“I’ve never seen a car without a tracker. How do you get away with it?” I ask.
“Most of us don’t make a presence in the city. We don’t hold careers and our chips have just enough information on them to avoid questions. It’s best that our whereabouts stay off of public record, especially yours.” His reply, though thorough, doesn’t actually answer my question of how he gets away without having a tracker, but I decide it’s best to not prod further, mostly because I’m not entirely interested in an answer.
The truck glides over the asphalt with ease as we enter into the city; its guts must be much newer than the body.
“So, we need to make a stop at the market for some food and some samarium if we can find any,” he says.
“Oh, on the black market?” I ask and he nods. My body tenses slightly and I wish I would have stayed back at the manor.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
I swallow hard and force my body to regain its natural disposition. “Yep!” I smile, a little too eager and I know, without a doubt that he picks up on my unease. “I get the food, but what do we need samarium for?” I ask.
“All of the electronics we use, we build, and in order for the motors to work we need samarium,” he says which appeases my curiosity but I still don’t totally understand.
The Class 1 ward is alive with pedestrians shuffling from one place to the next, older men sit on a bench conversing about whatever it is older men converse about, a few kids play some makeshift baseball game in the street and I realize that I’ve never been in the lower sectors in the evening, when people are going about their lives. The truck creeps into an alley and Judah turns off the engine. “We’ll park here and walk the rest of the way.”
I follow his lead and walk out onto the broken cobblestone streets. The ward is loud and after being in the countryside it takes a moment for my ears to adjust to the noise. Judah walks a sure footed route like he’s done this a hundred times until we come to a store front, blue paint peeling from its wooden walls. The front is littered with shards of glass from broken windowpanes and a swinging sign above reads “Apothecary,” though I doubt any sales have taken place inside in some time. Judah checks over his shoulders then opens the door. The boards creak beneath our feet and as I expected, the space within is completely deserted.
“Hmm.” My mixture of confusion and intrigue becomes audible and escapes me.
“You okay?” he asks.
I look around, searching the empty store. “I don’t know. I guess I expected there to be more activity?”
“The main route is a click to the north, in a Class 2 ward actually. I found this route a few years ago, quieter, safer.” I follow him behind a dusty counter and he opens a bottom cabinet. Inside, a makeshift trapdoor hides and he pulls the latch and lifts the door from its resting place. “Sorry, it’s sort of filthy and not well made but I couldn’t walk in here with a tool bag and begin construction, you know?” His need for my approval is unexpected and I smile and nod. “It’s fine.”
He found this route years ago, years. Years of his life have been spent finding routes to a black market, have been spent stuck at The Manor, because of me. I don’t know how he can stand to be around me. I follow him down a ladder and into the water tunnels.
“It’s about half a click south from here.” Click, his jargon sheds some light on the militant nature of the Tylins. He is a soldier, and I’m not sure I want to be one. “We can get pretty much anything you need while we’re here, if, I don’t know, you need anything.” His cautious nature makes it increasingly difficult to feel comfortable. “I know I get sick of drinking water, maybe some coke or something?” His attempt at small talk is incredibly awkward and I wish we could fast forward to the part where we know each other and are friends.
“I don’t drink coke,” I say. He pauses for a moment and I stop behind him, then without saying anything he begins walking again. Chatter in the distance pierces the sound of streaming water and I try looking around Judah but his frame is too large in the small tunnel and I have to settle for listening intently. Finally, the tunnel opens up to a large concrete room, easily the size of four Academy campuses, filled with vendors selling every odd and end imaginable: food, alcohol, tools, weapons, musical instruments, medical supplies, everything.
“I spoke ahead of time with Gillian, the woman who runs that food mart over there. We can pick up the order on the way out. She’s a nice lady.” Judah’s eyes scan the marketplace. “There he is,” he says and nods to a boy standing behind a cart reading a comic book. “Okay, now don’t say anything. Even if he tries to talk to you, do not say a word.”
“Seriously? That kid can’t be older than 10,” I say.
“His name’s Fitz and he’s craftier than you think. Runs the stand for his dad, who’s a nice guy but not someone I’d like to have any more information on us than need be.”
Judah places his hands on the stand and the boy looks up from the comic. His shaggy strawberry blonde hair hasn’t been cut in too long and it covers his eyes, prompting him to continually push it away from his face. “How’d you manage to get your hands on that?” Judah motions to the comic. The boy looks up unimpressed.
“I don’t know, how you’d manage to get a hold of her?” the boy says, nodding at me and I can’t help but laugh. Judah rolls his eyes and smirks.
“I need some samarium, Fitz, you have any?”
“Of course. But it’ll cost you,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah.” Judah swings his backpack onto the makeshift counter. “Lets see, how about some knives?” Judah rolls out a cloth containing eight or so blades. He’s about to give a ten-year-old a handful of knives. Yes, this is why I don’t come here.
“I don’t need anymore weapons, and Dad definitely doesn’t. What else you got?” Fitz stands and lays his comic on the counter, peering into Judah’s backpack. “How about the tablet?” the boy asks.
Judah stares at him. “You have to be kidding.”
“What?” Fitz asks as if he’s insulted. “You don’t think I could work it?” Judah places his hand flat on the table and brings his lower jaw to the slight right, pondering the trade. His mind clicks into motion and he picks up the tablet, selecting a sequence that I assume cleans the memory and hands it to Fitz. “Deal.”
The boy’s face lights up and it’s obvious that he didn’t think the barter would work.
I follow Judah to the food mart and after we pick up the sacks we head back towards the way we came. “You know he probably would have taken something less valuable than your tablet,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Yeah, I know.” His response is a small glimpse into who he is and I appreciate him showing me.
The rest of the walk is quiet until we reach the street. “The sacks we’re carrying are supposed to contain metal scraps for deposit. No one should bother us, but if for whatever reason anything happens, I want you to drop the sacks and run back towards The Manor.” He hands me a piece of paper with coordinates scribbled across them. “Go there and wait.”
I lug the sack over my shoulder and try to portray a heavier weight than the fruit that’s inside. Though the streets are slightly quieter, citizens are still bustling. As we near the legitimate food rationing market, a familiar face catches my eye, a small girl. It’s the sister of Gad, the boy from the bus stop. She scans the vendor’s carts and, once she feels the coast is clear, snatches an apple from the unsuspecting vendor and walks away. I smile at her achievement until I watch as her hunger overcomes her sensibility and her tiny hand brings the apple to her lips and she bites down.
“Hey! You! Girl!” the vendor shouts. “Officers! Thief!” he yells and he points towards the girl. Run, run, I will her. My heart begins to quicken and I begin to move to her but Judah clutches his hand around my arm and keeps me at bay.
The soldiers approach the girl. “Hey, kid, where did you get that?” The girl trembles at the soldiers forceful questioning. “Did you steal that?”
“I asked you a question, girl.” She’s helpless to reply and stands frozen. The backhand of the second soldier cuts through the hair, hitting the girl’s cheek hard and she cries out in pain, falling against the pavement.
“He asked you a question,” says the second soldier as he releases a baton from his belt and steps toward the girl for a second strike.
“Stop!” Gad races into the center of the marketplace, now crowded with silent spectators. “She didn’t mean to, she’s sorry,” he pleads, reaching for his sister.
“Stealing is a capital offence,” the first soldier says. “Hand her over.”
“Please officers, we’re sorry, it won’t happen again.”
The first soldier leans over Gad. “You see these people here, son? Now what would they think if we let your sister go without punishment? It can’t happen. No tolerance means no tolerance. Now hand her over.”
“What will you do with her?” Gad asks.
“I’m not a judge, but I suspect she’ll go to the labor camp just like any other thief would.”
“What?” Gad shouts, outraged. “Over an apple?”
“Are you suggesting we display preferential treatment, son?” the soldier says.
“No.” Gad licks his lips, trying desperately to find a way out of this mess. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” He pauses. “Sir?”
“You could take her punishment for her, there is precedent for that,” adds the second soldier. His companion stares at him.
Gad looks at his sister, and wipes the tears away from her face, nodding, “Yeah, okay, I’ll do it.”
Immediately the second soldier grabs Gads arm and stands him against the wall. I twist from beneath Judas grip. The soldier walks back so that he stands beside the first soldier. “What’s happening?” Gad mumbles, searching the crowd for answers.
“The punishment for males caught stealing is immediate expiration.” The soldier pulls his gun from his belt and fires.
“NO!” I scream as Gad’s body crumbles to the ground and lays still, blood trickling from the wound in his forehead. My heart pounds through my ears and I lunge forward but Judah restrains me and pulls my face into his chest.
“It’s too late, he’s gone, there's nothing we can do. We need to go,” Judah says. I can’t breathe, I can’t think and if it weren’t for Judah physically holding me in place, neither of those soldiers’ heads would be attached to their bodies.
Once in the car and away from the city centre my nerves explode. “How could you do that?” I demand.
“Do what?” he asks. I can’t understand how he is so composed.
“Exactly! You did nothing! You just stood there and let him die! You watched. You aren’t some noble guardian, you are disgusting! How can you even live with yourself?”
His jaw slacks and he breathes deeply as he parks the truck in front of The Manor. “It’s not that simple, Katie. As much as you want it to be, it just isn’t. There’s protocol, and—”
“Screw your protocol,” I say getting out of the truck and staring at him. “You’re weak.”
I race up the four flights of stairs that lead to my room and grab the journal off of my desk, rage pulsing through every single vein, every single muscle, every single thought. Flipping through the pages, I skim each entry for the name Dante. My search yields no results and I toss the leather bound book back onto the desk. I fall backwards onto my bed so that my feet dangle off of the edge and I feel as though I could scream until no more words exist within me, until this feeling of hate subsides. I stand up and pace the outline of the sickly pale walls, feeling as though I could successfully jump out of my own skin at any given moment. I violently unclasp the charge on my wrist and drop it to the ground. Instantly I can breathe again. I fall to my knees and the darkness that has become all too familiar begins to creep in again.
“Katie…” His hand grazes mine and my eyelids open to his voice.
“Judah.” I smile, though my fatigue is nearly unbearable and I wince at the energy wasting gesture. When the fever started, I barely stopped to take the time to notice the pain, the fire in my joints and throat. It wasn’t until my legs became heavy that I realized anything was wrong at all, and by then, it was too late. “Katie, you don’t need to do this, we can find a different way.” His eyes are dulled with sleeplessness and I wonder how much of it is my fault. “This…” he gestures to my sudden condition, to the cold bleak hospital room that surrounds us. “This isn’t the end, it doesn’t have to be.”
“Judah…” I press. “What would come of us? Would I lead from a back bedroom? It can’t be, not like this.”
“We have a President with polio, and—”
“Yeah, well no offence to the President,” I interrupt. “But I think this is a little different.” I hold his hand in mine and readjust the pillows behind me so that I can sit up. “I need you to take the chart at the end of my bed and get rid of it, and hand me some gauze. There should be some in that drawer over there.” I point to the white rolling cart near the end of my bed. His eyes flicker down and he reluctantly stands, obliging my request.
“What about Abel? Have you even sent word to him? Does he even know what has happened? What you’ve decided?” Judah doesn’t care if Abel knows, he’s using him as a measure against me, he can’t possibly think I’m too dull to realize what he’s doing, can he?
“I trust you’ll inform him and that when you do, I trust he’ll understand why I’m doing what I’m doing.” I knock my hand into my unresponsive legs. “He won’t just understand, he’ll agree. Now take the chart and turn the radio up. The Andrews Sisters sing this song, yeah? Too bad I’m not old enough to have a rum and Coca-Cola right about now, huh?” I laugh. I laugh because the tension is too thick, I laugh because I’m scared and I don’t want him to know.
“Next time I see you, we’ll have one together.” He leans over me, placing the gauze in my hand and presses his lips to my forehead. I watch him leave, knowing it’s the last I will see him for some time. I wrap the white strips around my head a few times and throw the rest of the roll to the other side of the room. Closing my eyes, I listen to the music playing through the yellow radio that sits on the windowsill. I listen intently to the rhythm of the guitar and the beat of the drum until a click enters the refrain and I pause as the clicks get louder.
“I was wondering when you would show up. How are you, Dante?” I say and I open my eyes to the sight of his red hair fighting for freedom beneath a blue baseball cap. He motions to the chair asking for permission to sit. “By all means,” I say, smiling.
“Well, Miss Quill, it would seem as though I’m doing better than you are. When I heard you were having a stay in the hospital, I rushed right over to see how you are,” he says, grinning.
“How kind of you. Tell me, Dante,” I interlace my fingers and set them on my lap, narrowing my eyes. “Will this be considered some sort of a win for you? Rather, is this type of kill, harming the already wounded, is this the sort of thing the Brotherhood congratulates on? Will there be a promotion in ranks for you afterwards?” I bite my bottom lip as if my question is anything other than a precise jab to his inflated ego.
“You know, Miss Quill, I will most likely be paraded as a hero for the next few decades and I thank you for making my task,” he pauses and stands, nearing my bedside, “simple.”
I can’t swallow my contempt for him a second longer, I can’t stand that he believes he has conquered me, that he feels stronger than I am, that he doesn’t realize this is my decision and that he is merely a pawn.
“You’re pathetic.” No sooner do the words spew from my mouth than his blade slides across my throat. I choke on salted blood but soon feel warmth as the corners and music slowly fade away.
Altruist (The Altruist Series Book 1) Page 15