Freedom/Hate (Freedom/Hate Series, Book 1)

by Kyle Andrews

  As time passed, Libby began to feel the reality of her situation creeping up on her, like a demon in the shadows. She was scared, but she didn't move. Instead, she tried her best to avoid drawing attention to herself, hoping that Justin and Marti would forget that she was even there. Every so often, she would see Justin glancing her way. Whenever his eyes left her, they inevitably went down to the floor. It was like he wanted to say something to her, but he didn't know what.

  As much as Libby wanted to be invisible, she kept hoping that he would speak to her. She would undoubtedly tell him to shut up, or blame him and Uly for getting her into this mess in the first place, but the more time she spent isolated from the other people in the room, the more she felt like she shouldn't be there. There was an urge to run. She could barely breathe. She wanted so desperately to go outside and feel the fresh air filling her lungs. But there was no going outside. There was no moving. There was only this. Waiting.

  She was tired. She should have fallen asleep as soon as the need to run for her life was over, but she couldn't close her eyes without seeing the image of Uly's death. If she did begin to doze, she would wake with a jump and the belief that HAND officers were pounding on the door. Each time, it took her a few seconds to realize that the pounding was in her head. Justin and Marti were her assurance that she was safe. As long as they were calm, she could trust that their hideout hadn't been discovered. But how long would that last? How long would it be until she would have to start running and hiding again? How could it possibly end?

  The dog—whose name she still did not know—was sleeping by her side. He was sleeping deeply, snoring louder than she'd ever heard anyone snore before. She wondered if he was unaware of their present danger, or simply didn't care. Could dogs worry?

  Whatever his name was, Libby put a hand on his belly and felt the rise and fall of each breath. Before long, she was inhaling and exhaling along with him, anticipating each breath because it was the only thing that she could depend on.

  Both of Marti's parents were in the apartment, though Libby didn't see much of them. They had come in to see who was at the door shortly after Justin and Libby arrived. They expressed some concern after seeing Justin's wound, but Marti assured them that she could take care of it. And she could. Marti's movements were smooth. She didn't flinch at the sight of blood. She did no more than furrow a brow as she stitched Justin, while he clenched his teeth, holding back the urge to cry out in pain. Marti worked with purpose and skill that Libby hadn't seen very often in her life, yet she couldn't have had much training. She was still in high school, after all.

  Marti's mother went to Libby and introduced herself at one point, but Libby didn't remember the woman's name. Marti's mother asked if she was all right or if she needed anything. Libby couldn't remember if she even responded, but Marti's mother walked away, so Libby must have said something.

  Marti's father was on the other side of the room, standing in the doorway to one of the bedrooms. His arms crossed over his chest. He was watching Libby, and she knew it. On any other night, it might have bothered her, but she didn't care on that night. She didn't feel anything at all toward him.

  Soon, both parents disappeared into their bedroom, closing the door behind them. Neither of them seemed stupid. They also didn't seem particularly surprised by what was happening. They must have known about Marti's involvement in Freedom long before that night. If Libby had to guess, she'd say that they were members too. The first fully grown members of the group that she'd ever met.

  For a while there, she'd begun to think of Freedom as a band of rebel teenagers. It was comforting to know that there were grownups in charge. People who knew what they were doing and how to handle these situations. Someone needed to tell her what to do next, and Libby wasn't comfortable depending on Justin and Marti to get her out of this.

  And what would come next? Was Libby supposed to hide in Marti's apartment for the rest of her life? Was there some sort of Freedom headquarters that she would be whisked away to, and kept safe? If so, were there people with weapons to guard the door? Could she ever feel safe enough to sleep again? An army by her side might be just what she needed to get a good night's rest after all of this.

  Once Justin was patched up and went into the bathroom to clean himself off, Marti remained behind. She put away her supplies and threw away dirty bandages. Libby watched as she did this and noted how precisely Marti packed everything away. Every tool and every cotton ball had its place in Marti's kit. Libby never would have thought of it before, but it made sense, if Marti ever needed to treat people quickly. Libby probably would have thrown everything into a bag and worried about it later.

  Marti glanced toward Libby. Though Libby looked away quickly, she knew that Marti saw her watching. She didn't know if she should say something, or do something. Were they supposed to be friends now? She didn't know her place in any of this.

  Marti walked toward the kitchen, taking one last look at Libby before she walked through the door and out of sight. There wasn't a particularly cold or angry look in Marti's eyes—just uncertainty. It was as though she thought that Libby might do something to put everyone in danger. Marti didn't trust her any more than her parents did.

  Libby looked down at the dog by her side and wondered if he was a security measure. Was he trained to sit by her and to let everyone know if she moved? Was he her guard?

  The dog rolled over onto his back, exposing his entire belly to her. His floppy ears spread across the ground and though he was still asleep, he took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

  He was no guard.

  After only a few moments, Marti walked out of the kitchen. At first, it seemed as though she were going walk right past Libby without saying a word, but she stopped. She put a hand on her head and closed her eyes. She looked nearly as exhausted as Libby.

  “He loved you,” Marti said, opening her eyes, but still not looking at Libby.

  “Who?”

  Now Marti looked at Libby. It was the kind of look that made Libby feel like the most clueless person on the face of the planet.

  Libby quickly realized that Marti was talking about Uly. She wasn't normally this slow, but she was not quite herself that night. It took her a moment or two to remember how to hold a conversation, and another moment or two before she could figure out how to talk to Marti specifically.

  “He was always watching out for you. Trying to take care of you and your mother,” Marti went on. She smiled for the quickest of moments, but the smile seemed to hurt and soon faded. She said, “When you were pissed off at him, I think he actually respected you more because of it. He said you were strong.”

  Libby opened her mouth to say something, but she was at a loss for words. She'd spent a lot of time being angry with Uly. She never expected him to be complimenting her while she was cursing him.

  Marti looked at Libby. There were tears in her eyes. She asked, “Why did this happen?”

  If it was answers that Marti wanted, she was looking at the wrong girl. The world was a giant inkblot to Libby at the moment. She couldn't make heads or tails of anything. Uly's death made even less sense than anything else. All she could offer Marti was a shrug.

  “Justin said that HAND wasn't looking to question you. They were going right for the arrest or the kill. You're not one of us. You don't know anything about us. So, why?”

  Again, Libby didn't have an answer for her. All she could do was look at Marti, dumbfounded.

  She expected Marti to come over to her and smack her across the face, demanding answers. It wouldn't surprise her if Marti threatened to break her hand or shoot her in the head if she didn't talk. If that happened, she would end up bloody and broken, because she genuinely had no idea what was going on.

  That was how terrorists behaved. Hate was a terrorist organization. They blew up buildings. They hurt people. That was what Libby had been raised to believe, and it was difficult for her to wrap her mind around anything else.

  Marti walked
toward her and squatted beside Libby. She reached toward Libby's face, and Libby flinched. Libby threw her hands up, to block whatever Marti tried to do to her. She closed her eyes, because she knew that she couldn't defend herself very well. It was only a matter of time before Marti beat the crap out of her.

  Marti put her hand under Libby's chin and turned Libby's head from side to side. When she opened her eyes, Libby saw Marti studying her face and head.

  “You've taken a couple of good hits, but I'm pretty sure you'll live,” Marti told her.

  She then looked into Libby's eyes and said, “Terrorists kill anyone who disagrees with their philosophies. They don't care who they kill, as long as it's not one of their own. Sometimes that doesn't even bother them. Their goal is to scare you into submission... What happens when the terrorists win? What happens when they're the people running the land? It took me a while to wrap my head around it too.”

  Marti stood up and started to walk away from Libby. As she went, she said, “You can sleep on the couch. Stay away from the windows. Don't answer the door. And Libby?”

  She turned around and gave Libby a friendly smile as she said, “If you try to call your boyfriend or your mother, I will put you down myself.”

  31

  Collin was sitting on the couch as the sun came up the next morning. Sophia had gone to bed hours earlier, telling Collin to do the same, but he couldn't sleep. All he could do was stare at the ceiling and think about how useless he was. Not just because he was hiding in Sophia's apartment, but because he didn't do anything to fix the world that they lived in. All he did was help to make that world more comfortable as it continued to rot.

  He was starting to wonder if people like him were a bigger part of the problem than they were the solution. The people who disagreed with the system in place hid out in their safe little holes and read their books without the government ever knowing. They were the big, scary rebels, with their intimidating trilogies and their super secret tomato farm.

  He was an enabler. By transporting books from one hideout to another, he made it okay for people to keep to the shadows and not draw any attention to themselves. But the world needed to see them. The world needed to hear their voices. There needed to be a face for their cause. Someone who would stand up to their oppressors and tell them to go screw themselves.

  He tried for hours to think of a recognizable name or face from Freedom that the public would know—someone still alive. Sure, within their own walls there were leaders. Inside their hideaways, there were bold voices, speaking out against the government. It was all very thrilling to listen to. There was talk of a day when Freedom would take back their homeland and bring back the old ways. 'Liberty and justice for all!' they would shout, and the crowd would go wild. Then they would quietly slip out onto the streets and make their way back home before curfew. Wouldn't want to break the law now, would they?

  The more he thought about it, the more upset he grew. It wasn't rage that filled him exactly. He wasn't looking for someone to scream at and he wasn't punching holes in any of Sophia's walls. It was as much an anger with himself as it was anyone else. When he signed up for Freedom, he thought that he would be working toward something better. He believed that by joining them, he would be playing some small role in the return of those values that they all held so dear.

  Of course, not many of the people actually knew what the old ways were. Not many copies of the Constitution were still around. Most paper copies were confiscated and recycled long ago. Digital copies suddenly vanished from computers and e-readers. Hand-written copies were passed around, but those were written from memory and often contradicted each other.

  What were they fighting for? The question brought a smile to Collin's face, because they weren't actually fighting. They were undermining the system, perhaps. Breaking the rules. They were a menace, not a threat. And if they weren't even willing to fight the battle, the war could never be won.

  Having been locked away inside of Sophia's apartment gave Collin an interesting perspective. He realized that this wasn't really unusual for him. He was always hiding. The only difference was that the government hadn't always been so interested in him.

  When Sophia walked out of her bedroom, she was already showered and dressed for the day. Collin hadn't heard her moving around, but then, he hadn't been listening. He was too caught up in his own thoughts, which were racing through his mind like an out of control train, just waiting to derail in a twisted, fiery mess.

  She stopped walking as soon as she saw him and put her hand on her hips as she said, “Well, well, well. Look who decided to get up before noon.”

  “I have a big day ahead of me,” Collin joked. “Lots of sitting here. Maybe some sitting over there. I figured I'd get an early start.”

  “I detect a bit of restlessness in your voice.”

  “I haven't had much rest.”

  “Thinking about Uly Jacobs?”

  “Partly. They're looking for his cousin now. A girl.”

  “Is she one of us?”

  Collin shrugged and said, “They just want to question her. It didn't sound too urgent the last time I checked.”

  “When was that?”

  Sophia went into the kitchen and began to make Coffite. Collin followed her in there, so they wouldn't have to yell across the entire apartment. The last thing he needed was for Sophia's neighbors to start asking questions.

  “Last time I turned on the TV was maybe two or three o'clock,” he old her.

  “You should be getting more sleep.”

  “I'm fine. I was just thinking.”

  “Thinking too much can be dangerous.”

  “Wasn't that the President's campaign slogan?” Collin joked.

  Sophia smiled and pressed the button to begin brewing the Coffite. She then turned to Collin and said, “Can you turn on the TV? I want to see what's going on before I head out.”

  As he walked to the remote control and turned on the TV, Collin asked, “Are you working at the store today?”

  Sophia shook her head and replied, “Bulletin board near the coffee shop. There's supposed to be a poster for a missing dog.”

  This was a common form of communication between members of Freedom who weren't from the same base. Collin was the dog. If the dog pictured was a solid color, that meant that the plan was a go. The time of transport would be indicated by how old the puppy was. Twelve months was noon, two years was midnight. The phone number given would tell Collin exactly where to be.

  Then again, the picture might be of a spotted dog, in which case he was supposed to stay put. Continue waiting. Do nothing but change light bulbs and pace around Sophia's apartment for a few more days.

  Just the thought of it made Collin want to pull his hair out. He needed to get back home, because he needed to have a long talk with his superiors.

  “You're thinking again,” Sophia said, reading Collin's expression. “You're going to give yourself wrinkles if you keep making that face.”

  “Sorry. I'll try not to do it anymore.”

  Sophia walked to a cabinet and pulled out a box of cereal. She poured two bowls and brought them to the table before walking back to the coffee pot. She stood there and waited for the Coffite to be done, turning to look at the TV.

  On the screen, a reporter was standing in the middle of an empty street. Police and HAND vehicles were parked behind him. On the screen was the caption : FORMER HAND OFFICER MURDERED.

  When Collin saw the caption, he turned up the volume. The reporter was in the middle of a sentence, “—sure what happened yet, but from what we have been able to determine, the murder happened late last night, after curfew. The victim, identified as Bey Randall, was keeping watch over Libby Jacobs. Jacobs is the cousin of slain Hate member, Ulysses Jacobs. She was scheduled to speak with HAND about her cousin when the pair was apparently attacked by members of the terrorist organization. Officer Randall attempted to fight off the attackers, sacrificing himself in the process.”

&
nbsp; Collin turned toward Sophia and saw her watching the TV with a look of great concern. He told her, “You're going to give yourself wrinkles if you keep making that face.”

  “A day late and a dollar short, sweetheart,” Sophia replied. “This doesn't feel right.”

  The report continued, showing shattered windows, and the words 'HATE PREVAILS' spray painted on a wall.

  The reporter on TV went on, “Miss Jacobs has been transported to HAND offices and is said to be safe at the moment. When asked if she is being considered a suspect in recent events, HAND officials told us that Jacobs is cooperating with them, and is not being treated as a suspect at this time.”

  As the image on the screen went to a group of pundits who were discussing the situation, Collin turned away. He couldn't stand to watch anymore.

  “They're doing more on our behalf than we're doing ourselves,” he told Sophia.

  Sophia didn't respond. She just took two mugs from the cabinet and handed one to Collin. She poured herself a cup of Coffite and walked to the table. She was still listening to the report, but Collin was tired of hearing the government's narrative. He was sick of letting them define his cause.

  “What was it like when you first signed up?” he asked Sophia, pouring himself a cup of Coffite.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what was Freedom like? What did they do? What did you sign up for?”

  “I guess I signed up for taking a stand against oppression.”

  “Did they have a plan?”

  Sophia shrugged and said, “Back then, it was about survival. We didn't have the Garden. We didn't have the sort of resources that we have now. People were starving. Others were sick.”

  “They still are.”

  “Not like before.”