Three

by Kristen Simmons

  We were given the option to clean up or go to the “cookhouse” for food. As hungry as I was, I couldn’t relax until I scraped some of the sweat off. Some of the other girls, Kaylee included, lined up behind me, and with a quick nod to Chase I was first to follow the soldiers up a path beside the river. Through the mist the crash of water could be heard, like a fall was somewhere near, and as we drew closer, the path opened to a swimming hole.

  Now that we’d delivered the refugees we’d have to move out, but I would have been lying if I’d said the bath didn’t make me feel better about what we were about to do.

  * * *

  LATER, I hiked down the main road of the camp toward the fires that were already lit outside the cookhouse. There were more people milling around now—they seemed to come out of the woodwork, out of the very mountains. Men and women. Dogs, barking and chasing after the children who threw sticks for them. None dressed in uniforms we’d seen before, but that didn’t mean they weren’t soldiers. There was an air of dignity about the adults. Of pride, despite the fact that they looked like they’d gotten their clothes from the same donation bins I used to. They smiled and waved, said hellos and shook my hand. It was so welcoming, I nearly forgot about all the soldiers protecting this place. Where Endurance had felt like a resistance post, this felt more like home. The camp turned lively with conversation, and though I knew we had to move on, part of me wanted to stay.

  I searched for Chase and Jesse, and was informed by the female soldier with the ponytail—now wearing jeans and a patched thermal shirt—that they were with Corporal Blackstone patching the tire. Dusk was coming, shadowing the paths, and instead of wandering through the woods I discovered the cookhouse, a cabin with sweeping, vaulted ceilings, and grabbed a plate of food, pocketing a little extra bread in case we went without for some time. Taking my plate, I went outside, marveling at the families who sat on picnic-style blankets or logs circled around a fire.

  I wanted to sit with them, but felt strangely separate at the same time, like it was my first day at school and I couldn’t find my friends. My Sisters of Salvation uniform was drying—I’d washed it at the swimming hole—and my clothes were borrowed. They hung off my shoulders and hips like I was a kid playing dress up.

  Beside the cookhouse was a small cabin, and on the front porch sat a man reading a book and minding his own business. A woman on the ground was leaning against the railing, looking out over the group, but when I approached, she caught my eye.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked when I reached the bottom steps. She tucked her black hair behind one ear and glanced over her shoulder at the man, clearly waiting for him to respond.

  He lifted his chin, and though I couldn’t place it, there was definitely something familiar about him. His skin was browned by the sun, his hair short and gray like the smoke that rose from the fires. Wrinkles popped up beside his eyes as he smiled.

  “I do,” he said in a kind way, but with a voice that demanded attention. He stood to remove a stack of books from the wooden rocking chair beside him. “I’d mind less if you joined me.”

  He seemed friendly enough, so I climbed the steps past the woman and took my place beside him. From this point I still had a clear view of the road, the cookhouse, and the paths leading into camp. I would be able to see Chase and Jesse as soon as they arrived. The woman returned to her spot leaning against the porch, and though another man came to talk to her, I could tell she was keeping her eye on me. I wondered if the man was the leader of this post; he had to be someone important to have a guard.

  We sat in the quiet, the porch creaking as we rocked, the crickets chirping from their secret perches. I kept eyeing his stack of books, now at his feet. There were titles there I’d never seen, and some I hadn’t seen in years. All contraband from what I could recall.

  “You like to read?” he asked.

  I glanced back at the fire. “I used to.”

  “I like a good story,” he said. After a moment he rose, a sneaky twinkle in his eye. “Come take a look at this.”

  I balanced the plate on the banister, glancing back down the path, but the man didn’t go far. He opened the front door of the cabin to reveal a dozen bookcases, all lined with paperbacks, hardcovers, pamphlets, and magazines. My mouth dropped open in awe as I stepped over the threshold.

  “Not bad, huh?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak. I hadn’t seen this many books in one place since before the War. Unable to help myself, I touched the nearest stack, feeling the worn covers and waterlogged pages before drawing back to wipe my hands on my pant leg.

  “Where’d you get all these?” I managed.

  “Here and there,” he said. “When the teams make supply runs into town sometimes they bring me back one or two if they come across them.”

  “You must rank pretty high,” I said, and he laughed. I removed a children’s book with flimsy gold binding. A blue train was painted on the cover. “My mom used to read this to me when I was little.”

  “My son’s favorite,” he said. “I can’t tell you how many times he brought it to bed with him. He’d memorized the words before he could read. Could play back every word.”

  “Did he make it?” The nostalgia between us turned heavy. I didn’t know why I asked that. I didn’t even know this man.

  “I haven’t seen him in years,” said the man. “He’s with his mother, and though I hate to admit it, they’re in a far better place right now.”

  My mouth formed a small o, and a wave of pity passed over me. I hoped my mother was in a better place, too.

  He smiled. “Mexico.”

  “Mexico,” I said slowly, and this time when he laughed, he placed his hand on my arm.

  “Sure,” he said. “That big country across the border.”

  “The U.S. border,” I clarified. Surely this man was not in his right mind. I gave him my most polite, whatever-you-say smile.

  “Kids these days,” he said with a sigh. “Thought you said you liked to read.”

  “I know what Mexico is,” I said, keeping my voice light. “It’s just … they closed their borders during the War. They built a fence to keep us out. They sent an army to defend it.” I remembered the images from the news: people trying to climb the wall during the worst of the riots, setting homemade bombs to break through the weak spots. The Mexican Militia rounding them up and dumping them back in Texas and California. They didn’t want anything to do with America, fearing the same rise of insurgents in their own overcrowded country.

  He winced. “I recall all too well.” We rounded the corner and paused in front of a series of wrinkled maps tacked to the wall, some of different continents, some of the Great Smoky Mountains.

  One looked very similar to the map in the radio room in Endurance, stuck with red and green pins, but not just on the eastern side of the country, on the western half as well.

  “Things change,” he said.

  One of the maps highlighted the countries of the world in faded colors and he tapped Mexico, then let his hand linger over the spot. His gaze grew distant.

  He couldn’t have been telling the truth—no country took U.S. citizens, especially after President Scarboro had made it illegal to jump the borders. The War had plunged the world into a depression, and when Scarboro had made economic independence a cornerstone of Reformation, it had finally abandoned us to rebuild on our own.

  My gaze continued down the wall to a stack of flat wooden crates.

  “You want to take a look?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  I followed him to the boxes, where he pulled back the top lid. “Do you know what this is?”

  My mouth fell open. Inside was a glass case, nestled in straw, and inside it was an old document, yellowed with age.

  “IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776” was written across the top. And just underneath: “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.”

  “It’s the Declaration of Independence,” I said. “Is
this real? I thought Scarboro had it put in the archives during the Reformation Act.”

  “He did,” said the man with a troubled look. “Ah, the archives. The greatest collection of noncompliant literature since the Vatican. I’m glad to see you recognize it.”

  “I haven’t even seen a picture of it since I was a kid,” I said. “How’d you get it?”

  “My people managed to get a few things out before I was kicked out of town.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. My gaze traveled down the page, stopping on the following words:

  That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

  Jesse had told me something just like that in Endurance.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  The front door opened before he could answer, and noise outside drew my attention. Laughter filtered in through the blue night. Laughter and cheering, and something else.

  Singing.

  Two figures stood in the doorway—the angry man with the goatee, Max, who based on his expression was still less than amused by our presence, and Jesse, who blinked when he found me. He saluted again, this time at the old librarian. This place had certainly changed his demeanor.

  “Sergeant Major Waite,” introduced Max, but from the twitch in the librarian’s eye I wasn’t so sure he didn’t recognize Chase’s uncle.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” said Jesse. He stood straighter than I’d ever seen, like he wasn’t even capable of the sarcasm I was so used to hearing come out of his mouth.

  I smoothed out my sweatshirt, realizing I’d underestimated this man’s importance to the compound. The librarian only waved his hand.

  “Please,” he said, dismissing Jesse’s show of respect. “Those times are long past.”

  “Not for me,” said Jesse.

  The man nodded somberly, then saluted him back. “Thank you, soldier.”

  It finally occurred to me where I’d seen him before. Years ago, before the War, on the cover of one of my mother’s magazines.

  “Oh,” I said, my eyes growing wide. A second later Jesse had reached for my arm and was escorting me from the building.

  “Was that…”

  “Yes,” said Jesse. “It was.”

  The president before Scarboro. The man who’d lost in his reelection, blamed for the insurgents’ attacks on the major cities. The one who took the fall only to have Project Restart pick up the broken pieces.

  “I didn’t know. I’m such an idiot,” I said, wondering if I should have told him about the hijacked Statutes and the fallen bases, and everything else I’d heard in the radio room in Endurance. I was suddenly unsure what I was supposed to share.

  “Wait here,” said Jesse bluntly, leaving me on the porch. The door closed in my face.

  “Is it true? Is he really here?”

  I turned to find Chase climbing the stairs, speculation quirking his brows.

  “I think so,” I said. “I was just kicked out. I guess Jesse’s making a report.”

  “Or an apology,” said Chase. This hadn’t occurred to me. At my expectant look, Chase added, “I overhead Max telling Corporal Blackstone that the last time Jesse was here he went down the hill on a routine supply run and came back with ten soldiers on his tail. It took some effort to”—he hesitated, frowned—“cover things up.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Hard to say,” said Chase. “Riling people up is what it sounds like.”

  I remembered Polo saying that he knew Jesse from a demonstration outside the draft board. If that was truth, he’d been in the game a long time.

  Inside, Max was saying something I couldn’t make out.

  “We have the same goal, sir.” At Jesse’s voice, Chase and I both turned our gazes to the door, as if it might spontaneously open again.

  “Yes, but we’re going about it in vastly different ways,” said the president. “I won’t be boosted back into office by an organization that condones assassination attempts and guerrilla warfare. The people have that now. They deserve better.”

  Chase and I glanced at each other. DeWitt hadn’t told us that Three was supporting the president; he must have conveyed this message to Jesse privately.

  “This plan with the Statutes,” said Jesse. “It’s different from what’s been done in the past.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I felt my heart rate kick up a notch. The former president of the United States was about to hear a plan I’d come up with. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream in excitement or throw up.

  Inside, the conversation had gone quiet. Either the president was taking a long time to read and think about the plan, or they’d moved out of earshot.

  I pushed my hands in my pockets, disappointed not to hear his reaction.

  “Have you heard about Three supporting this president?” I asked. I hadn’t much thought of what would happen if the MM was knocked out of power.

  Chase shook his head. “Sounds like he’s not a big fan.”

  I rubbed the three marks on my chest. “I don’t know that he’s got a lot of choice if he wants back in office. I don’t see anyone else opposing the MM.”

  “We have our methods,” said Corporal Blackstone, emerging from around the corner of the deck. He was still wearing fatigues, though his skin had been wiped clean of camouflage paint. His face looked stretched, with large eyes, thick brows, and a flat nose.

  Chase cleared his throat. “While you were gone, Corporal Blackstone was telling me how Restart paid off the insurgents,” said Chase.

  “Didn’t just pay them off,” said Blackstone, his heavy jaw flexing with each word. “Formed them. Recruited them. And then paid off their families. We have proof—witnesses. Willing to share what they know.” He glanced down to the campfires and I wondered if some of these individuals were here now. “Chancellor Reinhardt was behind the attacks. He set ’em up so Scarboro could pick up the pieces.”

  I’d heard talk of this before from Marco and Polo, but that didn’t make the conspiracy any less appalling. I cringed, thinking of Reinhardt’s creepy voice coming through the radio as he talked about the executions of the terrorists. The man was clearly capable of damage and unafraid of any consequences.

  “When the time comes, we’ll be ready,” said Corporal Blackstone. He tapped his breast pocket, where for the first time I noticed a folded piece of paper emerging from it. The Moral Statutes—probably the ones we’d hijacked.

  I swallowed.

  “The president will be reinstated. The Bureau will be charged for their crimes. We’ll have freedom once again.” It occurred to me Blackstone was not referring to Scarboro. “In the meantime,” he finished, “your truck will be topped off and good to go by morning.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Chase, shaking his hand.

  “Tomorrow?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we try to get out tonight?”

  Chase motioned toward the food, a look of longing in his eyes. He had skipped eating in order to check on the truck and had yet to clean up. “They have rules about coming and going,” he said. “They have rules about who you talk to and what you say and how to assure you aren’t followed back. They have rules.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Understandable, considering their guest list.”

  He snorted.

  I wondered how Sean was faring—if he’d found Tucker yet. If he’d wrung Jack’s neck yet; the last time I remembered them doing anything together, Sean was punching him in the face outside the swamp before we’d been ambushed by the survivors. He was going to freak out when I told him we had stayed the night in the Smoky Mountains, guests of the veterans of the dispersed military branches and the old president himself. It seemed too unreal to be true.

  As Chase went to get a bowl of stew and canned
mixed vegetables, I was distracted by something I hadn’t heard in years. Music. Not the preapproved church music piped in through the speakers at Sunday services, but not quite like the kind my mother used to play on the stereo when I was little, either. This was fresher, brighter. Alive. It began with the soft, high wail of a violin, then came the thump of a drum, followed by a brassy horn I couldn’t pinpoint, blending together as if they’d come from a singular source. It pulled at something inside of me, but at the same time raised the hairs on my skin, because beautiful things were always dangerous.

  The musicians had congregated behind the largest of the campfires, and on the ground before them sat several children, entranced. As I watched, a few other people joined them, and soon they’d clasped hands and formed a ring around two men. For an instant, I thought they were fighting, until I saw one leap to the side and burst into an intricate pattern of kicks and stomps then challenge the other to follow. The other took the center of the circle, cheered on by those around him, and doubled the speed of the dance. Soon I found myself edging closer, gravitating toward the show.

  They laughed as if our posts had not fallen. As if our people—good people—weren’t missing or stranded. As if there was no reason to be afraid. And I watched because I wanted to believe them.

  A breath of air came from the direction of the trees, blowing the damp hair away from my face. It brought with it a sense of calm, like when I’d hear my mother singing in the kitchen, or when she’d wait on the porch for me when I walked home from school.