There is movement in the shadows by the women’s entrance to the courtyard. People have come down the hallway from the dorms and are hovering at the edge of the arena—listening. Watching. Keeping me from saying all the things that might convince Dana and her friends that I’m not a threat. Any mention of the Stewards or Atticus or the Lyceum will only make things worse—not just for us but for those back in Chicago who have thus far avoided the Marshals. All I can do is stare Dana dead in the eyes and hope she can hear and see the truth when I insist, “I’m not what you think. We are on the same side.”
Dana takes a step forward and I place my hands on the slats behind me. “I wish that were true,” she says. “But we can’t take the chance. Make it fast.”
The woman with glasses moves first. I lean into the metal slats like I’m cowering. Then I lift my leg and kick the woman square in the stomach. When she doubles over, I dart around her to give myself some space to operate. Only I’m not fast enough. Glasses recovers quicker than I thought she would. She sticks her foot out, hooks it around mine, and sends me stumbling to the ground.
I glance behind me. The others are advancing and the woman I kicked is acting as if she was never hit.
“Don’t ever question whether you are going to hurt someone,” Atlas told me during our first fighting lesson, when I kept pulling every punch because I hated the idea of hitting him. “The minute you worry about whether you should hurt them is the minute you lose the fight.”
Dana is part of the Stewards. The other women seem to be as well. But right now we aren’t on the same side. I have to survive tonight.
The glasses woman rushes at me. I roll away so the foot the woman stomps down just misses me as I scramble to my feet. Instead of running away, I bolt in her direction and pitch a fistful of hay at her face. She instinctively raises her hands so she doesn’t notice my kick until my foot connects with her knee with a sickening crunch. She screams and crumples to the ground. The limping woman moves to help her while Dana and the broad-shouldered woman charge.
Two against one. Both are taller than I am. Dana doesn’t appear all that strong, but she also didn’t look like someone who would ambush a sixteen-year-old girl on her way to bed, so first impressions aren’t exactly useful. Atlas said the best way to win a one-on-one fight was to inflict the best damage, not necessarily the most. His advice when fighting more than one person was less complicated. It was more along the lines of—run.
I bolt along the fence toward the other side of the courtyard, then glance at the women behind me. The broad-shouldered one with her long legs is only a few feet away. Dana isn’t all that much farther. And there are at least a dozen more women at the back of the courtyard now—watching.
My foot slips on hay. I grab the fence to prevent myself from going down. It is a second or two before I recover, but that’s all it takes. An arm is suddenly around my throat pulling tight and I can’t breathe.
My heart strains in my chest.
I pull desperately at her hands, but the squeezing doesn’t stop.
I’m not going to die!
I dig my fingers deep into the woman’s arm and yank down. Her arm moves an inch. Maybe two. Enough for me to gasp for air and regroup. I rise up onto my tiptoes. When she tightens her grip to choke me again, I stomp down on her foot, twist out of her grip, and ram right into a wall.
Not a wall. A fist that cracks hard against my cheek.
Light flashes behind my eyes. I stumble and lift my arms to block the next punch, which throws Dana off-balance. Before she can recover, I smash the heel of my hand up into her face. There’s a satisfying crunch as she yelps and covers her nose with her hands. I step back and ram into another wall that isn’t a wall. This one clamps fingers around my wrists.
Oh God. I scream as she twists my arms and pins them behind my back. I kick, but hit nothing. I buck and twist and fight, but I can’t get free.
A fist rams into my stomach and my legs buckle. I gasp for air and even though I see the next punch coming, there is nothing I can do to stop it from landing. I double over, lungs burning, but am yanked back upright so when the next punches are thrown, they strike me in the chest–the face–my arms.
My legs are kicked out from under me. I crash to the ground, wrench my arms free, and tuck tight into a ball, using my arms to protect my face and body from the kicks and slaps and tearing of my hair that I want to stop. I want it all to stop.
There are whimpers. Mine. Theirs? Voices shouting, “Stop!” Or maybe “Help!” I can’t tell.
Then suddenly the blows just stop. I huddle on the ground, everything throbbing, waiting for the attack to start again. Blood pounds loud in my ears, so it takes a second for me to hear that the women are talking.
“The Instructors will be coming. You three—get cleaned up so they can’t tell you were here.” Dana’s voice carries over the roaring in my ears. “I’ll finish the rest.”
I groan and lift my head as Dana squats beside me. Streaks of blood run down her face. Her nose looks like it might be broken. Her eyes meet mine and something sharp and cold presses into the side of my neck. I roll to the left, but not quick enough and I cry out from the fresh slice of pain.
“Get away from her!”
Liz.
Her voice cuts through the din of shouts both male and female. Some of the men must have heard the noise and came out to watch the show.
I wait for Dana to cut me again. Instead, there’s a scuffle somewhere behind me. I push up from the hay, blink, trying to clear the haze of pain, and see several women holding a now-struggling Dana.
One of my rescuers is the older woman from today . . . the one who collapsed in the field.
My other attackers are gone. They must have joined the women who came out to look at the fight or have gone back inside to avoid being caught.
It’s over.
I sag with relief. Everything hurts. My face. Stomach. Legs. Chest. The pain explodes as the fear of immediate danger fades. But I’m still alive and—
“The Instructors are coming!”
“Let me go!” Dana thrashes side to side trying to get free, but the women hold fast. “You don’t understand!” she screams.
“Yes, we do.” Liz holds up a small piece of scrap metal with a thin, bloody-looking edge at the top. It’s the makeshift weapon Dana used to cut me. Had she gotten her hands on a real knife, I would be dead. Dana would have killed me—not to save herself, although she would have done that, too, but to protect the Stewards she thought I would betray. After all, what was one life compared to protecting the work that will change the future for everyone?
“Liz.” I press my hand to the side of my neck that is slick with blood and struggle to sit. “Let her go.”
“Move!” someone in the distance shouts.
“Back to bed!”
“The Instructors! They’re in the dorms!” a voice calls from nearby.
Which means it’s only a matter of minutes before the Instructors get to us here.
“Let them go. Please.”
“You can’t mean it.” Liz drops beside me. “They could come after any of us—they could come after me next.”
“You have to let them go.” I wish there was time to explain. Dana wants me dead, but we are still on the same side.
“But—”
“It’s important.” Everything is on fire. The world around me swims.
Through the haze, I see Liz nod and the others release their grip. Dana stumbles, falls, then gets back up before running out of my view.
“Clear a path!”
The sounds of Instructors are getting closer.
“They’re going to make you tell them who did this,” Liz says with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Too dark.” The words are thick in my mouth. “No one could see. Can you tell everyone that?”
“Why save them?”
“They’ll owe me a favor,” I say.
A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “This bet
ter be worth it. If they think I’m lying, I’ll end up in the infirmary with you—or worse.”
“Trust me.” I brush her arm. “It is.”
“Don’t die or I’ll be seriously pissed.” She slides the sharpened piece of metal into the folds of her shirt, springs to her feet. “I’ll see you at recruiting.”
Not if I can help it.
She bolts toward the women clogging the exit—which have intentionally or not slowed the appearance of the Instructors. Knowing I won’t have much more time, I swipe at the blood trickling from the gash on my neck and smear the wet, sticky warmth across my face and the front of my shirt—to make it look like I am hurt worse. I’m beaten and sore and bleeding. In any sane world, that would be enough to be sent for medical attention. This place is anything but sane. From the way Liz talked about the infirmary earlier, only people with the worst injuries are sent there, and no one who goes ever comes back. While the idea of visiting a place that doubles as a morgue is a risk, it’s one that will get me out of this building and a potential step closer to escape. So, I smear more blood on my forehead and on the backs of my hands as the lights from the sides of the arena start to shine.
I collapse onto the hay with my back to the entrance and go still.
“Over there!”
“Get inside!”
“I said move!”
There are shouts and sounds of scuffling. I keep my eyes closed as heavy footsteps crunching the hay approach.
“There’s a lot of blood, but she’s alive.”
“Good. Help me get a cart to take her to the infirmary,” a nasal voice snaps. “If the girl’s going to die I’d rather she do it there. At least then we won’t have to deal with getting her to the pit.”
The footsteps crunch away. I allow myself to open my eyes for a second. That’s when I see him.
The familiar lanky shape, curly hair, and intense stare that I woke up to in the Unity Center. He’s on the far side of the area standing next to the entrance to the men’s dorms. He takes a step away from the wall and cocks his head to the side, but the sound of crunching footsteps has me closing my eyes so I can’t tell whether he saw that I was awake or not.
Someone hauls me up. I groan when they dump me in the back of what I think is a golf cart and strap me down. It’s not until the cart jerks forward that I’m brave enough to look, just in time to see Wallace nod to me and smile.
The golf cart is a new kind of hell.
The driver hits every rock and bump. Each is like another blow from Dana’s fist. Tears sting and I grit my teeth and focus on the positive sight of the brightly lit dorm building shrinking in the distance. Liz promised to not reveal the identity of my attackers. I don’t know if she is owed that many favors, but I hope for Dana’s sake that she is. Otherwise, there is a chance she and her friends are being carted away right now. If so, I find myself hoping she has another sharp metal object she can turn into a deadman’s switch as well as the courage to use it.
I should feel bad that Dana might have to make that kind of choice—between her own life and the lives of all the Stewards she was trying to protect.
I don’t.
Between the sounds of the motor and the crunch of gravel, it’s hard to make out what the Instructors are saying. From the pieces I do hear, they were aware of the attack planned on me tonight and did nothing to stop it. Now someone will smooth things over with Instructor Burnett like it has been done before and they’ll get the extra leave they were promised.
“I’m going to the beach,” one Instructor announces.
“You should talk to my friend. They know a guy who does a black market run with his boat from the coast of Texas to a resort in Mexico. I went last year. The beaches were amazing and the food was beyond belief.”
“That has to be expensive. I can barely afford a few days in Florida.”
“I bet Recruiters will pay for information about this one. You know Davis will pay double if we give him a heads-up first.”
“Davis makes my skin crawl.”
“Yeah, but he comes through with the cash. The beaches aren’t the only thing amazing in Mexico.”
I miss what comes next as the cart hits a bump and I let out a yelp.
“Well, it sounds like she’s alive. Let’s hope she doesn’t end up in the pit because now I really want to spend time on that beach.”
The pit?
The Instructors don’t explain the comment as the cart turns, slows, and comes to a stop.
“We know you’re awake,” one says, undoing the straps holding me to the cart.
Do I admit that I’m conscious or keep my eyes closed? Both options suck, but the possibility of the unknown pit prompts me to slowly open my eyes.
An Instructor stares down at me, hands on her narrow hips. The one standing just behind her is holding a gun.
“Can you walk?” the closer of the two asks. She has curly blond hair, wide, angelic eyes, and a soothing voice that just minutes ago was hoping I’d live so she could trade me for an illegal vacation.
“I think so,” I whisper.
“Then let’s go.”
I swallow a sob as the blond Instructor hauls me to my feet.
The world tilts. My knees tremble. My legs are sore and weak, but somehow they hold. I grip the edge of the white golf cart and am relieved when I successfully take a step. It hurts, but I can do it.
My whole world becomes about putting one foot in front of the other and taking small, shallow breaths that don’t set my lungs afire. With each step I take stock of my injuries.
My left knee is swollen. My cheek and chest weep, but the ache in my hip seems less painful now that I am moving. More important, the cut at the base of my neck seems to have stopped bleeding and nothing feels broken. It could be—and probably should be—so much worse, I think as I let go of my hold on the golf cart and limp toward the white front door that is illuminated by overhead floodlights. I don’t know if I could run—especially on gravel or uneven terrain—but if I saw an opening to escape now, I wouldn’t hesitate to make the attempt. Maybe my attackers weren’t as committed to hurting me as they wanted to believe they were. Either that or tightening up my muscles when I was on the ground really did keep those hits to my stomach from doing more damage. Tomorrow I might feel different, but for now I’m grateful.
“Can’t she move any faster? I’d like to get some sleep tonight.”
If the woman didn’t have a gun, I’d give in to the impulse to flip her the bird. Instead, I slow my steps and moan dramatically. If they want faster, they can carry me.
Apparently, they don’t need to get to bed quite that bad. The blonde opens the door and taps her foot as she waits for me. I get one good look at the outside of the windowless building—making note of the rack of wooden-handled shovels near the end of the building and the shadow of a hill in the distance beyond—before grabbing hold of the threshold and pulling myself inside.
They scan my ear cuff in a narrow reception area, then all but push me into a room with a line of empty, narrow gray cots and an older man in baggy mint-green scrubs who is waiting with a syringe in hand.
I hate that I can’t fight off the syringe they slide into my arm and that I’m glad when they help me onto a bed. Their parting instructions are to get some sleep.
I don’t want sleep. What I want is to find a way out of the farm. The window of opportunity will stay open for only so long before the Marshals go after Mrs. Webster and Rose, shut down Gloss, and capture Stef and Ari and the kids. I can’t let any of them end up here—or worse.
But as much as I want to fight, whatever was in the syringe makes my limbs heavy. The pain slides away and I feel almost as if I’m floating when a man in scrubs arrives. He pokes and prods me and assures the Instructors they can report to Davis that I’m going to live.
“She needs stitches and might have a cracked rib. Check back tomorrow afternoon after I’ve had more time with her.”
Feet shuffle. I hear a door open
then close. The man in the scrubs hums to himself as he moves around the room.
“You sent for me?” A low voice reaches through the haze of sleep. I fight to pry open my eyes and blink to clear the film of fatigue and drugs.
“False alarm,” the man in scrubs answers. He’s standing with his back to me. “But I think you should sleep here tonight, just in case she takes a turn. No point in either of us going all the way to the barracks if there’s a chance we’ll have to come right back.”
The other man steps out of view as the one in scrubs pulls keys out of his pocket and heads for the door. “I’m going to see if they have coffee brewing over at the barn. Use the screen to send me a message if there’s a problem. She’s all yours until I get back. Have fun.”
Scrubs Man lets out a low laugh. He closes the door behind him. I hear the rattle of keys and I’m locked in this room at the mercy of whoever this person is.
Deliberate footsteps grow louder as they approach.
Fatigue and whatever drugs I was given refuse to be denied. Through the fog, dark blue pants streaked with dirt appear at my bedside. A dark blue shirt with silver buttons comes into view as the man sits on the edge of my bed.
A hand lifts the hem of my shirt. Fingers brush my arm.
“No,” I whisper.
A face swims in front of mine. I see the smile. A glint in the eyes. Feel cool air on my stomach, and in my mind I scream as everything goes black.
Fifteen
“No!” The word is barely a whisper as I claw myself out of the sticky, thick void and I blink away nightmares of my mother’s and Isaac’s bloody, broken bodies.
My head throbs. Bright white lights beat down from above. I grit my teeth and struggle to push to my elbows. Swallowing does nothing to chase the bitter horror of the dreams or the barren dryness from my mouth.
The windowless room is empty save for the two lines of cots—none of them dressed with any kind of bedding. The walls are painted a jaunty lemon color that someone must have believed would come across as cheerful, but instead is strangely ominous.
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