by Zoe Cannon
A wave of exhaustion swept over her. She had to work on her plan. She had to go to sleep—never mind that it wasn’t even noon—and hope the answer would come to her tomorrow. She let go of the door, but Vivian stopped it with her hand before it could fall closed.
“Just give us a few minutes,” said Heather. “Please.” She paused. “There’s something you need to know.”
Something in Heather’s voice made a tendril of dread start curling up from the base of her spine.
She stepped aside to let them in.
“I talked to Milo this morning.” Heather’s voice echoed softly through the room. “Your mother… she… 117 is going to…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.
Becca’s mouth was dry. “When?”
“Soon.” A pause. “Monday. Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
The world narrowed to nothing but her and that one word and all the things she should have done.
Tomorrow it would be over.
Tomorrow her mother would no longer exist.
And after tomorrow, Milo could turn her over to 117 without worrying that she would interfere with his plans.
“Thank you.” The words came out breathy and choked. She had no air to speak. “For telling me.”
Tomorrow.
She had wasted so much time. So much, too much, and now she had none.
“I think I need to be alone for a while.” There was no time. She had to leave. To rescue the kids while she still could.
But the others didn’t move.
“Look,” said Vivian, with the force of a taut rubber band finally released. “We know you’ve needed space. Heather told us to give you space.”
“And by some miracle, you listened,” Ramon cut in.
Vivian ignored him. “But we can’t let you do this.”
They know. The thought seized her heart for one terrifying second before rationality took over. “Do what?”
Heather was the one to answer. “Shut down. Close everyone out. After my parents…” She bit her lip. “I did just what you’re doing. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to feel anything. So I didn’t. But you can’t stay in survival mode forever. No matter how hard you try, eventually it’s going to hit you, and you’re going to have to remember how to live.”
She couldn’t explain to Heather that she didn’t need to worry about living. That all she had, all she needed, was this temporary life, driven by a single purpose.
That after tomorrow she wouldn’t even have that anymore.
“Which is why we’re not going to let you forget how to live in the first place.” Vivian crossed her arms. “We’re not going to let you shut down.”
She didn’t have time to listen to them talk about living. She had to get out of here. She had to go get herself killed before Milo did it for her, because she was going to die either way.
She tried to smile. “Thank you. But I’m okay. Really.” But her mask faltered, still weak from her collapse, and the words sounded false even to her own ears.
“Your mother is about to be executed. You practically run whenever you see us coming at work. You’re living in an apartment without furniture! And you want us to believe you’re okay?” Vivian shook her head. “We’re here for you, whether you like it or not. If you want to talk about your mom, that’s fine. If you don’t, that’s fine. But we’re done giving you space, because it’s not helping.”
Ramon made a keep-it-down gesture. “We’re trying to help a friend here, Vivian, not interrogate a dissident.”
Enough. Becca was done with this. “I have to go.” She took a step toward the door.
Heather caught her lightly by the arm. “Not yet. Please. Just listen for a few minutes, okay? Then you can do whatever you want.” She turned to the others. “Why don’t I talk to her alone for a few minutes? I’ve been through this. I know what it’s like.”
Vivian looked like she might protest, but Ramon herded her out of the apartment before she could say anything.
Once they were gone, Heather let go of Becca’s arm. “If you want us to leave, we will. I’m not trying to get you to do anything you don’t want to do. But I know how tempting it is to cut yourself off from what’s happening—to find some way to make it not matter. And I know how much it hurts when you realize it mattered all along. I still haven’t found my way out of it, but I’ll help you, if you let me. If there’s anything I can do…”
Heather’s murmured words faded into the background, drowned out by the buzzing frustration in her head. She didn’t have time for this. She had to get to the reeducation center, now now now, before it was too late. Before the execution. Before Milo framed her for the sake of his—
Her thoughts slammed to a halt.
Yes, something inside her whispered.
She understood now. All at once, she understood. She knew.
The plan unfurled in front of her, clumsy and impossible and perfect.
She knew what she had to do.
She inhaled deeply.
“Actually,” she said, “there is something you can do.”
* * *
The expression on Heather’s face was nothing short of horror. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I weren’t.” She didn’t filter her words through the mask this time. For once she wanted Heather to read her correctly. To know how desperate she was.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes,” said Becca. “I do.”
“But… if I do what you want… you know what will happen.”
Becca nodded. “And you know what will happen if you don’t.”
Heather swallowed. “I know.”
“Which would you be more able to live with?”
Heather didn’t answer.
They stood for a moment in silence. Becca didn’t dare speak. Anything she said could push Heather in the wrong direction.
“I’m not like you.” Heather’s voice was the whimper of a cornered animal. “I don’t believe like you do. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do, and even if it is… I don’t know if I can.”
“You don’t have to do it for the resistance.” Pleading now. “Do it for me. Please.”
Heather bit back a strangled sound as she looked away. “I don’t know. I… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Becca bit back the frantic frustration that fought to escape her lips. She understood. As much as she didn’t want to, she understood. “It’s okay.” Her eyes flicked to her watch, to the hands ticking out the seconds of her mother’s life and her own. “I have to go.”
“You don’t have to do this.” Now Heather was the one pleading, begging her with her eyes to stay.
But they both understood what her answer had to be. “You know I do.”
Before Becca could turn away, Heather grabbed her and pulled her into a fierce hug. “Good luck,” she whispered against Becca’s hair.
For a moment, Becca allowed herself to relax into the comfort Heather offered.
And then she pulled away.
She had a call to make.
Chapter Nineteen
It was late afternoon by the time Becca reached the reeducation center. She parked in the same spot as before—her car was visible, but not obvious. She got out quickly, before she could be spotted, and ducked into the woods.
Little jolts of adrenaline shot through her with every step she took toward the building, every twig that snapped under her feet, every branch that scraped along her coat. She hauled herself over the first fence and kept going. She tried to walk quietly, but complete silence was all but impossible. She only hoped that, like last time, the guards were too focused on potential threats from inside the building to pay attention to what was going on outside.
The bare branches seemed to reach for her as she approached the second fence. She ducked between them, ignoring their efforts to stop her.
She didn�
�t let herself think about Heather. Or about the detour she’d made on her way to the reeducation center.
Rescue the kids. Rescue Kara. That was all she could afford to focus on right now. The rest was out of her hands.
She slowed as she caught sight of the fence—and the guard waiting on the other side. The guard paced back and forth, twitching with nervous energy. But he never took his eyes off the building. No doubt he was watching for any guards who weren’t who they appeared to be, afraid of meeting the same fate as his predecessor.
He would never see her coming.
Her hand twitched toward the gun tucked into her jeans, the one she had stolen from the other guard her first time here. Then she stopped.
I can’t kill anyone else, one part of her protested. Not after Jameson. I can’t.
And another voice, cold and quiet. The sound of a gunshot will draw too much attention.
She hefted the knife clutched in her other hand. The rest waited in her car, still tucked away in their suitcase—she didn’t need them anymore. But she had brought one with her.
No. I can’t do this.
But her inner protests were empty. She had known all along what she would have to do.
She took another step closer. And another. Half-hoping he would hear her.
He didn’t.
She raised the knife.
Inside, some part of her was screaming. Pleading uselessly. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t.
She crept closer.
Closer.
Close enough to touch, and he still didn’t see her.
But if she didn’t do it now…
Don’t think about it.
Gripping the knife handle with both hands, she shoved it blindly forward. Through the opening left by the crosshatched wire of the fence. Through the side of the guard’s neck.
The knife didn’t go in smoothly. It had never been intended as a weapon. But it went in. The guard made a strangled noise of shock or outrage; he twisted in surprise, causing the knife to dig deeper into his flesh. Blood spilled out across Becca’s hands.
Becca gagged. She dropped the knife; it tumbled to the ground on her side of the fence, staining the yellowed grass with the guard’s blood.
His hands fumbled uselessly for his weapon. He made more noises, but they were soft, garbled, as useless as the motions of his hands.
Dark spots danced in her vision. She clutched the fence, willing herself to stay upright, willing herself not to lose the window of opportunity the guard’s death would give her. She breathed in the tangy scent of blood, and the dark spots spread into a swirling cloud. Just keep breathing. She took another breath. Another. Another.
When her vision cleared, the guard was on the ground. He looked up at her, through the fence, with a last glimmer of hazy consciousness in his eyes. It faded as she watched. Her vision nearly went dark again at that.
She stared numbly at the rivulets of blood running down her hands and arms. At least when she had killed Jameson the stains had been invisible.
She wiped the blood off on her jeans. Picked up the knife from where it had fallen. She slid the knife through the fence and, her hands no longer slick with blood, started climbing to join it.
She looked to either side as she landed. Not another guard in sight—but she didn’t know how long that would last. Ignoring the sharp taste of bile in her mouth, she hunted through the guard’s pockets for his keycard.
It didn’t take long to find it. She stood back up as soon as she had it in her hand. She didn’t bother with the uniform this time. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, not if she was helping the prisoners escape. And it wouldn’t matter if anyone recognized her anyway—not if her plan went right.
She mouthed a silent apology to the guard as she walked away.
She felt like a beacon in the blazing sun as she scurried across the pavement, glowing with blood and guilt. But no one called out after her. No bullets ripped into her body.
There would be another guard just inside the door, she knew. But like the guard at the fence, he would be there to keep prisoners in, not potential rescuers out. He wouldn’t expect anyone to come in from the outside who didn’t belong there. With any luck, the split second of surprise his assumptions would give her would be enough.
She opened the door.
It was enough.
She expected the blood this time. She expected the nausea, the sudden narrowing of her vision. Expecting it made it a little easier.
She wished it hadn’t been easier.
She didn’t let herself look at his body as she took off at a sprint down the hall.
It didn’t take her long to reach the two doors she had seen last time. The doors looked the same as they had two weeks ago—the hand-scrawled signs a little worse for wear, maybe. But now she saw differences in the hallways beyond that she hadn’t spotted her first time here. The door to her right, the one labeled 2, led to a stump of a hallway, with two doors on each side and one at the end. The space beyond the door labeled 1 looked much the same—but this hallway was half again as long as the other, with almost twice as many doors.
She didn’t know how long she had. Better to go where she could get the most done. Just in case.
She slid the keycard into the reader next to the door labeled 1. Just like last time. But this time no one called after her.
She opened the door and stepped inside.
A hush hung over the space, more profound somehow than the silence of the outer hallway. Every door had another keycard reader next to it, each with the drywall cut in ragged edges around it. She looked down at the keycard in her hand. It was utterly blank, revealing no clue to where it had come from, let alone whether it would open every door in the place. For a place with too few guards and too many problems, universal keycards made sense—that way every guard would be able to go where he was needed. But Internal was known for its efficiency only in terms of how quickly the Enforcers would show up at your door after you said the wrong thing in front of the wrong person, and how long it would take after that for you to end up with a bullet in your brain. In all other ways, they were as unwieldy and illogical as any bureaucracy.
She could only hope logic had prevailed this time.
She slid her card into the closest reader. She waited for the red flash, for the blare of an alarm. Her hand rested on her gun.
The light flashed green.
With her hand on the door, she hesitated.
What if the prisoner on the other side of that door was too broken to be saved?
Or as dangerous and unstable as the girl who had escaped?
What would she do after she walked through that door? What was she supposed to say?
But every second she wasted on doubt might mean one more prisoner she wouldn’t have time to rescue.
She pushed the door open.
The room was utterly dark. The only illumination came from the sliver of light left by the open door. She fumbled for a light switch, but found none. Above her she made out the vague outline of a fluorescent bulb, but wherever the switch was, it wasn’t in this room. That made sense—hadn’t there been something in the files about keeping prisoners in total darkness for days or weeks on end?
She opened the door a little wider. Enough to see a bed at the far corner of the room—and a figure on the bed, curled on his side, facing the wall.
“No,” the figure muttered, curling his body up tighter. “Please no, not again. Not yet. Please just let me rest.”
That voice. Rough and broken, but still so achingly familiar. It could still make her imagine the future she had given up.
Familiar. And impossible. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not here in one of these cells, begging to be left alone.
Her own voice was barely more than a whisper. “Micah?”
The figure froze. Slowly, very slowly, he released his iron grip on his knees. “Becca?”
“It’s me. I’m here.” She crossed the room to him in a f
ew short steps. “What… what happened? Why are you a prisoner?”
The figure—Micah—shook his head. “Not a prisoner. Training. Five months left. Then I’ll be done.”
Five months. He had only been here two weeks, and this was what it had done to him. She crossed the room to him in a few short steps and sat down at the edge of the bed. “What did they do to you?”
A shudder ran through him. “Training.” He pulled his knees closer again. “I’m doing better than the others, they said. Eight of us left. They started with ten. They need five. They think I’ll make it.”
She lay down beside him and wrapped her arms around him. Tiny tremors ran through his body. He clutched at her hands like they were the only solid things left in his world. She pulled him closer, letting her body heat flow into him.
She wanted to hold him until he stopped shaking. Until his memories of whatever they had done to him faded. Until the training was gone and only the warmth between them remained.
But she had no time.
Her chance of getting the prisoners out lowered with every second she stayed. She couldn’t leave him here like this—but she had to.
“Micah…” She sat up, and the warmth disappeared. “I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”
For the first time, he turned to look at her. Even in the dim light, she could see a flicker of his old self in his eyes. He was still in there.
“You’re here to get them out,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Only then did she remember everything that stood between them.
Only then did she remember that even in this state, he was one of them.
If he tried to restrain her, if he tried to call the guards… all of this would have been for nothing.
She thought about lying. But whatever lie she gave him, he would see through it. There was only one reason for her to be here.
She nodded. “I am.”
“I’ll help you.”
At first she was sure she had misheard. “What?”
“I’ll help you. I’ll help you get them out.” He struggled to a sitting position. “You were right. If this is what helping them means… then I can’t. I’d rather be a…” He swallowed. “I’d rather be a dissident than that.”