Children of the Uprising Collection

by Megan Lynch

  On they walked until Samara finally heard a sniffle, which provoked a tingling above her own nose, and she breathed deeply to stop it in its tracks.

  “That was great running back there. Were you on the track team?”

  Sniff. “No.”

  “You were phenomenal. And I can’t believe you’re still walking here, after seeing…after doing…what I’m trying to say, Jude, is that you’re very brave, and I’m very brave, and I have to believe that good things come to people like us. What good would have come from sitting around? You saw what happened to…” She realized she could not say Kopecky’s name.

  “Yeah.” He sounded stronger, and he was picking up his feet a little higher than before. “And anyway, Fallwood is only another ten miles away or so. We should get there before one, if we keep up the pace we’re going now. I’m glad we’re close.”

  She’d had no idea if it was so close, having looked only at city maps for most of her adult life. She hoped they were going in the right direction, but he probably would have said something by now if they were not.

  So, on they walked, with conviction and purpose at first, and then a little more slowly when the adrenaline had run its course. Samara had heard of all sorts of things in these woods, wild animals and poisonous insects and hidden traps set by Metrics for rule-breakers such as themselves, yet if any of these were in the woods, then some higher power had, so far, guided them away from these threats. Samara felt it helped that they were walking carefully but not timidly. Self-amputation and faking your own death had a way of changing you.

  Jude began stumbling when they were less than an hour from Fallwood. Less than an hour was what he’d said, but she wasn’t sure whether or not she could trust that. He’d said it with a slur.

  “Less juss keep goin’. Can we keep goin’?”

  “No, let’s stop for a moment. Let’s lie down here—” No sooner had the words left her mouth than she saw it. The first camera, or so she hoped, fixed on a tall black pole in the midst of the trees. Jude saw it too.

  “We’re not gonna makit.”

  “Of course we’re going to make it, sweetheart. We just have to walk around it.”

  “Thassa lasercam.”

  She froze. She’d heard of lasercams but had never seen one up close. She helped Jude sit against a tree, found a thick stick, and used what strength she had left to toss it in the path of the camera. A red laser, perfectly positioned in the center of the stick, appeared as it was still falling midair, and it was dust before it hit the ground. She looked right and left. Of course they were lined up, all pointed toward Fallwood.

  Because she did not know what else to do, she laughed. “They must pay high taxes for such security.”

  But Jude didn’t answer. He was slumped unresponsive against the tree.

  “Jude? Are you okay?”

  Nothing. He was still breathing, and there was a pulse in his throat, but otherwise his body was silent, and now it seemed so very small.

  Less than an hour away. She had to believe it was true. Don’t overthink it.

  “Listen,” she whispered, “if you can hear me, please, just hold on. If you’ve got anything left in you, use it to hold on to me.”

  Two options: over or under. Digging a tunnel underneath would take tools she didn’t have, and time that Jude didn’t have. She would have to take him into the trees—over the lasercams. She took a few minutes to plan her route and practiced scaling the first tree by herself, which was easy enough, but would be a totally different story with an eleven-year-old draped around her. Careful to avoid the tourniquet on his right hand, she heaved his body across her shoulders. She wished she knew how to pray.

  She made it to the first branch after only a few failed attempts. Twenty minutes later, drenched in sweat and muscles throbbing, she’d made it up the first tree, above the lasercam. Now for the tricky part: transferring trees.

  Samara laid Jude across twin branches to practice going over herself first. She realized she was going to have to do a sort of jump to get across and didn’t know how she’d manage with the extra weight. She couldn’t worry about that right now, though, and so she jumped.

  The branch broke. She fell. She flailed her arms to catch anything. Smaller branches assaulted her face, and heavier ones banged up her legs. She caught one, finally, at the expense of her shoulder. By the sound of it, it was now broken, or at best, dislocated. She looked up and saw Jude’s body still lying limply ten or so feet above her. She started to cry, then the cry turned into a scream, and the scream didn’t stop until she pulled herself up by her other arm, slowly at first, then with more confidence, onto the branch. She brought herself to rest on it, and finally heard her own scream die off. But what she heard after that wasn’t the quiet crickets in the woods. It was another voice.

  “I said, Are you okay?”

  Her eyes widened and her breath stopped. She looked down to see a woman standing below, directly in the path of the lasercam. But this woman was still intact. She’d disabled them somehow.

  “Who are you?” Samara shouted to her.

  “A friend.” Her voice was rough but not unkind. “You an unreg?”

  “Kind of.”

  “You’re close. The safe house is just a little walk thataway. Can you get down?”

  “I don’t know. My friend and I are both hurt up here. He’s farther up than me, and I think he’s fainted.”

  “Stay right there. I’ll get some help.”

  Samara didn’t know how long she sat shivering in that tree. When the woman finally came back, Bristol was with her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Denver was surrounded by news of the unregistered relocation. The voices were everywhere, listing rapidly climbing numbers of unregs being removed from society. The newscasters, who seemed to Denver to be increasingly polished with their red lips and frosted hair, said in throwaway tones that they weren’t able to show these unregistered citizens on camera, but being the thorough news team that they were, they had spoken with them, and that the unregs looked forward to creating a society of their own out in New Mexico.

  Denver and her mother were both sick when Bristol did not return from work that Tuesday evening. Denver told her to call the moment she heard from Bristol in any way. She waited with impatience, then with mild panic, and finally with rapidly deepening depression. Hours later, Denver’s watch shook to signal a phone call.

  “Mom?”

  “He’s gone.”

  The first hot tears were in her eyes instantly. “He’s gone…”

  And then they didn’t say anything for a long time.

  When she was little, Mom used to give them baths in the tub. There’d be bubbles and a yellow duck floating around, but Denver’s favorite part was always getting her hair washed. It didn’t happen often, so it was rare enough that she looked forward to it all day. Her mother would take a cup—Denver could see it now, blue and plastic with a lip that curved out, just a simple cup ordinarily for drinking juice—and fill it with bathwater. Denver would lean her head back, and her mother would pour water over her, taking care to avoid her face. The water would rush down her hairline and scalp, and sometimes the weight of it would pull her neck farther down toward the water. She’d beg her to do it again, again, three times, four times, five.

  He’s gone. The words felt like that rushing water over her head, though slower and heavier.

  “Mom?”

  “Mmhmm?”

  “There’s something I’ve been wondering. How did Bristol get here?”

  Mom’s voice sounded tight. “I gave birth to him.”

  “I know.” Denver sniffed. “I know that. I mean, how? We have to get the focus injections every month. Weren’t you getting it?”

  “I was. But life finds a way. There are some things in life that you just can’t control. Your brother was born because he wanted to live.” She let out a low moan, the sound of grief itself.

  Denver had so much more to ask her, but th
ere would be time later. They hung up. Alone in the house, she just kept staring at the wall, trying to imagine what her brother was doing or thinking now, the rushing-water feeling coming over her again and again.

  She was still there, staring at the wall, when Stephen came home from work. He was returning later and later, and sneaking off in the night, returning before morning, saying he’d been in the bathroom when she was mildly sure he’d just put the light on in there and locked the door. Tonight, she noted, he was especially late, coming in nearly at midnight. Though she didn’t have the strength to properly acknowledge him, she did look his way when he removed his shoes and jacket.

  “You’ve been crying.”

  “My brother…”

  He then did something he hadn’t done before. He gathered her up in his arms and held her face close to the back of his neck. Without the strength to resist, she allowed it.

  “Come to bed and let’s talk.” Instead of letting her go, he stood with her still in his arms and carried her into their room, where he put her under the blanket and began to dress in his nightclothes. Once in bed himself, he began talking about the relocation—how it was good for the unregs, how it was better for the registered citizens, how there would be more resources to go around now. Of course, this should have made her angry, and did make her angry, but the feeling of sickness was overwhelming, and she just hoped he would stop talking soon so she could sleep and stop feeling things altogether.

  When he finally stopped repeating the information he’d heard on the news, she found a light sleep in minutes. And then came a small shake on her shoulder, which she answered without even opening her eyes.

  “What, Stephen?”

  But it was just another little shake, slightly less patient. She looked at him.

  He was wide awake with one finger across his lips. Shhh. He got out of bed and turned around so his feet were on the pillow and his head was at the foot of the bed. Brow furrowed and heart beating, Denver turned herself around to meet him. His words were smoke signals, impossible to decipher until they were well in the air.

  “Your brother is alive.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, but I’ll explain. Our pillows are fitted with radio microfibers, but not our sheets. They suspect me. I’m pretty sure, anyway. I’ve run some tests.”

  “Wait, you’re pretty sure our sheets aren’t recording us, or you’re pretty sure they suspect you?”

  Here was his smile. “Both.”

  “Of what? And how do you know Bristol’s alive?”

  “They suspect me of being involved with the Red Sea, which I am.”

  “What’s the Red C? What does C stand for?”

  “No, sea, like the body of water. It’s from an ancient myth about a man who took slaves from one country and crossed the sea to liberate them. It’s an organization to liberate unregs. I’ve been involved for years, and I don’t know why I haven’t been caught, but as long as I’m able to function in society, I’m obligated to help the unregs. I can even work from my watch, but the program is disguised as a game. You know when I told you I’d been outside that night you caught me out of bed? I was at the closest safe house that night. That’s where I saw your brother tonight too. The house is along the route to the northern farms.”

  She was having trouble believing this whole thing. She pinched her own arm, felt the sting, and began to hope. “They didn’t get him?”

  “No. He’s been very lucky, Denver. John Armistead helped him escape.”

  “Armistead? Armistead…” The movements of her tongue felt familiar at the name, but she couldn’t place it.

  “You’re thinking of Thomas Armistead, one of the New Founding Fathers. He helped create Metrics. John is his disgraced son. He spent years in exile after his father died, and he started talking about a massive reorganization of society. I won’t get into it, but eventually he was let back in and punished by being downgraded two tiers. He manages a restaurant, and Bristol just happened to be an employee.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “When I saw him, our doctor was just removing his chip. He made it over twenty-five miles with his chip still in, Denver.”

  “Then they know where he is.”

  Stephen shook his head and laughed lightly. “You would think so, but he seems to have done this before. He tied a bag of frozen vegetables to his wrist and ran with his arm up in the air, all those miles. We don’t think Metrics was able to get a signal on him.”

  Denver laughed too, with her brow all knotted up. His old tricks had saved his life.

  Stephen continued. “Listen, though—this part involves you. I’m fairly certain they paired us together because you have an unregistered brother. It’s a trap for me. They knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Now that he’s missing, they’ll be keeping a very close eye on me. And if I’m put in prison, and my tier is taken away—”

  “You become an unreg yourself.”

  “And so does my family, which is you, until you’re able to build up your own citizenship score, which would take decades. We’d both be—”

  “Relocated.”

  Now Stephen moved his face closer, his eyes locked on hers. “Killed, honey.”

  Denver wanted to ask how he knew, but she didn’t think she could handle the answer. Anyway, she understood from his face that he was certain.

  “Denver, I came back tonight for you. We’re married, so if I go down, you do too. But since we’re together, our parents are no longer responsible for us. Their score might suffer a little, but they’d otherwise be able to live their lives in peace.”

  Denver felt as if vines were growing thickly under her skin. Never before had she wished so hard that a conversation hadn’t happened, that a day hadn’t happened. It was simply too much.

  “But we’re good citizens! Or at least I am.” She was submerged in injustice. “I have worked hard all my life to raise my score, and this is what I get! My marriage is a trap for a traitor!”

  “I know it’s not fair.”

  “I need to believe that Metrics has my back.” She turned her head to see the pillows, which she felt certain would hear her now. “I’ll give you a head start of an hour. Then I’m telling them everything.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t waste time, Stephen, and don’t worry about me. Metrics will take care of it if I play by their rules.”

  “You have played by their rules, and look where it’s gotten you! A brother on the run, a downgraded marriage to catch a rebel. You’re playing into their hands, and it’s going to get you killed.”

  Denver said nothing. She turned her body around and lay her head on a pillow. She heard Stephen leaving. The clock turned to 2:15. Fifty-nine minutes to go.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  At the safe house, Bristol set a steaming cup of tea in front of Samara but turned away before she made eye contact. Her student was smaller than he’d imagined, but that might have been because he’d been unconscious at their first meeting. Little Jude lay on the sofa, awake but weak, while a short, nut-brown-haired lady, a nurse, gave him sips of water and softly reassured him that he was at Nan’s now. That’s what this place was called, named for the woman who lived here and operated this little sanctuary. At the moment, the occupants included Nan herself, Lydia—the nut-brown-haired nurse—Bristol, and now, much to Bristol’s amazement, Jude and Samara. Lydia seemed downright cheerful that there were so few people here—sometimes there’d be as many as twenty, she’d said—but Nan appeared agitated, constantly looking at her ancient communication device and the sensors on the lasercams to check for little lost lambs in the trees.

  The house belonged to Nan, and it seemed to be the complimentary opposite of her personality, like a good marriage. The house itself was on a hill surrounded by pine trees. Other houses were within walking distance, but those other homes seemed like they belonged in a different world than this one. They were in various stages of repair and disrepair, but one was meticulous
ly maintained. When Bristol arrived, he’d walked up a winding gravel path to a clean-swept front porch with neatly trimmed hedges lining it. The front door to the house was plain but pleasant. Nan took Bristol around to the back and walked in a door that looked like the entranceway to an attached greenhouse. Inside, the only light came from the blazing fire in the fireplace and from candles strategically placed near mirrors, turning the rooms bright, soft, and warm. Bristol had seen candles in movies, but never a real one. Nan told him that Metrics still monitored their electricity, but there was no way for them to know about the light from these. They could burn them all night and nobody would be the wiser. Book-stuffed shelves lined the wall across from the fireplace. Bristol had never seen a real book before, not the type with hundreds of pages and hard coverings. He was used to flimsy bindings, made quick and cheap and easily discarded. He didn’t even know they existed anymore, but here they were, with yellow pages bound in muted-colored covers. There was a sofa—the same one Jude was on now—several cots stacked on top of each other, and several old-fashioned quilts that looked like they had been stitched together—not with matching patterned patches of cloth, how wealthy older people liked to make them, but with all kinds of fabric under the sun. Some patches looked like they’d come from curtains, some from baby clothes. Bristol even spotted an elastic band he’d suspected once held underwear on a man’s hips.

  Samara was quiet at the table, unmoving. She watched the light flicker back and forth on the soft brown wood. She still wore her work clothes, which were stained with mud and torn in places, and her arm hung in a makeshift sling. Bristol wanted so desperately to ask her what she was thinking about, if she was in pain, how they managed to get to Nan’s, but a dark shadow of shame intercepted his words and turned them on him instead. What do you think she’s thinking about? She wasted her time on you.

  So they both sat at the table across from Lydia and Jude, not saying anything but listening to the hushed conversation between Lydia and Nan.