Zara turned over to find herself face-to-face with Bastian. He had huddled closer to her in his sleep, his breaths slow and deep. As she watched his chest rise and fall, she nudged aside her thoughts of the Führer. They had to get to safety first. That was the most important thing right now, and she would have to deal with her splintered thoughts later.
Bastian groaned, and Zara rested her hand on his shoulder. Only a few weeks ago, she remembered tensing whenever he neared her, but now his face hovered so close to her own and she didn’t pull away. She didn’t want to pull away. And that made her wonder what Bastian would want — would he mind their closeness? Her hand on his arm?
It doesn’t matter, a voice clucked inside her. Here they were, on the run from the Nazis, both of them dirty and hungry and tired. They still had twenty miles to go before they reached Alliance headquarters, so all of this wondering about Bastian should have been the last thing on her mind. But here in the stillness, with the Nazis far away and with Bastian so close, Zara wondered about it anyway.
Bastian stirred and groaned in his sleep. “Mother,” he said in German. “Mother, run!”
“Bastian.” She shook his shoulder. “Bastian, wake up.”
His eyes fluttered open and he blinked from Zara to the treetops and back again. The peacefulness of deep sleep had disappeared completely from his face. “How long have I been out?”
“I have no idea. I fell asleep, too.” She stretched her sore back. “You should try to get more rest.”
“I don’t think I can now.”
“It was only a nightmare. I’m sure your mother’s fine.” Zara thought about all of the times she had awakened Uncle Red from his own dreams. She clung to hope that he was alive, that he and Alene had escaped. If they hadn’t … The panic started to build in her chest, so she buried those questions deep inside her, just as she had done with her thoughts of killing the Führer. One of these days she would have to sort through all of those memories, but not tonight. It would be far too much for her right now.
“The Nazis were chasing her in my dream,” Bastian said as he sat up. He rubbed his eyes, but the fear had rooted inside of them. “Because of me. Because of what I’ve done. If they hurt her —”
“They won’t.”
His tone sharpened and he sprang to his feet. “We don’t know that for sure.”
“She’s going to be all right, Bastian,” Zara said, standing to meet him.
“You don’t know that!” he burst out. His chest heaved. “What if they kill her for raising a traitor? It would all be my fault.”
Zara stilled. He had never snapped at her like this before, not once. She felt an overwhelming helplessness well up inside her. “I don’t think the Nazis would kill your mom. If they did, they would have to kill your father, too, right? And they let him attend the gala.”
His head hung low. “Maybe.” The anger had already retreated from his face. “Scheiße, I’m sorry. These last few days …”
She couldn’t blame him for lashing out. They had been on the run for a while, surviving on snatches of sleep. And now he looked so small against the fifty-foot trees surrounding them, like a frightened child. Without thinking, Zara leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, because she didn’t know what to say and she was so tired of running day after day, hour after hour.
Slowly, Bastian’s hands settled around her waist, and she tucked her head into the curve of his neck. She felt his tears fall on the top of her head, and soon she found herself crying, too. All of the emotions she had bottled up — the worry for her uncle, the fear of getting caught — poured out of her in a torrent.
“It’s okay,” she heard Bastian whisper to her. “It’s okay, Zara.”
He held her, rocking her, until her eyes dried, until his shirt was wet from her tears. That was when Zara pulled back from him, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, your shirt —”
“Is only a shirt. And it’s pretty wrecked already.” He glanced downward, taking in the dirt stains and rips on his T-shirt. Then, in spite of everything that had happened to them, he gave her a small smile. “You can buy me a new one later.”
She smiled back wanly and punched him in the shoulder, but his hands remained fastened around her. They were standing so close, their faces lingering inches apart. Bastian reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Zara, I …”
Her heartbeat skyrocketed. She couldn’t find her voice.
Bastian’s chin tilted down, and his lips brushed against hers, shyly, nervously. Zara leaned her mouth into his, softly at first, tasting his breath, tasting him. Goose bumps tickled over her skin as his fingers brushed across her neck, then trailed down her back. He pulled her closer, and Zara froze, startled at first, but she took his lead and sank into him.
A thrill shot through her, shivering down into her toes. One hand wove through his hair and the other curled around the back of his neck. For a few precious seconds, the exhaustion flew from her body. She anchored herself to this kiss, to him.
Bastian pulled back his head suddenly, and Zara wondered what she had done wrong. He blinked at their feet. “We’re … floating.”
Zara looked down to find them hovering three feet in the air. She must have summoned the wind without even realizing it. “I’m sorry!” She was about to bring them back to the ground, but Bastian caught her hand.
“I don’t mind,” he said, leaning back down toward her mouth.
But the chop of helicopter wings broke them apart, sending them sprawling to the ground as Zara lost focus. With her head still filled with their kiss, she pushed through the haze to locate the helicopter. She found its lights in the distance, circling over a trail they had passed, and her body tightened like a bowstring.
“We better get going,” Bastian said, crawling up beside her. “In case they come toward us.”
Zara nodded, and he helped her to her feet. Bastian’s hand lingered on hers, and she didn’t let go of it.
“We’ll keep heading west. The sun set over that ridge.” She tried to focus on their escape route, but she wanted to stay in the shadow of these trees. She could forget about the Nazis and their helicopters if she only shut her eyes.
“Lead the way,” said Bastian. At last, he dropped his hand against his side, and Zara stepped in front of him. She forced her feet forward and shook the remaining haziness from her head. They had to keep moving if they wanted to survive.
They started their slow march through the brush, and Zara didn’t let herself look back.
* * *
When they finally reached the tiny town of Wardensville, they were both starving and caked with grime. Their map was now tattered and torn, but it had led them here, where the Alliance headquarters were located.
Dawn broke over the horizon as they scaled the hill that led to an old Victorian hotel bearing the address that Garrison had told Zara so many nights before. She wanted to spring up the hill and call out for her uncle, but the last few days had sapped the life from her bones.
The hotel had seen fairer days. Its violet paint had faded to a sickly lavender, and some of the windowpanes hung crookedly off their hinges. A leaf-thick forest surrounded the building on all sides. When they reached the front porch, Zara read the sign that greeted them: WELCOME TO THE HOTEL LIBERTY, EST. 1875.
For a second, she hesitated. They had avoided civilization since the assassination, and she was struck with the sudden fear that the Nazis had discovered the bunker and were setting a trap. But then she felt Bastian’s hand at the small of her back. Since their kiss, he had been doing that more and more. She knew most of it was out of necessity — taking her hand when they crossed a muddy creek or pulling her boots off at night when she was too tired to do it herself — but there were other times when she felt his hand on her shoulder or his arm curling around her before they gave in to their exhaustion. She never pulled away. Out in the woods on the run, Bastian’s touch became her anchor whenever the fear jolted her
awake or the hunger pains rooted deep in her belly.
“I’ll go first,” said Bastian.
“No, we’ll go together.” They had done everything together since leaving the White House. She didn’t see why they had to stop now.
They approached the steps, but a young man stepped out onto the porch, motioning for them to stop. He looked over their ragged clothes, their hungry faces. “I’m sorry, but the hotel is closed for renovations.”
“Please!” Zara croaked. Her thirsty throat screamed for water, and she racked her memories for what Garrison had said to her before the White House attack. He had said to her to say something when she arrived here. What was it? “The … the birds will chime … at midnight?”
Relief flooded the man’s face and he ushered them inside. “I thought I recognized you from the television reports on Channel Seven, but I had to make sure. Standard procedure.”
“I’m on TV?” Zara breathed.
“The Nazis got a picture of you from the White House security footage. It’s all over the radio broadcasts, too, but —” His voice trailed off. “That’s more than I should’ve said. The others will fill you in and … Can I shake your hand, Ms. St. James?”
Zara stared at him, then at his hand. No one had ever asked this question before — the Greenfield Kleinbauern didn’t even want to touch a kami like her. She raised her own hand weakly, and the young man grasped on to it and shook it hard. “What was on the television reports?”
“Yes, what have you heard out of Neuberlin?” Bastian said.
“They’ll explain everything in the debrief. I’m sorry, but I’m not authorized to say much else.” Then the man hurried to the dusty receptionist’s desk, where he accessed a hidden keypad and punched in a long string of numbers. A trapdoor hissed open by his feet, revealing a metal ladder into the secret Alliance bunker below.
“Clark! We have company!” he shouted. He motioned at Zara. “You can head down now. Watch your step.”
Zara climbed down the steep ladder and stumbled into a narrow corridor that resembled a submarine — metal walls, flickering lights, and steel floors that echoed with every boot step. She braced herself against the cold wall, her head woozy from thirst and hunger. A woman ran up to her, introducing herself as Margaret Clark, and took Zara by the arm.
“Careful now,” said Clark. “What’s your name?” Recognition flared in the woman’s eyes when she saw Zara’s face. “Zara St. James! You made it out? We’ve been waiting for days for you.”
“Is my uncle here, too? Redmond St. James?”
“I’ll have to check the roster, but let’s get you to the infirmary first.” Clark’s gaze flickered over to Bastian. “We’ll have both of you checked out and fed a square meal. I’ll find Murdock, too. I know he’ll want to speak —”
Zara didn’t hear the rest of what Clark was saying. Despite the blisters on her feet, she took off down the hall, shouting for her uncle. Dozens of faces popped out of the metal doors, but none of them were Uncle Red.
“Zara, wait!” Bastian shouted behind her.
She ignored him, too. “Uncle Red!” she cried. A tremor shook her thin shoulders. He had to be here somewhere. Alene had to have gotten him out.
But what if she hadn’t?
“Uncle Red!” Her voice was breaking apart, but then her tired gaze fixed on a man running toward her, his face obscured by the dim lights. He sprinted toward her at full speed, completely barefoot, his shoulder and upper arm wrapped in bandages, and then he was hugging her with his good arm.
“Zara! Oh, God!”
It was him. It was Uncle Red. He engulfed her in an embrace, rocking her back and forth like when she was little and had skinned her knee.
“You’re okay,” she said into his shoulder over and over again. She buried her face against him, so relieved to find him alive.
“Alene brought me here. I’ve been so worried.” His hands gripped her shoulders, making sure that she was real. “That might be the last mission you ever go on.”
Zara laughed through her tears. “Yes, sir.”
Uncle Red looked past her shoulder and extended a hand toward Bastian. “We’ve been worried about you, too. Welcome back.”
“Did Alene make it, too?” Zara said. “Did Garrison?”
The smile slid from Uncle Red’s face. “Let’s get you two to the infirmary first, and Murdock will tell you everything.”
“They’re okay, aren’t they?”
Uncle Red only wrapped his arm around her. “What matters is that you’re okay. Right now, that is enough.”
Zara knew he was avoiding her question, but she was too tired to press him on it. Her uncle was alive. She and Bastian had made it to safety. That was all that mattered for now.
“Let’s get you to the infirmary, okay?” Uncle Red said gently, keeping his arm around her. “I’ll show you the way.”
After her and Bastian’s medical checkup, they were given a meal of boiled carrots and potatoes and allowed hours of drowsy sleep before they were fully debriefed.
Zara and Bastian were spared no details.
Right after the raid on the White House, Neuberlin had collapsed into chaos. Riots overtook the city as the factory workers and day laborers, thousands upon thousands of them, ransacked the streets and set fire to government buildings, inspired by the Alliance’s attack. Murdock — the new head of the Alliance — broadcasted the guerilla battles as well as the raid on the White House on Channel Thirteen, a channel well-known for its scandalous soap operas and game show reruns. It wasn’t Channel Seven by a long stretch — security at the news channel had tightened significantly after the Fort Goering debacle — but it was the best the Alliance could do. Despite the smaller viewership, the video had spread like an oil slick. It had poured from one channel to the next, playing on live television and on the radio.
Operation Burning Eagle had been a total success, and now its effects were spreading across the Territories. Uprisings had popped up in all major cities, from Boston to Atlanta and to the factories of Chicago. The riots gained even more fervor at the news of the Soviets’ advance on Berlin — Comrade Volkov had sent his troops through the borderlands, and they were now fighting the Germans in Nazi Poland.
With Germany under attack and Neuberlin in flames, Reichsmarschall Baldur had fled to Heidelberg (formerly Philadelphia), and tried to regroup there, but a group of rebels had followed him and bombed his convoy. Baldur was now dead, and his staff hurried to control the Territories without him. Nazi troops had been deployed across the country, and thousands had been arrested already. And just recently, a fat bounty had been placed on the head of Dieter’s killer. A million-reichsmark reward.
On Zara’s head.
After Zara had fallen asleep in the bunker, the Alliance had taken the assassination footage and arranged another broadcast on Channel Thirteen. The Nazis had pulled the feed once they caught wind of it, but the damage had been done and was already spreading. Now, there was a bounty out on Zara, along with her accomplices: Uncle Red, Alene, Bastian. Initially, there had been one placed on Garrison, too, but it was rescinded after his arrest. Zara had gone to bed as just another Kleinbauer and had arisen as the face of the Alliance.
“Any questions?” Murdock asked her and Bastian when he had finished his report.
“Garrison was arrested?” Zara whispered, her face draining of color.
“He was caught on the way to the bunker,” Murdock said grimly. “We’re doing our best to break him out, though.”
“I want to help if I can.”
“That’s not possible, I’m afraid. Not with that reward on your head. But I’ll keep you updated,” said Murdock.
“What happened to Johann, Dieter’s son?” Bastian asked.
“Disappeared. We think he’s in hiding with his mother in Germany proper somewhere, biding their time until Johann comes of age.”
Bastian then asked how he could track down his mother, but Zara could only stare at her hands
, the hands that had ended the Führer’s life. The face of the Alliance? For so long, she had yearned to be a part, any part, of the Revolutionary Alliance, but now she found herself at its very center. She didn’t know what to think about that, except to cringe at the thought of her likeness splayed across TV screens and printed on every newspaper.
In the days following, she walked around the bunker in a daze while every rebel asked to shake her hand or wanted to discuss the details of the assassination. She busied herself with the never-ending tasks that filled the bunker. Recruitment levels had skyrocketed, and Murdock was quick to order more guerilla attacks, more bombings, more destruction. The Nazis may have had the weapons and their sentinels, but they were divided on two war fronts, and the Alliance now had the manpower advantage. The rebels chewed at the legs of the great Empire like tiny snakes. A lone serpent was easily crushed, but a horde of them was deadly.
Garrison had been right all along — the Alliance merely needed a catalyst to ignite a revolution. That was why it pained Zara that he wasn’t here to witness it. After the White House mission, he and hundreds of other rebels were still missing. Zara often thought of him, along with Kristy and her mother. She hoped they had made it to a safe house somewhere, but there was no way of knowing it with communication so spotty.
But two weeks after the assassination, the Alliance finally discovered what had happened to Garrison. The Nazis broadcast his execution on Channel Seven, decrying him as a rebel spy and beating him on live television. When they had their fill of kicking him, the Germans dragged Garrison to his feet and tied him to a wooden post — but he didn’t flinch once. And he didn’t close his eyes when the firing squad took their places. He stared at them instead, his chin tipped high, his face defiant until the end.
Mercifully, it had been a quick death. Zara was grateful for that when she saw the footage. Her uncle had told her to look away when the guns fired, but she kept her eyes open, like Garrison had in his very last moments. She felt like she owed that to him somehow.
Once Garrison’s body crumpled, Zara finally buried her face against her uncle’s shoulder. The Alliance may have started a revolution, but it had lost one of its brightest members. A stream of tears slid down her cheeks, for Garrison, for the others who died with him.
The Only Thing to Fear Page 23