“I punched a patrolman, sir.”
“Your foreman, if I’m correct,” his sergeant said.
Greg was grateful he’d gone the honest route. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Did he deserve it?” the officer in black asked.
An interesting question. As Greg remembered that day in the chicken factory, watching that older man drop, the rage simmered like it always did. He never saw if the guy recovered or if he ended up with his own set of scars.
“I wouldn’t have punched him if he didn’t, sir,” Greg said.
The sergeant didn’t seem to appreciate that. “Insubordination is not tolerated in my unit!”
It wasn’t tolerated in Raleigh either, which is why Greg had the scars he did.
The sergeant pushed away from the desk and circled Greg, spending a long time studying his beard. “Where have you been since you escaped Raleigh?”
“Hiding.”
“And how did you get to Illinois?”
“I walked.”
The sergeant stopped in front of him. “You walked all the way from North Carolina to northern Illinois?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
His eyes narrowed. “How did you get your yellow card with that kind of record?”
Either Oliver had forged fake numbers or Ashlee Lyon was too ditsy to check Greg’s file. “I’m not really sure.”
“You’re honest, Pierce. I like that. Continue to be, and you might live to see another day.” The sergeant stood back. “Why the beard now?”
“I just really like beards,” Greg said again.
The man’s eyes narrowed to dark slits. “You dare lie to me after I complimented your honesty? You didn’t have a beard on your yellow card issued in March. That pathetic scruff you have now can’t be more than a month old. So let me ask again, and think twice before you answer. Why the beard now?”
Greg scrambled for a response that wouldn’t get him shot.
Smelling blood, his sergeant leaned closer. “Why are you really here, Pierce? What are you after? How long have you been involved in the rebellion?”
That took him back. “Not a single day, sir. I hadn’t even heard about it until right before I came to training.”
“Then how do you know about the program?”
“What program, sir?”
“Do not lie to me!”
Greg saw a flash of black. The nightstick. Instinct took over. He ducked, spun, and caught the nightstick mid-air, ripping it clean from his sergeant’s hand. Then he whirled.
A voice screamed in his head to stop. His mom. Carrie. The entire clan. If he fought back now, his loved ones would pay the ultimate price.
He clutched the nightstick over his sergeant’s cowering head. It took every ounce of willpower to keep from slamming it into that skull like it had been slammed into his countless times. Considering all the men who’d taken a beating with that very nightstick, considering Jamansky had nearly arrested him and his mom for doing their citizenly duty, considering President Rigsby and every other corrupt official who preyed on the American people, Greg had more than enough reason to lash out.
But he didn’t.
His fingers opened. The nightstick dropped to the floor with a clank. Then Greg snapped back to attention, hands clasped behind his back, pretending like he hadn’t disobeyed the unofficial order to hold still for beatings. Pretending like he hadn’t stolen his commanding officer’s weapon and threatened him with it. Pretending like he didn’t know what the consequences would be.
“Oh, he’s mine,” the man in black said.
Greg didn’t have time to process what that meant, because his sergeant jumped in front of him, eyes wild with fury. “You dare to attack me?”
There wasn’t any good way to answer that, so Greg didn’t.
His sergeant whipped out a different weapon. Something cold, hard, and metallic, and rammed a pistol under Greg’s chin. “I’ll ask one more time, and you will answer truthfully, or you’ll get a bullet through your brain. Where did you hear about the program?”
Terror flooded Greg’s veins. Carnal, blinding terror.
“I don’t know a thing about any programs, sir! I swear.”
He tried to ease back from the gun under his chin, but the sergeant just dug it further into his skin.
“What about your sick mother? Your grandparents? Will they back up your story if I bring them here for questioning, even under coercion?”
Coercion?
Greg felt the world drop out from under him. But only for a moment. Then his body filled with rage. If the sergeant brought his family here, if he even looked at them the wrong way, Greg would personally slit his throat.
The sergeant waited for a response.
Gun still digging into his chin, Greg’s fists clenched and his nostrils flared, but he told himself to breathe.
Just breathe.
“My family would answer the same, sir,” he said through gritted teeth. “We know little about the rebellion. Our only goal, our only knowledge for six years, has been basic human survival.”
“Then why the beard now?”
Greg had little chance of living through this answer, but if he was dead anyway, he might as well go down with a fight.
He looked him directly in the eye. “‘Cause I don’t wanna be here. Lookin’ like a squatter is a reminder to myself of who I am and”—he paused, thinking of Jamansky—“who I refuse to become.”
He steeled himself for the bullet. Would they send his body home or bury him in a mass grave? Would his mom forgive him for his insubordination, or would they punish her next? Then his grandparents? More deaths on his shoulders. No matter what he chose, they lost.
The sergeant glared at him for a long, tense minute. “I knew there was rebel blood in your veins. I could see it in your eyes.” Yet the gun dropped enough that Greg could breathe again.
“There you have it,” his sergeant said, turning to the older officers. “A professed traitor with major attitude who pretends to abide by the rules while deep down he’d love to see us all sliced to pieces.”
The man with the medals held up his hands. “He’s too much for me. I’m out.”
With that, he left the room. That left the man in black. He was older than the sergeant by a decade, but not as sturdy. Yet something in his expression made him more intimidating. He studied Greg with open curiosity.
Standing tall, Greg finally realized what the two men represented. The army or the federal patrol unit, plus some program they assumed Greg had been vying for. And the army just walked out on him.
The commander in black, the federal patrol commander, waved a hand in some kind of signal.
The sergeant grinned and whispered in Greg’s face, “Good riddance.”
Greg’s gut clenched. He closed his eyes.
Sorry, Ma.
But the sergeant returned the gun to its holster. Greg fought the urge to double over and heave gulps of air. Instead he stayed rigid and alert. Just because the gun was gone didn’t mean he was out of hot water.
“Follow me, soldier,” the commander in black said.
Greg’s nerves tingled with a new foreboding. As much as he hadn’t wanted to be in basic training, he had the premonition he didn’t want to follow that guy out the door. But he trailed the older officer down the long hallway and outside into the bright sun.
“Today is your lucky day, Pierce,” the man said as they walked at a brisk pace. “You’re being reassigned.”
“May I ask to what group, sir?” Greg said.
“Mine.”
It didn’t take a genius to figure that out, but Greg didn’t press for more.
The training field faded behind him. They headed across the huge compound toward a square building he’d been told to never enter. For all he knew, he was being taken in for government testing, and they’d turn him into a human pin cushion.
“What about my things?” Greg asked. Not that he had much back in the sleeping barracks. His UNC s
hirt had been confiscated, and they could have everything else.
“You won’t need your things where we’re going.” The man in the black uniform stopped abruptly and turned, forcing Greg to stop, too. “I’m taking a huge risk with you, Pierce. Prove yourself to me, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll live past this training. But first, you have to prove that you deserve this.”
Deserve what? Greg wanted to ask.
Instead, he said, “Sir, yes, sir!”
twenty-seven
OLIVER WASN’T SURE HOW he’d explain the extra miles to Jamansky, but he flew down I-88, grateful for an hour without partners.
He glanced at his odometer. The training compound in Naperville was farther than he remembered, which meant he’d underestimated the distance for Greg. Hopefully Greg made it to training on time. Hopefully Greg made it at all.
Slowing, Oliver pulled up beside the massive fences. He leaned against the steering wheel and watched the groups of trainees working out in the massive compound. Sergeants barked orders that carried across the hot, humid day.
Oliver scanned the sea of green for a guy of medium height and short brown hair. Greg. After a minute, he gave up and drove to the front gate. A group of guards played poker inside the attached building. As soon as they saw him, they stood.
“Card,” a guard said.
Oliver wasn’t thrilled to hand his green card over, knowing Jamansky could trace his activity, but he didn’t have a choice.
After the guard swiped it, he handed it back. “What do you need, officer?”
“I have a message to deliver to a trainee,” Oliver said.
The huge guard grunted. “No mail in and no mail out.”
“I’m aware of that, but this is urgent. I was specifically ordered to deliver it here.”
The guard eyed the small envelope in Oliver’s hand. “What kind of message?”
“Not sure,” Oliver said, hoping his feigned innocence would give the letter more clout. “I’m not privy to that kind of information.”
“Give it to me.”
Oliver expected as much and handed over the sealed envelope. The guard tore it open and pulled out the official Shelton Patrol paper. Oliver had kept the message short, making it read more like a telegram than a letter:
Gregory Curtis Pierce:
M. passed.
Cond.
M could stand for Mother or Mariah, and Cond. could stand for a lot of things besides condolences. The whole thing was a stretch. Even if they delivered it, Greg still might not understand. But Oliver didn’t dare write more, knowing it would be seen. He hadn’t signed it either.
“Alright,” the guard said, folding up the paper. “We’ll see what we can do.”
That was better than Oliver had hoped. “Thank you. I’ll let my commander know.”
As Oliver walked away, he glanced over his shoulder. The six guards went back to their game, opened envelope on the edge of their table.
* * * * *
Carrie clutched the stick and drew another line in the dirt behind Terrell’s house, this line perpendicular to Main Street.
“This is Union, and I think this road is Baker. There’s another neighborhood off to the left here,” she said, adding another line. “But I’m not sure how it’s shaped. I’ve just seen it from the main road.”
Terrell took the stick and added a few roads of his own. “Jada’s friend lived in a sub over there. It’s pretty large.”
“So is that a potential?” Richard asked.
“No,” Terrell said. “If I remember right, a bunch of yellow cardies moved in to stay close to town.”
“Maybe we could include yellow card holders in our trading,” Carrie said. “They might have better things to trade anyway.”
“And risk them turning us in for a reward? No thanks.” Terrell drew a curvy line south of the abandoned golf course. “Beyond that, Oakwood is over this way. Or maybe more like this…”
They kept scratching what they could remember of Shelton in the dirt. By the time they finished, they had ten square feet of a detailed map. Not bad without any reference.
Richard stroked his graying goatee. “Where should we go first?”
“I know you don’t think my mom’s friend knows much about medical stuff,” Carrie tried for the thousandth time, “but Gayle and I talked a few years ago, and she might—”
“Is this a social visit or a business venture?” Terrell said pointedly.
“Business,” Carrie relented.
What did he have against the Ferris Clan anyway? They’d interacted with them the most over the years. Something must have happened with Terrell and Frank, their leader. But she’d promised to let Terrell take the lead, so she clamped her mouth shut.
“Then let’s go to the biggest clan first,” Terrell said. “That’s Oakwood. What was their leader’s name? Mitchell…?”
“Mitchell Cheng,” Richard said. “Short, pushy guy.”
Carrie nodded. He’d yelled at her once for dropping a box of sugar rations.
“So,” Richard said, taking the stick, “if we start with Oakwood, which route do we take? Perhaps we should cut through the old cornfield behind the river. That would keep us out of the patrol areas.”
“Yeah,” Terrell said, “but that puts us next to the main road. Too close for my comfort.”
“May I?” Carrie scratched a new path in the dirt. “My dad and I once cut through this other neighborhood on the way to Oakwood. I think that’s the fastest. Plus, we could check that neighborhood we weren’t sure about.”
“Good enough.” Terrell stood and brushed off his jeans. “I’ll grab the rifle.”
Carrie’s head snapped up. “You’re bringing the rifle?”
“Yes, and no arguing about it either. I’ll be back in a minute. Maybe two, since I better say goodbye to Jada and the kids in case we don’t come back.”
As Terrell trotted inside, Richard shook his head. “I’ve never seen him this nervous.”
“Me neither,” Carrie said, which worried her. Terrell knew more about other clans than anyone. She followed Richard up around the side of the Dixon’s house to wait in the front yard.
“How are you holding up?” she asked.
It took Richard a moment to answer, and when he did, he tried to smile. “It’s amazing how quickly I had become accustomed to having someone around the house again, but I suppose I’ll adjust back to the quiet soon enough.” He shrugged off the loneliness. “Thank you for all the meals, by the way. They aren’t necessary, but they’ve been delicious.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “I do know how to cook, though, so no more, alright?”
She shrugged without committing.
“How about you?” he said. “Did you have a nice visit with Oliver?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Although she still hadn’t figured out what okay meant.
She heard knocking on a window and turned. Little Jeffrey Kovach pressed his face to Terrell’s front window, smashing his nose flat and fogging up the glass. She broke into a wide smile. The three-year-old left the window and a second later, Terrell’s front door flew open. Jeffrey came barreling straight for her, fists pumping. She scooped him up, twirled him around, and squeezed him tightly.
“How are you, Jeffrey?” she said. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Good.”
He squirmed to be let down. She set him back on the grass and ruffled his dark curls, so much like Jenna’s.
“Find any good bugs lately?” she asked.
He dug through his pocket and fished out several assorted bug skeletons: ladybugs, centipedes, and a few “doodlebugs” as Greg called them. Seeing all those crumbling bodies gave her the jitters, but she smiled anyway. “Wow. That’s great. Why are you here?”
On cue, Terrell came outside with Jada and Sasha Green. Sasha carried Jonah on her hip and scowled. “Jeffrey, you’re not supposed to go outside without telling me.”
“Look!” Little Jeffrey said, pointing. “Carrie!�
��
Carrie nearly hugged him again.
Sasha noticed his enthusiasm and softened. “I know. Hi, Carrie. Thank you for the water.”
“What water?” Jada asked.
“My water buckets are filled on my porch before I wake up. It’s been very nice.”
Embarrassed, Carrie could only nod. At least Sasha wasn’t mad at her.
“I was thinking,” Sasha added, “that maybe I should use your well from now on since it’s closer. You should, too, Jada. At least until your well is finished here.”
Carrie tried to mask her shock. Was that Sasha’s way of apologizing, of letting Carrie back into the group? Jada looked equally surprised but nodded.
“Terrell says you’re leaving right now,” Sasha continued. “Think it will work?”
Carrie looked down at the boy whose only toys were dead bugs. Even if this new plan took years to set up—or to see benefits from—the kids in the clan deserved a better future.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Carrie said. “Ready, Terrell?”
Getting to Oakwood had been the easy part. Carrie, Terrell, and Richard traipsed through thick woods and across an old cornfield that had once supplied their clan with grain but had since returned to its natural habitat. They passed two different neighborhoods, watching and creeping around the perimeter to check for signs of life—specifically gardens. When both turned up empty, they kept going.
It seemed like a different town than the one Carrie had driven through with Oliver. Instead of seeing the outside shell of an egg, they explored the inside. Same place, different perspective. The only time Carrie felt nervous was when they crossed roads. It made her feel too exposed. But Terrell was overly cautious and had a sixth sense about where to go, when to hide, and when to enjoy the scenery.
When they reached Oakwood, it became obvious that Oakwood wasn’t an option. Hiding in a small corner of the neighborhood, they could see that the yards, while far from perfect, were maintained, and children ran freely between houses, children dressed in clothes without rips. Children with shoes on their feet.
Either the government had turned this neighborhood into green card housing, or yellow card holders had banded together on their own and found a safe place to live.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 61
