“Well do it,” Mark said.
And so it was that ten minutes later, Trey was climbing the stairs out of the basement He’d changed into a fresh Population Police uniform the guard had given him, transferred his papers between pockets, and then stuffed his original clothes into one of the Grants’ boxes. But this uniform wasn’t the dull gray of a new recruit’s. It was the more ominous-looking black of a prison guard’s.
“I’ll show you to the door,” the guard said, escorting Trey down a dark hall. Other guards stood outside many of the rooms they passed, but they only glanced at Trey and his mysterious guide.
The entryway was empty now, the earlier crowd of recruits gone who-knew-where.
“It’s four in the morning,” the guard whispered as they stood on the doorstep. “If you’re not back by six….”
He didn’t have to finish his sentence. If Trey wasn’t back by six, Mark would die.
“I won’t take long,” Trey promised.
The guard handed him a clutch of official-looking papers.
“Authorizations,” he said. “Show these at the servants’ entrance when you return. Over there.” He pointed vaguely, but Trey didn’t ask for specifics. Finding the servants’ entrance was the least of his worries.
He stepped out into the chilly night air, and the guard shut the door behind him.
Down the stairs, out the walkway, across the driveway…. Trey moved numbly, his fear of the outdoors trumped by greater fears. At the front gate, a sentry merely grunted at him. Outside the gate, men and boys were still lined up, but they were no longer standing. Most of them appeared to be sleeping, either slumped over or lying down on the hard ground. In the dark, all those motionless bodies made Trey think of pictures he’d seen of battlegrounds, after the battle was over.
“Hey! No cutting in line!” someone growled at him. A few large bodies shifted menacingly, blocking Trey’s path. Not everyone was asleep after all.
“I—I’m not cutting in line,” Trey stammered. “I’m—I’m already in the Population Police. See?”
He held out the insignia on his uniform, even though it was too dark to make out the circles and the teardrop.
Somebody grabbed Trey’s sleeve, verifying by touch what couldn’t be verified by sight.
“He’s telling the truth,” a voice announced, and miraculously, the path cleared ahead of Trey.
“Hey, man, did they feed you good?” another voice called out plaintively.
“Yes,” Trey said, though it was a lie, of course. He’d eaten nothing since he and Mark had left the truck, all those hours ago. His stomach felt squeezed together, turned inside out. “They’ll feed you when you get inside too,” he added.
“When’s that going to be?” someone grumbled. But Trey just kept walking, and nobody challenged him. Soon he’d left the long line of desperate men behind.
He and Mark had discussed the best route back to the truck.
“It’ll take too long walking along the river,” Mark had said. “There are streets you can take through the city. I remember from the map. I—I was just too scared to go that way before.”
Oh, yeah, Trey thought now. It’s going to be much less scary at four in the morning. With me alone instead of following Mark.
At first, though, his worries seemed unnecessary. The street leading away from the Grants’ house was absolutely deserted. The streetlights weren’t on, but Trey could see well enough in the dim glow from the moon. He didn’t mind the darkness anyhow. It made it easier for him to believe that he was unseen, gliding through the shadows.
After a mile or two, he turned onto another street that made him remember the first bit of news he’d heard from Mrs. Talbot, about the riots. This street was full of stores that might once have been expensive boutiques. But every plate glass window had been smashed in. Some were now boarded up; others were just gaping open, their shelves picked clean.
Looters, Trey thought with a shiver, and began walking even faster.
After five blocks, Trey heard footsteps approaching. He froze, looking for a place to hide, already worrying that he’d be too late to save Mark if he had to hide for very long. But the glow of a flashlight caught him before he had the chance to move.
“Identify yourself!” a voice called out.
Two men were approaching him. Trey’s heart sank when he saw they were in Population Police uniforms. He didn’t have his I.D. with him. It was still back at the Grants’ house, in the stack with the other new recruits’.
“Don’t be silly, Henrik,” the second man said. “Can’t you see he’s Poppo? And he outranks us.”
“Oh, sorry,” the first man said, sounding humbled. “Where are you going, sir?”
Just from the voices, Trey guessed that both men were at least a decade older than him. But he decided to take a chance.
“My destination is classified information,” he growled—figuring that growling would do more to lower his voice than anything else. His uniform had come with a cap, and he made sure it was pulled down, covering most of his face, so they couldn’t see that he wasn’t even old enough to shave. “And what’s with this ‘Poppo’ business? That’s disrespectful. You’re proud members of the Population Police, and don’t you forget it”
“Yes, sir,” the two said in unison.
“What’s your assignment?” Trey asked.
“We’re patrolling,” the first man said. “Enforcing curfew.”
“Then get busy,” Trey commanded. “I thought I heard noises back there!” He pointed in the opposite direction.
“Yes, sir!” the men said, and rushed off.
Trey had to hold back a giggle as he watched them scurry away. He’d outsmarted and outbluffed the Population Police. Just because he was wearing a uniform. Just because they thought he outranked them.
Now I know what the soldiers in the Trojan horse felt like, he thought. If I were living hundreds of years ago, people would write epic poems in my honor too. Something about “The third child in his enemy’s clothes….”
He walked on, practically strutting, working out rhyme schemes in his head. Epic poems were always best in French. Let’s see. “Le troisième enfant dans les vêtements de ses ennemis …”
He was so absorbed, he didn’t hear the whispering until he was already surrounded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
He’s all by himself….”
“Maybe he’s carrying food….”
“Maybe his food’s not rotten….”
“Who’s there?” Trey called out, in a panic. I said, who’s there?”
He glanced around frantically, but he could see nothing but vacant storefronts and dark, impenetrable shadows. The tattered remains of a window-display dress blew in an unseen breeze, and Trey stiffened. But it was hanging from a mannequin, not a real live human.
“There are lots of Population Police patrolling in this area!” Trey cried out, even though he’d seen only the two men. “Watch out!”
“Maybe he has food….”
“Food …”
“Food …”
The word echoed down the empty street. And then, in the blink of an eye, a mob of creatures rushed at Trey from all sides. At first, he almost thought they were animals, not humans—how big did feral cats get? But then they all began screaming at him at once.
“Where is it?”
“Give us your food!”
“Wait!” Trey protested. “I’m not—” But did he really want to announce that he wasn’t truly a Population Police member? He got one glimpse of glittering eyes in an emaciated face—a woman’s, he thought—and realized that these people wouldn’t care if he was a third, fourth, or fifteenth child. They just wanted food.
He changed tactics.
“Listen!” he tried to explain. “I don’t have any food with me. But if you join up, the Population Police will feed you and your family….”
Somebody punched him.
“The Population Police’s food was rotten!”
“It had weevils!”
“A dog couldn’t eat that!”
“And now I won’t see my little Johnny for three years!” the glittering-eyed woman finished up.
Trey was still reeling from the punch.
“I just—I’m not in charge of the food,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to do with that.”
The mob was closing in on him. They didn’t even seem to hear his arguments. They didn’t care.
Great, Trey thought. All this time I thought I’d be killed for being a third child. Instead, I’m going to be killed for being in the Population Police. Isn’t irony fun?
“Reinforcements are coming!” Trey screamed. “They’ll have more food! Good food! They won’t give it to you if you hurt me!”
Nobody was fooled. Hands were still reaching for him. Fists, too. Trey squirmed away and dived through the crowd. It was just like playing Red Rover back at Hendricks School—everything hurt, but he broke through. He landed in a heap on the ground, and immediately scrambled up and took off running.
“Get him!” somebody yelled.
Trey ran faster than he’d ever run before. He could hear the crowd behind him, roaring. Once or twice a hand wrapped around his arm, but he always managed to shake it off.
“Help!” he called. “Help!”
And then he didn’t have enough air to spare for yelling. He just kept running and running and running, blindly forcing his body on long after he felt like his lungs would explode and his legs would crumble and his heart would thump itself apart. He was too terrified to look back to see if the mob was gaining on him. He crashed into brush, and it felt enough like running into the woods back at Hendricks that he just kept going. Then he landed in water.
He couldn’t swim.
“Uhb, hel—” he sputtered, too breathless even to call for help. He struggled back to the shoreline and clutched a rock for safety. He was too exhausted to pull himself out right away. He waited for someone to push him back in, to kill him by drowning rather than beating.
It took him a few minutes to realize the mob was far behind him. He could hear them calling in the distance, “Where is he? Where’d he go?”
I outran them, he thought, astonished. It was all because Lee had taught him how to run back at Hendricks.
Of course, how much of an accomplishment is it to outrun people who are starving to death? he reminded himself.
On shaking legs, he stood up. He was lost now. Except—this was the river, wasn’t it? Could he just continue along the shore? In which direction?
He looked from side to side, up and down the river. In the distance, he could see a dimly lit bridge. Was that the bridge near where he and Mark had hidden the truck? Or had he already run past that bridge, past the truck? What if he took too long finding it?
He took off toward the bridge, rushing through the weeds and brush. A branch lashed across his face, and brambles tore at his uniform, but he kept going. It was much harder walking along the river without Mark ahead of him, clearing the way.
He was so intent on just moving forward and dodging branches that he practically ran into the concrete side of the bridge.
“Uff,” he grunted.
He looked up. Two lanterns stood on posts on either side of the bridge, casting feeble light into the wisps of fog rising from the river. He heard footsteps, but it was only a sentry pacing from one side of the bridge to the other. Trey could see the Population Police insignia on the sentry’s sleeve, and he relaxed.
How can I be relieved to see the Population Police? he wondered.
He just didn’t want to face another mob.
Backing blindly away from the bridge, he felt around in all directions, desperately hoping that his hand would brush a hubcap or a fender. But there was no truck hidden here.
“No,” Trey moaned. The muscles in his legs began to tremble, exhaustion and panic catching up with him. If he didn’t find the truck soon, he had no hope of rescuing Mark. Why had he agreed to such an impossible plan? How could he possibly find the truck now?
He peered up and down the river once again, looking for another bridge. Why hadn’t he paid closer attention when he and Mark were hiding the truck? Why hadn’t he memorized every detail of their surroundings? Why wasn’t it daylight so he could see better?
No, he didn’t want it to be daylight. When it was daylight, Mark would die.
In desperation, Trey looked around yet again. This time, when he was swinging his head back and forth, he caught a glimpse of something shiny on the opposite shore—metal or maybe glass, catching the dim reflection of the lanterns on the bridge.
Trey locked his head in place and stared. Maybe, maybe …
What if this was the right bridge, but the truck was on the opposite side?
Trey squinted, trying to turn the small gleam into an entire truck, tucked away under leaves and branches.
Did I cross a bridge over the river? Could I have done that without noticing?
Of course he could have—when he was running away from the mob, or even before, when he was trying to stay in the shadows. He remembered the way Mark had taunted him, “I think if I’d never seen the outdoors, I’d keep my eyes open once I was in it.” Trey’s not paying attention had almost cost Mark his life.
And it still might turn out to.
Trey stepped tentatively back into the water, but it was cold and the current rushed at him. The riverbed sloped so severely that he could tell: Only a few more steps and the water would be over his head.
Why hadn’t Lee included swimming in the roster of athletics he pushed at us back at Hendricks? Trey thought ruefully.
But he hadn’t, and there was no time to waste regretting that now.
Trey was going to have to cross the bridge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Halt! Who goes there?”
Trey had barely begun climbing up toward the bridge before the sentry began yelling at him. He had practically forgotten about the sentry. He’d been more worried about the lights.
“No one’s allowed to cross this bridge!” the sentry screamed. “Turn back or be shot!”
“Relax,” Trey said, remembering how well bluffing had worked before. I’m a Population Police guard come to, uh, requisition a contraband vehicle parked over there.” He pointed at the opposite shore and then, for good measure, lifted his arm to show the insignia on his sleeve. But now that he was in the light, he saw that the insignia was hanging by two threads from a ripped place in his sleeve. His pants were ripped too, he noticed, and mud stains covered the uniform from his waist down.
The sentry regarded him suspiciously.
“A mob attacked me,” Trey said. “They thought I had food.”
“No mob would dare lay a finger on a Population Police official,” the sentry sniffed.
“This one did,” Trey muttered.
“Where’s your travel pass?” the sentry asked.
“Look, I’ve got authorizations,” Trey said, reaching into his shirt pocket. But the authorizations only concerned transporting prisoners. The guard back at the Grants’ house hadn’t known that Trey would need authorization to cross this particular bridge.
The guard was reaching for Trey’s papers. Any minute now he’d discover that Trey was a fraud.
“See? Now out of my way. I’m in a hurry,” Trey said, shoving the papers back into his pocket.
“Wait! I couldn’t—”
Trey took off in a dead run past the sentry.
“Stop! I have to sign the authorization!” the sentry was shouting behind him.
Trey reached the edge of the bridge and took a flying leap over the railing as soon as he saw firm ground on the other side. Except that it wasn’t so firm—he began slipping and sliding down the mound of dirt, crashing through branches and leaves.
He stopped only when he slammed into the truck’s tire.
Trey resisted the urge to hug the tire in relief and just lie there for a while. Instead, he scrambled u
p immediately, jerked open the door of the truck, and jumped inside, jamming the keys into the ignition. He’d planned to spend a few minutes studying all the dials on the dashboard, maybe reading the owner’s manual from the glove compartment. But there wasn’t time for that now. He turned the key.
Nothing happened.
Oops. What was that pedal I was supposed to push—the clutch?
He tried the key again, this time stabbing his feet at the pedals on the floor. The engine roared to life, but died while Trey was reaching for the gearshift.
Behind him, the sentry was leaning over the edge of the bridge, screaming at him.
“Sir! I insist—”
Trey ignored him, and concentrated on coordinating his feet and the gearshift. The truck lurched forward, toward the river.
No! No! Reverse! his mind screamed, and he shifted, grinding the gears horribly. The engine started to die again, and he panicked, hitting the gas pedal as hard as he could. The truck raced backward up the hill, toward the road. Branches scraped at the side of the truck and saplings broke off beneath the tires, but Trey didn’t care as long as none of the obstacles stopped him.
The truck died again at the top of the hill, as Trey was trying to shift gears into forward.
“Sir! You are forcing me to conclude that you are not on a legitimate Population Police mission!” the sentry yelled at him. “Get out of that truck or—”
Trey started up the truck’s engine yet again, and zoomed past the sentry, going as fast as he could in first gear. The engine made a terrible noise, but Trey couldn’t take the chance of trying to shift into second.
“I warned you!” the sentry screamed.
Trey heard gunfire, but nothing struck him, and nothing struck the truck as far as he could tell. He rounded a corner onto a new street, so that a row of buildings now stood between him and the sentry.
What if he radios for help? Trey wondered. What if every Population Police official in the country starts looking for me?
Trey pulled into a dark alleyway and shut off the engine. It was torture not to know. He silently crept back toward the bridge, staying hidden in the shadows the entire way.
Among the Brave Page 11