by Allen Zadoff
“I will,” I say. “As soon as I can.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“YOU GOT THE BIG INVITE,” FRANCISCO SAYS.
“It’s not like I’m the first,” I say.
We’re walking away from the main house together, heading toward an area where vehicles are parked.
“No,” he says, “but Moore sealed the compound last month. The fact that he let you in is a miracle.”
“Why did he close it down?”
“Safety precaution,” Francisco says simply.
I think about the dead soldier. Father said he got into the compound. Assuming he was discovered, could that have been the trigger for Moore sealing the compound from the real world? If so, why would he open it now to let me in?
We turn the corner, and I glance back toward the main house.
“You know, I’ve never been inside the main house. Not past the front hallway at least.”
“You’ll get there eventually,” he says. “It took me a while. Now I live there.”
“Is it nice?”
“Not nice,” he says. “But I’m close to Moore. That’s what’s important.”
At that moment I see Lee walking around the corner, heading for the main house.
“Lee!” I shout.
“I’ll grab the truck and meet you over there,” Francisco says, pointing to a paved area to the side of the building.
I nod, and he hurries away.
I look back at Lee. It’s obvious he’s seen me, but he keeps walking.
“Hold up a second,” I shout, jogging over to him.
He hesitates, then stops to wait for me.
“How are you doing?” I say.
He shrugs.
“Your dad asked me to stay for a while. I’m going home to get my stuff.”
“That’s great news.”
“He said he talked to you about me last night. Whatever you said, it worked.”
“I told him the truth. That’s all.”
“There are a lot of ways to tell the truth.”
“Not with my father. There’s only one.”
He looks at me, his face serious.
“Always tell him the truth, Daniel. He’s going to find out anyway. If you lie, it’s just going to be worse for you later.”
A horn beeps. A truck pulls up to the side of the building, Francisco in the driver’s seat.
“That’s my ride,” I say. “Maybe we’ll get to spend some time together when I get back.”
He nods, noncommittal. I want to leave him with a positive impression of me.
“Thanks for helping me get in here,” I say. “It means a lot to me. Really. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He smiles.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “I can’t take any more ass kissing.”
“Just one more thing,” I say. “Will you take me to the shooting range when I get back? That combat rifle scared the shit out of me.”
He laughs.
“See you when you get back,” he says.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
TWO BOYS WITH RIFLES STAND GUARD AT THE ROADBLOCK.
It has been fortified since we drove past it yesterday, a thick wooden barrier placed across the road with a spike strip below it that would puncture the tires on any vehicle smaller than a half-track.
When the armed boys see Francisco, they nod. One of them pulls back the spike strip while the other opens the gate.
“That’s a pretty serious roadblock,” I say after we pass through.
“These are serious times,” Francisco says, but he doesn’t elaborate.
I inventory the security measures I’ve seen: one road in and out of the valley, a military-style roadblock at its base; a laser perimeter around the camp with sentries at night; high-tech digital signal blocking around and above. And these are just the defenses I’ve identified. There are likely more hidden out of sight.
What exactly is Moore protecting inside Camp Liberty?
We drive the steep mile-long incline that leads out of the valley.
“Look over your shoulder,” Francisco says.
I look back. In the daylight, Liberty looks almost quaint, a scattering of buildings nestled in the green embrace of a mountain pass.
“What do you think?”
“It’s small,” I say.
“From up here, you see that it’s lucky to exist at all.”
“That’s why you work so hard to protect it?” I say.
“I work hard because it’s my home now.”
“Are you a permanent?”
“Where did you hear that term?”
“Lee told me.”
“Yeah, I’m a permanent,” he says. “Something like that.”
“How did you persuade your parents to let you stay?”
“They didn’t have a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m nineteen now,” he says. “My parents don’t get a vote anymore.”
Usually I can tell someone’s age, but it’s been hard to determine with Francisco. The long hair and beard make him appear older, but when I look at his eyes now, I can see that he’s just a few years older than me.
“Must be nice,” I say. “To be independent, I mean.”
“It’s got pluses and minuses,” he says.
Three white panel vans approach us heading toward the camp. It’s a narrow road, and Francisco has to slow and move to the very edge to allow them to pass. As they go by, he toots his horn once and waves. The lead driver waves back.
I glance through the window of the second van, and in the moment it takes to pass, I see her.
The English teacher with wild hair. The one who tried to kill Moore.
At least I think it’s her. She’s in the passenger seat, looking away from me, a wool cap pulled low over her hair. I’m rarely wrong about things like this. My memory works like a photographic database, logging facial structures, eye shapes, hairstyles, and postural quirks.
If it’s the English teacher, why would she be invited back to camp after what happened at the center?
I consider asking Francisco about it, but I decide against it.
A few seconds later the vans are gone, and Francisco pulls back out onto the road. We start around the long curve that leads to the other side of the mountain and civilization.
“Why do you think Moore invited me to stay?” I say.
“I know why.”
“I’m all ears,” I say.
“Moore will have to tell you that himself when and if he decides. But I can guarantee you it wasn’t a spontaneous decision. We were up half the night talking about you, and then we took a vote.”
“We?”
“He and I.”
“Not Aaron?”
“I’m head of security, not Aaron.”
He sits a little straighter in his seat. It’s obviously a point of pride for him.
“Not much of a vote with just the two of you,” I say. “Tough to settle deadlocks, too.”
“Not really. His vote counts twice.”
We come down the other side of the mountain, Francisco’s speed increasing as the road widens.
“Which way did you vote?” I ask.
“I voted for you to stay. Does that surprise you?”
“A little. Yeah. Especially after you were such a dick that first night.”
“It’s not my job to be nice. Not to strangers.”
“What is your job?”
“Assess. And defend if necessary.”
“Have you assessed?”
“I have. I watched you very closely last night.”
I look at Francisco. He’s a lot more astute than he appears at first. It’s easy to be thrown off by his wild-man appearance.
“And what did you decide?”
“I voted to keep you here.”
“I haven’t done anything to prove myself.”
“It doesn’t matter. I voted for potential.”
“You think I have p
otential?” I say.
“More than you know.”
“But I didn’t even take the gloves last night,” I say.
“You think taking the gloves was the right thing to do?”
“We have to follow orders. That’s what everyone keeps tell-ing me.”
“We follow,” Francisco says, “but not blindly. It’s a choice.”
“What the difference?”
“Everyone in the world is a follower. They follow an agenda, whether it’s set by school, parents, a job, society. The only question is who or what they choose to follow. Most people don’t even realize there’s a choice to make, so they end up stumbling blindly through their lives, wondering why they’re so unhappy when they’re doing everything right.”
“You’ve made a choice. That’s what you’re telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Are you happy with it?”
“Most days. Yes.”
He pops down the sun visor, squinting as we take a ramp that briefly turns us east.
“Liberty is much better than where I was before,” Francisco says.
“Where were you before?”
“In hell.”
Francisco turns the corner, and I recognize the neighborhood near the house where I prepped with Father two days ago.
“You said you lived near here, right?” Francisco says.
“You can let me off at Cumberland Farms up here. I’m going to grab something to eat before I go home. You guys had me so busy I didn’t get any food. Except for that stale trail mix you gave me yesterday.”
Francisco grins.
“We’ll feed you plenty when you come back,” he says. “If you come back.”
“I’m coming back,” I say. “Believe it.”
He pulls into the parking lot and stops the car.
“Door-to-door service,” he says.
I sit there for a moment without saying anything. I hated Francisco at first, but I’m beginning to feel different about him now.
He says, “Can you find your way back to camp, or do you need a pickup?”
“I’ll probably drive myself back.”
“Stop at the roadblock when you get there. I’ll tell them to look out for you.”
“Thanks, Francisco.”
I get out of the truck and head into Cumberland Farms.
From inside the store, I watch him pull out of the parking lot and head down the road.
I look at the neighborhood outside. I spent the afternoon in this neighborhood—was it really only two days ago?
Thursday night the soldiers came for me. Friday night I was at the recruiting event with Moore. Saturday night was The Hunt. Now it’s midday Sunday.
It seems like more time has passed, but that’s one of the effects of sleep deprivation. Fatigue degrades cognition, dulls the sense, slows decision-making processes, and distorts perception. A minute can seem to stand still, yet things that occur slowly can pass you by.
I buy several carbohydrate drinks and a handful of protein bars. When I get out of the store, I stand under a tree out of the line of sight from the road. What I really need is a good meal and a full night’s sleep, but this will have to do.
I slowly chew a bar, interspersing it with swallows of carb drink. In this way I refuel, allowing my strength to return along with some of my focus.
I take out my iPhone and put it in secure mode. Here, away from the camp, the digital blocking, the obstruction of the mountains, away from all possible means of interference, I can truly test it.
I dial the prearranged number, Father’s secure number for this assignment.
I will inform Father that I am bound for the safe house. He may be there waiting for me already. If not, he will be there soon to meet me.
I’ll have to explain the reasons why I went into Liberty. Father may be unhappy at first, but once I tell him what I’ve learned there, I’m sure he will reward my initiative. Besides, the mission is even more critical now that I have a sense of Moore’s plans.
I hear three rings through my phone followed by a click. The line goes dead.
I start again, this time trying Father’s public number.
There’s no answer.
I don’t know what’s happened to Father’s communication ability, but I know our fallback procedure.
I finish off the last of the protein bars, and I head down the street to the protection of the safe house.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I SCOPE THE NEIGHBORHOOD AS I GO, CHECKING FOR ANYTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY.
The neighborhood is quiet. A normal Sunday afternoon, nothing that flags my suspicions.
I proceed down the street until I come to the familiar white-and-yellow house.
Number 578. Same silver Escape in the driveway.
I move with the relaxed energy of a kid coming home after a morning hanging out with friends. I walk up the stone path to the front door and turn the knob.
It’s locked.
I try it again in a different direction. Still locked.
Strange.
I walk around the side, look in a window. I’m expecting the electromagnetic film to prevent my seeing in, but that’s not the case. I’m staring at a set of vases over the mantel place.
Suddenly the front door opens.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice says.
I whirl around, preparing to meet the challenge.
I find myself looking at an attractive thirty-five-year-old woman in jeans and an oversize sweater. No threat to me. Just a little agitated to find a boy standing in her flower bed.
I collapse my posture into the slouch of a low-key teen boy.
“Who are you?” she says.
“Who are you?” I say with a shrug.
We look at each other.
“I’m the woman who owns this house. You’re a kid sneaking around my yard.”
“I’m not sneaking,” I say. “I’m looking for my dad.”
“Your dad?”
“He lives here.”
“I’m sorry. You’re mistaken.”
A man I’ve never seen comes to the door. He puts a protective arm around her.
“What’s going on, honey?”
“This boy seems to think he lives here.”
“This is our house,” the husband says, his voice cautious but friendly, still wanting to clear up the misunderstanding. “I should know. I pay the mortgage every month.”
“It wasn’t your house two days ago,” I say.
“It’s been our house for six years,” the husband says.
I look at the number again. 578.
Correct street, correct number.
“Are you sure it’s your house?” I say.
I watch carefully, waiting for them to break character, show themselves to be operatives for The Program, maybe a recovery crew of some kind. I wait for the nod inviting me in to safety.
But there is no nod. These people seem like the real thing.
I feel the confusion growing inside me.
That’s when I see their skin appears darker than it should be for this part of the country, even in the summer.
“Why do you have tans?” I say.
The husband looks at me strangely. It was a stupid thing for me to say, but I’m not thinking clearly.
“We won a trip to the Caribbean,” the husband says. “We were on vacation, and we just got back. Not that it’s any business of yours.”
“I’m confused,” I say.
My mind is racing, trying to put together the lack of communication from The Program, the strange circumstances at the safe house, any of it, all of it.
They must see that something’s wrong, because the woman says, “Are you feeling all right?”
I don’t like how she’s looking at me. Like I’m a lost kid of some kind.
“Do you want to come in for a minute?” the wife says.
“Hang on,” the husband says. “We don’t know who this is.”
“He needs som
e help.”
“Then we should call the police.”
“We don’t need the police,” the wife says, like her husband is being ridiculous.
“Maybe he’s on drugs,” the husband says.
I can’t allow the police to become involved. I have to pull myself together.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I made a mistake. We just moved to Manchester. All the streets look alike.”
“Come in for a minute,” the wife says. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“No,” I say.
“Please.”
Something about her draws me in. The warmth of her voice or the way she smiles at me like she’s concerned.
“Maybe I’ll come inside,” I say.
Not only do I need a drink of water, it would be a good idea for me to go inside and look around the house, make sure I’m not mistaken about the location. I can buy myself some time to analyze the situation and figure out my next move.
I look toward the husband. He shakes his head as if he’s been through this before—having to live with decisions his wife makes that he disagrees with. He sighs and steps aside, gestures for me to come in.
“For a minute only,” he says.
“Just a minute,” I say.
I step into the house. I recognize it instantly. Same fireplace, same green blanket thrown over the sofa.
I was here two days ago. I’m sure of it.
So what happened to the safe house?
I sit on the sofa, and the husband sits across from me in an armchair. We look at each other uncomfortably while the sound of clinking glasses comes from the kitchen.
A minute later the wife comes out with two glasses of lemonade, one for me and one for her husband.
“I hope you don’t mind lemonade,” she says to me.
“It’s great,” I say.
The sugar is a good supplemental energy source. It will help right now.
The man drinks. I drink. The woman looks on.
“How long have you lived in Manchester?” the husband says.
The glass is cool in my fingers. I drink the lemonade in measured sips, trying to make it last.
I think back to the briefing I received two days ago, the story of the boy whose life I’m supposed to be living now.
“We’ve been here a few months,” I say.
“A minute ago you said you just moved,” the husband says.