The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy)

by Benner, Tarah

  I heard a crash somewhere upstairs. A look of apprehension crossed the blond man’s face. Everyone turned their heads to the ceiling, listening intently.

  There was the sound of cracking wood, heavy footsteps, and muffled shouts. I knew something was wrong. The blond man pushed his way through the swinging door and out of the kitchen.

  The shouts continued, and the noise seemed to escalate. I heard a few people scream and the scuffles of hundreds of feet.

  The man holding Amory released him, and he ran toward the swinging door and disappeared. What was going on?

  Amory looked dazed and then scrambled over to me. He tripped over his own feet, which seemed very unlike him. Fighting the pounding in my head, I tried to sit up but only made it about halfway before a wave of nausea rolled over me.

  He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Reaching a hand out, he touched my face with his warm fingertips. After the blond man’s rough hands and the fire, his gentle touch made me want to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. His brow was knitted together, and he looked absolutely devastated. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “No, it’s —” I swallowed. “We have to go.”

  Amory nodded, that broken, vacant look still in his eyes.

  This was our only chance to escape. Fighting the urge to pass out, I forced myself into a sitting position. Amory crouched and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me up. Despite everything that was going on, the feel of his hands filled me with warmth.

  He released me and stumbled to the closet where Greyson, Max, and Logan were being held. He was definitely injured. It was locked, of course. Amory pounded on the door.

  Our two captors had the keys. Amory looked completely lost, but I could feel the strength returning to my muscles. Unlike him, my injuries were mostly mental, and I could feel the last of the poison leaving my system.

  I looked around for something to use as a weapon — something heavy or sharp. My eyes fell on a propane tank sitting under the counter, and my stomach twisted as a grisly image flitted into my mind.

  Ignoring the pangs of nausea, I crossed the room, grabbed the tank, and sprinted after the man who had tortured me and beaten Amory.

  “Haven!” Amory hissed.

  I ignored him.

  I didn’t have to look far. The blond man was frozen in place just outside the door, and PMC officers in heavy riot gear were flooding down the stairs into the basement. Mingling with the rebels, the officers behind their plastic shields looked like spacemen exploring a foreign planet. It was now or never.

  I turned the canister in my hands. It was heavy. Dread pulsated in every muscle, but I remembered him kicking Amory in the gut — the look of pain in his face. Mustering all my strength, I swung it down as hard as I could against the back of the man’s head.

  The canister made a sickening thunk against his skull, and he crumpled to the ground. I pushed against his shoulder, rolling him over with great effort and fishing in his pocket for the key ring. I yanked it out, bolted back into the kitchen, slammed the door shut, and locked it behind me. Amory was leaning against the counter, looking nauseated and amazed.

  I spread the keys in my palm and mentally eliminated the smallest ones. I tried the first key, but it didn’t fit. My hands shook slightly as I heard the officers’ shouts reverberating off the basement walls. Hopefully the rebels could hold them off for a while.

  I tried the next one.

  Nothing.

  The third key slid into the lock. Amazed, my fingers struggled to obey my command as I turned it. I heard the gratifying click and pulled the door open. Greyson was already standing just behind the door, and Max and Logan were on their feet, alert.

  “The PMC is here,” I choked out in one short breath. “We have to find another way out.”

  They crowded out of the small room, and I turned to Amory. My stomach clenched. He was no longer leaning against the counter. He had sunk down on the floor and was holding his head in both hands.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. Fear racked my body. I already knew the answer.

  “Fine. Just a little dizzy.”

  I bent down to examine his head injury, and my hand came away with blood. Anger lashed through me, but there was no time.

  “We have to get out now. Do you think you can stand?”

  Amory nodded half-heartedly. He looked as if he might be sick.

  I turned to Max. “Help me.”

  We each grasped Amory under the arms and hoisted him up. Once he was on his feet, he seemed steady enough. Just in case, I looped my arm under his shoulders, cradling his back, and held him tightly. His face was drained of color, but I swore I saw a slight smile ghost across his face.

  He took a sharp breath.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I whispered, hoping it was true.

  A shot rang out, and people in the other room screamed.

  A loud scraping sound nearby made me jump, and I looked over to see Logan pushing a table over against the wall.

  “Here,” she said. She had her eyes fixed on a small window near the ceiling. “It’s the only way out.”

  Greyson jumped to her side and helped her push until the table was flush against the wall.

  Logan looked at me. I could see the concern for Amory in her eyes, but she didn’t say a word. I marveled at her coolness under pressure — a marked difference from the girl who couldn’t function when Amory was bleeding out from a carrier wound.

  “You first,” I said.

  She looked at me, and then her eyes flitted to Amory.

  I shook my head once at her. “You’re small. You should fit through easily.”

  “What about our weapons?”

  “It’s too dangerous,” said Max. “We’ll worry about that later.”

  Without further debate, Logan gracefully hopped onto the table, unhooked the latch, and pulled up on the window. She struggled for a moment, but it slid up with only a loud creak of protest.

  Even standing on the table, I knew it would take her some gymnastics to hoist herself up over the ledge.

  “Grab the chair,” she instructed, and Greyson passed it up to her. Using it as a stepping stool, she pulled herself up and out.

  “Haven. You should go next,” mumbled Greyson.

  I shook my head. “You go.”

  He crossed over to me in two strides. “Max and I can help get him up.”

  In my head, I knew he was right, but I was reluctant to leave Amory — worried that the three of them would try something heroic and stupid while Logan and I climbed to safety.

  “Haven, go!” said Amory. His voice was scratchy, but the command was forceful.

  “Fine,” I said, unwilling to waste any more time.

  The sounds of fighting were escalating in the main room, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the PMC burst into the kitchen looking for more rebels.

  I made eye contact with Max, who moved closer to Amory as I released my hold on him. Amory seemed steady now, so without another look, I climbed onto the table and to the chair.

  Outside the window was cold asphalt, so I leveraged my arms against the window frame to hoist myself out. I emerged onto a quiet street running along the rear of the building. Logan was several yards away, peering around the corner for approaching PMC.

  I knelt down at the window as Amory climbed up onto the table. He seemed to be regaining his coordination and stability, but Max watched him warily from the ground.

  Amory saw me staring and tried his usual easy sideways grin to conceal a wince as he hoisted himself up through the window. I knew his injuries must be extremely painful. From the force of the rebel’s kick, it was likely he had bruised or broken some ribs.

  I reached through the window and pulled him through with as much strength as I could muster from my crouched position. I knew he hated being helped along like an invalid, but his face looked pallid, and he seemed momentarily grateful. He raised himself upright with some diff
iculty, and I reluctantly loosened my grip on his arm.

  “You go,” Greyson murmured to Max.

  Without hesitation, Max followed Amory up, and Greyson hopped onto the table. He pulled himself through the window with remarkable speed and finesse.

  I sighed and held out a hand to pull Greyson into an upright position.

  “Do you think you can move?” I asked Amory.

  He nodded, but I was doubtful. In the dim moonlight of the dark street, his head wound was glossy with fresh blood, and he carried himself differently. Usually tall and imposing in stature, he was now hunched over, and I knew he was in severe pain.

  “How are we going to get out of here?” Max asked. “We were counting on the rebels to —” He broke off, and Logan came rushing toward us.

  “People are coming,” she hissed.

  “Can you tell who —”

  She shook her head. “We need to move.”

  We turned around and moved quickly to the opposite corner of the building. Greyson stuck his head around and motioned us that all looked clear. We broke into a light jog, but I slowed when I saw Amory’s grimace of pain.

  “Go ahead,” he said in a strained voice. “I’ll keep up.” His face looked paler than before, and I worried he was losing too much blood.

  “We need to treat your wounds,” I whispered, touching the side of his head. It was definitely still oozing copious amounts of blood, and I could see that some had trickled down his neck to the back of his shirt.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I looked to the others, who had stopped. Ahead, I saw a figure moving toward us in the shadows and froze. My eyes flitted to Greyson, and I knew he understood my meaning: Should we run back toward danger or stay and fight?

  The figure approached closer, and we stood our ground. I saw Logan adjust her stance, readying for a fight. To my surprise, Greyson and Max followed suit. Greyson, the pacifist, the champion of human rights, was hunkering down and closing his fists. What had happened to him in that prison?

  I wasn’t prepared for a real fight. Amory stiffened his posture with a slight wince, but we both knew he wouldn’t stand a chance with his injuries. One good kick to the side would incapacitate him. I gripped his arm, preparing to drag him away.

  I squinted and was surprised to see a familiar lilt in the stride of the person coming into view. I recognized his uneven gait and that bushy black beard. Godfrey.

  He clearly recognized us, but he didn’t make a move to raise the rifle in his hands.

  “You all should get out of here while you can,” he said in a low voice. “You can stay and fight, if you like,” he amended, addressing Greyson. “We could sure use your help.”

  “I’m staying with my friends,” Greyson said with a firm nod.

  “Is there another way out of the city?” I asked.

  “You didn’t hear it from me.” Godfrey’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Follow the signs for the old George Washington Bridge. It hasn’t been used much since they built the S-X Expressway, but it’s still standing. Bound to be plenty of PMC around, so don’t do anything stupid.”

  “They confiscated all our weapons,” Amory said through clenched teeth.

  “Well, it’s going to be a long night for us. You’d be wise to lay low until this all dies down.”

  “Will you go with us?” I asked. I felt a strange affinity for Godfrey. I’d underestimated the good in him, and I didn’t want him to be killed by the PMC.

  He shook his head. “I’m no deserter. But you kids have no business in this. Get out while you still can. You might have a chance, even if this goes badly for us.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  He turned to Amory. “I’m sorry about what they did to you. Miles was out of line. I don’t care who your father is.” He shook his head again. “I’ve done a lot of awful things for freedom, but beating up on kids is not something I stand for.”

  His gaze held Amory’s for a second longer than it should have, and then he cast another look around at the rest of us and took off down the street. He moved slowly with his limp, and I had the horrible feeling he wouldn’t make it through the fight against the PMC.

  “We should get out of here,” said Greyson. “Find somewhere to hide out.” It seemed as though he’d gotten a taste of what the rebels were willing to do, and their cause had lost some of its appeal for him.

  Nobody protested, and I was anxious to examine Amory’s head wound, so we took off down the street in the direction of the bridge. We stayed in the shadows as much as possible, but I still jumped every time I heard the rustle of a piece of trash in the breeze. The streets seemed to get dirtier and more derelict the farther we got from the main PMC buildings.

  As we walked, I looked around for an abandoned pharmacy in the hope that I could find some materials to treat Amory’s wounds. He looked worse than he had earlier, but perhaps it was just the orangish light from the glow of the streetlamps.

  We walked for what felt like miles, and I was worried Amory would not hold out much longer. As if answering my prayers, I saw a faded sign that read “Schulz Family Drug Store.” Greyson turned when I paused on the sidewalk, and he motioned for the others to stop.

  “You guys stay here,” he said. “I’ll keep going a bit and see if I can find something to eat.”

  I hesitated, unwilling to let him out of my sight. The look in my eyes must have given me away, because he sighed.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “But we need to find food and water.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, nor could anyone else. The fear and action had subdued my hunger pains, but now that we were out of immediate danger, I had to admit I was ravenously hungry. We hadn’t eaten for almost a whole day, and the running and excitement had left me parched with an empty stomach.

  Max stepped protectively in front of Logan to peer through the front window into the abandoned store. I doubted if he could see anything between the darkness and the thick film of dust collected on the smeared windows, and Logan certainly didn’t need to be protected, but I couldn’t help smiling inwardly at this gesture.

  He pulled on the door, but it was locked.

  “Hang on,” he breathed, looking around for something blunt and heavy to force entry. He paced down the sidewalk a few yards and then stooped to remove the decorative landscaping grate from a small tree that was growing in front of the store. Half of the grate slid loose into his hands, and he swung it forcibly into the glass door.

  I winced, expecting an alarm to sound, but nothing happened. It was possible we had triggered a silent alarm, but it was a near certainty that whatever private security company monitored the system was long gone.

  Max reached through the jagged hole in the glass to unlock the door, and he swung it open gallantly — clearly pleased with himself. Logan passed through first, and I saw Amory throw Max an enormous eye roll.

  Still gripping Amory’s arm, I felt myself relax physically as we entered the drug store. It was cold inside, but it sheltered us from the wind and wandering PMC officers. Not only were we sure to find antiseptic and bandages to properly tend to Amory’s wounds, but the unbroken lock also meant that the store hadn’t been home to any carrier activity.

  Despite the feeling of safety that dropped over me, I could see Logan moving methodically down one aisle after another checking for intruders — clearly a protocol she retained from her PMC training. Everything about Logan screamed soldier, and I wondered how I had not noticed it before.

  I tugged Amory over to the register and helped him settle onto the ground behind the counter. Logan’s wariness had made me nervous about the lack of protection the glass windows offered from stray bullets, and the counter was at least an added layer of security. If nothing else, he was hidden. Amory didn’t protest; he just let his head fall back to rest against the wall.

  “Jackpot!” said Max, so close he made me jump. He was standing on the other side of the counter, waving a candy bar. “There are
tons of them!”

  My stomach growled, and I took two chocolate bars from him, handing one down to Amory. A store located in Sector X clearly had access to better shipments than stores in the Midwest.

  I shoved half the candy bar in my mouth and inhaled it within seconds. I was starving, and the familiar sweetness was something I hadn’t realized I’d missed until the chocolate melted against the inside of my mouth.

  To avoid scarfing down more candy and giving myself a stomachache, I began looking for the things I needed to treat Amory. Within minutes, I found antiseptic, antibacterial ointment, Tylenol, gauze, and bandages in the meticulous, orderly aisles.

  Depositing my haul on the counter, I also grabbed a handful of water bottles from the cooler by the register. The electricity had been shut off for ages, but it was ice cold from the ambient room temperature. We were lucky it wasn’t frozen solid.

  While Logan and Max gorged themselves on candy, I sat down on the floor across from Amory and handed him a bottle of water and two Tylenol for pain. He drank lethargically, and I felt a jilt of panic in my chest. How badly was he hurt?

  Taking one injury at a time, I looked at his head first, even though that was the area I was most nervous to treat. By now the blood was crusted dry, plastering his hair to his head. I doused my own hands in a splash of antiseptic, uncapped one of the untouched bottles of water, and poured the contents slowly over the wound.

  He winced, but I couldn’t think of another way to approach it. He sucked in air through his teeth as I dabbed the wound with a piece of gauze. The flow of blood had definitely slowed, but there was a lot dried in his hair, down the back of his neck, and on his shirt.

  I cleaned the wound with quick dabs of antiseptic, but that didn’t seem to make it any less painful for Amory. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he didn’t make another sound. I wound gauze around his head, securing the end with a little metal clip from the package.

  He grinned deliriously up at me. “That must look ridiculous.”

  “Give me some credit,” I said through a smile. “I think it just makes you look more badass.”

  Amory’s face fell a little. “I think I have a concussion,” he confessed.