The Watch (The Red Series Book 1)

by Amanda Witt

  A murmur rose around the table; heads nodded in agreement.

  “The ones who might have saved us,” Marta said. “The ones who had the brains to help us out of this predicament, and the ability to lead the others, and the charisma to keep them calm. You don’t have any of those abilities. You aren’t city managers. That’s only the mask we have to wear. If you persist in confusing your role with reality, we may all die.”

  Voices rose over each other, arguing. Most of what I could make out was directed at Marta.

  “We are agreed.”

  At the sound of this new voice, a shiver ran up my spine and the rest of the Watchers fell silent. It was the Voice. He was sitting at the center of the row of Watchers.

  He was a heavyset, brutal looking man, old like the rest of them but still powerfully built. He looked around the table. “We will have one more city meeting,” he said. “One more to make sure there is no one left who would dare to balk at the euthanizing of a few old friends.”

  Except for Marta, the other Watchers were nodding.

  “The people are sufficiently cowed,” the Voice said. “And confused as well. They have lost the war without most of them ever realizing there was one.”

  “That one city meeting didn’t go as we expected,” the very old man said, his tone querulous. “The little boy who confessed wasn’t the one who was supposed to die. Who’d have thought he’d be so brave?”

  “He served our purpose well enough,” the Voice said. He looked up and down the table; all eyes were on him. “Our last city meeting will be the one involving the cook.”

  “That one was my idea,” the short-haired plump woman said happily. “It can’t go wrong.”

  I was beginning to really, really dislike that woman.

  “This is the best way,” the languid woman said to Marta, reaching out to pat her hand. Marta moved hers away.

  “Truly,” the languid woman said. “It makes perfect sense. City meeting first, and then we can proceed to the euthanizing. You know quite well that’s the only way we’ll make it through the winter. And then, once we’ve survived until the next growing season, we can reassess our long-term goals, though even you must admit they’re probably irrelevant at this point. That’s something we must learn to face. It isn’t easy, I know, to see one’s life work come to naught.”

  Marta didn’t respond.

  The Voice went on to summarize their plans. A group of people would be collected in the Watcher compound—people too old to do hard manual labor, people who had been in the infirmary more than twice in the past year, people who had suffered injuries that continued to limit their labor, and people who didn’t meet certain weight requirements.

  “That will dispose of our heaviest burdens,” the Voice concluded. “The old, the ill, the injured or disabled, and those with inefficient metabolisms.”

  The very old man nodded, his face pleased. “And if she’s still around, that will take care of the emotional redhead. One way or another, she’ll be out of the way.”

  The languid woman raised a warning finger. “Euthanasia isn’t punishment, remember. It’s mercy. A good death instead of a slow and miserable starvation. Some people might survive this winter’s strict rationing. People like the problematic redhead wouldn’t.”

  Meritt muttered something under his breath.

  “And do we have statistics yet?” the round man was asking. “How many will be euthanized?”

  “One hundred and twelve who are dead weight,” the Voice said. “Another sixty whose productivity does not compensate for their needs.”

  They were going to kill me, me and a whole host of other people who didn’t meet their strength criteria—including my old people, the ones who’d had time for a lonely little girl. Mariella, who took me for walks. Estelle, who talked to me about cooking as if I’d someday have a chance to try it myself. And Louie—he’d escaped once, but he wouldn’t escape this time.

  “So a bit over ten percent of our population . . .. Is that sufficient for the rest of us to survive the winter?” the long-faced man asked.

  “We believe so,” the Voice said.

  “The productive citizens might be a bit unnerved,” said the long-faced man. “But it’s easy enough to recover from a done deed. And they’ll know, by then, how necessary it was. They’ll see that they survived only because the others died, and they’ll thank us for saving them. They’ll thank us for bearing the weight of the decision ourselves.”

  “And by then we’ll have the angelic Meritt,” the languid woman said, and Meritt leaned closer to the screen. “He’ll distract them. They’ll be meek as lambs, seeing that one of their own is on the city commission. Such a good idea—we should have thought of it earlier.”

  “We did,” the Voice said. “But there are, as you well know, considerable risks.”

  “Has he been approached?” the very old man asked.

  “Yes,” the Voice said. “We have been pursuing that option and are pleased with preliminary reports.”

  “In other words, he’s smart enough to see he has no viable alternative.” That was Marta.

  “He’ll virtually eliminate the possibility of any future uprising,” said the plump woman, just as the very old man said, “He’ll minimize the possibility of trouble from other quarters.”

  “Indeed.” The Voice sounded bored. “That is the plan. But negotiations are not complete. As we know, he has divided loyalties. He will have to make an unmistakable gesture of good will before we concede anything. He will have to bind himself to us irrevocably. Once he does, however, he will serve our purposes well enough.” He looked around the table. “Other business?”

  No one spoke.

  “Meeting adjourned,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  Meritt began disengaging whatever he had set up. “Well, it worked,” he said, keeping his eyes on the screen. His face was very white against his dark hair. “Farrell Dean can be proud.”

  The present danger flooded back. “Farrell Dean—” I began.

  “He installed the final components in the Watchers’ conference room when he repaired their heating a couple of days ago. Did it perfectly. It’s not so far out of his skill set, of course. He’s a great mechanic, and I explained to him how—”

  I cut him off. “Farrell Dean is downstairs, Meritt. He’s the one they were beating.”

  Meritt stared at me. “We’ve got to get out,” he said, and began keying still more rapidly, his fingers flying. “He knows too much.”

  “He won’t tell them anything,” I said. “But we have to help him—they were beating him. They might kill him.”

  Meritt shot one glance in my direction. “He won’t want to talk. But even the best of us can be broken.”

  I shook my head. “Not Farrell Dean. Not when it comes to— ”

  “Not when it comes to you?” Meritt laughed shortly. “Moot point, Red. Farrell Dean doesn’t know you’re up here. He only knows about me. And if they catch me, they catch you.”

  “He won’t give you away, either,” I said. “We have to help him.”

  Meritt stood up, went to the sleeping warden, and began dragging him back over to the desk. “Everything’s negotiable, Red. Farrell Dean might not trade your life or mine to save his own, but what if they stack the deck?”

  “He won’t tell.” I went to help him prop the warden at the desk, shifting his arm so he wouldn’t have a crick in his neck when he woke up.

  Meritt laughed softly, but his face was wry. “Do you have half the faith in me that you have in Farrell Dean?”

  “More,” I said, looking straight into his eyes. “You know that.”

  For a heartbeat Meritt looked as if he would say something, but then he shook his head, turned, and headed for the doorway. “Come on,” he said. “Hurry.”

  Silently we raced down the stairs. At the bottom we paused, leaning against the wall by the door, listening, hearing nothing. Meritt opened the door a crack; the hall was empty. I could
see the door to Farrell Dean’s cell. It was bolted now, and no light shone from under the door.

  “Let’s go.” Meritt took my hand and pulled me along with him. When we got to Farrell Dean’s door I dug in my heels and wrenched my hand away. By the time Meritt regained his grip on me I’d unbolted the door.

  “We can’t help him right now,” he hissed. “He’ll be chained to the wall.”

  “We have to try,” I said.

  Voices stopped our argument, voices and footsteps. They weren’t close yet, but they were coming from the direction of the way out—the only way out.

  Meritt shut his eyes. He looked pained, not terrified. When he opened his eyes his face was resolute.

  “My turn,” he said, pulling open Farrell Dean’s door and shoving me inside. “When it’s quiet again, get out of here. And Red—” his voice sounded strained—“We can’t be seen together anymore. It’s too dangerous.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he leaned over me and kissed me. Then the door swung open, swung shut again, and he was gone.

  “Rhoda?” I heard him call. “Is that you?” His voice faded; he was walking away from me.

  Rhoda. Was she the blonde Warden?

  “What are you doing here?” a man said.

  Meritt said—calmly—“Let go of my arm.”

  “I’ll let go when I feel like it. Answer the question. Why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for Rhoda.”

  “Now? Past midnight?”

  Meritt gave a grim laugh. “You’d rather I came at noon? Announcing to the whole city that I’m talking with the Watchers? No wonder Optica’s in trouble. You telegraph every move.”

  Another voice said something. His tone was concerned, but I couldn’t catch his words. I hoped they were far enough away not to notice that Farrell Dean’s door was unbolted.

  “All right then,” the first voice said. “Come with us.” Footsteps moved away down the corridor. I could hear Meritt talking, his voice fading as they moved away.

  My heart pounding, I hesitated by the door. Meritt would want me to get out now, as soon as he had the wardens out of the hallway, safely distracted. But I couldn’t go yet, not without checking on Farrell Dean. Maybe Meritt was wrong and he wasn’t chained; maybe I could get him out.

  It was pitch black in the cell. The thin line of light coming from beneath the door seemed to make the darkness thicker. Keeping one hand on the wall I began to edge my way around the room. I could hear someone breathing jaggedly, painfully. The air smelled coppery, like blood.

  “Farrell Dean?” I whispered. No one replied.

  I edged a little further. My foot bumped something and I knelt to touch it. A foot. It didn’t move at my touch. I felt along him, trying to get oriented. He seemed to be lying on his face on the floor. His right leg was stretched out—the one I’d bumped—and his other leg was bent. He was shirtless and waves of heat came off his skin, as if he were radiating pain.

  Careful not to touch his back, I found his arms. The left one was chained to a metal ring in the wall. His face was turned away from me.

  I stepped carefully over his chained arm and made my way around him, so we’d be face to face. “Farrell Dean?” I found his hair, smoothed it back. It was wet—whether with sweat or with blood, I couldn’t tell, and through all my fumbling, he hadn’t moved. “Farrell Dean,” I said again. “It’s Red. Can you hear me?”

  He drew a jagged breath, shifted slightly beneath my hands.

  “I’m here,” I said. “We’re going to help you.”

  “Get out,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “It’s not safe.”

  “I’m going, but I’ll be back. We’ll get you out of here.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Farrell Dean?” My blood was pounding in my ears; I couldn’t hear him breathe, couldn’t feel any movement except what might have been my own. I felt for his neck, tried to find a pulse. He was so warm but I couldn’t find a heartbeat, and his neck was slick with blood, it had to be blood, there was too much for it to be sweat.

  I took him by the shoulder and shook him. “Don’t die,” I said, and it came out a sob. “Don’t die, Farrell Dean, please don’t die.”

  His right hand came up and grasped my wrist. “Red,” he said. “I’m not dying. It just hurts like the dickens. Stop jolting me all around.”

  Weeping now, I found his cheek and kissed it. He sighed heavily.

  “Go,” he said. “Go now.”

  “I’m going. But I won’t let them kill you, Farrell Dean. Meritt won’t let them. We’ll get you out.” He didn’t reply but his hand moved on my wrist, letting me go. I kissed him once more, then did what both he and Meritt wanted me to do. I left.

  Chapter 19

  Outside the watchtower I huddled in the shadows, trying to think clearly. Adrenaline was coursing through me, and anger. So they’d beat Farrell Dean bloody, would they? They’d twist Meritt, use him for their own ends. They’d kill us off, Skye with her cough, sweet old Mariella, all my old people, anyone who wasn’t strong and compliant.

  We’d see about that.

  It was very late, but there was no way I would go back to my dormitory and to bed. I hadn’t saved Rafe the night he’d been arrested—I hadn’t even known he needed saving until it was too late. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. I wasn’t going to go back to my dorm to discover later that Farrell Dean was the next city meeting victim.

  But who could help me get him out? Cline was his closest friend, but I couldn’t get into the boys’ dormitory without being caught. And even if I could, he might not come with me. He didn’t like me or trust me. And even if he’d come, he couldn’t get Farrell Dean out of the prison, not with the wardens there, not with the chains. No one could.

  Without coming to a conscious decision I started moving silently through the dark streets of the city. Every building was dark, even the laundry, though hot mist billowed hazily from its vent pipes, vanishing quickly in the crisp clear air. It had turned colder, less humid. The blue lights were free of their usual blurry halos, and the white spotlight cut cleanly through the streets.

  I reached the end of the buildings and made my way through the dark meadow. I could see the shadowed forms of bee hives clearly enough on this cloudless night, and it was chilly enough to make the bees sleepy. Even so I slowed, went cautiously.

  Beyond the bee fields, in the orchards, the ancient twisted apple trees threw wild shadows. On the ground a few rotting, wormy apples spread a surprisingly potent scent. Sometimes deer came in through the gap in the outer wall to eat the fallen apples, but even they wouldn’t want the mushy nubs left on the ground now.

  When I reached the gap that opened onto the wasteland I hesitated, just for a moment. Then I thought about Meritt and Farrell Dean, about my old people, and I stepped out into the exposed space and crossed the pale thin grass to the edge of the trees, where again I stopped.

  I’d never been outside the wall on this side of the city. As far as I knew, no one had. Not only did I have to go into these trees, I had to keep going and bear north, toward the wilderland.

  My heart began to pound. Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t lift a foot to step into the trees. The Guardians weren’t just stories; Meritt said so. If I went into the woods, I might well get killed, by them or by something else.

  But I was going to get killed anyway, soon enough. And I knew what I had seen: the gap behind the Watcher compound had been open once, and now was sealed. Surely that indicated first an alliance—the Guardians supporting the Watchers, as we’d always been told—and then a disagreement. I had to focus on the slim possibility that the Guardians were intelligent beings, unhappy with the Watchers, and willing to help us overthrow the Watchers, or at least make them listen to reason. I had to focus on getting help for my friends.

  I could do this; I could. I just needed a moment to compose myself.

  The night was silent and still, and the stars shone calmly overhead
. But the trees didn’t feel welcoming, like they had the first time I’d ventured into them, over on the other side of the city by the slaughterhouse. I hoped I was imagining the menace; I hoped it wasn’t something real, something waiting for me in the woods. The thing that had called my name, or something else. If the Guardians killed me, fine. That was a risk I was willing to take. But I didn’t want to get killed by a wolf, or by some crazed chicken-vandal, before I’d even found the Guardians.

  The ominous feeling didn’t abate, but nothing jumped out at me, and I couldn’t stand there at the edge of the wasteland forever. Meritt was in trouble; Farrell Dean was chained in prison; Rafe was dead.

  Taking a deep breath, I plunged into the darkness between the trees.

  I half thought a voice would start calling my name, but in the woods the world felt quieter still, hushed. The ground was uneven beneath my bare feet, strewn with fallen limbs, rocks, and sharp-edged pine cones. Before I went any further I bent and, feeling carefully so I wouldn’t cut my hands on a sharp twig or razor-like bramble, found five or six egg-sized rocks. I stuffed most of them in my pockets and kept one in my hand, a small weapon, but better than nothing.

  It was hard to go quietly. Drifts of dead leaves blanketed the ground, rustling underfoot. I avoided them as best as I could. The tops of the trees obscured the sky, but I thought the moon must have risen, for though the trees were growing more closely together, I could see a little more clearly. Or maybe my eyes finally had adjusted to the darkness.

  For an hour or so I picked my way through the woods. I walked long enough that I actually began to feel tired instead of terrified. The ground out here wasn’t as level as the ground inside the city, and the repeated uphill, downhill trudge made my legs burn.

  Then a sound—or not so much a sound as a shift in the air—made me freeze. Was something there?

  And then I saw it—ahead of me, just over a small rise, the silhouette of a creature on all fours, larger than a dog, larger even than I thought a wolf should be. It slunk around a tree and disappeared, then came back into sight a few yards from where I stood paralyzed. There it paused and sniffed the air.