Breaking Point

by Kristen Simmons

  There was a glass-covered posting of the Statutes near the entrance, but I couldn’t see the five most wanted in conjunction with the sniper shootings. Maybe the FBR still thought that Ember Miller had died two days ago in Greeneville. Still, I kept my head bowed, just in case.

  Tucker walked straight up to the front door and pulled it open, allowing me to step into a brightly lit lobby with a black-and-white checkered floor. A Sister of Salvation sat behind a glass window, smiling in a plastic way. She had a broad forehead and flat hair, pulled back in a pencil-thin braid. By the time we reached her, my nerves had settled into that same eerie calm I remembered from my escape from the base. I was glad for it. I needed a clear head now.

  “Welcome to Horizons Physical Rehabilitation. How may I help you?” she chimed.

  “Patient transfer,” said Tucker.

  “I’ll need a copy of your orders, please.” She reached her hand under the bottom of the glass expectantly.

  My fists clenched. Tucker hadn’t said we’d need paperwork.

  “Is Sprewell here?” Tucker asked irritably, as though he couldn’t be bothered with this girl and her silly rules. I wasn’t entirely sure the sentiment wasn’t genuine.

  “Um … yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her mouth now drawn tight at the corners.

  “We’ll wait.”

  He stared at her until she stood up and walked away.

  “You don’t have to be so rude,” I whispered.

  “Not now,” snapped Sean. Tucker smirked.

  The Sister returned and sat back down. “Sergeant Sprewell will be with you in just a moment.”

  “Thank you,” said Tucker, not particularly kindly.

  Church of America music was piped in through the speakers. The soprano singing struck a note that gave me the chills. I nursed my sore wrist and tried to focus on relaxing the bundled muscles in my neck, but the Sister kept staring at me.

  “We’ve met, haven’t we?” she finally asked.

  I dropped my chin and looked away. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” she said. “I recognize your face.…”

  For several blank seconds the words caught in my throat and I seriously contemplated running. Then I remembered what Beth had said about the arrival of the Sisters in Louisville.

  “Dallas,” I said. “I trained at the center in Dallas.”

  “That’s it,” she said. “I trained there, too.” She smiled again, in her hollow way.

  An atrocious buzzer sounded and I jumped to attention. A moment later, a ruddy-faced guard with beady eyes—SPREWELL, according to his name badge—pushed through the locked door on the left side of the check-in window.

  His eyes drew to me first, with a look so slimy I felt the need to take a shower. I instantly despised him.

  “Still guarding cripples, huh, Sprewell?” chided Tucker.

  I bristled at the word cripple, thinking of the Chicago fighter that Mags had shot. Then I held my breath, praying that Tucker hadn’t been too bold. Thankfully the guard recognized him and laughed.

  “Miss me that much, Morris?”

  Something in his mannerisms reminded me of how Tucker had been at the Knoxville base. Cocky. Too clever for his own good.

  He shook Tucker’s hand, and Tucker smiled, like he belonged in this world. I shifted, moving closer to Sean and the handgun in his belt.

  “What brings you back this way?” asked Sprewell.

  “Transfer. The Sisters put in a request to bring one of your girls to their order in Knoxville.”

  “So that’s why you’re in mixed company.” The guard’s brows went flat with indifference. “Any gimp in particular?”

  “Her name is Rebecca Lansing,” said Sean, sweat beading on his forehead.

  I tensed. My heart hammered against my ribcage.

  Sprewell’s chin lifted. “This a pal of yours, Morris?”

  I was done talking to Sprewell. I wanted to see Rebecca now.

  “Ms. Lansing is to set an example for the other Sisters,” I said. “To steer them away from a life of sin.”

  Truck had said this is what they’d done to that poor Chicago soldier with the broken neck. Toured him around the base. I hoped it wasn’t too unreasonable that the Sisters of Salvation would do the same thing.

  Sprewell glanced at Tucker, as if to verify that I’d spoken out of turn. I hid the irritated sigh that threatened to sneak out. It seemed men could only address men these days.

  “They’re a little bold down south, aren’t they, Morris?” he said with a ghost of a smile. “The ones here are … what’s it called … like those bugs that don’t have any male or female parts. Asexual, that’s it.”

  “We are on a time crunch, Sprewell,” said Tucker.

  He sighed. “Fine, all right. Come on back and we’ll run your IDs.”

  The three of us froze, refusing to look at one another. Had Tucker forgotten this crucial step? Was this an accidental omission, or a deliberate one? I looked out the front window, seeing the van still parked on the curb. There was still a chance to run for it.

  But I couldn’t run. Any doubt that Rebecca was here had been erased. Anyway, I wouldn’t make it ten feet before Sprewell had shot me in the back.

  I followed the boys through the locked entry. There was no turning back now.

  * * *

  ON the opposite side of the door was a long counter, where a Sister sat beside a young soldier doing paperwork. He had a strained look on his face, and averted his eyes from Sprewell, out of fear or aversion, I didn’t know.

  “ID checks,” said Tucker, trying to sound casual. “That’s new since I trained here.”

  “Is it?” asked Sprewell, but he wasn’t particularly interested.

  “Name?” asked the soldier behind the desk. He pushed nervously at his dirty blond hair as though he was used to it being longer than the short soldier’s clip. It was a move that reminded me of Billy. It made him seem younger, and elicited a pang of worry for my friend.

  Sean hesitated.

  “Randolph. James,” he lied. I shot him a quick glance and then looked away. Randolph had been another guard at the reformatory. One I didn’t regard fondly.

  “Where are your name badges?” asked Sprewell skeptically. “That’s a disciplinary action if your CO finds out.”

  My hands fisted.

  “Not today,” lied Tucker. “Cleaning Services lost them.”

  Sprewell snorted. “Women.”

  “Come on,” said Tucker. “You know me, that’s ID check enough. Let me get this girl so we can get back on the road.”

  The soldier was still searching the mainframe for Sean’s alias.

  “Yeah, fine. Having a tough time, New Guy?” chided Sprewell, then snorted. “Harper couldn’t count to ten with his shoes off.”

  The soldier’s—Harper’s—face reddened. He glanced at me quickly, but I looked away.

  “It’s the whole class of new recruits,” said Tucker conversationally, as though Harper wasn’t sitting right there. “We got two in Knoxville—neither one can read.”

  Sprewell smirked. “Digging up the bottom feeders, that’s what it’s come to. Pathetic, but I guess we need the manpower. I’m sure you’ve heard all that talk about evacuating the rat nests. Now that we’ve got those heat-seeking missiles it’s cake; fifty warm bodies within fifty yards of one another, that’s all it takes to burn the house down. Those things just need a point in the right direction and BOOM!”

  My throat grew too dry to swallow.

  “LDEDs,” said Tucker. “Yeah, I’ve heard about those.”

  “Too bad you weren’t here yesterday. Got a tip that a whole load of violators were hiding out in the sewers. Right under our feet.” Sprewell stomped one boot. “We sent the roof down on ’em. Whole damn compound shook when they blew the place.” He snickered as he retrieved a clipboard from behind the desk. “Let’s see. Just a rental, right? You’re bringing her back sometime next week?”r />
  My teeth had clenched so hard I thought they might break.

  “Sure,” said Tucker thinly. “If that’s all you can part with her.”

  Sprewell laughed and looked up a patient chart while Tucker signed the paperwork.

  “Lansing, let’s see … Fourth floor. Room 408,” he said.

  I was already walking to the elevator.

  “Peace be with you,” called the Sister.

  “And also with you,” I responded over my shoulder with a smile.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE welcome,” said Tucker as soon as the three of us were alone in the elevator.

  “Don’t jinx it,” I told him. He laughed. Sean wiped the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his stolen uniform jacket.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” he said as each floor lit up on the board.

  I bounced on my heels, willing the elevator to go faster. How long had we been in this building? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Chase was going to follow soon if we didn’t hurry up.

  LDEDs. Long Distance Explosive Devices. I’d heard of these once before; one of the other four who’d been wanted for the sniper shootings had been protesting a demonstration of the bombs. Sprewell and Tucker had said the heat-seeking missiles just needed to be aimed in the right direction, toward fifty warm bodies. Who had told them that the resistance would gather at that time beneath the city?

  The elevator opened, revealing a cream-colored hallway and a nurse’s station, manned by Sisters and a middle-aged doctor in a white medical coat who didn’t seem affected one way or another by our presence. A quick survey revealed that Sean and Tucker were the only soldiers on the floor. Truck had been right about the security here, but my relief dissolved as quickly as it had arrived.

  A man sat in a wheelchair against the wall wearing only his underwear. His legs had been amputated just above the knees, capped by bandages that were soaking through with blood. Branching up his bare white thighs were the red fingers of infection. His torso and face were flushed with fever. His eyes stared through us with no registration.

  I wondered if he were a soldier who tried to escape or disobeyed an order, or a civilian who’d crossed the wrong officer. I couldn’t let myself think of it. We only had time for Rebecca. The tension in the air ratcheted up a notch.

  Our shoes squeaked over the newly waxed floors. Don’t rush, don’t draw attention, I told myself. Sean beat me to 408, but there was no one inside.

  As we returned to the attendants’ station the elevators dinged and opened again. Sprewell appeared, a look of consternation on his face. He was holding a paper in his hand. A computer printout. Was it my photo? Had the soldier downstairs remembered my face from the Missing Persons report? Involuntarily, I glanced at the gun on his belt, thinking of the code one.

  “Morris, I need to speak with you.”

  Tucker stiffened and walked slowly back toward his old friend.

  My brain was reeling. What did they have to talk about? An instant filter through the possibilities left me with two options: either Sprewell had scanned Tucker’s name anyway and figured out he’d been dishonorably discharged, or Tucker had set us up.

  I tilted my head, trying not to eavesdrop too obviously. The chalky music grated down my spine.

  “You’re kidding,” I heard Tucker say in a shocked tone. He called to Sean: “Get the girl. I have to take care of something.”

  Tucker was going somewhere with Sprewell alone. He was going to rat us out. I opened my mouth to say something, anything to make him stay, but my throat tied in knots, like Rebecca herself was gripping my vocal cords. We couldn’t follow Tucker. We had to find her.

  I met Tucker’s eyes once as he entered the elevator. The concern in them was evident enough to spray me with doubt. Maybe he wasn’t turning me in. Maybe he really was the one in trouble.

  Either way we were running out of time.

  Sean sped back to the nurse’s station and harshly stated Rebecca’s name. The Sister looked frightened.

  “Yes, sir. She’s either in physical therapy at the end of the hall”—she pointed to the right—“or in the rec room, that way.” She pointed the opposite direction.

  Sean took off toward physical therapy, and I went the other way.

  Slow down, I told myself.

  I passed several patient rooms. Most of the doors were closed. All but Room 408, and its neighbor, 409. Inside, a withered man laid on the plastic covered mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling, his mouth open and crusting white. He was crying softly.

  I shoved through the door at the end of the hall.

  The room was empty but for a table in the center holding a ceramic pot and a plastic tray of pansies. There was a girl in yellow scrubs sitting in a plastic chair facing the side window. Her blond locks, once so long and beautiful, had been shorn to a tight cap around her skull.

  Rebecca.

  Suddenly, I was bombarded with memories. The first time I’d seen her, with her springy hair and plastic smile. Her unstoppable love for the sandy-haired guard, Sean Banks. Sitting beside her on my bed late into the night strategizing my escape. The night I’d told her about Chase.

  She was not a friend at first, and she might not be now, but for a time, she was all I had.

  I took a step forward, feeling a cool drip of nerves slide down my spine. If the Sisters were so casual in their supervision, there had to be another security measure in place. Maybe there were cameras, or another posted guard that I’d missed.… They were insane if they thought a girl who’d snuck out of her room at the reformatory every single night would stay, unguarded, in a space like this.

  “Rebecca,” I said cautiously.

  Ahead of me, I saw her slender body grow rigid.

  “I don’t want to pray today.” She did not turn around.

  My heart cracked at the sound of her voice.

  When I rounded the table, Rebecca’s nose was down. Even though she wasn’t looking at me, I could see a bitter expression pulling at her once angelic face. She was repotting the pansies. Her fingers were black from the soil.

  But she looked okay. No broken neck. No feeding tube. With the exception of her hair, she looked exactly as she had when we’d parted. A single wave of cool relief washed over me.

  “Let’s go,” I said, focused again.

  Her head shot up, and her pretty blue eyes went round with shock. The mustard-colored remnants of a bruise along her chin and jaw became apparent and elicited a strong twinge of guilt.

  “Ember?” She kept the flowers on her lap.

  “We’re getting you out of here,” I whispered.

  “What? You … wait … no.”

  I must have looked surprised, because that’s what I felt. “What do you mean no? We’ve got to hurry. Sean is—”

  “Not Sean,” she said firmly, but there was an edge to her voice. “Ember, you have to leave.”

  “What?” She was mad at me, that was the only explanation for why she was acting this way. She had good reason, but still, I was here, I was going to get her out. Surely she had to see that.

  I realized she was probably afraid, but this seemed crazy. She’d attacked Brock and the guards with her bare hands for what they’d done to Sean, and now she was too scared to leave a hospital?

  “You’re not taking me anywhere. You’re leaving. Now.” Her voice hitched. If she kept this up, the Sisters were going to hear her.

  My brain couldn’t wrap around this. “You don’t want to leave?”

  “No. I want to stay,” she said resolutely.

  “We can’t talk about this now. There’s no time.” I glanced over my shoulder. No one was coming. Yet. I snatched the flowerpot off her lap.

  “No! You don’t understand!” Her voice cracked. “He can’t see me like this!” Her perfect cheeks were splotchy red now. They stood out in sharp contrast to her yellow jumpsuit.

  “Like what? With short hair? Rebecca, he won’t care.”

  “That’s not what I mean!”
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br />   Sean burst through the door at the same time I jerked Rebecca to a stand.

  Only she didn’t stand. She fell flat on her face.

  “What the…” I knelt to the ground to pick her up.

  “I told you!” She was crying now.

  Time slowed, and everything became crystal clear.

  There was absolutely no concern that Rebecca was going to run because she couldn’t run. That explained the limited military presence. That was why Sisters ran this place.

  I closed my eyes and saw it happen, just as it did at the reformatory. Rebecca in her gray uniform charging Ms. Brock, the headmistress. The guards trying to contain her. Then crack! A baton colliding into Rebecca’s back. Her sharp cry of pain. We’d been separated. I’d never known the extent of Rebecca’s injuries.

  “Sean!” I snapped. “I need your help!” I tried to pull Rebecca up, but she couldn’t support herself. Nothing below her knees moved. Her thin legs splayed limply to the side. Paralyzed. I heard the word in my head but it was wrong. It had to be wrong. She could walk, she just wasn’t trying.

  Rebecca moaned softly, a terrifying, desolate sound, and I knew then that she could try all she wanted; she’d never walk again.

  At that moment the fire alarm went off.

  “Becca?” Sean asked, confused. He knelt beside her.

  “G-get a wheelchair. Where is it, Rebecca?” The blood had drained from my head and extremities, and I felt very cold. The siren bit into my eardrums, and a bright light from above the door began to flash. Fear of another kind filled me. I had had about enough burning buildings to last a lifetime.

  “She doesn’t need a wheelchair,” said Sean. “Get up, Becca.”

  She didn’t get up. She was wailing softly into her hands. He reached for her arm but didn’t touch her. Like he couldn’t. Like there was an invisible wall between them.

  I scanned the room, landing on a pair of crutches and leg braces against a cabinet on the opposite side of the room. Whoever had brought her here had left them far out of her reach. A surge of fury rose within me so immediately that I nearly screamed.

  I sprinted toward them, gathering the intricate black plastic braces and the modified crutches, and returned to the floor.

  “How do I put these on?” I demanded.