“You’ve been traveling in a big circle. Did you know that?”
“I…”
I stop, not knowing what to say. Is that true? I swallow hard, thinking back over our route. But I don’t know. Reed has the compass. I’ve been following him.
“He’s sick,” I repeat. “Feverish and confused. If you’ll just let us go, we’ll leave. Please. We don’t want any trouble.”
Finally, she raises her gun, engaging the safety before slinging it over her shoulder. I see her face clearly now, crisscrossed with lines and wrinkles, but without the softness I’ve always associated with elderly people.
“Trouble? You’ve already brought trouble. But no matter. These woods confuse even seasoned travelers, and you clearly have no experience at all.” She nudges Reed with her toe. “Can you wake him up?”
I don’t like taking my eyes off her, but she’s already looking impatient, so I crouch beside Reed and shake him. “Reed?”
For a moment his eyes flutter open, but they close just as quickly. I look up at the woman helplessly.
She sighs and mutters under her breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear—”
“Never mind. Come on. Let’s get him to my cabin.”
“No! I mean, thank you. It’s just, we—”
“Come on,” the woman says. “You clearly need help. Take it before I change my mind.”
I hesitate only a moment before nodding. We prop Reed up between us, dragging him through the forest on a path I can’t distinguish. My worry grows with each step.
What if Reed’s illness is worse than I think? What if it is Contagion? Core Academy teachers always taught us it had been eradicated in the Sand, but they made the Dirt sound like a cesspool of contamination. My medic friends told me that’s mostly state-sponsored propaganda but admitted there are areas that are still affected by it—both in the Sand and the Dirt. “Sand cases are just covered up,” the lead medic told me. “Dirt cases are exaggerated.”
The tactics employed by the UDR, to keep people in line, no longer surprise me, but when truth is suppressed or inflated, how are you supposed to know what to believe? I push away those fears and focus on more immediate ones. Is this woman really taking us to a cabin, or somewhere else?
When we got to Fort Unity after stealing the Liberty Bell, every one of us was interviewed separately. Debriefed, General Kelly called it.
“You mean interrogated,” Adam said.
And we were—questioned for hours about our escape, our lives at the House, our lives in the Sand. One thing they focused on was just what kind of activity our parents engaged in to get us locked up for their beliefs. Afterward, General Kelly gathered the five of us in his office and explained.
“I would love to tell you that rebellion against the UDR is a united effort,” he said, “but it’s not.” He went on to tell us that the battalion of rebels at Fort Unity are part of a large network of Resistance. “Well trained, with a strict code of conduct and allegiance to the ideals of liberty and justice, we serve under the stars and stripes,” he told us. “We fight as Americans who not only want to overthrow the corruption in the Sand and restore freedom, but who are committed to doing it through organized warfare focused on UDR forces, not civilian populations. We are not terrorists. But some other groups don’t operate under these same principles.”
He told us about various rebel organizations scattered throughout the Dirt. Some hold similar ideals; they just don’t work as part of the unified American Resistance. But others employ more radical methods to fight the UDR. Some of them think any means of attack is justified. “Your friend, Zak, was likely recruited by such a group.”
The day before Reed and I left, the general called us back into his office and gave us a final warning. “Be careful out there. You will encounter people of all persuasions in the Dirt. UDR loyalists, Americans, members of various rebel factions, or survivalists who just want to stay out of it. You need to learn to size them up quickly. Some will make good allies. Others, you’ll want to separate from as soon as possible.”
His words come back to me now as the woman and I struggle to drag Reed through the forest. Which description best fits her: ally or enemy?
It feels like an hour passes with little noise except broken twigs underfoot and the grunts and groans of two people trying to carry another one uphill. There’s no doubt she’s bearing most of his weight—and no telling what I would do if she wasn’t willing to help. She’s not happy about it, either. She keeps muttering under her breath. I can’t make out her words, but the sentiment is clear. She’s helping us, but I don’t know why.
It seems she doesn’t know why either.
Meanwhile, Reed’s really out of it. Sometimes he wakes up, adding a few dozen steps to our trek before his head lolls to the side, his feet buckle, and we must support him again, but the only words he says are nonsense. I’m sweating by the time we top the next ridge, and hoping we’ve reached wherever it is we’re going.
Then I see it—a light through the trees ahead of us. Another twenty meters up at the crest of a second hill is a cabin, like she said, with trees growing so close together and high above it, I imagine it’s completely invisible from the sky.
This final leg is almost too much. By the time we stop at the foot of a staircase leading up to her wide deck, my legs are shaking. The woman shifts Reed away from her shoulder and slaps his cheek none too gently. “Wake up!”
He stumbles back against me and we both almost tumble to the ground.
“Inside.” She points.
Reed looks confused, but I help him climb the steps and follow her inside.
I haven’t been indoors in more than a week, and I haven’t been in a place like this ever. My jaw drops as I take in the logs that crisscross overhead under the cabin’s lofty ceiling. A massive stone fireplace covers the far wall and there’s a sizeable open kitchen in the back. Bigger inside than it looks from outside, the cabin has huge windows providing a panoramic view of the forest below. I see binoculars on the porch railing outside. That’s how she saw us, I suppose, but I have more important things to think about.
“His fever…”
“This way.”
Reed and I follow her up a staircase on the left. Every step is a struggle as Reed stumbles along, babbling all the while—words I don’t understand and a few names I do, like Oliver and Paisley. Halfway up the stairs, he trips, nearly knocking me down and triggering a fresh round of grumbling from our host. She turns back to help me drag him the rest of the way up, then down a short hallway to a bathroom, where we all but drop him on a braided rug.
“Get him undressed.” The woman crosses to a large copper tub and turns on the water.
I unlace Reed’s muddy boots and tug them off, then his socks. I have to lift his head and shoulders to pull his jacket from his arms, but he rouses again when I begin working his shirt over his head.
“Riley?” His eyes are so red and his skin so sallow, a fresh spike of fear runs through me. “What are you doing?”
“You have a fever. I’m getting you undressed.”
He smiles weakly. “But I’m not that kind of guy.”
The woman helps me finish stripping him down to his shorts. Together we drop him in the cool bath water.
“Watch him.” She gathers his dirty clothes and boots and heads out the door.
For the next half an hour, I sit by the tub, making sure his head doesn’t dip below the water. When I start to nod off myself, I splash water on my face, then pace the small room, retracing our steps since we left Fort Unity two weeks ago.
The first part was easy, since an American patrol took us within a few kilometers of a refueling station on the old interstate. For a couple of days, we had good luck catching rides with operators who had marked their vehicles with the circle-arrow combination Neil told us meant friendly transport. Most of the vehicles were ancient: no autopilots or mag trackers, just rubber tires, hydrogen fuel cells, and lots of rus
t. We were making good progress, though. I felt sure we would reach The Rose with time and supplies to spare.
But then we met Jim. His tire was marked like everyone else who helped us, and he said and did all the right things to make us feel comfortable. For the first couple of hours, Reed and I rode in the back, heading southeast and planning our next move. Then it started raining and Jim pulled to the roadside and offered me a seat up front in his heated cab.
“No leaks,” he said.
I just thought he was being nice—that Reed was being overly cautious when he insisted on squeezing in the cab with us. For the next two hours, we all three rode up front, shoulder to shoulder. But as soon as Reed’s head lolled back against the seat, Jim started telling me about a girlfriend he had in the Eastern Sand.
“The escalation in fighting across the central plains makes it hard for me to visit her,” he said. “A guy gets lonely.” He put his hand on my knee.
I’m sure it was a rude awakening for Reed—me leaping away from Jim and just about crushing him against the window, all while Jim kept grabbing at me with one hand, trying to steer with the other and telling me all the disgusting things I “owed” him for giving us a ride. Reed and I shared the briefest eye contact when we noticed him slowing down for a sharp turn. I nodded and Reed swung open the passenger door just as I gave Jim a swift elbow in the side. Then we tumbled out onto the road, rolling through the dust and gravel on the shoulder and into a bank of prickly blackberry bushes.
Jim hit the brakes hard, skidding across the road. For a minute I watched his truck wobble in horror, imagining it toppling over the steep embankment. Instead he stuttered to a stop, leaving horrible marks on the road along with the smell of burned rubber. For a few seconds, I just stared at the back of the truck, imagining the worst. He was going to back over us or pull a gun from under the seat and start shooting. Instead, he must have decided I wasn’t worth the trouble, because he put his transport into gear and sped away.
Reed and I stayed on the side of the road for a long time, half buried in prickly bushes, bleeding, bruised, and aching from head to toe.
That was the first bad day of our quest. There have been plenty to follow it.
The woman returns with a towel and some old clothes for Reed. Mercifully, getting him out of the tub rouses him enough to insist on drying and dressing himself while we wait in the hallway, me with my head resting against the door, listening for signs of life inside.
“This way,” the woman says when he emerges. She helps me guide him to a bedroom at the end of the hallway. A pair of windows dominates one of the walls, but only tree tops are visible outside. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves cover the wall to the left with a comfortable-looking pair of chairs in front of them. The other corner of the room is fitted with four built-in bunkbeds made of knotty wood and covered in plaid blankets. By now Reed is shivering. Together, we get him under the covers on one of the lower bunks.
“Thank you for helping us. If you hadn’t—”
“More trouble for me if you die near my front door. I’m not fond of digging graves.”
“Oh. Well, we are very lucky to have met you.”
“You think you reached me by luck?”
I frown. “I don’t―”
“Neil Franklin put you on my path, didn’t he?”
Neil? The face of the grumpy survivalist at Fort Unity immediately comes to mind.
“Yes. How do you know him?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she points to the corner table where she’s left a bottle of pills and a glass of water. “See if you can get him to swallow a couple of those. They should help with the fever.”
“Thank you. My name is Riley. We’re―”
She puts up a hand. “I don’t want to know more than that.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “I’m Claire.”
“Thank you, Claire.”
She nods and goes downstairs, leaving me standing in the middle of the room. Reed is as still as death, but whenever I look closely, I see his chest rising and falling. I pace for a few minutes, not sure if I should let him sleep or try to get him to take some medicine. When the medics at Fort Unity taught me some first aid basics, I felt confident that I could handle whatever happened out here. After all, I had treated Adam’s gunshot wound back in April with nothing but a poorly stocked first aid kit and zero experience—and all while in a moving truck with the stolen Liberty Bell in the back. Now my overconfidence seems dangerous. Reed solves my indecision by waking with a start and bolting up in bed, almost banging his head on the bunk above him.
“Riley?” His eyes are red with fever and wide with panic. They sweep the room until they focus on me. I kneel by his bedside.
“Shh. It’s okay, Reed. We’re safe.” I hope it’s true.
Reed swallows a couple of Claire’s pills before sinking back against his pillow. I pull up the blanket, tucking him in like a child. I don’t realize he’s gripping my hand until it slackens, and he falls back asleep.
I watch him for several minutes, thinking about Neil, who said trying to rescue Lexie was a foolish errand. “Your sister is lost. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but she might as well be dead, living in a place like that. If you do find her without getting yourself killed—and that’s a big if—she’ll be changed forever. Are you sure you’re ready to deal with that?”
“I have to find her.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I have to try.”
But after two weeks in the wilderness, I don’t feel any closer to Lexie and my fears feel bigger than my hope. Were we really walking in a circle?
I carefully move Reed’s hand to his chest before tugging off my boots and setting them to one side. I wait for a few minutes to pass then put my hand on his forehead. I think his fever is down and he’s resting, at least. I pull a pillow from the other bunk and stuff it behind my back, settling against it so I can keep an eye on Reed. I don’t intend to fall asleep, but I do.
4
Xoey
I read a novel a few years ago—the one every thirteen-year-old girl in the UDR was reading—about a teenager who kept passing through different dimensions. She walked the same streets and kept searching for the same boy: the love of her life. But in every dimension, something was off. Buildings, teachers, society—things just were not the same. The boy was different too, or he was not there at all. In one reality, she learned he had died of Contagion and was left with no option but to visit his grave. In another, his mother had another child instead, a girl who bullied her at school. Reed told me the story was propaganda—written by a government hack to convince citizens that whatever society we imagine, it would never be as good as the Blessed State.
Maybe he was right, but I feel like I am in that story now. I am at Windmill Bay again, but in a different reality, a different dimension. In this one, danger is imminent, and about to rain down on top of us.
“Drones!” Quyen yells.
I duck instinctively, as if the drones are already on top of us. Adam and the others are already in motion, pulling out the reflective cloaks we are required to carry, and draping them over their heads as they run toward the library. I fumble for my cloak and follow them. By now Quyen is running down the stairs to join us.
“The basement.” Adam points to a familiar stairwell. We clomp down behind him then separate, each of us dropping to the floor and making sure our cloaks cover us completely.
Now we wait.
Bess and Ozzy explained drone tech when we first started preparing for this day back at Fort Unity. There are two major types of drones—surveillance and weaponized, which can drop bombs or disperse chemical weapons. Weaponized drones were once bigger birds, making them easier to identify from a distance. But weapons tech is the only kind that advances quickly in the UDR and things have changed in the last few years. Now they make all drones look pretty much identical on the outside.
“You can’t tell whether you’re being wat
ched or bombed until you’re already dead,” Ozzy said.
All drones search for heat signatures and have the ability to trace us through multiple stories of most buildings. The cloaks are designed to mirror our surroundings and hide our heat signatures, even if we are out in the open.
“But they’re glitchy buggers, so get indoors if you can,” Bess said. “Spreading out helps, so your combined body heat doesn’t overpower the effect of the cloaks.”
The waiting is almost unbearable. By now I am fairly sure the drones Quyen spotted are not weaponized, but standard procedure is to wait twenty minutes then send up a scout to check the skies and give an all clear. We are only five minutes in.
I try to lie still, ignoring the way one foot has gone to sleep, and feeling like my other one is sticking out of the cloak, showing up on the UDR surveillance vid like a disembodied limb. I am glad Adam had the good sense to park the transport in the maintenance garage but wonder what happens next if we have not covered our tracks in other ways. I imagine UDR soldiers surrounding the building, capturing us.
Taking us wherever they took Oliver and Paisley.
But none of that happens. Instead, we lie there until my whole body feels numb, then Bess sends Quyen back up to the roof to check things out.
“All clear!” he says through our tragus implants.
We all jump up and start repacking our cloaks. I am the only one kicking my leg in the air, trying to get rid of the pins and needles. No one seems to notice. Bess, as usual, is already onto other things, looking around the basement with interest.
She tips her head back to look at the hole in the ceiling above us. “Looks like summat fell through.”
“Someone,” Adam and I say at the same time.
Bess raises an eyebrow. “Let’s hear it then.”
While Adam tells her about the day, I fell through the library floor, I start moving broken shelving, shifting it away from the far wall where we first discovered the entrance to the underground tunnels. I am lost in the past as I dig through the debris, humming the tune I sang for Oliver the day I waited in the rubble, praying he would be able to dig me out without bringing an avalanche down on his own head in the process. Adam finishes the story and comes over to help me shift the heavy shelving that covers the tunnel opening. When we stand back, brushing our dusty hands against our pants, Bess squats down to see what we have revealed.
Weeping Justice Page 3
