Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

When he woke again to tear-stained cheeks and one hundred and forty-three boys laughing, that was the last number he could remember counting.

  * * * * *

  Amber’s neck and shoulders ached from her long shift. It was time to make a move. She wasn’t sure how to communicate without words—that was the hardest part of this little plan of hers. But it was either swallow her pride or break her pact to never to speak again.

  Pride swallowed, she started doing a little potty dance.

  Next to her, a girl named Crystal motioned to the guard. “I think Amber needs to use the restroom.”

  Amber nodded vigorously.

  “Not until the end of her shift,” the guard said.

  One benefit of mutehood was that people stopped speaking directly to Amber, as if she couldn’t hear either. Normally she liked that benefit, but now it irked her.

  With a few more grunts, Amber upped her potty dance.

  Crystal shot her a disgusted look. “I think she really has to go.”

  “Fine.” The guard pointed to another girl. “You, there. Accompany her to the restroom.”

  Natalia? No! Amber had purposely worked beside Crystal because Crystal was a ditzy pushover. Natalia was a prissy snob. Natalia wouldn’t even look at Amber as they left the hot factory floor. The poor girl still had bruises from their last encounter.

  As soon as they cleared the area, Amber whispered, “Unless you want another broken nose, I suggest you turn right back around.”

  Natalia gasped. “You can talk?”

  “Of course I can, idiot. And I don’t need an escort to the bathroom either. So, if you know what’s good for you and that crooked nose of yours,” she waved her hand, “I suggest you turn around.”

  Natalia didn’t need to be told twice.

  She fled out of sight.

  Amber kept heading toward the bathroom, eyes sweeping the area. Mrs. Karlsson was sitting in her office, talking on the phone. Distracted, she didn’t even notice Amber pass. One hurdle down. The bigger hurdle stood next to the stairs.

  The stairs’ guard was big, bald, and mean. The girls called him Mr. Clean. Amber didn’t know why because he never cleaned anything, but he didn’t seem to be in a very good mood today—not that he ever did. As she approached, his arms folded across his massive chest.

  “I left my time citizenship card in my room,” Amber said. “They said if I don’t grab it, I won’t get dinner tonight.”

  “No girls allowed upstairs,” he said.

  “Please don’t make me go back without my card.” With very little effort, Amber turned on the waterworks and started to cry. “This huge guard already yelled at me on the floor, and…and…” She sniffed. “They’re so mean and loud and big. Oh, please, let me get my time card. I don’t want to miss another meal. Or will you get it for me? It’s next to my bed, in the small drawer with my bathroom things, hidden under all my girlie, well…monthly supplies.”

  “Fine,” he said, waving a hand. “Go get it. But go straight to your room and right back.”

  Amber raced up the first flight of stairs and didn’t even hesitate before heading up the next one. Mrs. Karlsson had two offices: one downstairs, and one on the third floor.

  It will work. She kept telling herself this as she raced down the third-floor hallway.

  When she reached the door that said “Mrs. Karlsson, Headmistress,” she stopped. The hallway in both directions looked dead.

  She cracked open the office door, checked inside, and closed the door behind her. No lock on the door handle, so she pushed the chair she had been strapped to up underneath the handle. That wouldn’t keep Mr. Clean out for long, but it made her feel more protected.

  Racing across the room, she grabbed the only other chair—Mrs. Karlsson’s desk chair—and hefted it up. It was heavier than it looked.

  No time for hesitation now.

  She threw it against the window.

  The chair bounced off without even so much as a crack.

  “What?” she cried. “No!”

  Then she realized something that made her feel like an even bigger loser than Natalia. The window had locks.

  Dropping her chair, she opened the locks and slid the window up slowly. A hot summer breeze blew in with the smell of freedom. Her heart pumped a million times a second.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Just do it.

  She climbed out onto the ledge, one leg at a time. She caught sight of the ground below, so much farther than she had anticipated, and a wave of dizziness hit her. She clutched the window sill. An ugly tree grew directly below her. Maybe it would break her fall. Either that or break every bone in her body.

  Suddenly her plan seemed really, really stupid.

  She heard footsteps racing down the hallway. Mr. Clean had figured her out already. She was out of time.

  Don’t look. Don’t look!

  She shimmied around, twisting backwards until she hung by her waist. Then, gripping the window sill with everything she had, she lowered herself until she hung by nothing but hands.

  Her arms burned with exertion. Her fingers started to slip.

  “Hey!” Mr. Clean yelled. The office door shook. “Hey, what are you doing? Open this door!”

  Something rammed into the door. It shook under his fury. The hinges groaned with his bulk. In another second, he would break through, but by then it would be too late.

  I am a fighter.

  With that, Amber dropped.

  forty

  IT TOOK ISABEL A FULL day to scrounge up the cure from whatever sources she had. Black market or legit, Greg didn’t ask. McCormick insisted that all three of them wear bulletproof vests. That seemed pointless considering Greg had plenty of other mortal-woundable places still showing. But again, whatever. He just wanted to get this over with.

  Last night, Isabel had received a phone message from Jamansky’s secretary, basically saying what Greg expected. “Sorry about the Rockford mix-up. Chief Jamansky meant to say that your friend is actually in Rochelle. He’ll be in touch as soon as he has more information.”

  Only Carrie wasn’t in Rochelle. Greg had called back, just to confirm. So had McCormick. As far as he could tell, Carrie wasn’t anywhere. Which could only mean one thing:

  She was dead.

  “Hey.” Isabel waved a hand in front of Greg’s face. “Are you in there?”

  “Yeah. Sorry,” Greg said.

  Isabel gave him a sad look but luckily didn’t press. Instead, she leaned back over the map. “Last report we received, Kearney’s group was camped in a forest preserve near West Chicago.” She pointed to a spot. “Right around there.”

  “That should make them easier to track down,” Greg said. “Let’s dump the car in Winfield.”

  “That far away?” McCormick said. “Walking means time wasted.”

  “A risk we have to take,” Greg said. “Kearney will have guards on every road in the area. So we’ll go in the back way. Let’s move out.”

  As they drove to Winfield, Greg stared out the window at the cloud-covered, gloomy day. The humidity was high, the temperature around an eight on Carrie’s scale. Yet Greg didn’t update her weather journal like he had been doing before. Instead, he pulled out the single syringe in his pocket.

  Heaviness engulfed him.

  People died all the time. People in his life, especially. Just because he loved Carrie, didn’t mean she couldn’t die, too. He hadn’t known that his mom had passed away for six weeks. How long before he heard news on Carrie? Or would he always wonder?

  One thing he knew for sure, he had told Richard he wasn’t returning until he had Carrie, and he meant it. If she never returned to Logan Pond, then neither would he. McCormick and Isabel could use him however they wanted. And after that…hopefully there wouldn’t be an after.

  He shoved the syringe back in his pocket and worked through one aspect of the Kearney’s plan that still needed tweaking.

  McCormick parked his shiny red car behind an old, aban
doned grocery store. The three got out to start unloading the trunk. Greg watched Isabel and her uncle. The fifty-something McCormick had just lost his wife and was still grieving. And last time Greg and Isabel had infiltrated Kearney’s group, Isabel had been held hostage. She had a lot going for her, a lot to live for—which was more than Greg had.

  “Hold up,” Greg said as McCormick went to grab his bag. “Change of plans.”

  “What do you mean?” McCormick said.

  “I’m goin’ in alone.” That brought a round of protests, but Greg hurried on. “I work better alone—somethin’ that should be painfully obvious by now. Plus, if things don’t go well and I happen to not make it, the two of you can find a different way to take out President Rigsby.”

  “Greg,” Isabel started to say, but he overrode her again.

  “Look, we did it your way last time, and both of us nearly died. This time I go alone. Sneaking three people in is gonna be next to impossible, but one person…I can get in undiscovered.”

  McCormick regarded him for a moment before nodding. “Fine.”

  Isabel protested louder, but Greg ignored her.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “If and when Kearney agrees to this, I’ll come back and get both of you. Until then, stay out of sight. I plan on goin’ slow, so if you haven’t heard from me by morning, don’t come charging in with guns swinging. Give me a few days before you look for my body. Actually, if I’m not back in a few days, you’ll be out of time anyway. You’ll have to go after President Rigsby on your own.”

  Isabel rolled her dark eyes. “Drama boy.”

  “Just bein’ realistic.”

  They rearranged a few supplies, passing food and water from one bag to the next. Greg double-checked that he still had Carrie’s weather journal in his back pocket before he hefted the heaviest bag onto his shoulder.

  “How many doses did we end up with?” he asked.

  “Enough to treat two hundred,” Isabel said, handing him a lighter bag. “I don’t have to tell you to be careful with this, right? People will kill to get their hands on the cure, so use good judgment.”

  “You say that like you think I’ve actually got some,” he said.

  She smiled. “Point taken. Gun?”

  “No.” Another memory he preferred to not repeat. He picked up the two bags, one heavy and one light. “This is plenty. Hopefully I’ll be back tonight with good news.”

  Greg started off but only made it a few steps before Isabel ran after him.

  “Wait,” Isabel said. “I have something for you.”

  “As long as it’s not too big. I don’t have much room.”

  “It’s not for your bag.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a watch. She stared at it a moment before handing it to him. “Since your wrist isn’t great at giving you the time.”

  Surprised, Greg took the watch from her. The brown leather straps felt worn but sturdy, and the watch face had a vintage, classy look. The second hand ticked around the Roman numerals second by wonderful second. It had taken Greg years to get used to never knowing the time.

  “Wow. Thanks,” he said. “I’m not sure what to say.”

  She shrugged. “Knowing what a planner you are, I figured you’d like knowing the exact time. In case you’re wondering, it’s synced to Greenwich Mean Time, right down to the second. Maybe now you can make all your crazy plans with accuracy.”

  He slid the watch around his wrist and cinched it snug. It fit perfectly. He couldn’t stop admiring it: the style, the worn-out look—especially the worn look.

  “This is great. Real great. But…uh…” He scratched his head.

  “Why the gift?” Her smile faded. “It was Pete’s.”

  His brows rose. Pete had been the love of her life who, unfortunately, had been on the opposite side of the law. When the feds came to arrest his rebel group, Isabel tried to warn him, but he hadn’t listened. She had watched him get shot down.

  Pete had died—something Greg knew before, but now with Carrie, it felt particularly awful. That was the reality of living. Boyfriends, wives, children, parents, and best friends died every day, but nobody gave it much thought until it was their own loved one.

  How long would he carry around Carrie’s little journal before he gave it to someone else?

  He started loosening the watch strap. “I can’t take this. You keep it.”

  “I want you to have it, Greg,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “You remind me of Pete in a lot of ways—bossy and a little rough, but a heart of gold. You two would have been friends. I just know it.”

  Greg nodded soberly. “He’d be proud of what you’re doin’ here, helping these people—and, if things go well, helpin’ all of America. He’d be real proud.”

  Her dark eyes filled, but she smiled. “I hope so. Thanks for helping me see which path I should be on.”

  “You woulda got there eventually.”

  “I’m not so sure. You know, Carrie will be proud of you, too. Don’t lose hope. She’s still out there somewhere.”

  “I better go,” he said, backing up. “Thank you for this.”

  “Don’t lose hope, Greg.”

  As if he had any left to lose.

  Waving, Greg took off.

  He ran the first few miles, staying near roads and open fields to speed things up. But as soon as he neared the area, he headed for the woods, slowing to a virtual crawl. The woods hid a person well enough, but the slightest movement made sound. In the heart of summer, the underbrush became a thick tangle of twigs, stones, holes, and logs that could easily trip up a nice guy like him. He wanted to hurry, but he had to tread carefully. Being hasty cost them last time. So, for the next two hours and fourteen minutes, he was in and out of the river, in and out of trees, and constantly on the watch. Somewhere along the way, he ditched the heavy, inconspicuous bulletproof vest. He would apologize to McCormick later. Hopefully.

  Don’t lose hope. He kept chanting it to himself to keep from freefalling into despair. Carrie was somewhere. Isabel was sure of it. Don’t lose hope. Don’t lose hope.

  Around noon, he spotted the first signs of life. Old fire pits. Packed down brush. By one o’clock, he smelled them, catching the subtle scent of campfire.

  Grabbing a handful of small stones, Greg started climbing.

  Traveling from North Carolina, he’d found high posts made the best guarding spots—the higher the better. Not only could he see farther, but most people didn’t think to look up, especially not as high as he liked to climb.

  Dropping his bags, he walked to a large tree with good, sturdy branches and started up. Then he listened to the woods speak to him. Birds, animals, the buzz of insects. They knew when people were intruding in their forest. In five-minute increments, he dropped a stone in the slingshot pouch and fired off a few shots. If all stayed calm, he moved north and found another tree to climb. Every twenty minutes, he climbed another tree, a little closer to the smell of campfire.

  The humidity won out, and a soft, misting rain fell.

  In between shooting off stones, he rubbed the small scar on his palm, the one that would forever remind him of Carrie and her fierce way of saving those she loved.

  At 1:42 p.m., he got his first response. He aimed his slingshot farther inland from the river and fired off a stone. A muddled reply echoed back to him. Definitely human. At 1:47, he tried another in the same area. That time, he heard a distinct voice.

  “There it was again,” somebody said. “Did you hear that?”

  Greg scanned the woods until he spotted a flash of green that didn’t match nature.

  Bingo.

  Climbing down, he pulled out his smaller pack and grabbed the trowel. He dug a hole deep enough to bury both bags. Once they were secure, he spread branches over the top and picked a tree closer to those guards and climbed again. His arms were scratched up, and his leg muscles were weary from scaling so many trees, but his heart beat strong and ready.

  Humans always thought
they were more cunning than they were. The rebels stood out against the quiet woods: the vibrant colors from the tents and clothes, the sounds of movement and laughing. This camp looked to be at least triple the size of Kearney’s. He couldn’t even see the end of it. He saw mostly adults, which was a good sign. Isabel always gauged what kind of group she stumbled into based on the adult-to-kid ratio. Plus, this group carried an unusually high number of guns. Definitely part of the rebellion.

  Greg couldn’t believe McCormick had talked him into this.

  The branch he clung to swayed softly in the breeze as he watched for a specific guy, late forties, medium build, with a dark beard. Kearney. Unfortunately, that described a lot of men he saw.

  When a guard passed under Greg for the third time, taking the same basic route, Greg decided to make a move.

  He pulled out his slingshot and fired off a rock to the right. Instantly alert, the guard gripped his rifle. Greg fired off three more stones in the same basic area, trying to make them sound like footsteps. It worked. The guard motioned to his buddy, and the two crept off to investigate.

  Greg climbed down and inched toward the camp. He hid behind a large, gray tent on the outskirts of the sprawling bunch. Several bundles of wood sat off to his left, which could work as a nice prop once an opportunity presented itself. First, he needed another distraction.

  Four minutes later, the distraction came.

  A woman tripped. She had been carrying an armful of pots. Food and water spilled everywhere. Food must have been scarce in the camp, because one guy went off, yelling at her for being so careless. People turned to see what was happening.

  Greg moved.

  He darted left, grabbed a bundle of wood, and hefted it up on his shoulder. With an easy gait, he strode forward as if he had a specific destination in mind. He didn’t allow himself to look left or right, nor did he search each spot for potential threats.

  “Act like you belong,” McCormick had said often during training, “and people will assume you do. Act like you’re a spy, and people will assume you are.”

  People in camps didn’t glance at every passing face or tent, so he didn’t allow himself to either. He got a few strange looks, but not many.