“I wasn’t pretending!” Mr. Webster shouts. “You’ve never had to be scared of being robbed or shot when you walked down the street or went to school. You’ve never had to live in fear of our country being dragged into a war. Our country faced terrible problems. Action had to be taken.”
“That’s your justification for the lies?” Rose’s voice cracks. “For the rewriting of history and the kidnapping of people who were guilty only of thinking something different?”
“Difficult decisions had to be made,” Mr. Webster says coldly. “The ones who were in charge made the right choice.”
“How do you know?” Rose pushes. “You weren’t there.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he says—his face hard as stone. “But it’s too late to go back and change it. What’s important is how much happier and safer the country is now.”
“I don’t feel happy . . . or safe. Neither does Isaac.”
Taking that as my cue, I hand my gun to Rose, pull a tablet out of my pocket, and turn the illuminated screen to face Mr. Webster. His eyes latch on to the image—the one I took of Isaac before he walked out of the infirmary door. The picture isn’t centered, but while the composition is poor, the hollow anguish in Isaac’s eyes is clear.
“I found your son, Mr. Webster.”
Rose’s father takes the tablet, never taking his eyes off the face on the screen.
“Isaac helped me,” I say quietly. “I wanted him to come with me, but he refused.”
“Why?” Mr. Webster asks.
“He said it was because he was being used as an example to everyone in government. That if we escaped together they would never stop searching for him,” I explain.
“And you just accepted that?” Mr. Webster yells.
“Don’t you dare blame Meri!” Rose shouts back.
“If she had only trusted me everything would be okay!”
“Us not knowing about all of this wouldn’t make things okay,” Rose snaps.
“Mr. Webster,” I interrupt. “When Isaac made the choice not to come with me it wasn’t only because he was worried about finding a way to disappear.” The last words Isaac said before leaving he infirmary play again in my mind. “He knows what will happen to his mother and Rose if the Marshals came knocking on their door. Isaac told me to tell you that he’s in hell. He made the choice to stay there while I escaped to buy all of us time.”
“Time for what?” Mr. Webster asks.
“To do what we can to free him,” I say.
“And not just him,” Rose adds, locking eyes with her father. “We’re going to free everyone who you’ve helped hold against their will. We’ll do it without your help, but we’ll have a better chance of saving Isaac with it.”
Mr. Webster is the first to look away. His shoulders slump as he looks at the ground and rubs at the back of his neck. When he looks up, the man I once believed was hard as stone has tears in his eyes. “Nothing will ever be the same. We won’t be safe.”
Rose’s expression is steel. “I know.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Rose glances at me, then back at her father. “Just so we’re clear—if you betray me and the Marshals come, I’ll fight them. I’d rather die than let them take me. Isaac and I will both be gone and it will be your fault.”
Mr. Webster takes an uncertain breath. “I could never live with that.”
Rose studies him. She knows him best. So when she nods that she believes him I say, “Here is what we need from you.”
Rose never puts down the gun as we walk Mr. Webster through the codes we need him to deliver to us. Our request clearly surprises him. “That’s it?” he asks. “The codes are in my files. I’ll have to go to the office to get them.” He also offers to warn us as to where and when the Marshals are dispatched after we take over the broadcast signal. With his help, the truth—and his son and daughter—might stand a chance.
Whatever else he is or has done, Mr. Webster loves his children. He helped the government conceal terrible things because he thought it would keep them safe. He’ll fight them now for the same reason.
“I’ll go to the office with my father. When we have the codes, I’ll let you know.” Rose hands the gun back to me and heads to the door.
I’m surprised when instead of immediately following his daughter, Mr. Webster turns to face me. “Meri, I really am sorry about your mother. Neither of us knew the truth when we started working for the government. The mayor called me into his office ten years ago to explain why certain choices were necessary. I haven’t always agreed with what we’ve done, but I couldn’t see an alternative. The truth will break this country; I hope you’re prepared for that.”
“It won’t,” I say. “Because it’s already broken.”
“And you think we can fix it?” he asks, looking at his daughter.
The question pulls me off-balance. Do I really believe that everything I’ve discovered can be made better? That we can simply fix what has been broken for so long?
Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and answer, “We have to try.”
Less than thirty-six hours later, Huck climbs into the driver’s seat of his van. “Scarlett just sent word,” he reports. Rose and her mother have been at Gloss working round the clock on the special edition. It will launch any minute. My team has been in position in the underground parking garage underneath Columbus Avenue—directly below the National Broadcasting Company building—since just before the sun began to rise, waiting for Gloss to publish. When it does, we will jump into action, broadcast codes in hand.
Huck runs down the timing again, just in case any of us have forgotten since the last reminder. Once the new issue hits, Stef, Ari, and a dozen other members of their group will use online accounts to draw attention to screenshots of the issue and call for protests.
Minutes later, the protests will start and our team will begin its work. First here in the studio. Then, once the codes are entered we will move to the street to broadcast. We will give people the words they need to hear and the real-time images that prove to them the words are true. The Marshals will come for us. And the police. And anyone who is desperate to keep the truth shut away. We have to get in, start the broadcast, wrest control of the broadcast satellite, and get out so we can continue broadcasting from the streets—all before we get killed.
“Wait, I almost forgot,” Atlas says as the twins, Huck, and the other computer geeks jammed in the van go over who will be manning the signal and the cameras and the remote vehicles. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick leather bracelet. No. Not a bracelet, I realize, as he takes my hand and fastens the band on my wrist. I can see the square black face and gold numbers of the watch.
A knot uncoils in my chest as I read the numbers—9:56. “Where did you get it?”
“It was my father’s. I thought after everything . . .” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I wanted you to have it.”
“Thank you.” And despite having so many people around us, I lean forward and brush my lips against his. After being deprived of knowing the time during my captivity, nothing he could have given me could mean more.
A few of the teens groan. Then we all settle back to wait. Atlas and I watch the gold arrows move on the face of the clock until our screens buzz with the message we have been waiting for. The twins pull out their tablets and turn the screens so we can verify the message is correct.
AMERICANS MURDERED IN SECRET BY OUR GOVERNMENT—THE HORROR OF THE GREAT AMERICAN FARM.
The first shot in our revolution has been fired.
There is no turning back.
Huck cranks the ignition. The van roars to life. Computer equipment rattles and we all fight to keep our balance as he pulls out of the far back corner of the parking garage. Tires squeal as he rounds the corners. Finally, he pulls into a No Parking spot by an emergency exit where two dozen Stewards have already assembled—some carrying bags filled with tablets and portable computer equipment. The others a
re wearing jackets to hide that they are carrying guns the Stewards hid away years ago to use if ever they needed to defend the Lyceum. Atlas’s weapon, the gun we brought back from the Great American Farm, is in the side pocket of his bag, the handle exposed so he can grab it quickly. Atlas rests a reassuring hand on my back as Huck waits for the Stewards near the front entrance to signal their readiness. If we are lucky, no one will need to fire a weapon.
The emergency door crashes open and the Steward who works in the weather department hands Huck a badge and says, “Studio B on the third floor. I’ll meet you there.”
The twins and two Stewards in the van drive off to get into position to meet us later. Huck takes the lead as we quietly navigate the back hallways where there are no receptionists or security guards or lines of wayward fans. Atlas stays directly behind me—guarding my back since I, like most of the techs, have no weapon.
Screens filled with smiling faces of actors and talk show hosts and audiences from the productions created in this building line the walls. We hear the shouts as we round the corner at the back of the large lobby. A bunch of Stewards are shoving each other just inside the wall of gold and glass revolving doors. When a security guard goes to break up the fight, the Steward shoves her to the ground and the other guards run to help.
Huck hurries across the back of the lobby, waves the badge at the security pad, and punches the call button. When the elevator arrives, we stream inside. My heart pounds as the numbers climb. I take deep breaths and when the door opens on the third floor I follow the others to the studio. A quick wave of the badge in front of the security panel and we’re in.
The room isn’t as big as I would have imagined. Several large cameras in various positions are on one side of the room. A polished wood counter with a rich blue top and station logo that is used for the evening newscasts sits empty in the front of the studio.
“Meri, take your place on set,” the woman who let us into the building tells me as our team moves into their positions behind the cameras or in the control room.
One of the cameramen gives Atlas a microphone for me to wear. We fumble with snaking the cord under the back of my shirt and up through my collar as Huck and the others work their computer magic. Once the microphone is clipped to the scooped neck of my shirt, I shove the battery pack into my back pocket and follow instructions as to where to stand.
Huck nods from the doorway of the control room and one of the Stewards heads out into the hall. The first code giving us access to the broadcast feed has been entered and accepted.
It’s time.
Bright white lights flare in the rafters above me.
Minutes from now, members of our team will set off smoke bombs in the bathroom and hallway to trigger the fire alarm. People will have to evacuate. If this goes as planned, we’ll sneak out in the chaos and continue the broadcast remotely.
Atlas squeezes my hand and asks, “Are you ready?”
I place a hand on my stomach.
Am I ready?
Is anyone ever ready for revolution, ready to upend her entire world—no matter how necessary?
Screens around the room flicker to life. Atlas backs out of the shot and I am alone on the screens. Bruised face. Determined eyes.
“In five,” the cameraman calls, and Atlas hurries to stand next to him. “Four. Three. Two.”
He holds up one finger to complete the countdown and then waves at me to start talking.
My heart pounds and all the carefully thought-out words I came up with fly out of my head.
The cameraman waves and makes a hurry-up motion.
So I lift my chin, look into the camera, and say the first thing that comes to me: “My name is Merriel Beckley, and I’m here to tell you what the government won’t. I’m going to tell you the truth.”
Twenty-Three
“Not long ago, I believed everything I saw or was told by our city and our country’s leaders. I never questioned them. I never knew that could be done. My mother worked for the City Pride Department before she was killed. I was told it was an accident. It wasn’t. She was murdered by the government because she learned the word ‘verify,’ a word that appeared in the books we recycled—that the leaders needed us to recycle—and that we no longer know. A word that means to prove something is true rather than to just believe it is. So that’s what she started to do.”
Something pounds on the studio doors. Someone is either doing a safety sweep to make sure everyone has heard the fire alarm and evacuated, or the Marshals have arrived sooner than we’d hoped.
Atlas turns and points his gun. I swallow my fear and keep talking.
“The ones who murdered my mother—who kidnapped me—are going to try to shut down this broadcast—” My voice cracks. Please, let anyone watching believe me. “They don’t want you to question their leadership. They don’t want you to hear my words or read them in the special edition of Gloss that was published this morning.”
Huck appears next to the cameraman and signals me that the override code Mr. Webster gave us worked. We will still have control of the signal when we leave the studio. It’s time to go.
“They will tell you not to believe your eyes and to only believe what they tell you. I’m asking you to read our words and to keep watching this screen. These are photographs I took after I allowed myself to be captured. I risked my life to show you proof of what they have done—what they are still doing. This is the truth they hoped our country would never see.”
My image fades from the studio screens and is replaced by one of the first pictures I took in the Unity Center cages. People lying on the dirty concrete. Eyes staring hopelessly into the shadows. Debris and waste covering the ground.
Under the picture is a blue graphic box with the caption: “Please help us identify these people. Their families deserve to know why they have gone missing.” There is a phone number listed. The phone it belongs to is turned off so it can’t be traced but the voice message recorder is operating.
The image changes—this time to a shot taken through the cage bars of a dirt-streaked man huddled in a thin, foil-like blanket. The hotline number stays on the bottom of the screen along with a call to protest at city halls across the country. The messages were Dewey’s ideas. He hopes people will recognize the faces. That it will give them the courage to take a stand. That the protests will encourage them to step forward. To start thinking for themselves. To push back against the things they have been told are good, but they have to know deep in their hearts are wrong.
“The Marshals are on their way! We have to go!” Huck calls to the team, and heads for the door.
“Meri!”
I glance at my watch. Nineteen minutes have passed since we first walked into the building. Gloss has published the truth. I’ve spoken it. But I know that won’t keep the government from doing everything in their power to silence us all for good. That’s the next truth the people need to see.
Huck opens the door and our team heads into the hall filled with flashing lights and the whooping alarm. We follow him past the main elevator bank to the stairwell. A haze of smoke greets us as we thunder down the three flights of stairs.
The smoke makes my eyes water. I’m coughing by the time we reach the bottom. Security guards in the lobby wave people toward the exits. We start to follow their direction when a guard stops and stares at me. “You!” he yells. “Stop right there!”
“He recognized Meri,” Huck shouts. “This way!”
Atlas grabs my hand and we take off running, several other Stewards following behind.
Huck swipes the badge on the sound studio’s two security locks and jerks the door open for us to race through. He then shoves it closed and yells, “Head for the loading dock. Hurry!”
Gunfire sounds on the other side of the door as we run deeper into the enormous sound stage. We zigzag around folding chairs, equipment, and carts filled with metal boxes until we reach an unfinished-looking movie-magic building in the center of the space.<
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The door behind us crashes open and the Marshals rush into the space. Huck and Atlas turn and fire, sending the Marshals diving to the floor. We reach the set piece doorway as they recover and return fire. A bullet digs into the wood above us as we bolt through the set piece entrance into . . . a hospital?
Patient rooms with beds and glass doors are on my right and left. Two Stewards have already reached the double doors in the back. Huck, Atlas, and I leap over the big desk and duck as a Marshal bursts in, takes aim, and fires.
The Stewards at the hospital’s exit fire around the corner of the doorway to give cover, but every time we try to move, the Marshal resumes shooting.
A bullet rips through the desk and rams into the floor tile.
A Steward with blue-streaked hair and freckles leans around the corner. She fires at the same time a bullet punches into her stomach. Her eyes go wide and she drops to the ground.
Oh God.
“We have to get out of here,” Atlas insists.
Huck agrees. “Can either of you tell where he’s shooting from?”
We both shake our heads. The echo of the space and the still-whooping fire alarm make it impossible to tell. He could be right behind the desk for all we know. We need a distraction. I spot the wheels on the chairs and whisper, “I have an idea.”
I stretch my leg toward the chair closest to me and kick it as hard as I can. A second after it careens to our left, a Marshal’s face appears over the desk. He shoots the empty space where he assumed one of us would be. Huck takes aim. The Marshal crumples to the desk, and Atlas and I scramble out from behind the desk and race toward the exit.
The whooping alarm stops as we reach the loading dock. Huck and Atlas hide their weapons under their shirts as we go through the door.
Nine of us went inside. Six of us hurry across the concrete and around to the side of the building and make a beeline for the crowd of evacuated office and studio workers. I keep my head down as we walk, although I don’t think anyone even registers us as we pass. Most are watching the public screens, which are still broadcasting the horrific images from the farm along with the accompanying hotline number, or the dozens of officers and Marshals that are racing through the front doors of the network building with guns drawn.
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