus growls.

  “I know,” I say. “You just make sure Commander Pierce delivers that message.”

  For a second, we just glower at each other. Then I turn to Miles. We exchange a quick look, and he lets me lift the rifle out of his hands.

  A few people gasp, and Seamus flinches visibly, as though he thinks I might shoot him in front of all these witnesses.

  Instead, I turn my back on the crowd and walk up to the first row of solar panels.

  I lift the rifle into the air like a baton and bring it down onto the nearest cell with as much force as I can muster. The dark-blue surface shatters with an audible crack, and I drive the butt into the panel again to break up the pieces.

  There’s a long, crushing silence, so I ram the gun into another panel . . . and another.

  A low murmur ripples over the watching crowd, and I can almost feel Seamus radiating fury.

  Panting, I turn around and toss the gun to Miles.

  “If you don’t take in our wounded . . . then we can’t promise you’ll have power tomorrow.”

  twenty-two

  Owen

  The one upside to being on my own is that supply runs are short and easy. I can fit several days’ worth of food into a small duffle bag bungeed to the back of my bike.

  With so many of us concentrated in one town, supplies are getting harder to come by — unless you know where to look. Everyone else has been picking off the same carcasses: Whole Foods, Albertsons, the nearly empty 7-Eleven. But I know of a little general store located off the beaten track that’s kept me flush with canned goods, soap, and toilet paper since I got to town.

  It’s clear that the owner managed to hold out long after Death Storm. Unlike most chain stores whose supply chains ran dry, this guy was resourceful enough to keep his shelves stocked until there was no one left to buy from him.

  I think he may have actually lived in that store until his last few neighbors and friends died from radiation poisoning. Then he probably packed up, boarded his windows, and fled to die alone in an RV somewhere.

  I’m grateful for that son of a bitch every time I heat up a bowl of ravioli or canned corn.

  On the side of the road, McNally’s is lit up like a beacon in the desert. Half a dozen junker cars are crowded into the gravel parking lot, which is probably the most activity this dive has seen in fifty years.

  I hear the rumble of celebration inside, and my heart beats a little faster.

  I’m conflicted: On the one hand, Malcolm is always a little easier to deal with when things are going his way. On the other, any positive development for us means disaster for Eli’s compound.

  Part of me wants to keep driving so I don’t have to hear about it, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I pull into the parking lot, kill the engine, and swing my leg over my bike.

  I take all three beer-soaked steps in one hop and push the door wide open.

  The guys are usually on high alert out here, but tonight they’re too drunk to even notice when I walk in. I’m on a first-name basis with all these assholes, but I don’t know any of the girls lurking around them.

  Malcolm is slouched on a barstool in the middle of the pack, leaning against the counter looking high as fuck.

  He’s wearing torn jeans, cowboy boots, and a black cutoff T-shirt that shows faded patches of prison ink along his arms. He’s got his hands all over some redhead’s ass, but her top half is lying across the bar as she laughs with one of the other girls.

  Malcolm looks over at the sound of the door.

  “Well, look who it is . . .” he says, setting his highball glass down on the bar and waving me over with two fingers.

  Buck, Holmes, and Trent turn around when I come in, but they’re too wasted to do more than nod and grunt a hello.

  Gunner is there, too, but he’s been shoved off to the very edge of the group — almost as though they’re trying to push him out.

  I don’t know what it is about Gunner, but the other guys treat him like a stray dog with three legs. He gives me a friendly wave, and I nod at him, too.

  “Good news, bud,” says Malcolm as I come over. “I just got word that transmission is underway.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He grabs an empty glass and tips three fingers of whisky into the bottom for me. “X and Kimmy released it this morning. I guess he had to stab some girl to get it done, but he came through.”

  “To X!” shouts Trent, raising his glass and sloshing whisky everywhere.

  “To X!” slur the others, clinking their drinks forcefully enough to shatter the glasses.

  “Rest in peace,” mutters Malcolm.

  I get a sick feeling in my gut when I remember that Malcolm made Kimmy and X swear to off themselves when it was done. Otherwise, there was a chance the compound leaders could have tortured them for information.

  “Anyway, I guess they got everybody quarantined,” Malcolm adds.

  I take a drink and exhale deeply as the liquor warms my chest. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Nope. That’s why we had them go for the HVAC system. It’s gonna hit those bitches hard — whether they realize it or not.”

  “What about their Recon agents?” I ask.

  Malcolm glances at Gunner, and they both succumb to a fit of drunk laughter. “Oh . . . it was almost too easy.”

  “What?”

  “Robin Reynolds was able to access the compound’s defense plans.”

  At those words, my heart starts pounding. If Malcolm managed to get his hands on all that information, it can only mean disaster for Eli and Harper.

  “So?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  I shake my head.

  Malcolm rolls his head in my direction, looking incredibly satisfied with himself. “After the disaster at 119, the compound developed a plan for dealing with an outbreak. They isolated the people they knew were infected and sent the rest outside the compound.”

  “Outside?”

  “Yeah. And when I sent our guys over there to send a message, guess who they found?”

  When I don’t answer, Malcolm leans forward on his elbows and smirks. “A bunch of those same rats they send out to murder us.”

  “Any of our people killed?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

  Malcolm shakes his head. “The compound people weren’t even armed.”

  The blood goes cold in my veins, and I kill the rest of my drink. “How . . . how many of their people did we kill?”

  “Not enough,” he says, taking another swig of whisky and setting down his empty glass. “We’ll send more in soon — show them that we mean business.”

  He reaches across the table for a dime bag and shakes it between his index and middle fingers. “I got some beautiful bud here . . . a little gift from Magic.”

  He gestures down the bar to a kid who can’t be older than eighteen wearing a backwards baseball cap.

  “’Sup.”

  I nod.

  “Amnesia haze,” says Magic. “That stuff’s primo.”

  Malcolm nods appreciatively and tosses me the bag. “Help yourself, friend.”

  I shake my head and reach for the half-empty bottle of whisky instead.

  Malcolm barely seems to register my refusal. He’s already got a pipe ready to go.

  The redhead between his legs turns her attention back to him and produces a lighter.

  “How did you get past the mines?” I ask, hoping Malcolm will see my question as simple curiosity.

  He takes a drag, holds it in, and then lets out the smoke with a short cough. “Mine maps in their defense plans.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Reynolds knew just where to look. She worked in the compound for years.”

  “What made her leave?” I ask.

  Malcolm gives me a strange look, and I catch a few of the guys watching me suspiciously. The rest of them are in full celebration
mode, and I suddenly realize I’m asking way too many questions.

  “I mean, I thought they were all too brainwashed to even realize there was anything going on outside that place.”

  He shrugs. “She got knocked up about twenty years ago. Stupid bitch went straight to Salt Lake City, got sicker than a dog . . . had to come back here. The kid couldn’t survive the radiation, so she dumped him outside the compound.”

  “Huh.”

  My brain is running a mile a minute, but Malcolm is starting to sink into the high and lose interest in my questions.

  There’s a brief uproar as another group of girls saunters in. They’re wearing low-slung shorts and have their tits piled sky high in barely-there tank tops. One of them eyeballs me from across the room, but I kill my drink and use the commotion as a cover to leave.

  As I step outside, a sobering blast of cool night air hits my face, tempering the warmth from the drink and bringing me back to reality.

  “Hey . . .” says a tentative voice from the shadows.

  I jump.

  Squinting through the darkness, I see a curvy silhouette lurking behind a rusty station wagon. Gravel scuffs underfoot, and Sage’s warm round face comes into view.

  She’s drowning in one of my old hoodies, but her bare legs are still visible. With her dark hair shimmering in the moonlight, she looks like some goddess who’s stepped out of the shadows to haunt my dreams.

  “Hey,” I say, cringing at how pathetic I sound. I clear my throat. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

  She gives me a strange look.

  “It isn’t safe,” I add.

  “Safe?” she repeats, amusement coloring her tone. “From Malcolm?”

  She nods through the window, where I can see his hands wandering all over the redhead’s lower body.

  “I think I’ll be okay.”

  “I just mean . . . with the compound sending out so many patrols.”

  “What’s this really about, Owen?” she asks in her best “cut the bullshit” tone.

  “Nothing. I don’t know. I just don’t think you should go in there.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re drunk.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . they might try something with you.”