The Capture

by Tom Isbell

  “And you saw this letter with your own eyes?”

  “That’s right. Me and one of the Sisters.”

  “You understand why I ask. The claim of genocide is nothing to be bandied about. We need actual proof.”

  “Like when you accuse someone of being a spy?”

  He sighed wearily and steepled his fingers. “You know, Book, you may think us an ignorant, backwoods people, but in fact, many of the adults here were at one time distinguished professors. Respected scholars. Once our children started getting drafted into the army, that’s when we realized we wanted nothing to do with the fascist principles of the new Republic. So we created our own society.”

  While what he said made a certain sense, I wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

  “I didn’t know there was a University of Skull People.”

  The Chief Justice actually smiled. “Let me ask you something: before you came here, had you heard of us?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what had you heard?”

  “That you were the meanest, most ruthless people in the country.”

  “You’ve been around us a few weeks now. Are we really so ruthless? So mean? Cannibals who eat their young and sacrifice virgins into fiery pits?”

  “Well, no . . .”

  “So the branding has done its job.” A pleased expression painted his face.

  “You’re saying your reputation is just a ploy?”

  “I’m saying we want to be left alone.”

  I took in what he’d said. Maybe the Skull People were even smarter than I’d thought.

  “Okay,” I said, “if you’re so open-minded, then you’ll be willing to help us out.”

  He eyed me warily. “What do you have in mind?”

  This was the moment I’d been hoping for—an audience with the head of the Skull People. I took a breath and launched into the world as I knew it—everything I knew about the slaughter of Less Thans and the medical experiments at Camp Freedom. As I spoke, his expression darkened.

  When I finished, he rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “I understand your passion, I do. And your claim might very well be legitimate.”

  “But?”

  “I’m sorry, Book. We enjoy our freedoms and the civilized society we’ve constructed. For us to take sides would put all that in jeopardy. While helping the few, we would sacrifice the greater good. Surely you can understand that.”

  I let out an angry sigh. “All I understand is that people are going to die unless we help them, and even though you may not have heard about the Hunters, I can guarantee you they’ve heard of you. Especially since your head prosecutor is friends with their leader.”

  The Chief Justice’s head snapped up. “What’re you talking about?”

  I explained what Hope and I had seen back in Bedford: the conversation between Goodman Nellitch and the Man in Orange.

  “Now I know you’re wrong,” the Chief Justice said. “There’s no way Goodman Nellitch would be caught dead with the Crazies. They’re nothing more than an uncivilized mob.”

  I shrugged. “We saw what we saw.”

  The Chief Justice studied me with tired, bloodshot eyes. The longer he contemplated my words, the angrier I grew. What more did he want? I’d revealed to him things he had no way of knowing—Chancellor Maddox’s letter, Goodman Nellitch’s dealings with the Crazies—and here he was, too cowardly to act. This was the problem with the world: too many people afraid to do the right thing.

  I pushed my chair back and got up. “Are we done?”

  “No.” He dipped the quill pen into ink. “I’m changing your work assignment.” He signed the document on his desk with a flourish—the one he’d been working on when I came in. He folded the paper and sealed it with wax.

  “Is this the punishment I get for speaking the truth?” I asked.

  “Something like that.” Then he added, “Book, we’re not your enemies.”

  “Maybe not, but you’re not our friends, either.”

  I took the document and exited.

  The blindfolds ended the next morning. While the guards still locked us up each night, we were free to travel to work and back on our own. With one stipulation—we had to wear symbols on our clothes. A black square with an embroidered eye in the middle, as if to remind us we were always being watched. I wondered if we’d ever not be branded as somehow different.

  The red-haired guard took me down an entirely different path, and my chest tightened with anxiety. Where was I being sent? To dig ditches? Clean outhouses? Haul irrigation pipes in the broiling sun?

  When we came to a stop, I nearly lost my breath.

  In the midst of this subterranean world, buried deep beneath the earth’s surface, was a library. Hundreds—thousands—of volumes lined the walls. Not since Frank’s cabin had I seen anything so heartbreakingly beautiful.

  I couldn’t tell if the red-haired guard envied or pitied me. He stomped away without a word.

  There were three others in the library—one old man and two middle-aged women—each sitting at tables and scribbling furiously. One of the women put down her pen and came over to me. She was short, with a shock of white hair and tight facial features. A tattered sweater was pulled over her faded blue dress. She took the document from my hand, sliced open the seal, and scanned it quickly.

  “You’re Book?” she asked.

  “That’s right.” I expected her to comment on the appropriateness of my name.

  “I’m Goodwoman Marciniak.”

  “Nice to meet—”

  “You’ll meet the others presently. In the meantime, there’s work to do.”

  She sat me down across from the old man; if he noticed I was joining him, he didn’t acknowledge it. He was stooped so far forward, his face was mere inches from the table. Goodwoman Marciniak slid four objects in front of me: a ream of paper, a quill pen, an inkstand, and a leather-bound book.

  “There,” she said. “We’re under a deadline, so no dallying.”

  She began to walk away. “Wait. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  The look she gave me was one of pure exasperation. “You can read, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And write?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then what’re you waiting for? Copy that thing. We don’t have all day.”

  I soon learned that while most of the books could be checked out, some of the law volumes were deemed so important that it was necessary to have multiple copies, especially for Council justices. It fell to the library scribes to create those copies.

  That’s what I was now: a library scribe.

  And it wasn’t just the four of us; apparently there were others who worked different shifts. So while I toiled over An Exposition of Fecial Law and Procedure by day, someone else copied it at night. The handwriting alternated, of course—mine for a few chapters, and some anonymous old geezer’s for the next few—but that didn’t seem to matter.

  I asked if typewriters wouldn’t make more sense, but Goodwoman Marciniak informed me that the Republic had confiscated them all years earlier.

  For eight hours a day I sat hunched over a sheaf of papers, scribbling away. By the end of my shift, my fingers cramped, my back ached, my eyes stung from strain . . . but I was surrounded by books, breathing their heady, musty, heavenly smell.

  Still, there was a cost. With each passing day, the Less Thans back at Camp Liberty were getting that much closer to the Rite—to their cruel imprisonment in the foul-smelling bunker, followed by their release into the wild, where they’d be hunted down like animals.

  32.

  HOPE AND SCYLLA ARE returning from the kitchen when they see the leader of the hunting party. It’s the first time they’ve laid eyes on him since he escorted them to their trial.

  “You go on ahead,” Hope says to her friend. “There’s something I need to do.”

  Scylla heads off, and Hope pushes herself into shadows. She lets the Skull Person g
et twenty yards ahead before she begins to follow.

  He’s an older man, his limbs lean and muscular, and wherever it is he’s going, he seems in no hurry. The trail he takes is a winding one, through smaller and smaller tunnels, to a part of the Compound where Hope has never been.

  When she emerges from a narrow walkway into the tiniest of chambers, she is surprised to find herself alone. He’s not here. No one is.

  So where did he go? she asks herself. And how could I have lost him?

  She pivots in place, gazing down each of the tunnels. All are vacant, shrouded in dark. She kicks at the dirt floor and turns back around to retrace her steps . . .

  . . . and runs smack into him.

  He grabs her wrist and leans into her. “Why are you following me?” he hisses, his breath hot.

  Hope tries to squirm free, but his grip is too strong. “I was just . . . trying to find my way back.”

  “You were following me. Why?”

  The man may be old, but he is all muscle. His grip cuts off the blood to Hope’s hand. Pinpricks stab her fingers.

  “Let go of me and I’ll tell you,” she says.

  “Tell me first.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why should I trust you? You’re the spy.”

  “Because I won’t tell you otherwise.”

  The Skull Person casts her wrist away as if disgusted with it. He rests his hand on a huge knife sheathed at his waist. “You should know I’m pretty good with this.”

  She stares at him warily, then shakes her hand, trying to get the blood back to it.

  “Why?” he asks again.

  “I wanted to speak with you.”

  “About what?”

  “Why you lied to the Council of Ten.”

  “I never lied to them.”

  “During our trial, they said you found a map on us. You know it’s not true.”

  His eyes flick nervously from side to side. When he speaks, his voice is lowered. “Who said that?”

  “The prosecutor, Goodman Nellitch.”

  The Skull Person recoils slightly, eyes looking everywhere. “I don’t know anything about that,” he finally mumbles.

  “When you arrested us, you accused us of spying.”

  “Sure. Everyone who’s caught trespassing is accused of spying.”

  “But you deny telling him about the map?”

  “I mean what I said: I don’t know anything about it.” His voice echoes back at them, and a fearful expression comes over his face. Hope wonders why he’s so defensive. So jumpy.

  When he speaks again, his voice is soft, urgent, desperate. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.

  “I’m trying to get at the truth. We both know there was never any map, right? And if I can prove the prosecutor lied, then maybe they’ll change our sentence. So I’m wondering: if there was never a map, why’d that man say there was?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Hope remembers Nellitch’s leering, self-satisfied smile. Fat chance he’s going to tell her anything resembling the truth. “Why didn’t you stay for the trial that day? Everyone else was there.”

  “My orders were to drop you off and go hunting. People have to eat, you know.”

  “Do you hunt every day?”

  “Most days.”

  “Every day?”

  “Most days.”

  “So who told you to hunt that particular day and not stay for the trial?”

  The man’s face twists into a scowl. “For your own sake, you need to drop this. Stop asking questions.”

  “How can I? We’re imprisoned because of a lie. You’re our only hope for setting the Council straight and getting us out of here.”

  The man seems to consider the request. Then his eyes lower and he says, “Look, I’m just trying to live my life. The last thing I need is people asking questions they shouldn’t be asking.”

  It seems he’s about to say more, but two women walk by, deep in conversation. They pass, their footsteps echoing down a narrow passageway.

  “Is there something else you want to know?” he asks. His tone is all business, with no hint of kindness or understanding.

  “No,” Hope says, discouraged. “Just that.”

  “So you won’t be following me anymore.” It isn’t a suggestion; it’s a warning. His knuckles tighten on the hilt of his knife. Then he turns and strides away, swallowed by the tunnels’ dark shadows.

  Hope goes back the way she came, angry at him, angry at herself, angry at the world for imprisoning them deep beneath the earth when there are still three people out there she needs to teach a lesson to.

  One way or the other, she vows, their time will come.

  33.

  WE WERE ALLOWED TO eat on our own, at a place called the Commons. But my lunch break was different from the others’, so when I stepped into the large, low-ceilinged room, I didn’t know a soul. And because of the black square stitched to my shirt, none of the Skull People urged me to join them. I found a wobbly table in the corner and began shoveling food into my mouth. The sooner I got out of there, the better.

  Across the room sat Goodman Nellitch. He and three other men swapped stories as they inhaled that day’s soup. On the surface, he was just a short man with a full beard and a big laugh. So why did I have such a bad feeling about him?

  “What’s the matter? You smell or something?”

  A girl slid into the seat opposite me. She had pale skin and long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her gray eyes glinted with mischief, and she had one of those mouths that seem constantly on the verge of smiling.

  “I, no . . .”

  “There must be some reason you’re sitting all alone.”

  “I don’t know anyone,” I said.

  “That doesn’t stop people sitting with you. What, you think just because you’re a spy, people avoid you?”

  “I’m not a—”

  “Personally, I think it’s something else. Probably body odor.”

  “What?”

  “Or maybe bad breath.”

  “Hey, you can’t—”

  “I’m just teasing. I’m Miranda, by the way. Mandy to my friends.” I guessed she was my age, maybe a year younger.

  “Nice to meet you, Mandy. Miranda,” I corrected myself.

  “That’s right. We’re not friends yet.”

  “Sorry, I—”

  Freckles danced as her face erupted into a smile. “I’m just joshin’. Fact is, we’ll probably be friends. If you’re lucky.” She gave me a playful wink. My face felt suddenly warm.

  “So,” she went on, “how’s the spying business?”

  “I’m not a spy.”

  “That’s what they all say. You just happened to be in the neighborhood? Just happened to cross that bridge and come into our fields?”

  The conversation felt like a walk with Cat: I was one step behind and unable to catch up. “We were on our way back to Camp Liberty.”

  “Right, right, that’s what you said at the trial.” She tugged at her necklace—a metallic pendant that scattered shards of light. “Where’re your friends?”

  “Different lunch assignments.”

  “Too bad. Tough for spies to be effective when they’re separated.”

  “We’re not spies.”

  “Oh right, I keep forgetting.” She smiled again, then ripped off a hunk of bread and dipped it into a mound of blueberry jam.

  “How about you?” I asked, trying to regain my footing. “Where’re your friends?”

  She shrugged. “Not that many people my age in the Compound—most were snatched up by the Republic years ago. And those that are still around are usually on patrol.”

  “Patrol?”

  “You know, keeping the Compound safe. Looking out for enemies.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She winked again, and sweat ran down my temples. My face was like a river.

  “I meant—”r />
  “I know what you meant.” Another wink. Another rush of blood.

  “Skip it.” I buried my face in my food.

  “Aw, I’m just pulling your leg. You’re so serious. Anyway, nice to meet you, Book.”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “I was at the trial, remember? I gotta run, but maybe we’ll do this again.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  She rose, her now-empty tray in her hands. “By the way,” she said, “you slant your f’s and l’s.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your f’s and l’s. You slant them.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Your handwriting. It’s not terrible, a little erratic at times, but the main thing is, some of your letters lean. You wanna watch that.”

  I looked at her, dumbfounded. “How do you know?”

  “I’m the other scribe working on the book.” She gave her necklace one last tug and presented me with a lopsided smile. “Oh, and call me Mandy.” She pranced off, her ponytail swishing from side to side.

  Although I didn’t see Mandy for several days, she did leave me a series of notes in the book we were copying. Silly messages. Things like: Make sure you don’t leave out the i in “Fecial.” Or Your o’s are very sexy. Or You can cross my t any day of the week.

  One day, Goodman Jotson caught me reading one of the notes.

  “What’s that?” he asked, his voice gravelly and humorless.

  “Just something from the other scribe,” I stammered. “About the book. The one we’re working on. Together. Whoever that person is.”

  I was about as good a liar as Flush.

  Plus I felt oddly guilty receiving these messages. It almost felt like a betrayal of Hope, even though it was Mandy who was writing the notes, not me.

  When the day shift ended and I left the library, I rounded a bend and Mandy was there. She was wearing faded dungarees, her hands tucked into her back pockets. A gray T-shirt hugged her torso.

  “What’re you doing here?” I asked.

  “That’s a nice way to greet a friend.”

  “No, I didn’t mean . . . I never see you at dinner, is all.”

  “I’m just giving you a hard time.” She placed her hand on my arm and let it linger there. “I’m taking you away, that’s what I’m doing here.” Then she slapped me playfully on the shoulder. “You don’t have to look so glum about it.”