by Tom Isbell
Hope and I studied the map. “Is there enough gas?” she asked.
“I put some spare cans in the back. Should be enough to get you there. I can’t promise about the return.”
Hope didn’t respond—it was like she didn’t care about that small detail—and Dougherty went on.
“I picked up some more weapons, too—knives, bows and arrows, slingshots. Figured we’d be needing ’em.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m not kicking you out or anything, but if you hope to stop her in time, you better get going.”
There was an awkward moment as the eight of us looked at one another. Here we’d just reunited and now we were splitting up again.
Once more, we exchanged handshakes and hugs, but this time ones of farewell. When I went to shake Cat’s hand, he waved me off.
“I’ll see you again,” he growled.
We’d had our share of good-byes before, but this one felt different—maybe even permanent.
As Hope, Argos, and I climbed into the Humvee, Dougherty said, “I never asked. Do you know how to drive one of these things?”
Hope shrugged. “If Brown Shirts can do it, how difficult can it be?”
She put her foot on the gas and we peeled out, flinging mud. I glanced out the side window and saw the other six standing in the shadow of the ridge, waving good-bye. I had a feeling I would never see them again.
PART THREE
RELEASE
We have it in our power to begin the world over again.
—THOMAS PAINE
41.
WE TOOK TURNS DRIVING, one catching z’s when the other was at the wheel. Occasionally we passed other Humvees, but no one gave us a second glance. We were just one more military vehicle keeping the RTA safe from harm.
We drove through the night, all the next day, into the next night and day as well. We knew our timeline. The inauguration was just days away, and the math was pretty simple: either we got to Chancellor Maddox before then … or it wouldn’t matter.
The farther north we drove, the more snow we saw. Up there in the foothills of Skeleton Ridge, it was still late winter, the earth frozen.
Once, when we stopped, I caught Hope looking up at the millions of stars pressing down on us. She extended her hand, fooling herself into thinking she could actually touch one. When she saw me watching her, she blushed and tightened the hoodie around her face.
“Come on,” she muttered. “Let’s get going.”
We got back in the car and drove on.
“You think we’ll see him again?” I asked. She was at the wheel, I was riding shotgun.
“Who?”
“Cat.”
“Course we’ll see him. Nothing can destroy that guy.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about.”
Hope didn’t speak. Her gaze followed the headlight beams until they faded into black.
“You’re not planning on coming back, are you?” I asked.
At first, I wasn’t sure she’d heard me. The tires hissed. Argos snored softly from the backseat.
“One way or the other, Chancellor Maddox was responsible for the death of every single person in my family,” she said, “and I’m going to end her life if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Whether I live or die is irrelevant. In fact, it’s probably better if I die. Less hurt that way.”
“Not for me.”
She offered a weak smile, and her hand fumbled for mine in the dark. “Oh, Book. You and me, we could never make it. We’re too different.”
“You mean because I like to read and you don’t? So I’ll read enough for both of us.”
“It’s not that …”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to bring up those silly scars again.”
“They’re anything but silly. I may not be the most feminine girl, but I still care, and I don’t think I could ever forget that I’m damaged goods.”
I actually laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Believe me,” I said, “of the two of us, you’re the one who’s got it together.”
She didn’t answer, and the road hummed beneath us.
“So that’s it? End of story? You and me are no more?”
“You figure it out, Book. There can’t very well be a you and me if one of us doesn’t make it.”
What could I say? Hope was as stubborn and headstrong as any person I’d ever met. When she set her mind to something, she did it. On her terms. And woe to whoever stood in her way.
But that didn’t change one simple fact: I was in love with her.
I pulled my hand away and pressed my forehead against the glass, only vaguely aware of the haunted reflection staring back at me.
42.
IT’S THE MIDDLE of the night when Book and Hope reach the foothills of Skeleton Ridge. The Humvee’s headlights show that the road up the mountain is still buried in snow. By their calculations, they have about thirty hours before the inauguration, which means thirty hours before Chancellor Maddox fires off her chemical-laced missiles. Hope suggests they lie low for the day and ride the tram sometime that night; there will be fewer guards then. Less chance of getting caught.
There’s a deserted barn just south of town, and they stash the Humvee there. Book swings the barn doors shut so that passing vehicles can’t spy them. They’re safe for a while. The calm before the storm.
Hope lights a match and it flares to life. She finds a kerosene lantern and coaxes the small flame. A yellow pool of light encases them like a soap bubble.
“Where should we sleep?” she asks.
There isn’t much space on the main floor that isn’t covered in fossilized animal dung.
“How about the hayloft?” Book says.
“Sure.”
Argos curls himself contentedly in a corner while Hope and Book climb the rickety ladder to the top. As they do, Hope is reminded of the first time they met. That was in a hayloft, too, back in Camp Freedom. Despite all the months that have passed since then, Hope can still feel the warmth of Book’s hand from that day.
She shakes away the thoughts.
They form a pile out of what little hay there is, and from that they create a mattress. They lie there, burying themselves as best they can. It’s cold and breezy and the wind whistles as it slides between the planks. Hope rotates the knob until the lantern goes off.
Even in darkness, Book sees that Hope is shaking.
“Come here,” he says.
They scooch sideways so that their bodies touch. Hope rolls over on her side and Book spoons her—his chest pressed against her back, his arms enveloping her.
For the longest time they lie there, neither saying a word. Hope feels the steady pulse of Book’s exhalations on her neck. In the coal-black darkness, the world goes floating by, and her body gives an involuntary shiver as she thinks back to all the occasions that he’s held her. And now this, the final time.
She rolls over until their faces are inches apart. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark and she can make out Book’s expression. It’s like he’s remembering the same things that she is. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, Hope leans forward and kisses him. Soft. Tentative. Inviting. Her lips are warm and he kisses her in return … and then he pulls away.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his face.
“It’s okay. I kissed you first.”
“But if we’re not going to be a couple, I can’t do this. Sorry. It’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“What you said earlier: Book and Hope together.”
“Oh, Book …”
“It’s not worth it otherwise. I’ll just fall more in love with you than I already am, and then you’ll go and get yourself killed, and where will that leave me?”
Hope inhales sharply at his words. She no longer feels cold; on the contrary, she’s burning up.
“But Book—”
“I mean it. I can’
t pretend I don’t have feelings for you. And if we kiss now, well …”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. The blood is pounding in Hope’s ears, and she feels a sudden need to get away, to lose herself in darkness. She pushes herself to her feet.
“Where’re you going?”
She doesn’t answer. She scrambles down the ladder, then rushes outside where the stars are blinding and the winter night soothes her like a bucket of cold water cooling a scalding iron.
She doesn’t know how long she’s out there. Long enough to feel the effects of cold and to know the stars are limitless. With a clarity that surprises her, she recalls the deaths of her mom, her dad, her sister Faith.
Book is right, of course. Without the hope of a future, kisses are just kisses. He’s right to put an end to it. She’s the one who has always said it’s not going to happen, that they can’t be together. So why did she feel the sudden desire to kiss him, to hold him, to have him hold her? Is it because she’s afraid? And if so, of what?
She edges back through the barn door, her breath frosting in front of her. Argos looks up, gives a whimper, then returns to sleep. Easing up the ladder, Hope tries to quiet the creaks of the old wood. She slides into their makeshift bed and watches Book sleep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Time passes. An owl calls out from the trees.
She leans forward and presses her lips against his.
Book’s eyes flutter open. “Hope,” he says groggily, “I told you—”
“I know. And you’re right.” She kisses him again, more firmly.
Book is awake now, and she shushes him with a finger. He pushes himself up on his elbow and leans forward to kiss her, but not on the lips. First on her right cheek, and then on her left. On the two scars left by Chancellor Maddox.
A smile stretches Hope’s face and she tucks her head, embarrassed.
Book places a finger on her chin and raises her face until their eyes lock. He extends his hands and caresses both her cheeks. He brings her into him and kisses her fully on the lips. There is a gentle firmness in how he holds her.
His hands slide to her arms, her sides, her lower back. He pulls her into him and she pulls him just as strongly into her. She can feel the heat buzzing from his hands, an electric current that makes her arms and legs tingle.
They slide into the hay, their hungry kisses exploring the other, their arms wrapped around each other. Two bodies mingled as one. Hope and Book. Book and Hope.
Together.
43.
GRAY SUNLIGHT EDGED THE oaken planks. The morning was cold and crisp, and I was convinced I’d never slept more soundly in my life. A smile crept on my face as I remembered why.
Hope.
I went to give a morning stretch … but couldn’t. Odd. I tried again, but with the same result. I looked around and discovered why: My wrists were bound together with a piece of rope—and they were tied to a joist that stretched from loft to ceiling.
“What the …”
Someone had snuck in during the night and tied us up. But who? A Brown Shirt? One of Chancellor Maddox’s thugs? How had they gotten past Argos? And why had they left us here?
I turned to Hope and the bottom of my stomach dropped out. Her side of the bed was empty, and there was only a vague indentation in the hay. She was gone.
Even as I struggled to free myself, I racked my brain, seeing if there was anything I could remember about getting tied to a barn pole in the middle of the night. Outside of the good memories—and there were plenty of those—I could think of nothing.
That’s when I noticed the symbol on the other side of me. The hay had been swept away and someone had etched a giant heart in the dust, with the letters HBT in the middle. Hope and Book Together.
“Hope!” I called out, my voice echoing off the rafters. “Little help up here.”
Argos barked from down below, but that was the only response.
“Very funny, Hope. You got me. Now would you mind untying me?”
Still no response. I yanked and tugged until the hemp bit my skin and turned my wrists raw.
When I rolled over to my side, my face landed on a crack and I was able to see to the ground floor below. There was Argos, sitting on his haunches and looking back up at me. Next to him was where we’d parked the Humvee. Only now the space was empty.
Hope was gone.
I called out her name a few times more, but I knew there was no point. She had driven off sometime during the night, wanting to stop Chancellor Maddox on her own.
That’s when I realized there was no way I could save Hope—I would never see her again.
44.
HOPE DIDN’T WANT TO leave Book behind. It’s just that she knows him … and she knows he will try to stop her.
By the time he frees himself—she tied the knots in such a way that he will eventually be able to free himself, just not right away—her mission will be complete. Chancellor Maddox and Dr. Gallingham will be no more.
She parks the Humvee behind an abandoned home on the far side of town. She spends the day foraging for food and clothing, slipping on a black T-shirt, a black hoodie, a pair of black pants. She charcoals her face so she will blend in with the night.
Darkness falls and she waits. Finally, when it nears midnight, Hope races through the deserted streets. Her breath frosts before her, puffs of white in an otherwise inky universe.
The town is eerily silent. Even the makeshift saloons and restaurants are all closed up, as though everyone’s at the Conclave. Or up at the Eagle’s Nest, getting ready to fire their missiles at the Conclave.
Hope’s gaze lands on the highest tip of the mountain, where there’s a yellow glow. She can imagine the swarm of activity as soldiers ready weapons and prepare to attack the Republic of the True America. In just under ten hours, Chancellor Maddox will unleash a barrage of chemical weapons on New Washington, wiping out the capital and every high-ranking official in the land.
By this time tomorrow, the country might very well be called “Maddox America” or “The Republic of Maddox” or even “The United States of Cynthia.” Who’s going to stop her?
From shadows, Hope spies a lone soldier guarding the tram. For a long time she studies his movements. She sneaks up on him just as he’s switching his automatic rifle from one shoulder to the other. Her knife against his neck persuades him to drop it.
Less than sixty seconds after she’s stowed the gagged and bound soldier, the tram jerks to life. Hope runs from the booth and leaps in through the open door. The tram swings drunkenly from side to side, but she’s in, ascending the mountain, hovering above a forest of snow-covered spruces.
One step closer.
The downward-heading tram is in sight, and she cowers beneath the window. The two trams slide by each other, and she waits for the other tram to be well below her before she unfolds herself.
A glance up the mountain shows her the yellow glow is brighter now. It looks like every light is on. She can just make out the tram stop now, and as she nears it, she sees the Brown Shirts. There must be a dozen of them, facing the tram, their guns pointing in her direction like a firing squad.
She can’t jump to the rocky mountainside like she did before, not in the middle of the night. She’s got to find some other way to avoid the soldiers. But what that is, she doesn’t yet know.
45.
IN MY DREAMS, SHE was there again: the woman with the long black hair. My grandmother. It was the first time I’d dreamed of her since I’d met her in the Compound, all those months ago. Ever since then—ever since I realized she was the stuff of memories and not just dreams—she no longer visited me in my sleep.
But there she was like always, leading me through a smoke-filled prairie, dodging bullets, my tiny child hand clasped firmly in her aged one. Bullets sang, the air reeked of gunpowder, explosions rocked the ground. She pulled me close and looked into my eyes.
“This is you, Book,” she said, her message as cryptic as ever.
I knew
better than to waste my breath asking her to explain. Besides, a smile twitched the corners of her lips, tugging the creases of her weathered face. I had no desire to break the spell.
Then she disappeared into the smoky haze of battle.
“Wait,” I cried. “I need to ask you things!”
“What kind of things?” a voice replied—but not the voice of my grandmother.
My eyes struggled open, and there was a face mere inches from my own. I scrambled backward to get away, the ropes tugging at my wrists.
“Ask what kind of things?” the voice asked again.
I was ready to kick, to fight off this person with feet and legs, when I saw that it was Cat. I shook my head to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked. “How’d you even find me?”
“Saw the tracks leading off the highway. Not that many Humvees headed in and out of barns.”
“Yeah, but why’re you here?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Figured the guy who talked me into rejoining the human race might not be out of the woods just yet. And I managed to hop a ride.” His eyes landed on the rope handcuffs. “Who did this? Brown Shirts?”
“Hope.”
His eyebrows arched. “Kinky.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Hey, what you do in your spare time—”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Did I say anything?”
“You didn’t have to.”
He tried—and failed—to conceal a smile. “Let’s get out of here before someone else pulls up. You’ll have plenty of time to tell me the details later.”
“It’s not like that—” I stopped, realizing there was someone else in the hayloft with us. James Heywood—the president’s aide—stood just behind Cat.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been with Jocelyn Perrella and Chancellor Maddox as they sentenced us to hanging.
“He’s the one who brought me.”