by Tom Isbell
The Brown Shirt examines the papers carefully, especially the picture. His eyes dart back and forth between the photograph and Cat’s actual face.
“I know, I know,” Cat says, “it doesn’t look like me. That’s what a lot of people say.”
Pockmark grunts. His gaze lands on Cat’s artificial hand. “What happened there?”
“Hunting accident. No biggie.”
Pockmark shuffles through the papers. “How come it’s not listed?”
“It’s not?” Cat asks innocently. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the other soldier inching closer, his index finger gripping the trigger of his M4.
“You sure this is you?” the first soldier asks.
“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”
Just as the second Brown Shirt exits the shed and begins to bring the barrel of his gun toward Cat’s chest, a thin wire wraps around his neck and is snapped back. The soldier’s mouth opens and the assault rifle clatters to the ground. Hope pulls at the wire until the soldier’s eyes bulge.
Pockmark drops the papers and reaches for his pistol. Sunshine appears with a wire of his own, and Pockmark has no choice but to drop his weapon.
Cat begins binding the soldiers’ hands.
“Fine, you tied us up, you win,” Pockmark says with a smirk. “But there are a lot more soldiers up top than just the two of us.”
Hope’s doubts start to overwhelm her. What was she thinking, trying to get past the Brown Shirts and enter a secure fortress? Is she really willing to say good-bye to everything—her friends, Book, life itself—just for revenge?
“So I guess that’s that,” Sunshine says.
Hope gives her head a shake. “Nothing changes. I’m still going up there.”
She doesn’t know how, she doesn’t know what she’ll find. She’s not even sure she’ll succeed. But unfinished business is unfinished business, and there’s no turning back from that.
13.
“FREEZE, FLUSH!” I COMMANDED, and he could tell from my tone I wasn’t kidding around. “Now, slowly step away. No big movements.”
“Is it …?”
I gave a nod.
“What’ll happen if it goes off?”
“Let’s not find out, okay?”
I knew what TNT could do. And with that many pounds of explosives—and all those cans of gasoline—the Brown Shirts weren’t just looking to blow up a single chamber; they meant to destroy the entire Compound. Leave no trace. If we didn’t get out of there, we’d be buried beneath tons of rock and earth. Not an image I wanted to dwell on.
Flush backed up, eyes wide. His feet guided him through the maze of explosives. At a turn in the path, his foot accidentally nudged a can of gasoline, and we inhaled sharply. The can teetered but stayed upright. We let out a long, slow breath.
“What now?” Red asked, when Flush finally joined us.
“Forget the food,” Flush said, still breathing heavily. “We gotta get out of here.”
It was hard to argue. We’d come here hoping to find something to eat, maybe even recruit an army. It was obvious neither wish would come true. We had to get out while we could.
Still, there was maybe one thing we could salvage.
“You go on ahead,” I said. “I’ll join up later.”
Flush looked at me like I was crazy. “What’re you talking about? They’re going to blow this place to smithereens. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
“I know, but there’s something I need to do.” He was about to protest, but I didn’t let him. “I’ll be quick. Promise.”
Shaking their heads, they eased back down the tunnel and were swallowed by black. I took a deep breath, then scurried across the chamber.
There had been a time when I’d worked in the Compound. Not just the Wheel, but also the library. It was where I was headed now.
Like a rat in a maze, I raced down one tunnel after another, backtracking whenever I ran into a dead end. I’d never approached the library from this direction, and it took me a while to get my bearings. Every so often I heard the two soldiers’ voices, and I flattened myself against the damp limestone walls, praying for invisibility.
When I finally found the library, I yanked a torch from the wall and lit it with my flint, and the flame cast a flickering light on the countless shelves of books. A thick layer of dust coated everything in sight: books, tables, chairs. My eyes darted across the titles. In the background, the soldiers’ voices grew louder. I had to work fast.
Twenty years ago—following Omega—the country that was formerly the United States of America established a new government. They created new borders, wrote a new set of rules, and confiscated all the maps. It was a new country, they told the citizens. The Republic of the True America. There was no point living in the past. No place for old geography.
For nearly a year, we had been blindly traipsing across the Western Federation Territory, trying to get from one point to the next. But if we actually knew where we were going, wouldn’t we stand a better chance? If the Compound couldn’t give us food or armies, it could at least give us knowledge.
My eyes landed on an oversize book. Its jacket was torn and faded, but the title was clear enough. Atlas of the World. Even though it was decades old, it was exactly what I was looking for.
I slipped the torch into a holder and then pulled the atlas from the shelf. As I laid it on the table, an explosion of dust mushroomed up. My fingers raced through the pages, not stopping until I reached the desired page.
The United States of America.
Poring over it, I took in the green of the South and East, the rugged browns and purples of the West, the five enormous lakes at the top of the page, the vast expanses of blue to the east and west. There was something about it that seemed so different from the world I knew. Organized. Unified. Serene.
I knew it couldn’t have been as idyllic as it looked on the page, but a part of me ached for a return to that life, when everyone was a part of the whole and there weren’t men on ATVs hunting down the weak and different. A return to a world without Less Thans.
Soldiers’ voices broke me from my reverie. I had to hurry.
The book was way too big to take with me, so I ripped out the map’s two adjoining pages, then folded and stuffed them into a back pocket. For good measure, I found a map of the entire world and tore that out as well. Maybe there would come a day when we could safely explore other parts of the planet.
Yeah, right.
Retracing my steps, I made my way back through the Compound, easing around corners to avoid being seen. Despite the cold of this subterranean world, perspiration dotted my forehead, slid down my jaw.
I had just reached the far side of the central chamber when I saw them—the two Brown Shirts whose footsteps we’d trailed here. I ducked behind a boulder and watched as they strode toward the center of the room, joking and laughing. As long as they were there, I was stuck. The tunnel I needed to exit from was on the very opposite side of the chamber.
The soldiers inspected the gas cans and dynamite, taking their time.
Come on, I silently pleaded. Get out of there. Go away.
While I waited, my eyes took in my surroundings. As in the rest of the Compound, there were bodies scattered everywhere, resting atop pools of dried blood. Their stiff limbs were splayed in multiple directions, as if they were reaching for one last gasp of life.
And that’s when I saw her.
Miranda.
She was curled on her side as though she’d just lain down to take a nap—like I could nudge her shoulder and she would wake. But of course she was dead, and had been for some time.
I bent down beside her, easing her body over until she rested on her back. Her hair was pulled back in its customary ponytail, and her face was pale and gaunt. Smudge marks dotted her cheeks, just as they had when I’d seen her last in the Wheel, running off down the tunnel to distract the Crazies.
Even though death had bloated her body, and dried
blood smeared her chin and neck, she was still recognizable, her metallic pendant around her neck.
It was Miranda and at the same time it wasn’t. Without her jokes and smile, she was just the empty shell of a body. Not the same Miranda at all. And then it hit me—I would never fully know whether she had actually liked me or if that was just an act. She took those answers with her to the grave.
I have no idea how long I knelt there, taking in Miranda’s face, waiting for her eyes to flutter open. They never did.
It was the sound of the soldiers’ footsteps that brought me back to the present. I peeked around the corner and watched as they made their way to a wall sconce. One of them grabbed the torch and then they left. Silence followed.
I waited for the echo of their footsteps to fade away before I emerged. They were gone. If I hurried, I could carry Miranda through the chamber and back down the tunnel, laying her to rest at her father’s side. It seemed the right thing to do.
I took her cold, stiff hand in mine, and was just preparing to lift her lifeless body into my arms when I heard a new sound. It was distant and faint and oddly urgent, and its muffled quality made it hard for me to identify. I froze in place, trying to figure it out.
When the sound emerged from the tunnel—the very one the two Brown Shirts had departed through—I could suddenly hear its high-pitched crackle. Its racing sputter. Its snakelike spit and sizzle.
It was a fuse … making its way to the cans of gas and TNT.
14.
HOPE REALIZES THERE’S NO way she can make it up to the Eagle’s Nest riding in the tram. Once the door opens at the top, she’ll be captured and probably killed. So if she can’t ride up in the tram, maybe she can ride up on it.
That’s why she grips the metal plates that connect the tram car to the cable.
“See you in exactly one hour,” Cat says, synchronizing his watch. They know the tram runs exactly every fifteen minutes.
Just as Hope wonders if she’s making a huge mistake, the tram gives a jerk and she is on her way. No turning back now. As the tram rises above the snow-covered boulders and trees, soaring up the mountainside, Cat and Sunshine get smaller and smaller until they’re no bigger than ants.
What she hadn’t counted on was the wind. It was breezy down at the base of the mountain, but up here it’s howling. Gusts tear at Hope’s fingers and screech between the cables. Blankets of snow swirl in mini tornadoes.
The tram sways and lurches, rocking violently side to side. It’s everything Hope can do to hold on. Her fingers are numb from clinging to the biting-cold metal.
She lifts her head and sees a tiny red spot coming her way: the other tram. When one tram goes up, the other automatically comes down. Which means that in a couple of minutes, the two cars will pass side by side, and if there are Brown Shirts in the descending tram, what’s to prevent them from seeing her?
Her mind races, even as the other tram grows larger. Digging her numb fingers into the metal plate, she inches her legs around until the lower half of her body hangs over the far side of the tram. There’s virtually no feeling in her fingers at all, and it’s a minor miracle she’s able to hold on. She doesn’t let herself look down.
The two trams grow close, then near … then pass. Two red squares passing high above the mountainside. No shouts of alarm. No gunshots. Hope lets out a long breath.
A quick glance shows the descending tram is crowded with Brown Shirts, too occupied with their own conversations to spy her. When they’re far away, Hope manages to climb back on top of the tram. The top of the mountain can’t come soon enough.
Although the Eagle’s Nest looked impressive from the bottom of the mountain, it’s even more menacing from up close. Stone walls jut from the cliff face. Spires rise to the skies. It’s an impregnable fortress perched atop a steep mountain.
The tram slows, and Hope can make out the station now. There are two Brown Shirts there, each with an M4 slung over his shoulder. There’s no way she can stay on top of the tram without being seen. She’ll have to think of something else.
Live today, tears tomorrow.
Before the tram shudders to a stop, she leaps from the top, flying through air and landing in a deep snowbank. Of course, just beneath the snow is a granite boulder, and her impact is harder than she expects. It takes everything in her power not to cry out.
She lies there a moment, waiting for the pain in her ankles to subside, listening to hear if the Brown Shirts spotted her. Their laughter and jokes continue as before.
A glance at her watch tells her ten minutes have passed. That leaves only fifty. She needs to get going.
She scrambles up the mountainside, pulling herself up to a ledge. To reach the interior of the fortress, it appears as though soldiers have to walk through a long, damp tunnel burrowed within the mountain. She’s thankful that the few lightbulbs that do work are dim and spaced far apart.
She tugs her cap low and enters the tunnel. The walk seems to take forever, the sound of her footsteps echoing against the stone. The arched stone ceiling drips water.
At the end of the tunnel is a large elevator, and when the door opens she steps inside, admiring the polished brass walls, the immaculate interior. Not what she expected. She presses the button for the top floor, and her stomach drops as the elevator shoots upward. Her hand rests on the handle of her knife, jutting from her waistband.
When she steps out of the elevator, breath leaves her. The exterior wall of the Eagle’s Nest may be a medieval fortress, with its thick stone and crenellated parapets, but the inside is all twenty-first century. Buildings made of chrome and glass reach for the sky. Tinted windows glint in the late-afternoon sun. Everything sparkles and shines.
A glance inside the buildings shows atria with water-spewing fountains, escalators moving people effortlessly up and down, coffee shops and bakeries, banks and grocery stores. It’s like she’s landed on another planet.
And the people—not just soldiers but men and women in suits and lab coats, all in a hurry, moving briskly atop paved, spotless streets. No one pays Hope the least bit of attention. Keeping her head lowered, she edges her way through the fortress, trying not to gawk.
Rounding a corner, she spies the most prominent structure of all: a towering, white, cylinder-shaped building, located in the very center of the Eagle’s Nest. It’s over a dozen stories tall, and its top floors are circled by walls of darkened glass. Judging by the guards standing at the entrance, Hope guesses that’s where Chancellor Maddox keeps her headquarters. Maybe she’s staring down at Hope this very instant.
Hope glances at her watch. Thirty minutes have passed. Time is running out.
She makes a large loop within the Eagle’s Nest, walking by a sophisticated power grid, a soldiers’ barracks, and a bare area at the very edge of the fortress walls where Brown Shirts patrol with binoculars pressed against their eyes.
Eventually, she’s drawn to a back alley by a series of loud sounds: clanking of metal, drone of generators, electric fizz of welders. The buildings are more industrial in this part of the fortress, and the workers wear coveralls and hard hats.
Hope stops when she spies a large garage filled with military trucks. Several dozen mechanics scramble under engine hoods and chassis, stripping the trucks’ flatbeds, leaving solid sheets of dark steel in their place. She wants to watch longer—to figure out what they’re doing—but there’s not time.
She walks toward a central courtyard, her attention grabbed by throng of bystanders. She can’t tell what they’re up to, only that they’ve formed a tight circle and seem to be enjoying themselves. She drifts in their direction, ducking her face beneath her hat to hide her tea-colored skin.
As she nears the edge of the circle, she can hear taunts, jeers, mean-spirited laughter.
“You missed a spot!”
“Still dirty!”
“No stopping until you get it clean, you filthy Less Than!”
Her heart thumps against her chest, and she’s
suddenly not sure she wants to go any farther. But just at that moment the crowd parts and she’s afforded a glimpse.
Crouched in the middle of the circle, on hands and knees and surrounded by the taunting mob, is a girl about her age, scrubbing the pavement while men and women spit on her. The closer Hope looks, the more she realizes she’s seen this girl before. Knows this girl.
It’s Scylla!
Because the Sisters and Less Thans never found her body, they assumed she had been killed by the avalanche. But here she is, with a pail of water in one hand and a filthy rag in the other, while the crowd peppers her with kicks and insults.
“Better get it spotless, you subhuman mongrel!”
“If you can’t clean it with that rag, we’ll make you lick it off!”
Although she is still all muscle, she has clearly lost a good deal of weight since Hope saw her last. In addition, bruises color her face. Scylla survived the avalanche, only to be captured by Brown Shirts and forced to endure this.
Anger boils inside Hope, and she reaches for her knife. But even as her fingers wrap around the handle, she realizes there’s nothing to be done. Not now. Not one against a mob. As she comes to this decision, her heart goes out to her friend, wondering what she did to deserve this.
Then again, Hope knows the answer to that. Scylla was born a twin—a prized commodity for the likes of Chancellor Maddox and Dr. Gallingham. And because she’s been experimented on, she’s no longer pure. She has no value. She’s a Less Than—the greatest crime of all.
Hope has to get back down the mountain. There’s nothing she can do for Scylla. Not now. She’s sorry to leave, but she has no choice. Maybe she can come back later and try to rescue her friend. She hopes so.
She turns back around … and there he is.
Dr. Gallingham. He is standing on the very edge of the circle, watching this drama play out with a pleased expression, his hands folded tidily across his bulging paunch. He is just as she remembered him: obese, smug, his thin lips pressed together in what passes for a smile. He dabs a soiled hanky at an eye.