by Tom Isbell
I followed him as he went tromping through a meadow. What was so urgent that needed talking about right now? Before the sun was up. And why way out here? Then I noticed someone had carved a series of concentric circles on the trunk of a thick pine tree fifty yards away.
Before I could figure out what was going on, Cat bent down and retrieved something from the ground. He slapped it against my belly.
“Show me how this thing works.”
It was his artificial arm from the Compound. I couldn’t believe he’d kept it.
“So you gonna teach me or not?” he prodded.
“Right,” I said, somewhat dazed by the fact that Cat was asking for my help.
The prosthesis was carved from oak, meant to attach to the elbow and serve as a forearm. Hammered to its base was a swatch of leather with some adjoining straps; the leather would circle the stub that was his elbow and the straps would wrap over his shoulder. It was simple, it was uncomplicated, it was primitive . . . but it would work.
“What’re these things?” he asked, referring to the two curved pieces of wood that jutted from the end and tapered off to fine points.
“Pincers. They’re fixed in place, but they’ll act like fingers.”
“They look more like claws.”
“Well, they’re not,” I said. “They’re supposed to be fingers.”
He grunted but said nothing.
I helped him into the contraption and tightened the straps until his new arm was snug against his old.
“Now what?” Cat asked. It was odd hearing him ask me for instructions.
“Now you need to make it an extension of your arm.”
He rolled his eyes and muttered something beneath his breath.
“I’m serious. If you let it remain a separate thing, you’ll never master it.”
“It’s a piece of wood,” he pointed out.
“It’s your arm,” I countered. “It’s like what Frank said about an archer and his bow. There’s no knowing where one ends and the other begins.”
His face softened—slightly. “Now what?” he asked impatiently.
“Now you fire an arrow.”
He looked at me as if judging my sanity. “Well?” he asked, eyes gesturing toward his weapon. “You gonna give it to me or what?”
“I think you can get it on your own.”
As if to spite me, he picked up the bow with his right hand.
“Go on,” I said.
He tried to shift it to his left, but it slipped between the pincers and clattered to the ground. When he tried it again, the same thing happened. And the next time after that.
“This ain’t gonna work,” he said, kicking a pinecone with his foot.
“You’re right. If you give up, it’s not going to work.”
“I’m not giving up.”
“Looks to me like you’re giving up.”
“I’m not giving up.”
His neck and face turned beet red, and for a second I thought he was going to tackle me to the ground and beat the living hell out of me. Even though I outnumbered him two arms to one, I knew there was no way I could take him.
When I pretended to look away, he transferred the bow to his wooden fingers. Unlike before, he took his time, understanding he couldn’t match his former speed. He had to learn a new quality: patience. Not in his current vocabulary.
As he worked, his tongue stuck out of one corner of his mouth. Beads of sweat popped on his forehead. Finally, the pincers managed to balance the bow’s grip.
He reached for an arrow, and because it was his right hand dealing with it, that part was as smooth and effortless as ever. He raised the bow, rotating his left arm just enough to maintain the pincer’s “thumb” in the special notch I’d added to his bow. He pulled the arrow back, held the draw, and let it fly.
A piece of bark went flying as the arrow grazed one side of the tree. The woods were silent, as if all of nature was waiting to see Cat’s reaction.
The expression that settled on his face was an interesting mix of emotions. He was dissatisfied he hadn’t hit the bull’s-eye, even more upset he hadn’t hit the circles at all, but the fact he’d come close—on his first attempt—seemed to give him hope.
“Maybe this’ll work,” he grumbled, and then picked up another arrow. He fired, and it landed with a resounding thwack at the base of the tree, just inches from the circle’s bottom arc. By the time he was drawing the third arrow, he had forgotten I was there. By the fifth, he was landing arrows in the circles, gaining confidence, and I was easing away, happy to know Cat was once again one of us.
50.
THE NEXT DAY THE snows come. Not dry, fluffy flakes, but the thick, heavy stuff. It piles atop their blankets, their clothes, nearly smothers the fire. While Camp Liberty gets only a dusting, where they are—farther up the mountain—it measures a good foot or two. That on top of what was already there. To make their plan work, they need to act fast.
Everyone stays busy. Cat spends countless hours at the archery range, Book and Twitch fiddle with explosives, and Hope and the others divide their time between carving arrows, constructing crossbows, and sewing. Lots and lots of sewing.
By night they huddle around their meager campfire and review their plan.
They gather for a final meal. Scylla has managed to bag four squirrels, and they roast them on a spit. They eat in silence, knowing that after tonight things will be different. They will either be dead, captured, or surrounded by grateful Less Thans.
“To freeing the Less Thans,” Flush says, raising his canteen in a toast.
“To freeing the Less Thans,” the others repeat.
As they pack up and collect their few belongings, everyone works in silence, surrounded by their private thoughts. Hope can’t take her eyes off Book. She knows this may be the last time they’ll be together.
“Hey,” she says, drifting to his side.
“Hey,” he says back.
Their eyes meet—and then instantly dart away. Hope may have promised herself not to fall for him, but the fact is, she wants nothing more than to run off with Book and hide far away somewhere deep within the woods. To live the life her parents lived, cut off from civilization, just the two of them, forever and ever, amen.
But that isn’t possible and she knows it.
“I just want you to know,” she says, “that whatever happens tonight, well, thank you.”
Book seems surprised. “For what?”
“For saving us. For saving me.”
“You saved me too,” he says. “We’re even.”
Tears press against her eyes, so she turns her back, continuing to pack arrows into quivers. Why did I make that silly decision to not let him into my life? What was I thinking?
“Where will you go when we’re done?” Book asks.
“Back to the Sisters,” she manages to say. “I promised Helen I’d join up after we freed the Less Thans.”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.”
“Mm.”
It’s true, Hope thinks. They will be glad to see her. And she’ll be glad to see them. But what she really wants is for Book to convince her to stay with him. To say, Don’t go. Let’s make a life together—you and me.
But he doesn’t say it. And she silently scolds herself for even imagining the possibility.
“And you?” she asks.
“Get these guys to the Heartland. Beyond that, who knows?”
She nods. The reality is they stand little to no chance of making this happen. A ragtag collection of Less Thans and Sisters up against a camp of Brown Shirts? No way they can pull this off. But they have to trick themselves into thinking they can. Why bother otherwise?
“There’s one other place I’d like to go as well,” Book says. “If you’ll let me.”
“If I let you? What’re you talking about?”
“Your childhood home. I’d like to take you to your mom’s grave.”
Now it’s not just tears, it’s a lum
p the size of a plum lodging in her throat. Her muscles go all slack, and when she dares a glance at Book, he’s staring right at her. Their eyes lock.
“Yes, I’ll let you,” she says.
She opens her mouth to say more, but no words come. Hope doesn’t know exactly what she wants to tell Book—doesn’t know what she’s able to tell Book—but she knows exactly what she wants to happen.
She wants Book to wrap her in his arms, wants to feel his breath tickle her ear and to inhale the sweet fragrance of his musky scent, wants to feel the caress of his hands against the small of her back and her body pressed against his. Not out of sheer desire or physical longing but something else. Need. Comfort.
Maybe even something more—like love.
But neither one says or does anything. Finally, Book whispers, “For Faith.”
The tears jump from Hope’s eyes. “For Faith,” she manages to say.
“Live today,” he says.
“Tears tomorrow,” Hope finishes.
She smiles gratefully . . . and turns away.
By now, everyone is packed and ready to go. They douse the fire and hike down the mountain single file, plowing through the snow. No one speaks a word, and Hope wonders if she and Book will share a moment together ever again.
They crouch in bushes and watch. Even though the hole—the mass grave—is no deeper than when they first saw it, the Brown Shirts have built a fire there, an enormous bonfire in the earthen pit. Hope wonders why. Is it to burn off the downed trees they’ve bulldozed, or is it there for other reasons? Reasons having to do with incinerating corpses?
One thing she knows for sure: Dr. Gallingham is present, directing the soldiers how best to feed the flames. Just seeing him makes Hope’s pulse race, and her fingers grip her spear. But she knows now is not the time.
A Humvee pulls up and Chancellor Maddox steps out. When Gallingham sees her, he retrieves a small metal box—identical to the one on that deserted country road. He opens it reverently and removes a tiny object. The chancellor takes it, placing it in her briefcase.
Hope and the others have seen enough. They circle the camp and reach the western gate, slipping through the gap in the chain-link fence. Only Twitch and Argos stay on the outside. The other seven tiptoe from one building to the next. Book leaves the group at the back of the Quonset hut; Cat separates a few moments later. Flush leads the remaining five, stopping at the back of Camp Liberty’s storehouse. They wait, crouched in shadows.
Time passes. Hope tries not to worry, but the fact is that Book is out there by himself. The thought of him fills her with a million regrets.
They hear a bird cry—three times—and Hope begins to count aloud. At ten, they hear two muffled explosions: one from the western part of camp, one from the east. Scylla throws herself against the storehouse door. The jamb splinters and they rush inside.
A siren wails, and the camp is bathed in illumination—towering banks of floodlights. Then the sounds of shouting and distant footfalls.
“Everyone good to go?” Hope asks.
The others nod. Even Four Fingers seems to understand what’s expected of him.
They move quickly through the aisles, grabbing supplies. As they reach the second floor, Hope hesitates by the window; she can just make out the entrance to the Quonset hut. Three Humvees come to a sliding stop, slinging snow and dirt. Brown Shirts pour out, rifles drawn.
Scylla tugs at Hope’s sleeve, but Hope can’t tear herself away—because the Quonset hut is exactly where Book is. He’s inside that very building.
51.
I FIGURED THE EXPLOSION would rouse some Brown Shirts; I didn’t think it would wake all of Camp Liberty.
The cold had made the C-4 firm, and it took far longer to mold it to the Quonset hut’s back door than I had hoped. When I finished, I let out a birdcall. Three times.
The explosives popped open the door and sent up an angry cloud of black smoke. By the time the soldiers appeared, I was still in the process of ripping the door from its hinges. I had yet to sneak out a single Less Than. The soldiers bound my hands behind my back and marched me across the infield.
Colonel Westbrook sat behind his desk, his eyes as coal black as ever. Sergeant Dekker was also there. “Slice Slice,” he said, presenting an oily smile that seemed to drip grease. I couldn’t turn away fast enough.
There were three others in the room as well, hunkered in shadows. Chancellor Maddox. Dr. Gallingham. Colonel Thorason. I wondered why they were all there. Was it to witness the mass burial in the open pit? The completion of the Final Solution?
“Ah, 183,” Colonel Westbrook said, calling me by my old camp number. “I was hoping we’d run into each other again.”
I grunted. I was in no mood to talk.
“Frankly, I’m surprised you came back. Did you really think you could free seventy-five Less Thans?”
It was hard not to agree with him—it suddenly seemed like the most ridiculous plan of all time.
“You’re killing them,” I said.
“They’re killing themselves. We can’t help it if they don’t eat.”
“Maybe you should try feeding them.”
“I see you’ve been listening to the rumor mill. Let me guess. Red? Or maybe your friend’s father: Major Karsten?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “You’re the one who likes to read, aren’t you? How’s that working out for you?”
More than anything in the world, I wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face. “You have no right to treat human beings like that.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But since Less Thans aren’t really human, it’s not really an issue, is it?”
From the corner, Dr. Gallingham burst into schoolboy giggles.
“All part of your ‘Final Solution’?” I asked through gritted teeth.
Westbrook’s eyebrows arched in surprise, and Chancellor Maddox stepped from the shadows, the briefcase handcuffed to her left wrist. “What have you heard?” she asked.
“Just that you don’t trust anyone who doesn’t look like you.”
“You’re too young to understand. You don’t know what it’s like to watch your country change.”
“You mean since Omega?”
“I mean before Omega.” There was a smugness in her tone, an I-know-something-that-you-don’t kind of tone. An attitude that drove me crazy, especially from adults.
“Too bad you’re only chancellor of the territory and not president of the whole country,” I said.
A smile lifted her cheeks. “That may change after the Conclave.” She shot a look to the doctor.
It was the second time I’d heard the word—the first was from Goodman Nellitch before he fell to his death. “What’s the Conclave?” I asked.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
When I realized she wasn’t going to tell me any more, my eyes fell on Colonel Westbrook, sitting slumped in his chair. His comb-over was damp with perspiration, and it struck me that there was something supremely pathetic about him. Funny I hadn’t seen it before.
“And let me guess,” I said. “No place for Less Thans in this changing America?”
The chancellor gave me a look that was supposed to be apologetic. To me, it just looked smug. “We can’t very well have a perfect civilization with the deformed.” She said it like it was a swear word. “But we do make exceptions.” She pulled open the door and gave a nod. A Brown Shirt shuffled in.
Dozer. Something about seeing him wearing the uniform of the enemy was more than I could stomach. Even though my wrists were bound behind my back, I lowered my shoulder and threw myself into his barrel chest.
“Oomph,” he cried, and went staggering backward. His head collided with the wall, and a picture went crashing to the floor. Glass shattered.
He shook his head and came at me. His strong hand wrapped around my neck and I felt my face go purple.
Only reluctantly did Sergeant Dekker separate us. “Enough,” he said to Dozer. “You’ll get y
our time.”
I was bent over at the waist, trying to catch my breath. “How could you?” I gasped. “You’re a Less Than.”
“Was a Less Than. I’m a Brown Shirt now.”
Chancellor Maddox smiled all angelic-like. “You see, Book? Your friend here might be imperfect, but we accepted him into the fold.”
“Bought him into the fold, more like it. And he’s not my friend.”
From outside I heard two birdcalls.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Now we find out who else accompanied you here,” the chancellor said.
“You really want to know?”
“We do.”
“An army.”
Dozer laughed. “You wish,” he said.
“I don’t need to wish; it’s true.”
He laughed again. Harsher, more mocking.
At just that moment a loud explosion rocked the camp, rattling the windowpanes. The electricity went out a moment later.
“What the hell was that?” Colonel Westbrook asked.
“An army,” I said, “taking out your generators.”
Chancellor Maddox didn’t buy it. “Nothing more than parlor tricks,” she said.
She fumbled for a match, lighting a candle. Another explosion followed, louder than the first. This one shook the walls. She turned to me as if studying me for the first time. Sergeant Dekker whipped out a knife and held it to my throat. A third explosion came. It was the loudest of all, followed by an enormous fireball that lit up the sky.
“The vehicle compound,” Westbrook said breathlessly.
The chancellor, the two colonels, and Dr. Gallingham made for the door. “Don’t lose sight of him,” the colonel said to Dekker. “And if he makes any noise at all, cut his throat.”
“My pleasure,” Dekker said.
“Just so you know,” Chancellor Maddox added before stepping outside. “I suppose you remember your friend from the Hunters. Wears orange a lot. Has a scar on the side of his face from a certain propane explosion. He’ll be joining us soon. And I’m sure he would like nothing more than to see you for a final time.”
She smiled her beauty-queen smile before disappearing into the hall.