by Tarah Benner
I could not blame Stockholm syndrome for turning my back on the officers. Hating the rebels in my tent for days didn’t count. During a revolution, it was one choice — one split-second, life-or-death decision — that cemented your loyalties and showed the world where you stood. I couldn’t even bring myself to regret fleeing with Amory.
Up ahead, a bulky shape emerged from the blackness. The bluish light filtering through the trees gave it a strange gleam, and I slowed my pace. It was an old, rusted-out Volkswagen van. The garish orange paint was washed out in the dark, and huddled near the tires were Logan and Greyson.
“All right?” Amory panted, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
Greyson nodded. He was hunched protectively over Logan, who looked ghostly pale in the fractured moonlight.
“You guys weren’t followed?”
“No,” said Greyson. His voice was bitter, and I remembered he had been on watch. “They came out of nowhere. Must have been driving with their lights off ten miles an hour. Then they turned the sirens on and floored it. I grabbed Logan and came straight here.”
“They had to have been tipped off,” said Amory. “They knew exactly what they were looking for. We’re lucky they didn’t hem us in on all sides.”
“Who do you think it was?” asked Logan.
“Could’ve been Roman,” said Amory in a cautious tone, as though testing the waters for the others’ opinions.
“Don’t be stupid, Amory,” Logan snapped. “He’s out. He risked his life to save me and Haven.”
“Yeah, but he left us once before, didn’t he? I wouldn’t say he’s beyond betrayal.”
“Glad to hear you have such high opinions of me,” said a voice from behind us.
We all jumped and looked around, startled. Roman was a huge guy with massive shoulders and a beefy neck that seemed to swallow his ears, yet he moved through the woods with the stealth of a ninety-pound ninja.
He emerged from the shadows with a rucksack slung over his shoulder. “Don’t suppose any of you were smart enough to take some supplies?”
Greyson, Logan, and Amory stared at their feet.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.”
Everyone stood silent. Then, finally, Greyson voiced the question no one else would. “How many of us are gone?”
“You mean killed or captured?” The question was sharp and accusing.
Greyson shrugged, and sympathy tugged at my chest. He felt responsible.
“Couldn’t tell. Seems like most of the old crowd disappeared into the woods, but a lot of the commune defectors were being rounded up. They aren’t built for this life.”
His voice was laced with disgust, but I couldn’t tell if it was distain for the commune defectors or general anger at the state of the world.
“Who was on lookout at the point?” asked Greyson.
“Supposed to be Rogers, I think.”
Amory ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “How did he not see anything?”
“Maybe he was the one who tipped them off,” offered Greyson.
“He couldn’t know he would be on watch,” said Roman. “We make it random to keep things like that from happening. No, it had to be some fucking commune coward.”
Amory sighed. “Whoever it was, he’ll be long gone by now.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Logan broke in. “We should keep moving. The PMC is probably searching the area.”
Amory nodded, eyeing Roman with suspicion.
“You got something else to say?” Roman snapped.
“No. Nothing.” But Amory still had that look in his eye.
“How many times do I have to put my neck on the line for you people before you realize I’m on your side?”
“Enough!” snapped Logan. “Your fighting is what’s going to get us all killed.” She turned on her heel and plowed off deeper into the woods.
Greyson trailed behind her wordlessly, and Amory motioned for me to follow.
We walked in silence with Roman bringing up the rear. I sensed his presence like an itch on the back of my neck, but I never turned around. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wanted me gone. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did.
Now I had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t return to World Corp after I’d fled. Even when I’d had the perfect chance to escape and bring back intel, I hadn’t left. I was a traitor.
After two hours of walking, my legs had begun to burn from crunching through the heavy snow.
“Where are we going?” I asked Amory.
“We’re just scouting the area for a good place to camp out for a day. After that, we’ll regroup with the other survivors.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“The PMC never returns to the same place once they’ve cleared it. They haven’t got the resources for that . . . not with all the rebel activity that’s moved north of the border.”
“Why do people come north if they aren’t documented? Isn’t that more dangerous?”
Amory smiled grimly. “That depends what you’re more afraid of: the PMC or the carriers. No carriers north of the border, and a lot of people prefer to loot from the PMC than try to make it on their own in the states.”
“Let’s stop,” said Greyson. “We’ve walked far enough.” He was eying Logan, who still looked slightly pale and queasy. Clearly, she still hadn’t recovered from the nasty side effects of the cure.
She shook her head, blond hair rippling like a flag. “We should keep moving. We aren’t safe yet.”
“Nowhere is safe,” growled Amory.
“Shhh,” Logan hissed. “Listen.”
Everyone froze, ears piqued for the sound of an approaching intruder or the gurgle of a creek. For one long minute, all I could hear was the rattle of bare tree branches in the wind, and then . . . whoosh!
“That!” said Logan, looking around to verify we’d all heard it. “It was a car.”
She turned away from us, crashing through the deep drifts of snow in the direction of the sound. We followed, and I felt my muscles contract, ready to run or fight in the event we ran right into a convoy of PMC vehicles.
The farther we ran, the stronger the wind became. The trees thinned up ahead, and the sky opened up where they disappeared over a steep embankment. We slowed to a stop.
The woods did end, and at the foot of the embankment was a highway, four lanes across. In the silvery mist of early morning, the road was completely empty. But situated on a bare piece of land across the highway was a boxy white building. It looked like a hospital.
“What do you suppose that is?” asked Roman.
Logan’s eyes were huge. “A goldmine.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Amory. “We have no idea what kind of facility that is.”
“No, but I bet they have some things we need at camp.”
Amory threw her a look of caution.
“We haven’t been on a run in weeks,” Logan pressed. “Our supplies —”
“It’s not worth the risk.”
“You’d think it was worth the risk if Haven was hurt . . . or me or Max or —” Logan stopped abruptly, her face screwed up as though she had swallowed a fly.
Max’s name stung the air, and Amory’s face clouded over. It didn’t make sense how his name meant so much, but an image flitted through my mind. I pictured Max, ghostly and faded at first, but growing stronger quickly. He was wearing his ridiculous apron, making dinner back at the farm.
Then another memory returned.
The PMC opened fire, a dozen bullets hitting Max in the chest. He was falling. I was yelling his name. It all happened so slowly. Then I was running, and Logan was sobbing, her shoulders caving in as she stumbled toward the bridge.
We were fleeing Sector X.
Logan sniffed loudly, bringing me back to reality. It didn’t make sense that I had been on the wrong side of the battle lines, but my heart ached for him still.
The others seemed subdued by the mention of Max, too.<
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Then Logan turned and began feeling her way down the steep slope toward the road. We followed close behind, trying to stick to the shadows of the smaller saplings and brush creeping up the embankment. Light was coming quickly, and there were no cars on the road.
We waited at the bottom in a cloud of tall, prickly grass sticking up out of the snow.
“Now!” whispered Logan.
She sprang from her hiding place, and the rest of us tore after her across the empty highway in the direction of the boxy white fortress.
My breathing was ragged as we sprinted across the road. Months in the facility with little exercise meant I was out of shape. The road was empty as far as we could see, but for a few brief moments, we were exposed. If anyone was watching from the building, they would know we were coming. And, judging by our appearance, they would know we were rebels.
Panting and pink in the face, Logan threw herself into the snowbank behind a cluster of tall weeds. A second later, I heard it: the unmistakable sound of an approaching car. We waited. I held my breath and closed my eyes as the car drew closer, bracing myself for PMC gunfire.
Then the car whooshed past us, and we breathed a collective sigh. After the sound of its tires had faded away, we climbed up the embankment and inched along the low stone retaining wall behind the building.
Even though we were only a hundred yards away, we still couldn’t see an entrance. In fact, the exterior looked completely seamless: an enormous white block as large as ten warehouses.
The only defining characteristic was a scroll of messages from a concealed projector: “Sin is lawlessness . . . With goodwill doing service, as to the Lord and not to men . . . World Corp International: doing God’s work.”
I shivered. We had found one of World Corp’s communes, and at any moment, the doors could open for the workday. I tugged on Logan’s sleeve and pointed at the messages.
She frowned. “Now they’re using God to justify themselves? I thought it was ‘perfect science for an ideal world.’”
Amory sighed. “They’ll say whatever they need to say.”
We crept along the rear of the building, hiding behind a row of huge steel recycling bins. There was a parking lot with two dozen white electric vans neatly charging in a row. Snow-covered fields stretched behind the building, but they were not like any barren winter field I had seen.
Frosted leaves and small rosy buds were poking up through the snow. I squinted. No, they weren’t buds at all, but perfect, nearly ripe strawberries.
“They’ve done it,” Greyson breathed. “They’ve been hinting for years, but I never —”
“I don’t believe it.”
“They can grow food all year round now,” said Amory. “Now they really do control the food supply.”
Suddenly, the building began to hum, and large panels of white plastic siding began to rise of their own accord, revealing dozens of separate apartments in the upper levels and larger rooms in the lower levels.
“We need to get inside,” said Logan, not bothering to conceal the excitement in her voice.
Roman snorted. “You’re joking, right?”
“We need supplies, and it could give us valuable information about World Corp.”
“No. We need to get the hell out of here before they all come out.”
Logan whipped her hair around to glare at him. “This could be our only chance to see one of these places in person. I am not going to pass this up.”
“How do you plan on getting inside?” Roman jerked his thumb at the glass door closest to us, above which was mounted a beady black identification rover.
Logan laughed. “One rover? Seriously? If a dozen people come out at once, there’s no way it can read them all.”
“They don’t care about the people coming out — only the people going in.”
“There’s got to be a service door,” said Greyson. “That’s our best bet.”
Logan’s eyes grew wide, looking at me and Roman with satisfaction.
I gave a noncommittal shrug, and Roman sighed in resignation. Even though I knew I was on the wrong side, I couldn’t deny that I was curious. I wanted to get inside that commune and see how World Corp had taken a country in crisis and made the people live cooperatively.
Ducking behind the vans, we moved carefully along the back of the building. We’d only gone a few yards when the strong stench of decay filled my nostrils.
“Compost heap,” muttered Greyson. “We must be near the kitchen.”
Looking across, we could see a slope in the concrete, leading to an entrance that was not flanked by glass windows. And, just as Greyson had predicted, the steel service door did not have a rover mounted above it.
But Logan’s eyes weren’t fixated on the entrance to the kitchen.
There was a loud bang, and a door farther down the building burst open. Before any of us could call to her, Logan was sprinting out from behind one of the vans, throwing herself behind an enormous generator.
I squinted down to the other door and saw a lanky teenager emerge from the building with his rumpled shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. A large vent mounted on the side of the building was hissing wildly, creating a cloud of steam as the hot air was released into the cold. The boy was pushing a cart of what looked like garbage.
“Laundry,” Logan mouthed at us. “This is it.”
Waiting with bated breath, we watched the boy upend the contents of the cart into a dumpster. He turned back around, and Logan jumped out from her hiding place. She had her gun out, and it was pointed at the back of the boy’s head.
I wanted to scream, but my throat had gone completely dry. He couldn’t be older than seventeen, and she was going to shoot him.
I watched, paralyzed, as Logan stalked him in complete silence, my muscles braced for a gunshot. But she did not shoot.
The boy seemed to be humming to himself, and my eyes settled on the slight bulge of his back pocket and trailed up to the headphones in his ears. Between the clatter of the cart and his music, he was blissfully unaware of the gun trained on the back of his skull.
My breath became more shallow as he approached the door. If he turned around, he was finished. And if Logan shot him, our advantage of stealth would be gone.
But he did not turn around. He waved his arm in front of a scanner on the lock so it could register his CID, and he pushed the cart through the open door.
As agile as a cougar, Logan jumped at the closing door and stopped it with an index finger.
“Hey!” Greyson hissed.
While I’d been watching Logan, he had been climbing over the side of the dumpster, rummaging in the trash the boy had thrown away. I peered over the edge and saw pieces of discarded clothing mixed in with empty detergent cartons and balls of dryer lint.
Greyson tossed me a piece of white fabric, and I heard two shoes slap the pavement beside me. More clouds of white polyester rained from the dumpster, and I ducked behind it to change.
The piece of clothing Greyson had given me looked like a nurse’s dress. It was ripped under the arm and too big in the hips, but otherwise it was fine. The shoes were a fake, plasticky leather — the ugly nonslip kind I had been issued at the facility. Uniform cracks were beginning to appear in the leather just above the toes, but they weren’t noticeable from a distance.
Feeling self-conscious, I pulled off my coat and began to undress, hyperaware of Amory and Roman, who were changing on the other side of the dumpster.
Goose bumps erupted all over my skin as the cold air hit my bare flesh. Although the dress was an unflattering, matronly cut that buttoned up to my collarbone, I instantly wished the thin, short-sleeved garment could be more substantial.
Reluctantly, I kicked off my black combat boots, stuffed my feet into the too-small shoes, and pulled my greasy, unwashed hair into a ponytail. I had no idea what I looked like, but I was sure anyone examining me too closely would be able to tell I did not belong among the sterile, freshly bathed commune people.
When I emerged from behind the dumpster, Greyson, Roman, and Amory were already dressed. Greyson and Amory wore thin cotton scrubs, while Roman was looking irritable in a white collared shirt and blue overalls. We sprinted over to Logan, who wore an expression torn between impatience and amusement.
Greyson took over holding the door ajar while Logan stripped indiscriminately and donned a dress that matched mine. I could tell instantly that Greyson should have switched our dresses. Logan’s was much too small. The stiff material strained at her hips, and the buttons gaped along her chest.
Logan glared at Greyson as though he’d done it on purpose, but he, Roman, and Amory were carefully looking anywhere but at her.
Once she had pulled her hair into a twisted bun, she blended in much better than I did. She pushed aside a profusely blushing Greyson and wedged open the door to go inside.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A rush of hot air hit my face as we stepped into the narrow room. The sounds of a dozen dryers stacked three high bounced off the opposite wall and made it impossible to hear anyone approaching.
As we rounded the corner, we saw the boy standing at a long table with his back to the door. He was nodding his head in time with his music as he folded identical sets of white pants.
Praying he didn’t see us in his peripheral vision, we ducked around the corner one at a time, heading toward the door. Amory reached it first. He pushed it open a crack and checked the hallway before nodding at us to follow.
We emerged into a long, empty corridor. White lacquer doors were spaced every few yards along the right, with tiny silver inscriptions neatly embossed to read “Boiler Room,” “Linens,” and “Sanitation Supplies.”
As we walked along, the hum of voices began to grow louder. I hesitated slightly, not sure if we should be going toward the crowd, but Amory and the others continued around the corner. I hurried to catch up and was startled to reach a huge throng of people in white streaming from the cafeteria.
“Where are they going?” Amory whispered to Logan.
“No idea.”