The three of us dart past the desk and down a dimly lit hallway. Finn and I both could pick up our speed and leave Mosley lagging behind, but I think we both understand that wouldn’t be good.
We’re strangers here, except to our own people, and we have no place to go or nowhere to hide. Not unless we want to run away and disappear into the woods. Maybe we could go to Tennessee or North Carolina, or West Virginia if we absolutely needed to. If we were to flee, it wouldn’t be that hard for us to jump over or burst through the tall fences that guard our borders.
That’s the last possible option, because I’m not about to let all of these PRV citizens spend the rest of their lives in chains. I’ll die before that happens.
Mosley stops at a large metal door with a single glass pane in it. He peeks through, nods quickly, and then pushes some buttons on a small, square box mounted on the wall. The door swings open and we enter. It’s another dark, dimly lit hallway, lined by doors on each side. As we dart past each one, I look inside the small windows. They seem different than the cages we left behind.
I ask Mosley, “Are those prison cells?”
“Worse,” he says. “They’re offices.”
I don’t quite get it, but apparently it’s a joke because he’s laughing. Even Finn chuckles.
Whatever. We don’t have time for an explanation.
Again, another door down at the end. Mosley checks, ushers us through, and we’re in a large, open room with what appears to be dozens of tables. They’re a soft brown color with metal legs and benches attached underneath. Next to the far side sits a shiny silver countertop with a glass overhang. It’s long and stretches across a quarter of the wall. The area behind it is open and full of metal boxes.
“Ovens, refrigerators. We’re in the cafeteria,” Mosley says, sensing my confusion. “They fed the prisoners here.”
“What’d they do with all of them?” Finn asks. “Where’d the prisoners go?”
“Georgia. Poor bastards,” Mosley answers. The sound of his voice suggests that we should know why that’s such a horrible thing.
Finn hurdles an overturned trashcan. “Where are the rest of the guards?”
“Most of them are home with their families getting ready for tomorrow. They kept a couple of them here to see that the place was shut down properly, and from what I understand, they called in one or two more to keep an eye on you guys for the night.”
“So one’s asleep and the rest are…”
We’re about to reach the exit when a loud crash reverberates through the dining area behind us. “Stop!”
Mosley peeks over his shoulder. “Does that answer your question?”
Three guards, armed and looking angry, including the one who’d been asleep on the floor, burst through the doorway. They hold guns in front of their chests and lean hard into their sprint.
“Finn, keep him safe.”
Mosley reaches for my arm but I yank free of his grip on my jacket.
I don’t bother with bending time. Part of me wants to see how fun this can be.
The men seem surprised as I sprint toward them. They pull up, give each other questioning glances, and then lower their heads and come after me. Faster. Grinning. I can hear Mosley shouting for me to stop. He doesn’t know that I’ll be okay. No one has told him that Kinders are in his presence.
A guard’s voice plows into my head. It’s deep and almost giddy with excitement. I can’t place it exactly, but I think it’s the heavy one with the flabby cheeks. His graying hair doesn’t match the plump baby-face that’s twisted into a smug grin.
Come on, little girl. Come to daddy.
Did nobody tell him about the Kinders either?
Stupid Kinder. Can’t stop a bullet, can you?
Okay, well, I guess they did…and he’s not smart enough to know better.
Time for some—fun! I jump.
No, I launch myself off the ground, fifteen feet into the air. Not as high as Finn, but high enough that the three guards trip and fumble over one another trying to look up at me. I’m not exactly flying, yet I can feel myself floating there long enough to notice that gravity doesn’t immediately pull me back to the ground. I roll in the air, executing a perfect flip, and land on my feet behind them.
Baby Face, on the floor now, growls and fires first. I duck to my left and feel the air parting near my right ear. Too close. Dropping to the ground, I grab his ankle, yank him hard, and sending him sliding down the aisle between tables. His gun fires for a second time and a window shatters up near the rafters.
The sleepy guard, eyes still groggy and half-open, tries to get to his feet. I kick his legs out from underneath him and he topples back to the floor. One hard elbow to his jaw and it’s naptime again.
That leaves… Guard Three: short black hair with a pitiful attempt at a mustache. He rolls, springs to his feet, and slings his arm out at me. In his hand is a small pistol; I have no clue where his rifle went and I don’t care. All that matters is that it’s out of his reach. The open end of the barrel is two inches from my nose. I stand there, allowing him that one tiny moment of satisfaction before he squeezes the trigger. I see the grin forming at the corner of his mouth.
Boom.
Time crawling, crawling, I dip to the right and watch the bullet cruise past. The report is too close to my ears; they go dull and there’s a sharp, high-pitched ringing underneath that.
Before he can squeeze the trigger a second time, I lunge and drive my shoulder into his chest. He comes off his feet and air escapes his lungs in a weighty oooof as he sails across three rows of tables.
I face Mosley and Finn, grinning, not the slightest bit out of breath and totally satisfied with my performance. My hearing sounds as if my head is wrapped in thick cotton and the ringing is almost unbearable, but I don’t care. I’m relishing in my victory.
And it’s strange that Finn and Mosley aren’t doing the same.
Why aren’t they smiling? Why aren’t they cheering for me?
What are they pointing at?
I feel it before I hear it.
The sensation is one of a tremendous punch to my back, directly below my right shoulder blade, followed by the roar of a gunshot.
Finn screams, “Caroline!” He’s already moving in a blur before I hit the ground, gasping for air. I look up to see him over me and in a blink, he’s gone. Another report from the guard’s rifle fills the dining area and through the ringing, through the muffled hum in my ears, and over the echoes of the gunshot, I can hear Finn screaming and the unmistakable sound of fists on flesh as he pummels the guard.
I turn on my side and try to see what’s going on, but Finn is already standing. His hands are covered in blood, so are his face and his shirt.
There’s so much blood.
He scrambles over to me and puts a bloody arm around my neck, lifting me off the floor.
He asks, “Does it hurt?”
I cough. Pain rattles around inside me. “You got him, right? Show me.”
“Don’t look. Let me see the wound.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I’m drifting, drifting. I glance up and see Mosley’s face over Finn’s shoulder.
“What the hell was that?” he asks. “Are you guys what I think—”
“Not now,” Finns snaps. “We’ll explain later. Is that the last of them?”
“The guards? Yeah, I think so.”
“Think or know, Mosley? Think or know?”
Darkness seeps in at the edge of my vision.
“Know. I know.”
“Good. Where’s the infirmary?”
Before I can hear Mosley’s response, I slip into a dark void once again.
It seems like all I’m doing is waking up in strange places. As I open my eyes, I feel wind in my face along with the peppered sprinkle of raindrops.
Outside. I’m outside. But where?
A jolt sends a shot of pain through my body and I’m at once fully awake and aware of the noise around me. Tires hiss
on wet roads. An engine roars and above me, a loose corner of canvas flaps in the wind.
Finn’s voice comes from the front seat of the Jeep. “Mosley, for God’s sake, don’t bounce her out of the back.”
Agitated, Mosley replies, “Do you want to get there or not?”
I try to say, “Where are we going?” but my voice comes out too weak for them to hear over the din around us. I reach to tap Finn on the shoulder. He’s too far and I’m in too much pain to put in the extra effort. I lay back and close my eyes, listening to them.
Finn asks, “And you’re sure they can fix her?”
Mosley says, “I told you, Finn, they’ll have supplies at the warehouse. Dr. Carlson is amazing and he’s on our side. As far as whether or not—duck!”
Their silence lasts for a few seconds.
The pain in my back and chest is too much. My vision swims and I close my eyes to rest.
What’s going on up there?
Finn, slightly panicky, says, “Do you think they saw me?”
“Um…” Mosley hesitates. “No brake lights. They’re turning. I think we’re okay.”
“Are there many more of them?”
“Curfew patrols?”
“Whoever they were.”
“Some, yeah. I don’t know how many. Larson ordered all of the family men home for one last night. Guys like me and Miller—you know, single grunts nobody cares about—we’re stuck on duty making sure everyone is finally prepped for the morning. Not that it matters because of what we’re doing, but what about me, huh? Like my last free days are any less valuable? What if I’d like to sleep in my own bed one last time? It’s ridiculous the way they treat—never mind.”
“How many people do you have in your—what’d you say it was?”
“The Rebel Coalition.”
“How many?”
“Why do you ask?”
I can feel Finn’s eyes on me. He must be looking over the seat at me.
“We’re Kinders, Mosley. Caroline and I could disappear and manage on our own, no matter where we go.”
“You wouldn’t do that to your own people.”
Mosley doesn’t know that Finn isn’t one of us…not really.
“If we’re going to help you start a real war—if we’re really going to risk our lives for you—then we need to know what kind of help you really have.”
I open my eyes and manage to sit up.
Did I hear him right? We’re starting a war?
Chapter 10
The warehouse is the largest thing I’ve ever seen. Well, except for Black Rash Mountain, if you want to be specific, but this place isn’t far from it. As children, before Brandon and I become scouts, back when we had more time to roam the hillsides, we would explore this cave on the southern side of Rafael’s Ridge. It was deep, dark, and damp. We could walk hundreds of yards into it, standing upright, until the walls crept in around you, closing tightly into a hole barely big enough for a child to fit.
If you were brave enough to squeeze through, you’d be rewarded by this humongous open cavity that made it seem like the whole mountain was hollow. The flames would dance in our lamps and cast crazy shadows behind the rock formations and it smelled like wet earth. We were always able to hear running water somewhere, but we had never been able to find it. At the time, that was the biggest room I had ever been inside.
I haven’t really thought about Brandon in so long. I miss him and wish he were here. He always knew what to do.
Finn offers to carry me inside but I refuse. Just because I’m having trouble breathing doesn’t mean my legs don’t work.
“But what if you faint?” he says, one hand on my elbow.
“Then catch me.”
Mosley pauses at the front door. A single light bulb burns brightly above it. The exterior walls are made of some sort of rippled metal that look like small waves on a river. I can hear commotion inside, but it’s hard to make out what the noise is, exactly. Mosley says, “They’ll be happy we have more volunteers, but don’t run in there shouting anything about being Kinders. We’ll need to talk to Hale first, ease him into it.”
“Won’t they be excited to have Kinders on their side?” I’m shaking and my knees are growing wobblier by the second. I don’t know how much blood I’ve lost. Too much, no matter what.
Mosley puts a palm on my forehead. It’s cool and clammy. Or is that my skin? “Jesus. We need to get you some help. Just let me do the talking.”
He raps on the door with his knuckles, knocking in an erratic cadence. Three knocks, one knock, three knocks, two. I assume it’s some sort of code. Much like the main gate entrance of Warrenville, a panel slides to the side and I catch sight of a face before it slams closed again. I hear locks opening and metal sliding against metal.
The door screeches ajar and a boy, not much older than Finn and me, steps into the cone of light. “About damn time,” he says. “Hale was asking about you.”
Mosley steps up to the boy. “He’s mad?”
“See for yourself.” The boy lifts his chin in our direction. “Who’re these two?”
“More volunteers here to help. The girl’s hurt. Got shot trying to escape the curfew patrol. Where’s Dr. Carlson?” Mosley is lying, but it’s easier than the actual explanation.
It’s not possible for the boy’s eyes to open wider. “And you brought her here? What if they followed you?”
Mosley shakes his head vigorously. “They didn’t, Bobby. We’re clean. Now where’s Dr. Carlson?”
“In back, I think. Last time I saw him, he was doing another round of inventory on the supplies.”
“And Hale?”
“How the heck should I know? Writing another speech, probably.”
“Tell him we’re here for me, okay? We’ll be in back with the doc.”
Bobby rolls his eyes and makes a sweeping gesture with his hand toward the open door. “Your wish is my command.”
Mosley thanks him and we enter. I stumble. Finn catches me, wraps my arm around his shoulder. He’s taller than I am, and it’s awkward and painful, but at least I’m not falling face first onto the floor.
“You’ll have to excuse my little brother,” Mosley says. “He’s not used to me giving orders. This way.” He points between rows of crates marked AMMO. I know this word. I’ve seen it before and can’t remember where. As we scuffle along, with Finn at my side and Mosley leading us, I search the images in my mind, trying to recall what these four letters mean and why I know them. A brief glimpse into a day when Brandon and I had sneaked into a place where we shouldn’t have been.
The supply shed. Back home with the old rifles. AMMO. Ammunition.
Ammunition! That’s right. Bullets for guns.
To our left, over in an open area, a horde of PRV soldiers dressed in their customary army uniforms stand in formation with their rifles on their shoulders. Someone in charge barks orders and the men and women whip their weapons around to the opposite shoulders and then drop them butt-first to the ground, holding them steady by their barrels. “Hoo-ah!” they shout.
There must be hundreds of them practicing.
My vision is getting blurrier by the second, but back in the southeast corner, I spot another group of them congregated around an officer standing at a podium, pointing at a large map with a long stick.
Directly to the south is a final group of soldiers sitting at the same kind of tables that were in the prison’s dining area. It would be easier to guess if I weren’t in so much pain, but if I had to put a real number on it, I’d say there were at least a thousand soldiers in here. Maybe more. If I were able to put them into a pack and march them through the woods in a desperate retreat, their numbers would likely resemble the pack of refugees that I led here.
For the first time in—I can’t recall how long—words emerge from the hazy fog of Finn’s mind. He’s counting.
Five hundred… Eight hundred, at the least… A thousand? Could be. What can a thousand do against…
&n
bsp; The words in his mind drift away as easily as they appeared. I don’t bother confirming that I thought the rebel numbers might total a thousand, too. It will only freak him out again that I can hear the words in his mind.
The scent of smoke and cooking meat reaches my nose. My mouth waters and my stomach growls. When was the last time I had a decent meal? Days? To my right, I see the flicker of flames. Five soldiers are cooking over a large structure. The smoke drifts upward toward a group of blades spinning inside the walls. Finn sees me looking and says, “Exhaust fans to carry the smoke out.”
“Smells incredible,” I say. It’s amazing how the pangs of hunger can overpower the pain of an injury. For a moment, I want nothing more than to run to the sizzling meat and tear at it with my teeth, but when I stumble over a box on the ground, the pain returns with a blinding ferocity.
Finn has to hold me up. He says, “If you weren’t a Kinder, you’d be dead by now.”
“Is it bad?”
Mosley looks back at us and points at the southwest corner. “I see the doctor. I’ll run ahead and get him prepared. You’re good with her, Finn?”
“Good, yeah.” Finn waits until Mosley is gone, running to the man in the white jacket, before he says, “You’re lucky the bullet passed all the way through and didn’t hit anything major, but it’s a hole, Caroline. We could put a stick through it and carry you on our shoulders.”
“Please don’t.”
“You’ve lost too much blood.”
“I know that.”
“If you lose much more, we’ll be able to see through you like a window.”
“Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.” I know he’s only trying to keep my spirits up but every giggle sends an unbearable wave of pain coursing throughout my body.
“Sorry,” he says. He bends lower so there’s not as much strain on my wound. “I’m kinda surprised, actually.”
I cough and taste blood for the first time. “Why?”
“It wasn’t very smart of me, but when I found out I was a Kinder, I shot myself in the thigh just to see what would happen.”
“Idiot.” I spit a glob of blood onto the floor.
“It hurt like hell, that’s for sure, but it healed. I sat there and watched the hole close on its own. Thirty seconds later, it was like there’d never been a wound at all.”
A Pawn's Betrayal Page 7
