Children of the Uprising Collection

by Megan Lynch

  “It was a sewer,” said Bristol.

  “Uh-huh, but it was where we wanted to play. There were cameras at the park, and we were about to get personal surveillance for the rest of our lives, so the sewer it was. We organized a group of the little neighbor kids and we all cleaned it up together.”

  Bristol laughed. “We made the kids shut up while we cleaned, and in return, everyone got a turn to hang from the manhole.”

  “While the rest of us made a soft landing for them down below.”

  Jude turned the empty wrapper over in his hand. He’d never noticed the matte texture of the paper before. “Trading social interaction for productivity? A small personal reward at the expense of all workers? Reminds me of Metrics.”

  Denver nodded. “We could see what about their operation worked, even as children. We exploited it.”

  Bristol chuckled. “And we got that sewer as clean as a whistle.”

  “Before the next day, when it turned into a sewer again.”

  “Reminds me even more of Metrics.”

  “What’s your point?” asked Jude, interrupting the two siblings.

  “We think we can run this place,” said Denver. “With a few efficiency tips picked up from home sweet home, we could work fewer hours on shipping so we can focus on the real problem. The owner of this warehouse is going to come in today. When he does, I’ll be ready to present my ideas on how to maximize efficiency for him. What he won’t know—what he doesn’t need to know—is how we’ll be spending the free time he’s about to give us.”

  “We still can, right?” Jude asked.

  “Still can what?” asked Denver. She seemed to be in a much better mood after her victory last night. Even Samara raised her eyebrows, a brief glimpse of her usual perky self.

  “We can still liberate the United States. We can undo what’s been done.”

  They looked at each other. Bristol was the first to smile. “We think so,” he said.

  “It has to be us,” said Denver, looking hard into Jude’s face, her features solid stone. “We have to be the ones to go make initial contact with the Bird. I won’t be able to construct identities as solid as Stephen’s team was able to, but I’ve got the blueprints. And being higher-ranked tiers, we know how to interact with the people who’ll make the decisions to let us through.”

  “You and me? We’re going to see the Bird? The crazy old man?”

  “The one who helped develop the tier system. The one who believes it’s possible to dismantle Metrics. Making contact with him was part of Stephen’s mission. I don’t suppose he shared that with you,” said Denver with an edge in her voice. “My husband was a smart man.”

  “I won’t make mistakes this time.”

  “Do us one better,” said Denver. “Make smarter mistakes. Ones that can help us survive.”

  Jude nodded, unable to meet her eye.

  “First step for you and I,” said Bristol, nodding his head at Jude, “is going back to Edinburgh, by way of London.”

  “What’s back in Edinburgh?”

  Bristol’s lips stiffened. “And old friend.”

  Samara picked at her cuticles.

  While Denver made her case to the warehouse owner, Bristol and Jude unbuttoned their jumpsuits and packed their bags. Jude pulled his careworn cherry-colored hoodie over his head, but Bristol asked him to wear one of his muted-toned jackets over it to attract less attention. The red hood still stuck out against the olive-green zip-up, Bristol worried, so he tucked it inside the back of the jacket. Jude stood still while he did and remembered how much he’d basked in these small moments of concern when they all first found each other—his adopted older siblings and himself.

  “Ready?” asked Bristol.

  Jude nodded, but he didn’t feel ready at all. They walked out of the doors of the warehouse for the first time in weeks. He bowed his head in preparation for the wind, which lashed at his hairline. Spring in the UK retained much more of a chill than back home, but he was beginning to get used to it.

  They walked down the paved road, with identical warehouses flanking either side.

  “Let’s try this one,” said Bristol.

  Both of them looked over their shoulders and jogged to the far side of the large sheet metal building to the truck yard. Most of them were already loaded with shipping containers, but there was one smaller truck with an open bed. The inside was soiled with chicken feces. Bristol looked at Jude, nodded, and climbed inside. He extended his hand to help Jude up.

  They huddled toward the back, where they were partially covered.

  “What now?” asked Jude.

  “Denver was up all night studying the shipment patterns. She thinks these trucks go out to collect the live animals around mid-day. They go in—” Bristol pointed to the building “—and then they go out in those refrigeration trucks.” He shuddered. “Be glad we don’t have to travel in one of those.”

  Jude nodded. They waited, Jude playing with the fragments of words he saw on the side of the other trucks. He made as many new words and sounds he could of “reliable,” “fresh,” and “poultry.”

  Finally, a man approached the truck, yelling something to another man staying behind. Jude and Bristol froze. He switched his breathing to shallow sips of air. Please, please don’t check the back.

  The man didn’t. He barked a laugh and started the ignition, backing the vehicle up with such force that Bristol was launched forward on his hands. Jude winced at the noise he made, but the driver still didn’t bother to check his cargo bed. Together, Bristol and Jude watched the gray warehouses fly by on the road.

  Jude noticed Bristol’s lips moving. “What?” he asked.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Bristol said low in his ear.

  “You’re talking to yourself?” asked Jude, suddenly concerned.

  “No,” said Bristol. “I’m just…hoping that Denver is successful and Samara is safe and Taye finds something new to do with his life.”

  “Oh,” said Jude. “You’re praying.”

  “Praying seems to mean that you think something is taking care of you,” said Bristol. “I’m not so sure about that. I guess I’m…wishing.”

  If something wasn’t looking after them, Jude thought, they were the luckiest humans in history.

  The truck slowed as traffic increased.

  “We need to jump soon,” said Bristol.

  “London is still twenty kilometers away,” said Jude.

  “This may be the closest we get. This truck isn’t going into the city, remember. And there are no cars behind us now.”

  Jude found his feet, but kept his knees bent to maintain his balance. “I’m ready.”

  They walked to the edge of the bed, where the road flew beneath them like a river. Jude was reminded of how he had tried to end it all only a few weeks ago and how much easier it was back then when he was soaked with guilt and drained of hope. Now, he considered his hesitation an indication that he was getting healthier. If Bristol wasn’t going to pray, Jude thought, then he would. He squeezed his eyes shut. He jumped.

  Chapter Twenty

  Samara scrubbed at her face with the washcloth the next morning. It wasn’t nearly abrasive enough, but she tried to compensate by digging her fingernails into her skin under the fabric and making small circles on her temples, cheekbones, and jawline. When she was done, her skin shone ruddy in the mirror and she felt worse than ever. At least Bristol was gone and wouldn’t see her. Couldn’t ever see her like this again. She moved over the toilet for a moment, wondering whether her body would spontaneously vomit again, as it had several times over the past few days.

  Only dry heaves. Samara leaned against a wall for support and talked herself down again. You’re here. He’s not. The more she tried to convince herself that she was the winner, the more her brain pulled her down the sinkhole of despair. What if he comes back? What if he’s angry? What if Denver fails? She lunged for the toilet and threw up bits of energy bar from last night’s dinner
.

  Samara raised her head only when she heard a knock on the bathroom door. Please be Denver, Samara thought. “Come in.”

  Taye opened the door an inch and spoke from the other side. “Samara?”

  Samara lowered her head back into the bowl. “What?”

  “I, um…have your scanner. We’re about ready to start again. I haven’t talked to Denver yet, but it seems like they liked whatever she had to say. The orders have been piling up, so it’s going to be a busy evening. We’ll probably work into the night.”

  Samara felt broken all over. There was no part of her, internal or external, that felt unaffected. She hated Taye for reminding her of the inevitable. She hated the world for going on creating more work and refusing her rest and recovery. But what to do? Though she wanted nothing more than to stick his head down this miserable toilet, he was right—there was work to be done.

  “Coming.”

  She dragged herself up off the slimy tile and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Just as she found her feet, she heard Denver’s voice from the hallway. “What are you doing in there?”

  “Samara’s in there,” answered Taye.

  “Then you have even less of a reason to be in there,” said Denver. “Give me her scanner. They need you down on the floor.”

  Taye left wordlessly, but Denver stayed, swinging open the door and rushing inside. She took Samara’s arm. “Let’s get you back in bed. I layered a bunch of blankets, so it should be more comfortable. And I took Great Expectations before Jude left, so it’s there if you want it.”

  “What? Taye just said that we’d have to work all night.”

  “We’ll work until bed tonight, just to catch up. But you have the day off.”

  “I don’t think I should—”

  “You are taking the day off. The week if you need it.” Denver leveled her nose to Samara’s and spoke uncharacteristically slowly. “When I lost Zion, all I wanted to do was to have some time to stop being productive. I was completely drained, and it was unbearable to think of siphoning more energy away. I needed it, but I didn’t get it. I was with people who didn’t understand what it meant to miscarry.”

  Samara’s face pounded with the sudden rush of blood. “I am so sorry.”

  Denver clicked her tongue and led Samara out of the bathroom. “If you’re sorry, go to bed. Think, read, cry, and sleep. Stare at the wall for an hour. It’ll make us both feel better.”

  Samara did nothing else all day but read, think, cry, and sleep, in that order, over and over again, as Denver had instructed. When darkness fell, she reallocated the blankets around the room again to make places for the others to sleep. Taye, Henry, and Cork came in and talked a bit about the orders and how nice it was to work for themselves. They did not talk about the next steps to return to the United States. Samara pretended to be asleep.

  Long after the first snores from the boys had broken the silence of the room, Denver walked in. The familiar crackle made Samara cringe.

  “No thank you,” Samara told Denver.

  “You need to eat.”

  “I’ll just throw it up again.”

  “Water then?”

  Samara sat up. “Fine.”

  “It’s warm. I found a slice of lemon in the fridge.”

  Samara wrapped her hands around the Styrofoam cup and brought it to her lips. “You would have made a great mom,” she said. No sooner had the words escaped her mouth than she wished she would have stopped herself. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re so sorry,” said Denver and folded her arms around her knees. She sighed. “Thank you. That does mean a lot.” She paused, and Denver got the feeling she wanted to touch her somehow but was restraining herself. “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You should take some time to be decidedly not okay after what that asshole did.” Denver scratched the back of her head, skewing her short hair. “He’ll be in jail a while. No one is posting bond.”

  Samara nodded. “Have you heard from Bristol or Jude?”

  “No. But I watched the truck pull out. They should have been on it. They’re probably in London by now."

  Samara stared into space while Denver tactfully left her to get ready for bed. She almost wished they had discussed Bristol going back to Cindy before she’d been attacked. She longed for the emotional capacity to care whether or not she’d lose him forever. It seemed amazing that there was even a time she cared whether or not she’d lose him for a few months, or that she’d be jealous that another woman would be Bristol’s wife for a short time, or forever. Now, Samara was broken in a way unique to every other way she’d been broken before. Her very core was cracked, her trust gone forever. Sleeping in a room with other people, even people she had trusted before, seemed much too dangerous. She pulled on a jacket, one of Bristol’s old ones that he’d given to her. It had been in her possession so long that most days she forgot that it had been his at all. But tonight, the thick fleece felt protective and warm, perfect for a little walk.

  She only made it a few steps under that heavy fleece before she realized she could not walk by herself. What was she thinking? The foreman was no longer here, it was true, but there were other men here that were no longer supervised. And what the women had done hadn’t exactly been fierce. They’d needed the support of the other men. What if one of them attacked Samara tonight? She turned back to the door, but she’d only walk right into the problem of not wanting to sleep with others around.

  Without good reasons not to move in one direction or another, she put her back to the wall and sank down. She rested her cheekbones on her knees. She wouldn’t close her eyes.

  Denver stole into the hallway and crouched down beside Samara.

  “Talk,” she said.

  But Samara couldn’t talk. Even if she did have something she wanted to say, the mere thought of forcing air from her lungs to her throat to make her vocal chords vibrate required more effort than she could exert. Besides, she couldn’t possibly talk about what had happened to her out loud. If she said the words, then the air from her lungs would give them a kind of life, and what had happened would be real. If she spoke, she’d have to figure out what to do next.

  Denver sighed, and the two sat in silence for several long minutes. Finally, Denver squeezed the bridge of her nose.

  “He’ll only marry her for the green card. And that’s only if she agrees. He’s promised not to mislead her and be totally honest about the reasoning. He even told me he’d let her know that he has feelings for you.”

  “I feel terrible that he has feelings for me,” said Samara, her eyes not focused on anything in particular but still frozen in place. “I can’t do anything about them. I can’t be with him.”

  “Not right now, but some day.”

  “Not ever.”

  “You’ll heal. It won’t happen overnight.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “I’ve never been hurt like you, but I’m not a stranger to pain. And I know that it’ll do no good to insist that you’ll never feel better. You won’t ever feel the same, but you’ll feel better than you do right now.”

  Nodding seemed like the best answer. Samara wasn’t sure if she wanted Denver to stay or go.

  Denver sighed, planted her feet, and rose. She left and came back with two blankets and pillows. She wedged hers behind her back and leaned against the wall. Samara took in the sight of Denver, her eyes closed, her own future as uncertain as hers. Maybe she had a point. She was, after all, still here.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bristol opened the door to the dingy youth hostel for Jude. They figured the best place to hide for a while would be a place where people of all nationalities came and went, too busy with the adventures of their own lives to be nosy about anyone else’s. He’d used most of his remaining money to buy fake passports for himself and for Jude, but he wouldn’t count on them to get them out of the UK. Though they’d been good enough for the overgrown children
running the youth hostel, he knew they wouldn’t fool a customs official.

  The young man at the front desk had barely glanced at the fake passports.

  “Canada, eh? Bloody brilliant,” he’d said, nodding his head enthusiastically to a rhythm only he seemed to be able to hear.

  Bristol was better at concealing and omitting than he was at lying, so he stayed silent. Jude too. The young man frowned.

  “You don’t seem like the kind of Canadians I’ve met, though,” he said, and for a moment glanced down at the passports in his hands.

  “Oh, you’ve been to Canada?” asked Bristol, hoping to shift the focus. “Where?”

  “Yeah, mate! Toronto. First class weed in that city, man. Top notch.”

  “We’ve never been. We’re from Edmonton,” said Jude.

  “Never heard of it,” said the man, moving the long blond strands out of his eyes and properly looking at their passports now.

  Shit. Bristol walked away from the desk, examining the Tibetan prayer flags hanging from the doorway, but Jude pointed to a map on the wall behind a desk.

  “It’s the capitol of Alberta. West. It’s very cold there, and we don’t get out much.”

  “I feel that. I feel that. You’re the first cats I’ve met from Alberta, then! Welcome to London!” He handed the fake passports back and showed them to their room.

  This room also housed eight people, like the room in the warehouse, but this one had bunk beds and giant murals of Bob Marley on the wall. There was no one else in the room, but six other bunks were tossed with messy linens and half-zipped backpacks. The room reeked of something stale and warm.

  Jude and Bristol claimed the remaining two beds, a pair of side-by-side top bunks. The young man was still in the door.

  “Buckingham Palace is pretty cool, and it’s a good distance away from here so you can smoke while you walk. You can also just roll them up in our courtyard, we won’t say anything and the neighbors are cool as long as you bring enough to share.”