Article 5 a5-1

by Kristen Simmons

  I realized what Chase must have thought when he’d seen me pressed against the wall. It was the same thing he’d feared when Rick and Stan had told me to get in the car with them.

  “Chase, let him up.” I was shaking.

  “I was just trying to tell her it was me!” Sean pleaded. “She almost knocked my head off!”

  “That’s what happened,” I agreed quickly.

  Chase looked my way, reading my eyes for truth. After a moment he nodded, but he didn’t look happy about releasing his captive.

  “Don’t touch her,” he warned Sean. His fury did not immediately abate, and he did not release the gun. “Why’d you start the riot?”

  Sean had started the riot? Intentionally? When I thought about it, it did make sense. That was why he hadn’t been torn apart by the crowd. That’s why he was wearing a stolen uniform with the name badge WAGNER.

  Sean stood indignantly, wiping off his face with his shirtsleeve.

  “Because that was today’s mission. Steal from the rich, give to the poor. Now later, when the real FBR shows up and doesn’t give away extra rations, the people get pissed off enough to take them down.”

  Sean had joined the resistance. The thoughts began racing through my mind. The uniform truck, stolen here, in Tennessee. The sniper. Were his people responsible for that too? Maybe Sean was who we had been looking for! Maybe he would even know the carrier.

  Chase helped me up, placing his thumb on my chin and gently turning my face from side to side to check for damage.

  Sean watched us curiously. “I saw you in the square. I followed you and—”

  “—and waited until she was alone,” Chase growled. Sean took a step back.

  “Yeah,” said Sean. “Can you blame me?” He waved his arms at Chase.

  “Be nice, both of you,” I said.

  Chase took a step toward him. Sean balked.

  “They discharged me after that night I helped you,” Sean said quickly. “I came here to find Becca.”

  “What?” I tried to get closer, but Chase stopped me. “She’s here? With you?”

  “She’s inside. In the base. Where they hold all the prisoners awaiting trial. Or didn’t you know?” he said between his teeth, blue eyes flashing.

  “I didn’t know,” I swallowed, reliving the last moments I had seen Rebecca Lansing. “They took her away. I didn’t know where.”

  Sean watched me speculatively. I knew he wanted to believe me, but he was wary to trust. I wondered how he’d found out Rebecca had been taken here. Did the resistance know? Did they have access to MM records? Would they know about my mother?

  “We don’t have time for this,” Chase said. “The safe house—the one in South Carolina—how do we get there?”

  Sean looked from Chase to me and then out into the square, where the people still rioted.

  “It’s almost curfew.” He shoved his arms across his chest and shook his head. “You’d better come with me. I know the guy who makes that run. He’s leaving in a couple days. I’ll take you to him just as soon as you tell me about Becca.” He snorted cynically. “You help me, and I’ll get you out. Just like old times, right, Miller?”

  I avoided Sean’s accusing stare, and then Chase’s as well. It occurred to me Chase had no idea what was going on, what I’d done. My stomach curdled with guilt.

  “I’d just as soon leave you, but I have a feeling that’s not going to fly, is it?” he said to Chase.

  Chase cast him a hard look and turned to me. “It’s your call.”

  I realized this was the first time he’d left the decision solely in my hands. My eyes turned to the ex-soldier in the stolen uniform. Going with Sean seemed more dangerous, but it was a risk we needed to take in order to find the carrier. Besides, I owed him information about Rebecca. It was the least I could do for the trouble I’d caused them.

  I nodded reluctantly.

  * * *

  SEAN shed the uniform behind the Dumpster, revealing the shabby civilian clothes beneath, and stuffed it into a black trash bag, which he threw over his shoulder like the other transients who carried their worldly possessions on their backs. We followed him down the alleyway in silence. After several blocks of turns and obvious backpedaling, we came to an old brick motel called the Wayland Inn.

  It was a downtrodden place—somewhere I would have avoided even if it hadn’t been deserted. Overgrown ivy snaked up the side of the building, and every other window was boarded up, but there was no evidence of graffiti here, as there was on the other abandoned buildings around. This place had been left alone.

  The light was fading, twilight bringing a pearly hue to the gathering clouds. We crossed the open street hastily, scanning for patrol cars, and ducked in through a single glass door.

  Clouds of white dispersed in the room as the evening air blew in after us. The room stank of nicotine, which emanated from a drooping cigarette in the mouth of an orange-haired man behind the counter. Cigarettes were luxuries most people couldn’t afford. I wondered if he was part of the resistance, too.

  As if to answer my question, Sean dug in his pocket, removed a pack of unfiltered Horizons brand cigarettes, and placed them on the counter. The clerk’s ruddy brows rose, and a smug look slid over his face. He offered a slight tilt of his head, which was enough to indicate he wouldn’t ask questions, and we crossed over the stained red carpet without another word.

  Lying across the floor in front of the stairway was a man in tattered rags. Long dreadlocks hung like dead snakes over his shoulders. His eyes were heavily lidded. As we approached, he clambered up and gave us a suspicious glare. I could smell the sweat and alcohol wafting off of him.

  I skirted around him into the stairwell, where Sean had stopped.

  “Is this where we meet the carrier?”

  Sean shook his head.

  A moment later, the drunk from the hallway slithered in, straightening to his full height once the exit door shut completely. As he neared us, I could tell that he wasn’t drunk at all; the lights in his eyes were too focused, and his movements were unhindered.

  “Wallace know they’re coming?” he asked Sean in a gruff voice.

  “Yeah. Of course,” Sean responded. Then he gave Chase a sidelong glance. “He’s going to frisk your girlfriend. Try not to beat the hell out of him.”

  I felt my face heat up at the title, but no one, including Chase, seemed to notice.

  Whoever Wallace was, he couldn’t have known we were here; my presence in the square had taken Sean by surprise. I didn’t want to maintain a lie I knew nothing about, but I stayed silent.

  The bouncer patted down Chase first, then me. It was done quickly and efficiently, but I still felt violated when his hands stroked my legs and waist. When he reached into my pocket to take Chase’s six-inch pocket knife, I jerked back sharply.

  “You can collect this later if Wallace says so,” he informed me. He searched the bag and removed the baton and the MM radio. “These too,” he added, shoving the items into his jacket and slinking back into the hallway to resume his watch.

  “Who’s Wallace?” I asked as we climbed the metal stairs. They made a bright ting with every step we took.

  “He runs the operation here. He’s not the carrier, before you ask. That guy goes by Tubman. And it’s too late to drag you across town to his checkpoint.”

  “So what is this place then?” I asked, deflated, but still edgy.

  Sean pushed through the door into the hallway on the fourth floor. The lights were out here, and the dim corridor made me feel claustrophobic. A man and a woman, dressed in street clothes, loitered in front of one of the scuffed wooden doors. They had been playing cards and stood abruptly when we came into view.

  “This is the resistance,” Sean said.

  * * *

  “WHO are you?” asked the man, sizing us up. He was not much taller than me but built like a tree trunk. Even his head was shaped like a can. He seemed impressed by Chase, but he frowned my way. He probably
thought Chase would be more useful to the rebellion—an assumption that irritated me.

  “I know her from the girls’ school,” Sean said. “She’s Miller, and he’s…”

  “Jennings,” the girl finished. She knotted her long black hair back in a ponytail. I could tell it wasn’t her natural color: Her eyebrows were nearly transparent, and her skin was very light. I wondered where she’d gotten the dye; that was contraband now. Indecent, the MM called it.

  “We’ve been following you on the nightly report,” she explained.

  My eyes widened. People knew who we were, just from my name. This couldn’t be good. If they knew, the MM was still tracking our flight. Waiting for us to screw up. I couldn’t tell by her neutral tone if she objected to our presence.

  “They haven’t been cleared,” the guy said irritably. “You know the rules, Banks.”

  “I know the exceptions, too. Miller’s got information.”

  For him. Information for Sean about Rebecca. I didn’t know anything else. I sincerely hoped Sean wasn’t setting me up for trouble by bringing us here.

  Can-Head narrowed his eyes at me. “Yeah, I bet she does.”

  Chase shifted.

  “I’ll take responsibility for them.” Sean gave Chase a stern look as if to say Don’t make me regret it, and knocked twice on the door they guarded.

  “What’s his problem?” I asked Sean under my breath.

  “A carrier was murdered at the Harrisonburg checkpoint a couple days back. They found evidence that points to a female.”

  “What kind of evidence?” I said quickly. Chase had gone very still beside me.

  “Footprints, I think.”

  I had to remind myself to keep breathing.

  I’d slipped on the floor when Chase had dragged me outside. Slipped on something wet. Blood. My bootprints were all the way out the door. It took everything I had not to rip them off right there.

  “I think Riggins thinks it was you.” Sean didn’t try to keep our conversation a secret.

  “Well, it wasn’t!” I said, aghast, turning to Can-Head.

  Riggins looked unabashed and unconvinced.

  I clasped my hands together to keep them from fidgeting. The danger was stacking up. People recognized our names. I was being pinned to a murder. We were now hiding out with a large body of resistance. It was going to take a hope and a prayer to reach the safe house alive at this point.

  My eyes darted to Chase. He looked like a wolf ready to attack. I felt the energy radiating off of him and knew to be prepared for anything.

  The door cracked open and then pulled inward as Sean was recognized.

  We entered a narrow room that smelled stale. The walls were bare and yellowing. In the back were a few crates of food and nearly thirty cardboard boxes marked by sizes: M, L, XL. Uniforms. The missing uniforms.

  A gray wool sofa, the only piece of furniture present, sagged against the side wall. Above it hung a blueprint of the building. The exits were marked by bright red circles. A man in his mid-thirties stood from his seat on the couch. He had long greasy hair, too gray for his youthful face, and a mustache.

  The guy holding the door was younger. Fourteen or fifteen maybe. A mousy mop of hair hung over bright green eyes. He held a rifle, lowered but still lethal.

  “Who are they?” interrogated the man with the graying hair.

  “A girl I knew on duty. She came here to find me,” Sean lied. “They need shelter.”

  “They need—”

  “Before you blow a gasket, Wallace, remember I’m only here because of—”

  “You’re risking the entire operation for a girl?” he exploded. “This isn’t a damn game, Banks!”

  I was already on edge, tired, hungry, and hedging on desperation. On some level I understood the need for caution, but the rest of me was furious that this man was treating us like children who had run away from the babysitter.

  “Does it look like we’re playing?” I said hotly. I felt Chase’s hand on my arm. The boy still held the gun. The tension in the room was palpable.

  Wallace turned on me.

  “There are induction procedures in place.”

  I felt a flash of anger, and without thinking, displayed the discolored welts running across the backs of my hands.

  “I know about induction procedures,” I spat. “So we can go ahead and skip the initiation.”

  A cynical smirk lifted Wallace’s face but faded away into understanding.

  “I can see that. This is merely a safety precaution, I assure you,” he said, calmer.

  Sean cleared his throat. “Wallace tries to make sure recruits aren’t followed or working for the FBR.”

  “You cleared me,” I said stubbornly. “Sean can vouch for me. We weren’t followed, and we sure as hell don’t work for the MM.”

  “Sean hasn’t been with me long enough for that responsibility,” answered Wallace flatly.

  Sean’s jaw was set. “So what are you going to do, discharge me?”

  Wallace groaned. “Maybe it would sink in the second time.”

  He stared at both Chase and I for several seconds. Seeming to have made up his mind about our threat, he motioned for the boy at the door to put down the shotgun. I sighed audibly. Chase did not.

  “I’d apologize for the reception, but I’m sure you understand why we can’t send out open-house invitations.” He dipped his head toward me. “I’m Wallace. That over there is Billy. And you are?”

  When I introduced us, recognition dawned on Wallace’s face.

  “Jennings. Interesting. Been a while since we’ve had celebrities.” His curiosity was quickly snuffed. “I don’t suppose Sean stressed the importance of discretion?”

  “We won’t say anything,” I promised.

  “Certainly he won’t,” said Wallace, eyeing Chase.

  He was right. Chase was uncharacteristically silent. He was rarely loquacious, but neither was he usually so deadpan. Something was weighing heavily on him. I could feel it.

  “I suppose you’re here for work,” Wallace said. I felt Chase stiffen beside me, and wondered what he was thinking. It would make sense for him to want to join the resistance. That way he could strike back at the MM for everything they’d taken away.

  I felt the same pull inside my own self but stuffed it down. I couldn’t allow myself to project past finding my mother. One step at a time.

  “We’re looking for Mr. Tubman,” I said, when Chase hadn’t answered. His silence was starting to make me uncomfortable. It appeared he was more tempted by the resistance than I had thought. If he joined here and now, he might not even come with me for the rest of the journey. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, faced with the sudden reality of his upcoming good-bye.

  “A safe house.” Wallace clicked his tongue inside his cheek. “Waste of your talents.” He was talking to both of us, not just Chase, when he said this. I didn’t know what talents of mine he could possibly mean, but then I realized that the radio reports had probably insinuated that I was far craftier than I was. That I had escaped reform school and the MM. That we’d accosted thieves in Hagerstown and stolen vehicles. All of this was true of course, but much less impressive in reality than it was when relayed secondhand.

  “It’s no waste,” said Chase firmly. It made me feel a little more confident that we were still making the right choice.

  We were about to say more when there was a commotion outside and three more men charged through the door. Two must have been brothers. One was in his late twenties, the other older. They had dark hair and dark eyes, but the younger had recently broken his nose, and the other now had a bruise below his right eye. The third was a wiry redhead, about Chase’s age. Dry blood had crusted over his cheek. I didn’t recognize them from the square, but I knew it must be the other soldiers Sean had been with, because they all held the same trash bags filled with their uniforms.

  There was an eruption of voices and movement. Everyone was trying to speak at once.

>   “Get them out of here, Banks. Then come back for debriefing,” ordered Wallace. “Tomorrow, take them to Tubman yourself.”

  I wanted to stay but was glad Wallace had approved our departure.

  Sean led us down the hallway in the opposite direction from the stairs. A few heads popped out of the doors, interested in what had transpired in the square. I realized with some amazement that the entire floor must have been filled with resistance fighters.

  The single room we entered was more tightly confined than Wallace’s had been. A moth-eaten velvet chair crowded the corner, bumping into a bare queen-sized mattress. On a small nightstand were boxes of cereal and Horizons bottled water.

  “Is this someone’s room?” I asked, staring longingly at the food. I hadn’t eaten since a rest stop mid-morning in eastern Kentucky, and I was famished.

  “It was,” he said grimly. My spirits crashed as I realized the previous occupant was either captured or dead. “Talk, Miller. Quick.”

  I promptly told him everything I knew, beginning with the night I’d blackmailed them and ending with my abduction from the shack. I didn’t dare look at Chase. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t done bad things, but the secret of how I’d hurt these people had festered inside of me, and I was more ashamed than ever.

  Chase prowled like a trapped animal while I talked, opening a window, which revealed the wrought-iron fire escape just outside. This seemed to settle him, but he remained quiet. The weight of his judgment hung over me. Maybe I deserved it.

  “Was she hurt?” Sean looked far away. Broken.

  “I don’t know.” I closed my eyes. I remembered the crack of the baton on her little body. Yes, she had been hurt. But the frantic gleam in his eyes stopped me from telling the truth. It seemed cruel to tell him when there was nothing he could do about it.

  “And you never told Brock about me and Becca.” He still sounded a little leery.

  “No. Rebecca was…” I paused. “Rebecca was my friend. Maybe not at first. And she probably doesn’t think so now. But I’ll always remember her. I know it doesn’t matter what I say, but I wish things had been different.”

  Sean was quiet for a moment.