Greg stopped the thought cold.
No. Oliver wouldn’t.
Would he?
A marriage license?
No way.
Oliver wouldn’t draft a marriage without Carrie’s permission. Except…it was just paperwork, a little red tape to ensure her safety, linking her permanently to a patrolman through marriage. She couldn’t get safer than that. Amber and Zach would be included, too, since families of patrolmen were granted automatic citizenship.
It was brilliant actually.
But thinking of Carrie’s name on a marriage license—especially without her knowledge—twisted Greg’s stomach with rage. She’d turned him down flat when he suggested the same thing, and she liked Greg.
“Does Carrie know about this?” Greg asked.
Oliver turned white. “No, she can’t. I’ll tell her when it’s right, but not now. This is just for her safety, nothing more. I know you two are together. Don’t hate me.” He cowered. “It’s just for her safety, I promise.”
Carrie was married.
Greg wanted to scream at Oliver for doing it behind her back, knowing how betrayed she would feel. A yellow card—no, not even a yellow card. A green card. One citizenship level higher.
Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Simmons.
He tried to talk himself into the idea. This was good for Carrie. If Oliver was smart, he’d do everything in his power to make it a valid marriage, with love, affection, white picket fence, and all. Little golden-haired Carries running around the house.
Suddenly Oliver looked older than Greg remembered, balder than before, and far more awkward. Oliver might keep her safe, but how would he ever make her happy when he could barely look her in the eye?
Greg leaned against his shovel and took several slow breaths.
It’s done, he told himself. Let it go.
Let her go.
He waited until he trusted himself to speak. “Carrie and I aren’t together.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “But I thought…I mean, Carrie made it sound like—”
“Can I be blunt?” Greg interrupted.
“O-kay…” Oliver said, instantly leery.
Greg thought about Kendra and Jenna’s deaths to solidify his decision. “Go for it with Carrie today. Give it your all.”
Oliver gaped. It took a moment before he regained the ability to speak. “May I be blunt?”
“Always.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Oliver said.
“Plenty, but what specifically did you have in mind?”
“Why are you constantly pushing me to be with Carrie when it’s obvious there’s something going on between you two? Are you playing some kind of game with me? Making fun of me?”
Greg’s muscles tensed. “No.”
“Then why are you so insistent I make a move with Carrie when it seems like you already did?”
Greg grabbed his shovel and sank it deep in the hole. “You’re better for her.”
“Obviously, but still…”
Ouch. The guy could have at least hesitated. Everyone knew Oliver was better for Carrie—everyone, that is, but Carrie.
“Suffice it to say,” Greg said, “she and I won’t work, so go for it. And none of this wishy-washy stuff from my mom’s wedding. She didn’t even know that was a date.”
Oliver scowled at him which looked painful given the current state of his face, but Greg plowed on.
“And another thing, you’ve gotta get out of this whole partner thing. We can’t handle another thing—”
“Partners,” Oliver corrected softly. He took a deep breath before clarifying. “I have two partners now, and it’s too late. It’s a done deal. We do our first sweep through your neighborhood on Saturday.”
“What? No! Your new promotion gives you more say than ever, so get out of it. Tell your boss whatever you have to. Havin’ partners will ruin everything.”
“As if I don’t know that?” Oliver snapped suddenly. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m late picking up Carrie, and I’m not in the mood for one of your lectures, Greg. Need I remind you that I was in high school when you were in diapers? I came to talk to you, not the other way around!”
Greg’s jaw dropped at the uncharacteristic outburst. “Wow. You really must’ve had a bad day.” He set his shovel aside. “Alrighty. What’s up?”
Oliver’s demeanor changed in a heartbeat. Instantly contrite, he pulled an envelope from his uniform, a thick envelope that suddenly took all his attention.
“What is that?” Greg asked.
Instead of handing it over, Oliver’s grip tightened. “I’m sorry, Greg.”
Something inside Greg stirred. Something close to panic, although he wasn’t sure why. He leaned sideways to make out the hand-written script on the front:
Gregory Curtis Pierce
541 Denton Trail
Shelton, Illinois
“I didn’t know mail services had been restored,” Greg said. And who knew he lived here anyway? Not his old girlfriend. And nobody else cared about him.
“They haven’t,” Oliver said. “That’s why they asked me to deliver this to you.”
They.
The word twisted his stomach. It’s just that Oliver looked paler than usual, and Greg hadn’t received a single letter since the Collapse. A voice in the back of his head shouted that he should have seen this coming, which was ridiculous, because he didn’t even know what this was.
He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
Oliver only clutched it tighter. “I’m sorry, Greg. I didn’t realize…I mean, I should have, but when you got your yellow card, I didn’t know this would happen. You won’t believe me because you think I want you out of Carrie’s life—which I kind of do—but you said yourself that you aren’t even—”
“Oliver!” Greg snapped. “Give it to me.”
Oliver straightened in his uniform, looking more patrolman than ever as he handed over the large yellow envelope.
Greg slid his finger under the lip to break the seal and slipped out several sheets of paper. The first was typed on a crisp white paper with the seal of the United States of America in the upper left corner. Greg studied that seal like his life depended on it, knowing that the second he read the words below, he couldn’t unread them.
His eyes betrayed him.
Printed in bold letters across the top of the page were five words:
ORDER TO REPORT FOR DUTY
thirteen
GREG WENT NUMB, but he forced himself to keep reading:
ORDER TO REPORT FOR DUTY
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES,
TO: Gregory Curtis Pierce ,
GREETING:
Having submitted yourself for the purpose of determining the place and time which you can best serve the United States in this present emergency, you are hereby notified that you have been selected for immediate government service.
Report to the following training facility, Naperville , of the county of DuPage, Illinois , at 8 a.m. on May 26th . From and after the day and hour named, you will be a servant in the service of your beloved United States.
United We Stand.
President Bennett Rigsby
Greg couldn’t move. “Does this mean what I think it does?”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said again.
In other words, yes.
His name and information had been handwritten in, but everything else looked formal. Official. Binding.
He took a slow, steadying breath. “So…I’m being drafted? Are we at war?”
“Sort of,” Oliver said.
“And we’re fighting…?”
“Ourselves.”
Understanding hit.
“The smoke,” Greg said softly. “Chicago.”
Oliver nodded. “The southern half of Chicago proper is in ruins.”
Greg shuffled through the other papers: a map to the training facility, packing list, rules. Still, he struggled to process it. “So they’re
recruiting me to the army?”
“Either the army, or they might train you to become…a…um…” Oliver rubbed the back of his neck.
“For the sake of my sanity, spit it out,” Greg hissed.
“A…patrolman.”
All coherent thoughts stopped for the space of three seconds. Then Greg burst out laughing. “Oh, this is rich. They wanna make me, of all people, a patrolman?”
“Or a soldier,” Oliver said. “They’re short on both.”
Greg stared at him, smile fading. “This is seriously happening?” He’d spent every day since the Collapse loathing President Rigsby’s new regime, and now he was being asked to serve them? No. To become one of them? A green cardie?
Oliver might be able to stomach it, but he never could.
He pushed the papers back into the envelope. “They can’t force me to serve,” he said.
“Yes. They can.”
“I’ll run,” Greg said, heart racing. Richard was taking care of his mom now, and Carrie needed him out of her life anyway. “I’ll just disappear. What can they do?”
Oliver pointed. “Look at that envelope, Greg. It has your grandparents’ address on it. They know where you live—where your family lives. Your mom. Mr. O’Brien. You’re all tied to the same household. If you don’t show up for training next week, they’ll come looking for you. And if they can’t find you, they’ll arrest them. Or worse.”
Greg went cold.
There was only a handful of people left in the world that he cared about. Going AWOL was a death sentence to every one of them. But even worse, the clan was dependent on his grandparents for survival. If he wanted to run, he had to drag thirty-four people with him. Not just adults either. Young kids. Babies. The elderly.
Maybe we should run, he reasoned. Ten months, and they were broke anyway.
Only…they’d never be able to feed that many people on the run. He and his mom had nearly starved coming north, and that was two of them. What about shelter in the winter? Clothes? Water? In ten months, they could still hide in one of the other houses, post guards, and make it work. And deep down, he knew if they ran out of money, Oliver would step in and help. His grandparents’ house was still the clan’s best chance for survival.
He reread the words. ORDER TO REPORT FOR DUTY.
May 26th.
Ten days.
“So…we’re in a civil war,” he said, still struggling to come to terms with it. “People are finally fightin’ back, so the government’s drafting me to fight illegals here as one of you or else in the army to fight a war I’ve never heard of until today.” He shook his head bitterly. “That’s a mighty fine choice they’re givin’ me.” Although he already knew what he’d choose. He’d rather fight official wars than become a patrolman and destroy a single clan like the one he lived in.
“You don’t get to choose,” Oliver said. “They choose for you.”
Greg closed his eyes. “Of course they do. Tell me I at least get a say in where I’m assigned. That I’ll come back here when all is said and done?”
Oliver was quiet far too long. “I’m sorry, Greg.”
Greg glared at him. “If you say that one more time…”
Flipping through the papers, he searched for a loophole, anything. “How long is…” He cleared his throat. “How long is training?”
“Last I heard, four months.”
Greg’s mom would never survive that long. He promised to stick around until she died, but he would miss it, miss her, miss everything! All with no promise of return. Or survival.
“Thanks for the heads up,” he said darkly. “Thanks for suggesting I get my yellow card. So far, it’s helped me waste Grandpa’s money, read the latest propaganda, and now…” He couldn’t finish, because now he’d be trained to kill. Not some foreign enemy overseas. They’d train him to kill his own people.
Americans.
This was because he had visited Mayor Phillips. It had to be. Greg knew about those patrolmen working the black market, and the mayor wanted him gone.
“Can I injure myself?” he asked, looking up. “Blind myself? Somethin’?”
Oliver didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“Well, there’s one bit of good news in all this,” Greg said, his insides shredded with fury. “I guess this clears the way for you and Carrie, doesn’t it?”
The clan would be thrilled, too. No more Greg around to cause issues.
Oliver looked insulted. “You think I’m happy about this, Greg? I didn’t know they were actively recruiting.”
“Yeah, you look real shook up.”
Oliver’s gaze dropped to the grass long enough for Greg to feel guilty. This wasn’t Oliver’s fault. It wasn’t. There was no reason to kick the messenger.
ORDER TO REPORT. ORDER TO REPORT.
The words kept echoing in his mind.
In a way, Greg would make the best patrolman. He’d lived life as an illegal. He’d lived in two different clans in two different states, escaped a municipality, and spent eight months traveling north, eluding patrolmen right and left. He knew all the tricks squatters used to become invisible. He could probably quadruple their monthly quota for arrests.
But his mom…
Carrie.
The defeat washed over him.
“How far away is the training facility?” he asked, feeling empty.
“Twenty-five miles, give or take,” Oliver said. “I…I can give you a ride if you want.”
“Oh, no. You’ve done plenty.”
Stung, Oliver frowned.
Greg ignored him.
Twenty-five miles on foot was far but not impossible. A two-day walk or four-day round trip.
“Do I get home leave?” Greg asked, and then immediately shook his head. Who was he kidding? They’d never let him leave for an hour, let alone four days to come visit some sick mother they wanted dead anyway.
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “I didn’t go through training this new way.”
“Of course not.”
Oliver glanced over his shoulder. “Look, I have to go. I’m late picking up Carrie and the others, but I wanted to let you know that I am really, truly, honestly, and thoroughly sorry about this.”
Which might have made Greg feel better if the guy didn’t act like this was a death sentence.
“Yeah,” Greg said, waving him off. “Go on your drive. Enjoy the rest of your life.” White picket fence and all.
Oliver’s expression turned dark, darker than Greg had ever seen. “In spite of what you think, Carrie doesn’t want me. She never has. This will only make it worse.”
“How?”
“Because she will have double the reason to hate the government. You’re about to get the only things I had to offer Carrie: a house, money, car, and security. So before you hate me too much, know that your letter doesn’t do me a bit of good.”
Shocked, Greg glanced down. This wasn’t just a draft notice. It was a letter of employment, an offer of a steady income. A green card. Freedom for his mom, his grandparents, and, if he wanted, Carrie. If he could just survive long enough to get assigned somewhere, he could even take the rest with him, all thirty-four of them. He could become an Oliver for this clan. No need for some stupid farmers’ market to earn money that wouldn’t work anyway. This was a real job. Real money.
And maybe even…
If the stars aligned…
…Carrie.
Oliver shook his head. “I knew it. I knew you loved her.”
“You can’t tell her,” Greg said suddenly. “About this envelope. I won’t tell her about your citizenship papers you got for her, and you can’t tell her about this. I get the right to tell her in my own time, in my own way.”
“As if I’d want to!” Oliver snapped.
Greg studied Oliver’s green uniform with a beige tie and gold stripes, his gun belt, and the huge gash above his eye. The guy rarely smiled and usually looked a few beats shy of the suicide watch. But maybe Greg
could pull it off. Serve. Fight. Get money. Fix things with the clan, Carrie, and everything.
Except…he’d have to swear allegiance to President Rigsby.
United We Stand.
In the army or as a patrolman, Greg would be killing his own people. And either way, he wouldn’t be here when his mom died.
“You don’t understand,” Greg said. “I can’t do it. I can’t be one of you.”
Not even for Carrie.
“Unless you want to get your family tortured and killed,” Oliver said, voice rising, “you’ll be whatever they tell you to be. Not every 1930’s German wanted to be a Nazi.”
Nazi.
For some reason that sparked a memory. The memory knocked the air from Greg’s lungs.
Any last hope he felt dissolved into nothingness.
Back in Raleigh, when they tied Greg up and beat him to a pulp for assaulting his foreman, they’d given him a gift nobody knew about. His back and upper arm, now scarred, held irrefutable evidence of his rebellion. They had branded him, hoping to hold his insubordination over his head forever—hoping he’d have to beg for every scrap of food for the rest of his life. But he and his mom had escaped, beating the system and never looking back. He’d never told anybody about the scars on his shoulder or back, not even his mom, but if anybody saw his branding number, he’d never survive training let alone what waited for him after. His mom would outlive him. Or worse. Because once they killed Greg, they’d punish anybody with ties to him.
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked, noticing the sudden change.
The world swirled.
Greg’s knees felt weak.
He leaned against his shovel, picturing his mom whipped, beaten, and locked up. His grandparents. Going was a death sentence to her and the clan, but so was not going.
“There’s gotta be a way out. There has to be.” He looked up. “Please. You gotta help me.”
“Me?” Oliver pointed to the fresh wound on his face. “You have it backwards, Greg. If you find a way out, let me know, because after six years of pure hell, I never have.”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 50
