“But he said soldiers.”
“And all our military bases have been overrun,” he points out. “If there are still soldiers out there, they're taking refuge in places like this. I think Decker has something else up his sleeve.”
My father's eyes narrow in thought and I know better than to interrupt him when he retreats inside his head, so I turn my attention back to the screen where the news anchor is signing off the same way she does every night.
“Stay safe, but more importantly, stay strong.”
The first request is easy enough. It's the second that presents a problem.
When hope is present, strength is easy to find. It's when this hope diminishes that strength finds nooks and crannies to hide. And our hope is diminishing as fast as our water supply. As fast as the pallets of MREs. As fast as our patience, faith and will to survive.
The watch strapped to my arm sings out a shrill beep, beckoning me to awake just as it does every morning. Years ago, I would have been tempted to silence it and hunker down deeper into the covers to get a few more blissful minutes of sleep. But that's not an option now.
I kick the thin sheet to the foot of my pallet, sit up, and stretch my legs. The ache in my back and shoulders from sleeping on such a hard surface vanished months ago, and I feel alert, if not well-rested.
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I look around to realize my mother and father's pallets are already rolled up and put away. I check my watch again, wondering if I accidentally snoozed through our wake up call, but it's only a minute past six.
The soft crack of a bottle of water opening sounds from across the room, and I make my way to the other side of the partition that splits our room in half.
“Morning,” my mother grumbles.
Tanya Winters wasn't a morning person before the outbreak, and that hasn't changed a bit since we packed our things and found refuge here.
My eyes search for my father, expecting to find him rolling up the cuffs of his shirt or tying his tennis shoes, but all the other chairs are empty.
“Dad already leave?”
“Yup.”
The grim set of her lips tells me something's not right, but instead of asking questions I shouldn't, I grab a bottle of water from the cabinet and use it to brush my teeth, wash my face, and tame my bedhead before pulling my mud brown locks up into a ponytail.
By the time I change into jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt, mom is gone as well.
“Thanks for waiting for me,” I mutter, slipping my feet into worn-down work boots.
As I do every morning before leaving, I slip three things into my pockets.
The pocket knife my great-grandfather gave me, a key ring holding the keys to the house we no longer live in, and my dead cell phone.
I don't bother charging the phone anymore since most cell towers have been toppled or their carriers doomed, but it's still filled with pictures from my former life, and I'm not ready to lose those just yet. Pictures of picnics with my family, friends from school, and most of all, pictures of me with Jared, back before he turned.
Nothing in my pockets is of any real use to me in this new world, but the weight they bring reminds me that there are other things outside of these walls. Things worth fighting for.
Out in the hallway, I make my way to the dry erase board that keeps track of our daily tasks and obligations. Yesterday, my duties included the cafeteria line and security checks. Today, it could be something different.
But I don't know what I'm supposed to do or where I'm supposed to go because a man I've never seen before stands next to the board. He wears a suit and shiny black boots, the ones you expect military men to wear with their dress blues. The footwear clashes with the rest of his ensemble, but he seems like the kind of guy who doesn't care.
His tight lips with their down-turned corners say he's not a man to be messed with, and his cold green eyes hint at horrors he's seen and will never forget.
His presence unnerves me, but I make my way past him to the board, only to see it's been wiped clean. Instead of the regular rows and columns housing our names and duties, there are only three words.
REPORT TO GYMNASIUM.
I feel the guard's eyes on my back and the hairs along my arms stand on end, telling me something unpleasant is about to go down. But I ignore my pessimistic intuition and make my way to the gym where our residents have been instructed to gather.
A group of younger kids come in through the south doors as I come in through the west, and it seems as if most of the community is already here, patiently waiting in the bleachers. Their eyes scan the gym floor for whatever entity we're waiting for.
My parents sit on the very first bleacher, so I take the empty seat between them, noting that my mother's foot is bouncing with nervous energy and my father sits stoically still, his eyes tired and bloodshot behind his wire-rim glasses.
Without looking at me, they both reach for my hands and squeeze.
The anxiety I felt before doubles in size, taking over all the space left in my chest, making it hard to breathe, to think, to reason. My limbs tingle with the familiar fear of change, and I send up a silent prayer that come sunset, everything will be as it is right now.
My family together. Our sanctuary safe and secure. And everyone's hearts beating toward one common goal of survival.
Everyone around me jerks to attention as the south door opens again. But this time, it's not a group of youngsters trailing inside.
This time, a well-distinguished man in a charcoal suit, flanked by two security guards in black enters. The tapping of imported leather shoes echoes through the cavernous space, bringing everyone to the edge of their seats.
This man needs no introduction. We all know his face, know his name, know his importance. But that doesn't stop him from standing tall in the middle of the gymnasium and introducing himself.
“For those of you who might not know me, my name is Bartholomew Wilder,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “I'm the Vice-President of the United States of America.”
He pauses, waiting for any kind of reaction, but we don't give him one. Everyone in the bleachers holds a collective breath, waiting for his explanation as to why he's visiting our rinky-dink little gathering hole. If they're like me, they're suspicious, wondering what bad news he's here to bring.
“I've already met with your community leaders, and they tell me you're all aware of the announcement President Decker made yesterday. They also tell me you're aware of our lack of military and are somewhat skeptical of this new task force being assembled. Well, I'm here to put your minds at ease.”
He's here, the Vice-President of the United States, to put our minds at ease?
Somehow I doubt that.
We're smart enough to know he's not just going door to door, visiting every community that's been established, just to calm everyone's fears.
“Being a soldier can mean many things,” he begins, walking slowly along the length of the floor. “Mostly, it means that you live to serve. It means you're united with others in a common cause or goal; one you're willing to fight for.”
He pauses, searching our faces.
We give him nothing.
“Right now, today, in these dark times, we need soldiers that are strong, loyal, and most of all, ruthless. We have one common enemy, and it's the infection that's plagued millions of our countrymen, turning our fellow citizens into monstrosities that cannot be contained, cannot be reasoned with, and cannot be overcome.”
I don't like where he's going with this. And neither does my father, if the tightening of his hand around mine is any indication.
“Ruthless in a way that may seem savage to some,” Wilder continues. “But our Commander-in-Chief has a need for these types of people, and he's sent me out to fill that need.”
Right there.
That's why he's here.
To 'fill a need'.
AKA: To recruit.
“Now, I don't know if many of you are conspiracy theorists or not, b
ut I know at least a few of you think Big Brother has been watching you all your lives... and you'd be right.”
A few people in the crowd stiffen, myself included.
“Is it ethical? Well, no, of course not. But is it going to serve to help us in the long run?”
He fixes his eyes on me and I try not to look away.
“Absolutely.”
Behind me, someone scoffs, and I watch Wilder's eyes flicker up before gesturing to one of his guards. In a second, the guard on his right has a briefcase in his arms, holding it out for his boss to open. Meanwhile, all twenty-three survivors in our compound watch his every move, refusing to blink or breathe, our minds racing, wondering what could possibly be in that briefcase.
Mr. Wilder flips through a stack of file folders before settling on one and removing it. He holds it up for the crowd to see.
“This folder is one of many,” he says. “For every established survivor colony, we have a sheet for every member. On that sheet is a list of details. Over the past week, I've looked for one detail and one detail only.”
He pauses for dramatic purpose and lowers the folder. If he's trying to keep us reeled in and in rapt suspense, it's working.
“Confirmed kills.”
Those two words reverberate through my head, my chest, my limbs.
I was right.
He's looking for soldiers. Looking for individuals who have successfully taken down one of the infected.
“When I call your name, I need you to stand.”
He opens the folder and removes a single sheet of paper.
My hands are already numb with the force my parents are holding onto me, and I look to my right, only to find my mother crying. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks as she shakes her head. Just like me, she knows what's about to happen. And just like me, there's not a single thing she can do to stop it.
“Winters, Maya.”
At the sound of my name, my blood runs cold.
But I can't freeze. Not now. Not here.
I force my legs to cooperate. I tell them not to shake, not to give out, not to buckle. After pushing my parent's loving hands away, I stand to my full height and look Vice-President Wilder in the eyes.
“How many, Winters?” he asks.
Jared's kind face, his sweet laugh, flashes before me, and suddenly, I wish he was here with me. I wish he was standing next to me, holding my hand, telling me it's going to be okay. But he's not here.
Because I killed him.
“One, sir,” I answer. “Just one.”
He nods before handing the folder to one of his guards.
“One's enough.” He waves to his men. “Load her up.”
The men start toward me, and as crippling fear overtakes me, everything around me shifts.
My father, the strong, unstoppable force that he is, pushes me behind his back. As if that can save me. My mother joins in, pushing her hip against his, creating a barrier between me and the people who wish to take me.
“No.”
It's just one little word from my father's lips, but it might as well be a stick of dynamite. Heat crackles through the air, driven by anger and despair, and everyone in the crowd begins to move. Not toward us, in a show of solidarity, but away, toward the exits.
So much for loyalty.
“Come on.” A guard waves for me, ignoring my parent's objection. “Let get your things.”
“She doesn't need her things because she's not going anywhere,” my father spits. He looks across the gym and catches Wilder's eye. “You can't do this! You can't just take her! She's a child!”
Again, the heels of his leather shoes click loudly as Wilder makes his way across the wood floor.
He stops a foot away from us.
“Mr. Winters, I respect your obligation to your daughter and to your family, but let me make something abundantly clear.”
He takes a card out of his pocket and hands it over. No one takes it.
“With us, she'll be the safest she's ever been since the outbreak. She'll have her own living quarters and will train under the best the states have to offer. She'll receive three meals a day, weapons to defend herself with, and a clearance that will grant her access to any country in the world she wishes to visit.”
With every word, my father wilts. Just a little.
“You're not taking her.” His conviction isn't what it was a moment ago. It's breaking. Still, he forces himself to stand tall. “You can't.”
“She's not a prisoner,” Wilder says, his placid mask slipping. “This is an honor, Mr. Winters. If we do what we think can be done, your daughter's name will be blasted across historical and scientific journals for the remainder of human existence. She will be a national icon. If Maya comes with us today, she'll be a hero.”
A hero.
That word should fill me with pride. Instead, it only makes me want to barf.
I don't want to be a hero. I don't want to be put on some rusty old pedal stool just because I'm stupid enough to put my life on the line.
I just want to be a girl. A girl who isn't a prisoner in a world that owes her nothing. A girl who can laugh and smile because the country isn't crumbling.
But I can't have that.
So I focus on what I can have.
A fresh start, a chance at redemption, and the opportunity to help in any way I can.
Well... hell.
The words are out of my mouth before I think to stop them.
“I'm in.”
CHAPTER THREE
“What can I bring?”
The guard stands in the center of our room, glancing around, taking in our few meager possessions.
“Any small personal possessions you wish to keep on you. Clothing and toiletries will be provided.”
As I follow his eyes, I realize that that the only possessions I might want to take are already in my pocket. But I can't risk losing them. They're far too precious. I take everything out, glancing at them for what might very well be the last time, and deposit them on the table. I decide not to take anything.
When I turn around, the guard looks bored. My parents, however, look devastated.
“Please don't do this,” I beg quietly. “Don't make this harder than it already is.”
I approach my mother first, hating the way my heart squeezes painfully within my chest when she throws her arms around my shoulders. There's a certain desperation to the way she grips me, and I feel tears sting my eyes.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I can.
Another set of arms – stronger ones – come around me from behind, trapping me in a bear hug that I never, ever want to escape.
These people, these arms, are home.
They're my gravity. My northern star. Without them, who am I? I've never had the chance to find out before, and now that I'm being thrown from the nest, I don't know which way is up.
But it's time to fly or die.
“I love you more than anything,” Mom whispers. “More than anything that is, and more than anything that ever will be.”
“I love you too, mom,” I croak.
This is too hard. It's too much.
“Call us as soon as they let you,” my father insists.
“I will.”
“And be careful,” he adds. “Be so careful, Maya. Promise me. Be smart. Make the right choices. The sane choices. Choices that bring you back home.”
God, this is too much.
“Of course I will. Take care of mom.”
“Take care of you,” he says, squeezing me even harder.
When tears threaten to spill over and breathing becomes difficult, I force myself to pull away. I mean to move toward the door, but someone stops me.
My father takes my hand and presses it to his chest, directly over his heart. I look into his eyes, eyes that resemble my own, and I know that whatever is about to happen, whatever he's about to say, will stay with me for as long as I live and breathe.
“Whate
ver happens,” he says, tears gleaming, “I want you to know that you're my girl. You're my world, and I've never been more proud of you than I am right now. But I've also never been more scared.”
“I'm scared too,” I admit.
“Don't be.” He shakes his head. “You go and be strong and leave the worrying to us.”
My mother leaves our side, and I reach for her. I have to say goodbye. I have to have one more hug. Just one more. But she holds her hand in the air, signaling for us to wait.
Thankfully, I glance up at the guard, and he doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry.
When she returns from behind the partition, she shoves a small bag into my hand before pressing her cheek to mine and whispering words meant for only me.
“You're the strongest person I know,” she says. “If I never do anything else in this life, it will still be enough, because I have you.”
I can't take anymore.
I can't.
Not if I want to escape without a hurricane of tears.
So I do the only thing I can.
I close my eyes, turn on my heel, and march out the door, leaving my parents behind for what could very well be the last time.
Instead of exiting through the cafeteria entrance like I expect, the guard leads me up a ladder in the music room and into the attic of the school. When I emerge, more guards and Vice-President Wilder are waiting for me.
“This way.”
A hand moves in front of me, guiding me, and my eyes flicker toward the most powerful man I've met in my life thus far.
“You know, when I think of the Vice-President of the United States, I don't exactly envision him crawling around in dusty attics in a suit that costs more than a black market liver.”
I know it's not the time for sarcasm or levity, but I can't help myself.
Even though the shadows, I see a trace of a smile cross his face.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Miss Winters.”
He turns away, and I think I hear one of the guards chuckle.
Following their direction, I make my way around stringy cobwebs and boxes of long-forgotten band uniforms. At the edge of the musty space, we stop and one of the guards opens a heavy door in the ceiling. We all wait as he pokes his head out, takes a moment to look around, and then opens it all the way.
The Blood Pawn Page 3