Unregistered (Children of the Uprising Book 1)

by Megan Lynch

  THREAT TO INMATES. Has been observed trying to modify behavior in dining hall.

  “You saw it and modified the others’ behavior yourself!” whispered Samara.

  Attempts to dispatch:

  July 7. Placed a bag of drift under bed. Bag disappeared. Suspect Albin Kopecky (966) assisted. Will place another in same location in six weeks. Will remove 966.

  Samara’s skin flamed and she wished she had her watch to take a picture. So it had been the warden. She quickly turned the lights on in the office and waited by the door. When she heard two sets of footsteps approaching, she opened it an inch.

  “Thank you. I’ll take him from here,” Samara said. She looked over her shoulder at the empty chair. “He’s here, Warden.”

  The guard hesitated. “She’s in there?”

  “She and I both came back tonight. It’s an…emergency meeting. I don’t think I can say any more. Come in, Jude.” Samara looked at the guard. “Thank you.”

  The guard nodded and click-clacked down the hallway in her shiny black boots.

  Inside the office, Samara whipped her head to face Jude. “We’re getting out of here. Both of us. We’re going north.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about my chip?”

  “We’re just going to have to run faster than they can keep up with us.”

  They looked into each other’s hopeless eyes. It was impossible, and they both knew it. But on whose terms would they rather die?

  Samara continued, “There’s a garbage chute in the kitchen. I’ll enter my ID manually to get in. Then we’ll go down it. I think it goes outside to the dumpster. From there we’ll be on foot.”

  “Okay.”

  “Act like you’re in trouble.”

  Jude looked down at his feet and they walked out of the office and down the hallway to the cafeteria. Samara punched in her code and heard the door unlock.

  They crossed the cafeteria, passed the long tables, and headed into the kitchen. Just as they crossed the threshold, they heard the door unlock again. Samara looked at Jude, and her face gave the command without saying a word: Hide.

  Jude dashed into the same cupboard he’d watched Kopecky die from that morning, but thought better of that; he ran to the other end of the kitchen, closer to the chute, and unsheathed a kitchen knife from the counter before disappearing beneath it and closing the cupboard.

  Samara kept her gaze locked on the door, where four guards were crossing the cafeteria and headed straight for her. She could think of nothing to do, so she breathed.

  “Stay,” one of them said. She cleared her throat. “Miss Shepherd, I trust you’ve found your book by now.”

  “Indeed. I’ll get going.” Samara began to move past them.

  “Wait,” said the same one, who seemed to have organized this mission. “Where is it?”

  “What?”

  “The book you forgot.”

  “I must have left it on the bus. I’ll call the station in the morning.”

  The guard smiled. “Call them now.”

  “What?”

  “Call them now. With your watch. We’ll wait.”

  “I don’t…I left it at home.”

  “No one leaves their watch at home, Miss Shepherd. Enough. Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “The boy—17201. We know you took him here. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Liar! Somebody get me a signal on 17201.”

  Samara’s heart sank. The chip. As their heads all turned down to their wrists, trying to race each other to the signal, she heard the subtle flap of the chute hit the wall. If anyone else heard it, they made no indication. None of their eyes had moved from their watches.

  The tall guard was first to see the signal. She looked up from her watch toward the chute. “He’s under the counter, over there.”

  All of them sprinted across the kitchen, including Samara. As she approached the chute, they crowded around the cupboard, and soon a shrill scream rang on the kitchen walls.

  Just before launching herself down into the dumpster, she saw what had caused the sudden uproar. Inside the cupboard was a small severed hand lying in a pool of bright blood.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  With each bit of carrot added to the pile, Bristol’s case for running was building. He didn’t want Samara to be hurt, which she surely would be, and then again, if he went with her, he surely would be too. Still, she’d thrown herself into harm’s way for her student and for him. The way he felt about her was unlike anything he’d experienced before. It was like the feeling he felt for his mother and sister, and also unlike that feeling in every way. He needed her like he needed his family, and she was in danger. That might have been good enough for him after all, though he never got to test this theory.

  The manager was screaming outside. Bristol distinctly heard the words “destroy my business” and “close today.” He and the other prep cook looked at each other, though neither one of them could manage to stop slicing the carrots.

  “I’m getting out of here,” Bristol finally said. “Now. You coming?”

  “I can’t…what?”

  Bristol dropped his knife on the cutting board. The stunned prep cook looked at the knife, at Bristol, and then back to the front door, where the manager could now be heard arguing louder.

  “Let’s go.”

  “They’re here for us. They’re going to take us to New Mexico.”

  “They will not. Are you coming or not?”

  Bristol waited for an answer as long as he dared, but the way the knife moved in the prep cook’s hands said it all. He couldn’t stop, and he couldn’t go. Bristol still wasn’t certain his chip was activated but he could take no chances. He’d need his trusty ice-pack trick to get him to Samara. He ran into the walk-in freezer just as the police burst through the door, trailed, it sounded like, by the manager making his final, exasperated arguments.

  “What about tomorrow? Am I supposed to lose two days of business?”

  The door to the freezer was heavy steel. Although Bristol could hear his manager’s cries clearly, the police officer’s reply was faint.

  “…transition for everyone… better in the end…bandage.”

  “Just tell me when they’re coming back!”

  “…relocated…two men?”

  Bristol’s cold breath rose above his face. He moved quietly to the side of the door.

  “Where…other one?”

  If it was possible to feel more of a chill, he felt it. In his mind’s eye, he saw his coworker’s hand put the knife down and point toward the freezer door. And what he heard next was the unmistakable sound of the door being locked from the outside. He heard the officer’s next words clearly.

  “Do not open this until tomorrow morning. We’ll know if you do.”

  A few more words of protest from the manager, weaker this time, then silence. He was alone and locked in the freezer. Samara was right. They were killing the unregs.

  Think, Bristol told himself. Don’t panic. He breathed heavily to calm himself before realizing that was probably a bad idea given the limited oxygen. He looked around and gathered all the newspaper and plastic wrap he could find from around the vegetables. And threw them into an unsightly pile in the center of the freezer. When he could find nothing else, he stuffed these into his clothing and used the tape from the produce boxes to wrap his body. His new insulated suit wasn’t much, but he hoped it would allow him to survive the day and night. He paced. If he were alive when the door finally did open, he realized, he would probably have to fight whomever was on the other side. He’d never been in a fight in his life, but he would have made it too far at that point to allow himself to be “relocated.” He jabbed the frosty air a few times, wishing he’d brought his knife.

  He shadowboxed until his breath came more heavily. Then he paced again, but slower. Practicing for that step to freedom would be of no use if he ran out of air in
this cold metal box.

  One hour passed, then two. He’d heard no voices for such a long stretch that he tried kicking the door open a few times, which he knew would be a failure from the start, yet only stopped when his suit began to unravel.

  Sometime in the fifth hour, still pacing, he bit into an apple and remembered his midafternoon oatmeal. The apple suddenly became soft, hot mush in his mouth. He jerked his hand back toward his body and let the apple fall. He didn’t hear it hit the floor. Oxygen. The thought seemed to drift by him. Not enough. Get a grip.

  “You! Hey!”

  A pair of man’s hands were at his shoulders. Bristol remembered something about a fight and threw a groggy punch in the air. His fist landed limply by his side.

  “Get him out of there first,” came a woman’s voice from the door. With great effort, Bristol raised his head. A woman he did not recognize walked toward him with a dark blue blanket.

  “Help me with him.”

  She wrapped him in the blanket, and the heat from the wool gave him new life. They got him to his feet and guided him into the kitchen, where even in the dark, Bristol recognized the manager’s face above his yellow tie.

  “You made it. You son of a gun, I knew you would.”

  “I’m sorry we had to wait so long. You’ll be all right.” The woman put another blanket over his head as she spoke.

  “This is my wife, Andi. What’s your name?”

  “Bristol.” He looked up, hardly able to believe this was happening.

  “Bristol! Four years of working with this kid and I finally get to know his name!” He spoke to his wife, who was busy inspecting Bristol’s hands and feet. “My name is John. I doubt you knew that.”

  “No frostbite. Lucky kid.”

  Bristol didn’t know where to start. “What’s going on? Are the police here? What happened to the others?”

  John and Andi looked at each other as if they were actors who’d forgotten their lines. John sighed. “Listen, I feel for you unregs. I always did. When it came time to open this place, I could have employed all registered workers, but I didn’t. It’s not what you think, either—I could have gotten a big tax break for hiring registered, so it’s not like it comes out to be that much cheaper in the end. I felt sorry for your people. Metrics sends a letter once every few years to tell us businesses that employ you people to expect to lose our unregs soon. They sent one last week, but I didn’t think nothing of it. Got them before, and nothing happened.”

  Andi kicked at the freezer door. “We have to break something,” she explained. “We’re going to tell them you broke out.”

  “It’s broken enough. Can’t make too much noise, hon.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  “Anyway, they came today and took most of my people here. Lucky you were late. That little rat you work with—I don’t know his name—he told them you were in there! I can’t believe it! What’s the matter with people anymore, huh?”

  “John,” Andi said softly.

  “Right. Too much noise. Well, I told my wife, ‘That boy’s worked hard for us for four years. Soon as curfew gets here, we’re breaking that poor boy out.’ Afraid what you do next is up to you, son.”

  “What if you get caught?”

  “We will. But they won’t care.”

  “What?”

  “Believe it or not, I think my family will help me.” Bristol wanted to ask what he meant, but his mouth still had to work hard to form words and John looked as though he wouldn’t explain, anyway. “Don’t worry about me, young man. It’s not like you’re a wanted criminal or anything. They won’t care about one runaway unreg.”

  John and his wife chuckled. Bristol stretched his jaw wide as his mind slowly came back online. “I need a bag of frozen vegetables and a rubber band.”

  They were produced, and Bristol tied the vegetables to the back of his hand. He knew it wouldn’t give him much time, but still, it was something. With a good-luck pat on the back and a promise from Bristol not to forget their kindness—or, thinking silently, the way he’d misjudged the man whose name was unknown to him for so many years—he was out the door again into the night, taking care to dart around the recorded streets.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Samara thought of her family as they walked. She’d left a note under her dad’s pillow. She didn’t have her watch anymore and couldn’t even tell the time… Jude told her he thought about nine by the position of the moon, and she’d believed him since he’d been in science classes more recently than she had. Her dad had probably found the note by now.

  Dad,

  I think you know what I’ve done. I love you

  and I won’t waste this chance.

  Samara

  P.S. You should burn this.

  She’d assumed Dad had understood. At least now that Metrics considered her dead, they’d have to let Mom come back; he needed her much more than he needed Samara. She hoped the letter was in the incinerator. Still, hunger and exhaustion were pawing at her trust, and she wondered. Her father loved her, of course, but she remembered how people used to keep pets. They claimed they loved those, too, and so much that they needed to keep them in cages so they would always be around to love. She’d never considered this until now, of course. Her wet pants rubbed at her thighs, and her fingers swelled from swinging by her sides. Since she was registered, and hadn’t done anything up to a few hours ago to provoke suspicion, her dad might think the police would treat her well. What would they say if he knew the details of what his daughter had done? He would know that Samara had totally screwed up any chance of a normal life after this, and all for a student and a friend. And what if his loneliness and desperation got the better of him? Snap out of it. At least you’ve still got two hands.

  Fortunately, Jude also had first aid knowledge. Samara had found him outside the dumpster, standing next to a pond of his own vomit, but seemingly fine nonetheless, with a tourniquet around his wrist and the stump protruding from it. After they’d run for longer than they thought they could and walked for hours in silence, she’d asked about it, and he’d explained to her how it worked.

  He’d had to put it on while the hand was still attached. The tourniquet, he explained, was a tool to stop bleeding in a limb, at the expense of that limb. When Samara still looked confused, he said, “Think of it this way. If I were bleeding from the wrist, I would put it on to stop losing too much blood. But then I’d still lose my hand.”

  Samara nodded. “When can you take it off?”

  A corner of his nose moved up. “I don’t think I can. It might release a blood clot to my heart.”

  She gently let go of a piece of brush so it wouldn’t swat his face. “So you’ll just keep it on?”

  “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have my watch. Maybe when we get to the safe house, they’ll know what to do.”

  “When will we get there? Where is it?”

  Impressed with the bravery Jude had shown tonight, she decided she didn’t want to push him any further. She put on her mask of confidence and said, “Somewhere in Fallwood. I don’t know exactly, but there’ll be a sign and we’ll see it.”

  “What’s the sign?”

  She hesitated, the snaps of twigs and leaves under her feet temporarily amplified. “Don’t worry, Jude. We’ll see it.”

  On they walked until Samara finally heard a sniffle, which provoked a tingling above her own nose, and she breathed deeply to stop it in its tracks.

  “That was great running back there. Were you on the track team?”

  Sniff. “No.”

  “You were phenomenal. And I can’t believe you’re still walking here, after seeing…after doing…what I’m trying to say, Jude, is that you’re very brave, and I’m very brave, and I have to believe that good things come to people like us. What good would have come from sitting around? You saw what happened to…” She realized she could not say Kopecky’s name.

  “Yeah.” He sounded s
tronger, and he was picking up his feet a little higher than before. “And anyway, Fallwood is only another ten miles away or so. We should get there before one, if we keep up the pace we’re going now. I’m glad we’re close.”

  She’d had no idea if it was so close, having looked only at city maps for most of her adult life. She hoped they were going in the right direction, but he probably would have said something by now if they were not.

  So, on they walked, with conviction and purpose at first, and then a little more slowly when the adrenaline had run its course. Samara had heard of all sorts of things in these woods, wild animals and poisonous insects and hidden traps set by Metrics for rule-breakers such as themselves, yet if any of these were in the woods, then some higher power had, so far, guided them away from these threats. Samara felt it helped that they were walking carefully but not timidly. Self-amputation and faking your own death had a way of changing you.

  Jude began stumbling when they were less than an hour from Fallwood. Less than an hour was what he’d said, but she wasn’t sure whether or not she could trust that. He’d said it with a slur.

  “Less juss keep goin’. Can we keep goin’?”

  “No, let’s stop for a moment. Let’s lie down here—” No sooner had the words left her mouth than she saw it. The first camera, or so she hoped, fixed on a tall black pole in the midst of the trees. Jude saw it too.

  “We’re not gonna makit.”

  “Of course we’re going to make it, sweetheart. We just have to walk around it.”

  “Thassa lasercam.”

  She froze. She’d heard of lasercams but had never seen one up close. She helped Jude sit against a tree, found a thick stick, and used what strength she had left to toss it in the path of the camera. A red laser, perfectly positioned in the center of the stick, appeared as it was still falling midair, and it was dust before it hit the ground. She looked right and left. Of course they were lined up, all pointed toward Fallwood.