Among the Free

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  He couldn’t help wondering about the person driving that truck on official Population Police business, delivering food. Had it been someone who truly believed in the Population Police cause, who wanted to see third children dead? Or had it been someone like Luke, who’d joined up solely to sabotage the Population Police from inside—who’d maybe ended up dying for a cause he opposed? Maybe it had been someone like the boy back in Chiutza, who’d joined the Population Police just to get food, who would join any cause that fed him. Did that make it wrong for the rebels to have killed him?

  Luke was confused. He was lost now too. He’d had no problem walking toward the east when the sun was low in the sky, but now it was almost directly overhead. He kept tilting his head back, looking up, and the sun seemed to waver, all depending on how he held his head.

  “Just keep walking in the same direction, stupid,” he muttered to himself. But that was easier said than done when he constantly had to dodge around trees, step over fallen logs, duck under low-hanging branches. He could never be sure that he was aiming in the right direction. What if he was walking straight back to Chiutza?

  They saw me in a Population Police uniform before. They’d remember me. . . . They’d recognize my voice from last night. . . . The terror coursed through Luke’s body so strongly, it was all he could do to keep walking. He couldn’t let himself think about anything except placing one foot down and then the other.

  Shortly after what Luke guessed to be noon, when the sun began to drop a little in the sky, the woods directly ahead of him thinned out. He slowed down his stride, became even more careful to avoid stepping on twigs or into piles of dry, rustly leaves. He could see roofs and walls—was it Chiutza again? Then he noticed how many of the walls were broken off and crumbling, how many of the roofs had gaping holes open to the sky. It wasn’t Chiutza. Chiutza had been run-down and ramshackle but patched up. This village was in total ruins.

  Luke crept forward, watching for any sign of humans: smoke from the chimneys, perhaps, or the sound of a baby crying, or the smell of cooking stew. But the tumbledown houses and huts before him were silent and still. Timidly Luke stepped into the clearing around the village. He held his breath, listening harder. All he could hear was the wind blowing through empty window frames, making the same kind of lonely howl it had made blowing through empty branches in the woods.

  There were no people in this village. Luke was so sure of it that he walked to the exact center of the houses and huts—what had once been the village square, perhaps. A rutted dirt road led out of the village, but it looked as if no one had driven down it in a long, long time.

  “Where did everyone go?” he muttered, truly puzzled. He knew about the droughts and famines years ago, before he was born. That was the reason the Government had instituted the Population Law, the one that made it illegal for people to have more than two children. According to the Government, there had been too many people.

  This village looked like there hadn’t been enough people—not enough to fill the houses, to patch the roofs, to putty the walls, to trim back the trees.

  Luke pushed against the door of one of the houses. It creaked back on rusty hinges, revealing a room full of broken chairs and tattered wallpaper.

  Did the people leave quickly? Luke wondered. Or did they have time to pack, to sort out what they wanted to take and what they wanted to leave behind? His stomach growled, reminding him that this wasn’t just a philosophical question. Did they leave any food?

  He walked on through the house to a kitchen in the back, where linoleum peeled up from the floor, a sink dangled from a rotted board, and rusty pipes hung out from the wall. He left muddy footprints across the linoleum, but he didn’t see how that could matter. He opened cupboard doors, hoping for canned food—canned food and maybe a can opener, too, for good measure. Or maybe jars of preserves like his mother used to prepare every year, with every fruit and vegetable that came into season. He remembered the rows of corncobs cooling on her kitchen counters, the bushel baskets full of tomatoes, the cooked apples she always let him smash up into sauce. His mouth watered and his eyesight blurred, making it hard to see that the cupboards in front of him now were bare.

  Of course they’re bare, Luke told himself. Of course there’s no food. People were starving, remember? They wouldn’t have left any food behind.

  He slipped to the floor, bending his head down in despair against his knees. He was so hungry. He was so tired. He’d walked so far and been so scared for so long—what would it hurt if he rested for just a few minutes? He tilted sideways until he was lying on the floor, his head resting against a coil of the linoleum that had been heaved up from the decaying floor. He wrapped his arms around his knees, drawing them toward his chest.

  Just for a few minutes, he told himself, slipping almost instantly off to sleep.

  The next thing he knew there were voices talking. Talking in the same house he was in.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  But sir, this is an unauthorized village,” someone was arguing from the front room of the house. “Can’t you see no one’s been here in years?”

  “A lot has happened lately that the Population Police didn’t authorize,” another voice growled. “Our orders are to search every house in every village we come to and kill any unauthorized person we find. And we will follow orders.”

  Luke’s eyes sprang open. With his head against the linoleum, he had a clear line of sight to the muddy footprints he’d tracked across the floor. He scrambled up, and began frantically scrubbing the mud away with his sleeve. But that just left streaks.

  They’ll still be able to see that it’s fresh mud.

  “The Population Police will prevail,” the growly voice went on. “We always have. It’s just a matter of time.”

  The sound of footsteps echoed through the house, moving closer to the kitchen.

  Did I leave muddy footprints everywhere? Luke wondered. How much time do I have before they notice?

  He was standing now, glancing around for any exit. Why hadn’t he looked for anything in the kitchen besides food? Incredibly enough, the window in this room wasn’t broken, and when Luke shoved against the window frame, it seemed to be warped permanently shut. But beneath the window there was a hole in the wall, a place where mold had eaten the drywall away and the boards behind didn’t meet exactly. Luke thought it looked like small animals had crawled in and out through that hole—raccoons, perhaps, or possums. Could Luke fit through too?

  He didn’t have time to measure carefully. He dived for the hole, shoving his shoulders against the rotting, splintering wood. Even if the men in the house didn’t notice the fresh mud on the floor, they’d certainly see this enlarged hole.

  What other choice do I have?

  Luke broke through and landed in a thicket outside. He rolled onto his feet and around glanced quickly—he saw just the bumper of some vehicle parked at the front of the house, but no sign of other Population Police officials wandering through the ruins. He took off running for the woods.

  “Hey! You! Stop! We’re the Population Police!” someone yelled behind him.

  Luke tried to run faster, but it was hard with his legs so stiff and sore. He’d run so much the day before; he’d used up so much of his energy walking all morning.

  “You can’t escape! We’ll find you! We’ll hunt you down!”

  Luke crashed into the woods, and it was like a flashback to his terror-stricken dreams the night before: running, being chased, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide . . .

  “We’re still in charge!” someone shouted behind him. How far away was the voice? Was it just behind him or several yards back, still in the ruins of the village?

  Maybe Luke was a little delirious; maybe his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen to think straight. For whole minutes, he had trouble remembering whom he was running from: the Population Police officers doing their house-to-house search? The Chiutzan villager with the gun? Officer Houk? Somehow Luke’s legs were carryi
ng him so fast that his eyes couldn’t absorb the sights around him quickly enough. Trees. Grass. Sky. Branches. No more branches. Lots more sky. Houses. Faces. A lot of faces, all looking down at him.

  Luke blinked, fighting an awful blackness.

  “I think he’s passing out,” someone said. A woman. The voice seemed to come from a million miles away. Luke knew he couldn’t surrender to unconsciousness now. He forced his eyes back open, trying to focus on the circle of faces around him.

  “Here. Here’s something to drink,” a new voice said, and someone poured liquid down his throat. Luke couldn’t have said whether it was cold or hot, water or broth. But somehow it brought him back to himself. He struggled to sit up.

  “Got—to—go—,” he moaned, trying to get his muscles to work, to pull himself upright, to propel himself forward again.

  “Easy there, pal.” It was a man’s voice this time. Friendly-sounding. Luke tried to focus on the source of the voice, the face of the man who had spoken. He saw white whiskers, blue eyes, a craggy nose. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to go anywhere for a while. Not on your own, anyway. Where were you trying to get to? Was someone chasing you?”

  “Yes,” Luke whispered.

  “Who was it?”

  Dizzily, Luke managed to stand, though he didn’t quite trust his legs to hold him up. He rubbed his hand across his face. Which side would these people be on? Would they be like the villagers back in Chiutza—eager to attack the Population Police? Or would they be Population Police sympathizers—eager to help Luke if he said he worked for the Population Police, eager to turn him in if he didn’t?

  “Is that a Population Police uniform you’re wearing?” someone asked.

  Luke kept his hand over his eyes. Through the slits between his fingers, he tried to peer out at the faces around him, to gauge their expressions. Anxious? Angry? Sympathetic? Luke couldn’t tell. Was it good or bad that he still had the shirt of his uniform turned inside out? Which side of the shirt would these people rather see? Luke had had to lie and pretend so much during the past year, ever since leaving home. What was he supposed to do now, when he had no way of knowing which lie would save him, which pretense would keep him alive?

  Maybe he’d have to tell the truth.

  “I—I’m running away from the Population Police,” he said. “I deserted. They wanted me to shoot someone and I . . . I didn’t want to do that.”

  He kept his body hunched over, cowering. He dreaded the moment when he’d have to look up and see how the people around him had reacted to his words. But nobody spoke for a long time. Luke heard a car engine approaching, then idling. He heard a familiar, growling voice shout out, “Population Police! Submit to a house-to-house search! Show all your identification papers! Turn in any unauthorized persons!”

  He felt his body begin to quiver, his muscles turn to helpless jelly, his dread turn to paralyzing certainty.

  Then he heard another voice, just as loud, coming from someone in the circle around him. This voice spoke only one word:

  “No.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The man with the whiskers linked his arm with Luke’s right elbow; a woman did the same thing on his other side. Together they lifted him upright. Around them others were joining arms, shifting positions. The circle was transforming itself into a straight line, strong and true. Strong and true and facing a Population Police officer in a fancy car.

  “Go away,” the man with the whiskers said. “You’re not wanted here.”

  “But—I have a gun!” the officer sputtered.

  “Yes,” the man said calmly. “You have a gun. But there are just two of you, and there are many of us. You couldn’t kill us all. Not when we are standing together. You have no control over us anymore.”

  Luke felt the power in the man’s words like something physical—a presence as distinct as the man and woman standing on either side of him, holding him up. The Population Police officer seemed to feel it too. He shrank back a little in his seat. He didn’t seem inclined to shout anymore about how the Population Police were still in charge.

  “Hand over that boy, at least, and I’ll leave you alone,” he offered finally. “That boy is not one of yours. He’s nothing to you, I’d wager.”

  Luke knew that the Population Police officer was talking about him. He was the only one with twigs in his hair, the only one panting, the only one wearing an inside-out Population Police shirt. How much did the officer know? That Luke had been in the abandoned village? That he’d been in Chiutza? Fear made Luke’s legs weak; the whole world seemed to spin around him.

  But the man and woman on either side of him kept a firm grip on his arms.

  “He’s one of ours now,” the woman said.

  The Population Police officer stared at Luke, at the woman, at the man. His gaze seemed to take in the whole line of people united against him. Then he leaned forward and tapped his driver’s shoulder.

  “We’ll go now,” he said.

  The driver looked back, his face confused.

  “You’re letting them get away with this?” he asked. “You’re not even going to shoot the boy?”

  “I said go!” the officer roared.

  The driver shrugged, then bent down and slipped the car into gear. It leaped forward, its engine noise loud and angry. As the car drove away, the noise faded into a faint buzz in the distance.

  And then into nothingness. Silence. The Population Police were gone.

  Luke stood shoulder to shoulder with a whole line of people—men and women, boys and girls—people he didn’t even know who had just saved his life. Everyone stayed quiet, keeping their arms linked; it seemed like they, too, were having a hard time believing what had happened.

  “Thank you,” Luke mumbled. “Thank you.” He swallowed hard. “But why—why did you help me?”

  He looked up beseechingly at the man with the whiskers. The man was staring far off into the distance.

  “It was the right thing to do,” the man finally said. “We let them bully us into doing the wrong thing much too often in the past. It was time for a change.”

  The others in the line were nodding and murmuring in agreement. They dropped arms and broke off into little clumps, whispering and reliving the thrill of sending the Population Police away. Some of the younger children even began to giggle as they mimicked the official’s panic.

  These people were strangers, but they had become very precious to Luke. He worried that they were too innocent.

  “What if the Population Police come back?” Luke asked. “They could bring hundreds of men, hundreds of guns. It isn’t safe, what you did, showing that you disagree. You should leave now, while you have the chance, run away—”

  “We won’t run,” the woman on Luke’s other side said. “Look at us. Don’t you see that we’re going to die anyway? If the Population Police come back, we will die a little sooner. But our consciences will be clear.”

  For the first time Luke noticed how thin all the people were. Their faces were gaunt, the hollows in their cheeks incredibly deep. The wrists and ankles that stuck out from their tattered clothes were little more than bone.

  “You’re starving,” he whispered.

  “We don’t have enough food to survive the winter,” the man said with a hopeless shrug. “We petitioned the Population Police for help, but they said it was our own fault, our own problem. We made a pact after that, that we would not listen to them anymore. We would not be . . . weak.”

  “You’re giving up,” Luke said in disbelief.

  “We’re free,” the man replied.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As little food as they had, the people insisted on sharing it with Luke.

  “This was our declaration of independence,” the woman said. “We should have a celebration—a feast!”

  The feast was hard bread served with broth that might have once had a passing acquaintance with a potato or two. But Luke sat in a warm room to eat it—these peop
le had plenty of firewood. They clustered around him eagerly, telling him their names. The man who had done most of the talking was Eli; the woman was Adriana. Luke was also introduced to Jasper and Lett and Alice and Simon and Hadley and Sarah and Randall. He couldn’t keep track of which identity went with which face, but he treasured the sound of the names piling up around him like so many golden coins. He hadn’t known the name of anyone he’d met since he’d left for Chiutza.

  “And you are . . . ?” Eli asked.

  Luke hesitated. He had two fake names he could use. At school he’d been Lee Grant; at Population Police headquarters he’d been Wendell Smathers. But each name came with baggage; each carried dangers of its own.

  “Luke,” he said. “I’m Luke.”

  As soon as he said it, he thought that he could easily have just made up a name—it wasn’t as though these people were going to check for identity cards or papers.

  But if the Population Police come back . . .

  These people wouldn’t turn him in. They’d already had their chance to do that.

  They could have handed me over in exchange for food. Why didn’t they think of that? What if they think of it now?

  The room seemed too warm suddenly; the people were crowded in too closely, their bony elbows and shoulders and hips poking against him. When I have nightmares tonight, I’m going to dream about skeletons, Luke thought. The bread suddenly seemed too dry to chew and he began to choke.

  Someone pounded him on the back.

  “There, there,” Eli said. “You might want to eat a little more slowly. Savor it, you know?”

  He sounded so wistful that some of Luke’s panic slipped away.