An infantryman, perhaps in his late twenties but struggling to grow a beard nonetheless, scampers over, rights himself into attention, then salutes Targon. “Sir?”
“We have an overnight guest for the prison. Please escort the former captain to a cell and see to it that he gets a blanket and a cup of water. I believe we might just have ourselves the first prisoner of war.”
Golliher flicks his eyes to Tanner and back. “You mean he’s a P.O.W., sir? I thought we were going to raise the flag in the morning and, and—”
“Thinking isn’t part of your enlistment duties, boy. Get him out of here.”
“But, sir, I was under the impression that we had an agreement with the northern armies. If we take a prisoner, won’t that violate the agreement that President—”
“Go!” Targon bellows. “Get gone before I decide to lock you in the cell with him, Golliher. That’s an order.” He points down an alleyway, fuming, so red-faced that I half expect fire to shoot out of his nostrils like those tall tales we heard about dragons.
“Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”
“And if you should happen to have an accident on the way, I’m sure we’ll all be too busy to help.”
Golliher dips his chin in agreement with Targon’s last order, now that his intentions are clearer.
The infantryman grabs Tanner by the arm and drags him through the last remaining stragglers, head down, marching with intent. Tanner looks back over his shoulder and dares to say, “It’s not over, pawn. If I have to drag you down with me, we’ll burn in Hell together.”
Targon laughs and pats me on the shoulder. He says, “Don’t worry, Mathers. I’m sure he’ll get there long before you will.”
I don’t doubt that he’s right, but yet Tanner’s words send a chill down my spine.
I’m positive it’s the last time I ever see him.
Thank God and good riddance.
Chapter 5
Finn and I follow Targon down a quiet path between buildings. Finn tells me quietly that it’s called an ‘alley’ and I accept it on good faith. To me, it simply looks like the space between shacks back in the encampment, except beneath our feet, it’s a hardened surface like the roads winding through the mountains. It’s also bordered by tall buildings with lights and cars sitting out front.
They’re never-ending. There are structures everywhere.
My heart pounds. It’s all so overwhelming and without the distraction of Tanner, my marching people, and the maddening smell of sausage, I can’t control my reaction to such a tremendous difference to the world I’m used to.
Back in my old life, we were surrounded by trees, rivers, and lakes. We lived in hovels no bigger than what Targon refers to as a ‘delivery truck.’ The picture on the side of it is a loaf of bread roughly the size of the smiling family behind it. When I ask Targon if it can only carry one at a time, he laughs and calls me a “country bumpkin.”
I don’t know what this means. I don’t like the sound of it either, but I ignore it. I know I’m out of my bounds of comfort, and I don’t have time to learn, adapt, and accept such a tremendous amount of new information screaming at me from all sides.
Structures are stacked upon each other, climbing up, up, and up, as high as mountains. Artificial lights flash. People walk by on the street, huddled over and in a hurry. The first moving car that I’ve seen—at least it looks like a car because it has four wheels—rambles past and splashes dirty water on us from one of the many deep puddles. I see the army’s official emblem on the door. The sides are open, unlike the other cars I’ve seen, with a thin layer of cloth overhead, protecting the two men who ride in the front from the rain.
I’m completely and entirely puzzled. After everything I’ve seen and done, my physical abilities and Finn’s, the sight of a moving car still sends me into fits of excitement. Since I was a child, listening to the stories the Elders told around the campfires, I dreamed of hopping into one and just going wherever it would take me.
“Hang on,” Targon says. “That will be faster.” He spins around, puts his fingers to his mouth again and the shrillest whistle I’ve ever heard erupts from his lips.
Red lights flash on the rear of the car—Finn whispers, “That’s called a Jeep,”—and one of the soldiers looks back at us. He tosses a finger into the air and twirls it in a circle. The one operating it turns the Jeep around in the middle of the road and approaches us slowly.
The soldier closest to us leans out the window, sees Targon, and salutes. “Captain,” he says. “Help you with something?”
“Current orders?” Targon says, leaning over to examine the soldier’s nametag. “Miller, I see.”
“Yes, sir. Miller, sir. And this is Mosley driving. We’re on a routine patrol. Making sure everyone is obeying the curfew before tomorrow.”
“Miller and Mosley. Well, gentlemen, have you ever been to the president’s quarters?”
I’m not ashamed to admit that the ride is exhilarating, even with Targon’s round, blubbery body pressed against me. He’s on one side and Finn is on the other. The wind blows through my hair and the night smells of cooking food and wet cloth. Rain sprinkles through the open sides but I don’t mind. It feels good on my face.
I should be panicked. I should be in the middle of a mental crisis trying to figure out what we’re going to do and how we’re going to protect this city of fifty thousand people from slavery. How are we going to fight back? I know that Finn and I can do a world of damage to the men and machines marching on Warrenville, but I doubt that we can do enough to stop the entire army.
I should be shaking with anticipation, and I am, a little, but taking a bouncy ride in the green Jeep is something I’ve longed for since I was old enough to know what a car was used for. It will never happen, but in the time it takes us to drive to President Larson’s home, I imagine taking the steering wheel, with Finn at my side, and simply driving away.
It’s calming to daydream for a moment. I’m going wherever a road will take me one day, but first, war is coming, and grasping the fact that I can’t escape yet drags me back to reality.
A heavy sigh escapes my lungs and Finn asks me what’s wrong. “Nothing,” I say. “Just tired. I’m drained and the war hasn’t even started yet.”
Targon flashes me a look that insinuates I should shut up, but it’s too late. Private Miller, the driver, looks up in the mirror and I make eye contact with him. He says, “What does she mean, Captain?”
Targon shakes his head. “That’s none of your concern, Miller. Same goes for you, too, Mosley. As far as we know, our orders stand and we are to proceed as planned. By seven o’clock tomorrow morning, we’ll all officially be servants to the Democratic Alliance of Virginia.”
Mosley scoffs up in the front seat. “If you’ll forgive me, sir, ‘servants’ isn’t the word I’d use.”
Targon lets it go. He leans over to me and whispers, “Do me a favor and try not to start a riot until we talk to President Larson, okay?”
I apologize and catch Finn grinning at me. I wish I had time to pull him to the side and discuss how we’re going to approach things with the president. Targon warned us that we would never change our dear leader’s mind. He’d already been promised too many things—too much money, too much security—and that no matter what we said, the man wasn’t going to budge. But, earlier, Targon mentioned it was his civic duty to make the offer, and now he sits beside me, one hand on the Jeep’s side while he chews his fingernails on the other.
I tap him on the shoulder. When he looks over, I ask him if he believes what I said about the two of us.
His lips twist, admonishing me. He shakes his head vigorously, then puts his finger to his lips. “We’ll talk about it later,” he says, “but yes, I saw the fear in Tanner. He saw something, and men like that, thirty-year soldiers, their knees don’t get shaky around a girl your age. Not unless there’s one smiling at them.”
I meet Miller’s eyes in the mirror again and decide to keep qui
et. He’ll find out soon enough, but at the moment, it’s too much to explain. And even if Finn and I have the power and the ability to defend ourselves, who knows how some untrusting soul would react to learning our true identities. The Kinders weren’t looked at in the most favorable light way back when and I’m not so sure that it’s any different now.
However, we’re invaluable weapons, and I can sense that Targon knows this.
The problem will be with convincing the president that his city, and his people, are worth saving, that their lives are worth more than what he’s been promised.
We ramble along, driving out of the main part of the city, leaving the shops and tree-lined streets and magnificent buildings behind. As we roll up a hill—and I’m amazed at how easily the Jeep winds up the side, effortlessly—I look back over my shoulder and watch everything grow smaller. The river is to our east and I’m not sure what’s on the opposite side of this hill to the west. Northward are the approaching lights of the DAV tanks and to the south, lightning flickers throughout the clouds.
The wall extends all the way around Warrenville for what has to be miles upon miles. I ask Targon how strong it is.
“Not strong enough to hold off tanks,” he answers. “And that’s exactly why we’re raising the white flag in the morning.”
Mosley seems to have a bit of an attitude, and I don’t blame him, when he says, “It’s such a huge waste of fuel and resources, don’t you think? If I were in charge and I knew my enemy was simply going to show me its belly, then I’d send a small escort and let that be that.”
Targon rolls his eyes and pats him on the shoulder. “And that’s exactly why you’re a private and not sitting in the president’s seat, Mosley. Like I was telling Mathers here earlier, it’s all for show, of course, but how do you propose you’d wrangle fifty thousand people for a couple hundred miles with a simple escort, huh? Good lord, private, you’d have people running off willy-nilly into the woods and lagging behind this way and that. It’d be a madhouse and take you a month to get them all where they needed to be.”
“And,” Finn says, “suppose somebody wants to fight back? What then?”
Mosley turns in his seat and says, “I have half a mind to myself. I was born a free son of Warrenville. You ask me, I might have to take a few of those damn blackcoats with me on my way out.”
Before I can ask him what he means—and I’m thinking I may have found our first ally—Targon orders him silent and we all sit back once more, watching the homes go by.
What homes they are, too. I could fit my entire village inside of two of them, easily. Two, three, and four levels, painted white with black shutters and gray with white columns. Large porches surrounded by flowers. It’s too dark to see the depth of their beautiful colors, but I can imagine a rainbow bordering the steps of the house I’m looking at now.
We turn right and then roll slowly forward to a small shack with a single light shining brightly over a door. A magnificent fence, decorated in swirls of metal, sits a few feet beyond. A soldier steps out to greet us, first acknowledging Miller and Mosley with a simple nod of his head, then coming to rigid attention when he sees Targon, the ranking officer. He says, “Good to see you again, Captain Targon, sir. How can I help you?”
“Official business with President Larson, Private Wilson. What kind of mood is he in tonight?”
“Somber, I supposed you’d say. Big day tomorrow.”
Wilson is middle-aged, and I can’t help but wonder why he’s still a private after all these years. Demotions? Injuries? By choice? He looks thin underneath his uniform, the clear rain coat giving an unobstructed view at a slender body swallowed by a uniform a few sizes too big.
“You’ve definitely spoken with him?”
“No. Teller and Inkleham are inside on watch. I’ve just kept an eye on him through the security monitors. Not that I blame him, but from what I can see, he’s moping around like he lost a puppy.”
Mosley mumbles, “He’s lost a whole damn city, that’s what he’s done.”
Targon hisses. “Not another word, Private Mosley. For the next seven hours, and better yet, until we’re finished with our march north, we’re official representatives of the PRV, and I will not have this discord spread. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Mosley stares out the window, then up toward the sky. I’d say he understands, but he’s not happy about it one bit.
Wilson nods at Finn and me. “Who’re these two, sir?”
“Mathers here is a scout from up near Rafael’s Ridge, and Finn is her companion. Helped her with the retreat. Saved a thousand lives on their way here through the valley.”
Mosley mutters under his breath, “Saved them for one more night is all.”
Targon ignores him. He says to Wilson, “I know it won’t matter much come tomorrow, but for such an effort, I feel like these two deserve a commendation; give the president one last chance for a good deed before we all get rope burns on our wrists, huh?”
Wilson is tall, so he has to lean down to look at the two of us. “Good on you for that. I’m sure it means a lot to the people you helped.”
Finn smiles and I manage to nod. A lump wells up in my throat and I have to force it down with a hard swallow. It’s nice to be recognized, but it stings knowing that by tomorrow it won’t mean anything.
No, don’t think that way, Caroline. Talk to the president. We’ll convince him.
Won’t we?
What happens if we can’t?
Chains, Caroline. Chains happen.
Chapter 6
Miller navigates the road leading up to the president’s home. I’m learning all sorts of new words like “mansion” and “driveway.” After tomorrow, I’m not sure I’ll need to know that the president likes watching something called a “television.”
These things weren’t available outside the walls of the capital and we never knew we needed them. I didn’t, at least. Finn is familiar with everything they’re talking about—since he came from the rich and privileged DAV—and he does me the favor of whispering an answer when a confused look twists my face. The path leading up to the president’s home has to be at least a mile long, so there’s plenty of time for me to listen to Targon, Miller, and Mosley talk about things I’ve never heard of, much less cared about.
When Finn tries to explain that dogs are kept as pets here, and that they don’t run wild in the woods, I finally tell him that I’ve had enough. It’s really too much information to process, so if I hear something I’ve never heard before, I file it away in the back of my mind if it interests me enough, and if it doesn’t, I let it go.
He puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Lot to take in, huh?”
“You can say that again.”
“What’s it like?” Mosley asks. “I mean, up there near the Ridge. Must have been tough being right on the border like that, always wondering if the DAV was going to come marching over the hill. Sounds like they did, but you know what I mean, right?”
“Wasn’t so bad,” I answer. “We kept our distance from the Republicons and lived like we were supposed to. Fishing, hunting…sharing what we could scrounge up.”
“I would’ve liked that,” he says. “Maybe I’ll escape from the DAV chains one night and go live off the land. Can’t be that hard, can it?”
I hear Targon breathe heavily through his nostrils, but again, he chooses to let it go. What’s the point in reprimanding someone who has seven hours left as a free man? It won’t matter in the morning.
Miller adds, “No offense, Mathers, but I think I’d rather go work in the DAV’s factories for the rest of my life than have to chase my dinner every evening.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror and smirk at him. “If you get good enough, you don’t have to chase.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough. You probably think we’re privileged down here, huh? Warm beds, lights, running water. Never wanting for food or heat. We live like kings compared to the life you’ve had, don’t
we? Lived is probably the better word.”
At first, I think he’s trying to coax me into an argument, but it’s the way he phrases that last sentence, the tone of his voice, that lets me know he’s sincere. I say, “Kings? I don’t know about that. You’ve definitely had it easier than we did, but we never really wanted for anything. We lived like good people should, helping each other out, sharing food and clothes. If somebody needed a pair of shoes, we gave it to them. If they needed bread and somebody had extra, we gave it. It’s amazing how you can survive if you work together.”
Targon says, “What happened in your encampment, Mathers, before you retreated?”
I stare down at my hands in my lap. It’s still painful to think about. Not that I would’ve forgotten already, but I don’t expect it to hurt my heart this much. “I was on point when I heard the drums. If you’ve never heard the war rhythm echoing through the woods—honestly, I’d never known real fear until I heard that—I can’t even describe it.” My eyes begin to water. I take a moment to breathe. I have to be strong in front of them.
I have to remember who I am and what I’m capable of doing. I’m a Kinder. Finn is a Kinder. We have nothing to fear except death, but isn’t that enough?
I clear my throat. “I know now why he did it.”
“Why who did what?”
“Why our General Chief betrayed us. His name was Hawkins. He probably had orders to do it from President Larson, didn’t he?”
Targon nods reluctantly. “Most of them did, yeah.”
Finn says, “That explains why almost all of the encampments didn’t have any leaders around. Every time we ran across a new village, I kept wondering why all those people were so clueless.”
“Me, too,” I say. “It makes so much more sense. Anyway, our General Chief betrayed us. What did you say earlier? He was a Judas. The blackcoat vanguard must not have been interested in slaves because they murdered nearly everyone in our village, including Ellery—”
A Pawn's Betrayal Page 4
