Children of the Uprising Collection

by Megan Lynch

  A handful of people knew about the plan, but as the only minor, Jude was responsible for telling others in his dorm. But Tommy was always around, and although Jude had used his presence as an excuse for not talking to anyone for the past few days, he was running out of time.

  The second sink was open, so Jude stood in front of it, glancing at the boy and then back at his own reflection. Now that he was here, he realized he hadn’t really rehearsed how to start off. Should he say hello? Ask him about his day? Just launch right into the speech that he did prepare? Jude wondered how much longer the boy would brush. He wondered if he would rinse the sink when he was done.

  The boy spat into the sink, raised his shoulders, and turned to Jude. “What?”

  Dismayed, Jude let the toothbrush hang from his mouth. “W-what?”

  “You’re looking at me funny.”

  “I-I wasn’t trying to. But I want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about what happened the other day. I just overreacted, okay? I already said sorry to Mullins.”

  “No—really? That’s nice—but that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I have something to tell you.”

  Tommy walked in, grinned at them, and shut the door to a bathroom stall. The boy looked disgusted.

  “Outside,” he told Jude.

  Their shoes and coats were already on—Jude had the feeling he slept in his shoes too—so they walked straight out and toward the field, without having discussed it. When they got close to the building, Jude introduced himself, feeling he should before he asked a favor.

  “I’m Cork,” the boy said, without taking Jude’s hand.

  “Jude.” He cleared his throat. “I’m worried about Tommy. And Karale. And Danovan. Not just me—lots of people are worried that they’re going to make a serious mistake with our security here, or that maybe they already have.”

  Cork nodded. He kept his gaze on the ground, but his body still leaned in, so Jude guessed he was still listening.

  “I’ve heard,” he continued, “from someone I trust, that the leaders are in contact with someone from Metrics.”

  Cork’s head shot up. “No. They wouldn’t do that.”

  Jude swallowed. “They think they’re helping us. But if we don’t know who they’re talking to, they could be putting us in danger.”

  “How do you know? Do they tell you that kind of stuff if you’re on the watch?”

  “No. I shouldn’t tell you who I heard it from, in case…”

  “…in case I’m a narc?” He pressed his jaw tight to his face. “I’ve got my little brother to protect here. If you’ve got any information, I want to know it. And if any change is happening, I want to be a part of it.”

  Jude drew in a shallow breath. “Okay. Here’s your chance.”

  By the night of the 14th—two days before the meeting—all of the boys in the youth dorm knew about the plan and were solemnly sworn to secrecy. Solemn vows, especially against grownups, always seemed to be sacred in the world of children, which Jude recognized as he straddled the two worlds.

  The only thing that worried Jude was the change of atmosphere. Jude hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that they all shared a secret, there was a tone of fraternity in the dorm—they still didn’t really talk to each other, but they walked together, held doors for each other, passed each other the occasional cigarette and slapped each other on the back in thanks. Jude told Cork of his concerns, positive Tommy would notice the difference in attitude, but Cork just laughed, slapped him on the back, and offered him a drag.

  Jude didn’t smoke, but that wasn’t the only reason he declined. He appreciated Cork for everything that he had done, but going out of his way to make another friend seemed a terrible insult to Kopecky’s memory. Jude had gone through life as a loner, as a weirdo, as someone who didn’t know what to say to people when they tried to be friendly, and Kopecky was the only peer he’d ever come across who didn’t seem to mind. Now that Cork was showing the same traits as his first friend, Jude wanted him to mind. He certainly had more experience being a weirdo than a friend, and he preferred to keep it that way, if for no other reason than to remember how special Kopecky really was.

  Nevertheless, Jude had done a smart thing in roping in Cork as an early adopter of the coup. The rest of the team hadn’t been so lucky. Bristol and Stephen had spread the word among all the men who seemed trustworthy—which wasn’t too many of them—but Samara was having a tougher time with the women. There were more men than women here, but, as Samara told him, they had more trouble trusting each other. Since Denver had refused to help, the only woman telling others about the plan was Samara, which made her seem dangerous. Jude had asked why, and Bristol explained it to him.

  He said, “When a man makes a friend, they can do it just by sitting together and doing something. If a man fishes next to another man, they can leave the lake as friends. This can work with two of us, or with half a dozen. But it’s different for women. They make friends usually one at a time, have a deeper connection. Then, that woman brings in the other to a larger circle. They can’t—or won’t—form too many bonds at once. That’s why Samara’s having trouble.”

  It didn’t sound too complicated to Jude—after all, he’d just talked to one person. It had just been the right person, one who didn’t mind telling the others sometime during laundry duty. Denver actually seemed like the right person, too—she worked with most of the other women in the kitchen, and she didn’t seem to mind being the center of attention. Why wouldn’t she help?

  On the morning of the sixteenth, while Bristol and Jude were walking home, Samara came zipping through the forest, quiet but far from silent.

  “I could hear—” Bristol started.

  Samara wore a jubilant smile. “It’s Denver. She says she’ll help us if we bring her a peach.”

  Jude was sure he’d misheard her. Bristol must have as well, because he asked, “A peach?”

  “A peach.”

  “Is that code for something?” Bristol asked.

  “No, she just wants a peach. To eat. She just has a craving for one, and she says she’ll help if we can get that for her.”

  Bristol rubbed his eyes. “She’s being so stupid. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. It’s January. How are we going to find a peach?”

  Samara wilted. “I thought…I thought Jude might be able to help us.”

  “Me?” Jude said a little too loudly. Bristol shushed him.

  “Yes, you. JoJo’s in your dorm, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but what does he have to do with it?”

  Samara looked over her shoulder, then back at Jude. “I don’t know for sure, but I think his employment assignment puts him in a unique position to help.”

  Chapter Nine

  Bristol went straight to the dining hall to find Denver. He found her there, doing something he used to do every day: prepping food in a clean, white apron. The only difference was that he used to peel and dice real potatoes. She was opening cans of them and draining the water in the large industrial sink.

  “Are you crazy?”

  She didn’t even look up. “Samara told you about the peach?”

  “A peach? You want to hold up the future of this whole place for a peach?”

  “Please. I don’t really want a peach.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Well, I do, actually. But more than that, I want to ask for one.”

  “What’s your problem, Den?”

  Denver whipped her head up and glared at him, jaw set. “I just wanted to check on something before I drastically change our lives again.”

  “Check on what?” Bristol noted the bags under her eyes and the grayish cast on her skin. She looked like shit, but now probably wasn’t the time to tell her that.

  The other ladies in white aprons had begun to observe the siblings, not by looking but by slowing their work and leaning in ever so slightly. Bristol looked at Denver and neither said anything more: one of the a
dvantages of having a sister so close was having a connection close to telepathy. Bristol helped her with the cans, first draining them, then transferring them to the cold metal serving tray. The breakfast line wouldn’t start to form for fifteen or so minutes more, so while the other women went outside to smoke and shiver, they stayed inside.

  “Okay,” said Bristol. “What is it you want, really?”

  “I want to know if we have any support. There’s a rumor that JoJo is the liaison. He’s how we get food.”

  “Liaison to whom? Who gives us food?”

  “Well” —a sly smile spread across Denver’s face— “that’s what I want to know. I’ve been curious about how we get fed here ever since we first arrived, but I’ve only been getting friendly with our delivery man very recently. He used to be a flirt, you see, on the outside. He’s Unregistered and never had any focus injections, so maybe he was even a womanizer.”

  “You know those injections only take away natural impulses. Just because the man has natural impulses doesn’t mean he was a womanizer.”

  “Well, nevertheless, all it took was a little eyelash-batting to loosen up his lips. Anyway, he told me that he takes JoJo to a place far out in the woods; then, JoJo walks by himself to a little ghost town. He waits thirty minutes, then drives to the ghost town himself, and picks up JoJo and all the food for the week. They’re going today, right after breakfast.”

  “How did JoJo get this job? He can’t be more than seven.”

  “That I don’t know. And if Stan knows more, he’s not telling. But I want to know more. Specifically, I want to know whether we’re dealing with Metrics or—”

  “The Red Sea? You think there are more of us out there?”

  Denver rubbed her temples. “I know they say we’re the only ones left, but if the Red Sea isn’t giving us food, who is? It doesn’t make sense for Metrics to be doing it.”

  “Maybe another group? Maybe just some random guy who wants to help?”

  “Some random guy would have to have some fabulous connections to feed two hundred people every week, which means he’d have to be part of Metrics, which, as I said, doesn’t make sense. I think it’s the Red Sea. I just want to be sure. I want to know we’ve got support before we shake things up here.”

  “How will asking for a peach make you sure?”

  “Easy. I don’t know what their relationship with JoJo is, but he’s pretty lovable, right?”

  Denver was right—JoJo’s big eyes, constant smile, and wiry limbs made him look like a doll. He was the kind of kid who made even those most ardent that they’d never apply for a child to stop to reconsider.

  Denver continued, “I just want to know the reaction if he asks for something difficult to get. If they give him a peach, or if they promise him one next week, they’ve got connections in the south, which would be bad news. It wouldn’t be safe to destabilize this place with Metrics watching so closely. On the other hand, if they tell him sorry, they just can’t do it—”

  “—it still wouldn’t be a guarantee.”

  “I’ve learned to look for clues, not guarantees. It’s the best I can do.”

  “When are you going to tell JoJo?”

  “I’ve already asked him. He was eager to try to help. I told him it was for the baby. That’s the other thing, Bristol—you’re going to be an uncle.”

  The earth shakes beneath Bristol’s feet. Earthquake, he thinks, but Denver is there, saying she wants to give birth now. Bristol pleads with her to wait just one more day. It’ll be safer to wait until the earthquake slows. But I want my baby now, she says, and reaches down and pulls out the perfect little purple baby, wriggling against her embrace. She holds him tight, but the ground rocks them both and Denver drops him. The baby is carried away by the waves of vibrations. Denver screams. Bristol tries reaching for him, running for him…

  Clued in by the fact that his legs wouldn’t move, Bristol opened his eyes and took a sharp inhale. Just a dream. He felt the rumbling of the truck bed underneath him. There was more rust on this ancient pickup than paint, and though Bristol didn’t see how it would run, he’d unhooked one of the frayed bungees and slid inside the back anyway. A thin sheet covered the bed, and underneath it, he could smell decaying metal and rotting cotton.

  They headed off the campus. He heard distant voices behind him, where, in the cab, JoJo’s giggle punctuated every few sentences. Bristol felt thankful that he wasn’t prone to motion sickness, because there wasn’t much room to move. The latch on the back looked loose enough that he could probably unhook it easily, though he couldn’t be sure how much noise it would make. It wouldn’t matter if he were caught on the way back; he just wanted to go unnoticed until he could ensure that JoJo would be unharmed.

  The truck didn’t slow much as it came to a halt. Bristol was thrown backward, his feet springing against the back cab before being thrust in the other direction. Without thinking about it, Bristol unlatched the back and quasi-somersaulted out of the bed. They were still in the woods, thankfully, so there was plenty of brush to hide under. JoJo and Stan didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.

  JoJo hopped out of the truck and continued down the worn grass path alone. Bristol swore softly, seeing his pace. He was counting on his silent walk to keep him inaudible, if not invisible, but the kid was booking it toward the town. Bristol was very careful just until he was sure he’d gotten out of Stan’s range, but by then JoJo was out of sight. Bristol made his way to the path and ran.

  He saw the ghost town before he saw JoJo. There was an abandoned gas station, with weeds blocking the pumps and the sign out front to the convenience store, though some of the letters were missing, so it now read “convenienc tor.” Further in, there was a building that had once been something his mother would have called a strip mall. There were no houses. Bristol had seen pictures of these towns. In the old days before the uprising, people would drive cars from their homes to these places to get what they needed, then they’d fill those cars with gas and drive back home where little houses all stood in rows next to each other. Just next to, not on top of. A total waste of vertical space, Denver would say.

  He’d lost JoJo, but he couldn’t be far. The gas pumps were under an awning shaped like a “V,” so Bristol climbed up and crunched down low on the roof. JoJo was easy to spot just a little farther ahead, bobbing up and down in a skip-like walk toward the far end of the strip mall. When he got to the farthest unit from Bristol, he stopped to knock at the door.

  Bristol climbed down and ran alongside the back of the building. He didn’t hear anything yet, and prayed he wouldn’t. He didn’t know what he would do if he heard any sign of violence—gunshots or screaming or anything like that—because come to think of it, he had nothing to defend JoJo or himself if he did.

  Bristol was breathless when he got to the last unit, a small, narrow space with a largish plate glass window in front. The other windows were framed with jagged edges, having had their glass knocked down, but this one was pristine. He knelt down, took a deep breath, and raised his head to peer inside.

  JoJo was in there, along with a woman who was pointing to stacks of cans and boxes. The woman wasn’t just casually dressed; she looked slightly sloppy in her frayed black trousers and faded gray sweatshirt. When she pointed, her pit stain was clearly visible under the arm. JoJo was nodding. Bristol lowered and raised his head several more times until it looked like JoJo was asking the crucial question: he had his hand up by his face, one finger on his mouth. His foot slid in and out of his shoe, which was much too big for him. The woman shook her head from side to side. JoJo looked down at his shoe and the woman pulled him into a hug.

  That’s it, thought Bristol. She might not be from the Red Sea, but she’s not Metrics. He darted around the corner just in time; the woman opened the front door and walked out into the parking lot where a shiny black singular transport stood parked.

  Now to get back. Bristol had planned on walking back, taking all day if necessary to go back
through the town and follow the path in the woods back to the monastery.

  But he wasn’t able to see that plan through. When he turned around to go back, he saw Stan’s smiling face.

  “I know you. You’re one of us,” he said.

  Glancing down at the club in Stan’s hand, Bristol thought it would be safer to tell the truth on that one. “Yes. I’m from St. Mary’s.”

  “Don’t know how you got here, but it’s none of my business anyway. We’ll just take you back with us.”

  Palpable relief washed over Bristol. “Thanks, man.”

  “Straight back,” Stan continued. “To the leaders. It’s none of my business, like I say. But they’ll be curious.”

  Chapter Ten

  Denver didn’t see JoJo again until lunch.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Denver. I couldn’t get you…what your baby wanted.”

  “That’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” She noticed his tray was shaking so much that drops of tinned pineapple juice were spilling onto it. “JoJo, is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  “No?”

  Denver looked at him curiously. “It sounds like there might be. Did they threaten you? I mean, did they say they would do bad things to you?”

  “Not…them. Not to me.”

  Denver paused and studied him. His eyes, usually bright and crinkled under a smile, were large and searching. He wanted help, she could see, but wasn’t asking for it. “JoJo…”

  Stan stood up from his seat and put his hand on JoJo’s shoulder. “I hope he’s not bothering you, miss. Little man’s been pestering everyone to help him with his math! What’s sixteen divided by four, Jo?”

  JoJo’s shoulders dropped away from Stan’s hand as he mumbled inaudibly.

  “See? Kid’s got no confidence. I’ll help him, though—come on, Jo.” Stan slapped him on the back with the same amount of force he’d use for an adult, and ignored the splash of juice this created on the floor.