The Watch (The Red Series Book 1)

by Amanda Witt

  Judging from Cline’s face, similarly dark thoughts were running through his mind. But after only a moment’s reflection, he nodded. “I’m in,” he said.

  That was the break I needed. Cline agreed to talk to some others in the cafeteria at suppertime—Ezzie would do it, he said, and Joe and Harding, and of course Meritt. All boys, Cline insisted, all almost nineteen. They’d be stronger and they’d be less likely to be frightened by the woods, or by Jensen.

  “And guys won’t be impressed by the glamour man,” he noted, giving me a dirty look I thought was entirely unfair. Describing Angel merely as tall and fair-haired, without mentioning his beauty, would have been about as helpful as describing Ezzie as having dark hair without ever mentioning his dark brown skin.

  “Angel might be okay,” I said. “He might be on our side.”

  “Or he might not be,” Cline retorted. “And the old guy’s clearly the one in charge, if anyone is. We have to go with that. Stick with the plan, Red.”

  When everyone else left for the city meeting, Cline and the others would make their way out to the apple orchard. I would be waiting there, out of sight, to lead them to Sir Tom.

  It was a good plan, but it didn’t work.

  I did my part, the easy part. In the dying light I went to the orchard to wait among the twisted trees. It seemed like forever, but it could only have been a couple of hours that I waited out there, pacing around, avoiding the bees that hovered around the fermenting windfall apples. For a little while I sat, listening to my stomach growl, trying not to think about how impossible our task seemed, but sitting somehow made waiting harder. Then I tried to find apples that weren’t too far gone, but there was a reason the pickers had left these; most were worm-eaten and mealy, disintegrating into a slimy mass in my hands. I only managed to find a few edible bites.

  A light rain began to fall and the bare-branched trees offered no real shelter. Fortunately it was one of those rains that was more a thick falling mist than real rainfall—we never got truly stormy weather until late November. So although I grew damp I wasn’t wet through or particularly cold; it was the waiting that was bad, the long anxious time alone.

  Finally, just before eight o’clock, Ezzie came running into the orchard, peering around in the gloom, trying to find me. As soon as I saw him I stepped out from behind the trees, smiling, so glad to finally see someone, to not be alone, but when I saw his face I knew something was terribly wrong.

  He skidded to a stop on the wet grass. “Farrell Dean,” he gasped out, panting hard. “Farrell Dean’s in the circle.”

  The ground swayed beneath me, righted itself. Without a word I began to run, and Ezzie ran with me. This couldn’t be happening. Farrell Dean was the steady one, the reliable one. I couldn’t imagine the world without him.

  We ran back through the orchards in the heavy mist that suddenly made me feel like I was drowning. When we’d skirted the beehives and reached the lit city streets we slowed to a brisk walk, trying not to attract attention.

  Why was Farrell Dean in the circle? Had he confessed? Had they beaten him again, gotten something out of him, or had all the damage been done before I’d seen him last night?

  Meritt had said Farrell Dean could be broken, made to tell everything, but I didn’t believe it. He was loyal, Farrell Dean. He had integrity; perhaps only I knew how much.

  The streets were almost empty now, the electric blue lights reflecting off damp bare pavement. Everyone was at the city meeting. Around us the mist drifted in heavy waves, muting sound, making strange halos of the streetlights.

  We slunk around the watchtower near the base, in the deep shadows. I scanned the crowd frantically.

  “Where’s Meritt?” I said. Meritt would know what to do, would have an idea. I had none, had no idea what to do, how to save anyone from that horrible circle.

  Ezzie shook his head, didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the center of the circle, on Farrell Dean, Judd, and two other boys who stood in the glare of the watchtower spotlight. They weren’t bound, and the wardens watching them were not standing particularly close. Ever since the snipers had been instituted, the wardens stayed back as much as possible.

  The boys stood facing one middle-aged woman. The cook, I thought. My brain seemed to be moving in fits and starts, unreliably, because I remembered the Watchers’ discussion of this city meeting before I realized exactly who the woman was.

  It was Cook Alice. She still looked calm enough, but even in the washed-out electric lights I could see spots of color high on her cheekbones, and her chest rose and fell quickly with her shallow breaths. I wanted to help her, but I was helpless, I was hidden in the dark, and my head was throbbing. I had to stay calm, had to get a grip on myself. I was watching Cook Alice’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and I was breathing with her, faster and faster, in danger of hyperventilating. Now that would be real useful, I told myself viciously. Faint, call attention to yourself, get everyone shot.

  Forcing myself to breathe more slowly, I tried to make sense of the scene—was it better for Farrell Dean that there were others in the circle as well? Did that give him more of a chance?

  I hated myself for the thought, for wanting someone else to die instead of him. And instead of Cook Alice. And instead of Judd. This was twice in the circle for Judd—how could that be? How unfair—how monumentally unfair—to put him there twice.

  Like last time, Judd looked furious. Farrell Dean didn’t look angry. He looked pale and self-contained, as if he might be having to concentrate very hard to stand up straight. He was still in pain from the flogging, of course. Had he had any food or rest? I willed him to look my way, half believing that even in pitch blackness Farrell Dean could find me, but his eyes stayed fixed on the ground a few yards in front of him.

  The other two boys, a little older than Judd but still a good bit younger than me, shifted uneasily from foot to foot, casting sideways glances at each other, at the crowd, and my heart swelled with worry for them, too.

  The loudspeakers crackled to life.

  “Family of Optica,” said the hated Voice. “There are cancers among you.”

  What were we going to do? I searched the rows of people, spotting friends here and there, but no one was moving to stop this horror—all the faces looked stunned, all eyes were fixed on the spot-lit scene, strangely softened and unearthly in the misty drifting rain.

  The Voice boomed out, “Stealing food for favorites, betraying the Family of Optica.” In the circle, Cook Alice shook her head firmly.

  Where was Meritt, Cline, anyone who could help—but how could anyone help? It would be just like Rafe all over again.

  A warden stepped forward and, bizarrely, handed Cook Alice a gun.

  “We know which boy you have fed,” the Voice said. “And you know, Cook Alice. But the rest of the family does not know. You have five seconds to consider. Then you will walk up to the guilty boy, put the gun against his head, and pull the trigger. You have one bullet. If you do not shoot him—if you choose instead to shoot yourself or someone else—all four boys will die, and so will you.”

  Suddenly I saw it. It was there in the straight line of the nose, the steady eyes, in the constant understated kindness to me. Cook Alice was Farrell Dean’s mother.

  Her hands were shaking. The mist swirled around her like a living thing. She held the gun in front of her, pointed down at the ground, and it wobbled in her grasp. Her face, always so cheerful and calm, was agonized.

  I couldn’t just stand there and watch this.

  Ignoring Ezzie’s protest, I started around the curve of the tower base, toward the circle, toward Farrell Dean. I would die, I knew I would die, but at least my death would be a protest—

  Someone grabbed my arm, hard, and spun me around, knocking my shoulder roughly against the prison wall so that pain ran through me like an electric shock. It was Cline. His expression was grim and freckles stood out sharply against the unnatural pallor of his face. He started to say someth
ing but the Voice drowned out his words.

  “And now the countdown will begin,” it said.

  Cline bent and pressed his mouth against my ear. “Meritt’s going to create a diversion,” he said. “Get to Farrell Dean, get him away. He won’t want to go but he might do it for you.”

  His mother. He wouldn’t want to leave his mother.

  The Voice was counting. Five. Four.

  “I’ll get her,” Cline said. “Tell him that. Tell him I’ll get Alice.”

  Three. Two.

  As the Voice said one, the lights went out.

  We sprang into action. I rushed straight to Farrell Dean, thankful I’d been focused on him, could find him even in the dark. As I reached him I felt Ezzie and Cline shove past, sensed them begin to struggle—with wardens, with the other victims, I didn’t know. All around us people were shoving, yelling. A woman screamed.

  “This way,” I said to Farrell Dean, pressing my mouth to his ear to be heard over the uproar, pulling at him frantically. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness but that meant other people’s eyes were adjusting as well, meant wardens, the snipers, might begin firing at any second. But Farrell Dean was immovable as stone, too heavy for me to budge.

  “They’ll kill her!” he said, pulling roughly away from my grasp. Over his shoulder the mass of bodies separated briefly, shifted.

  “Cline has her,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Farrell Dean looked at me once, intently, and then it was as if he suddenly saw me and knew me. “I promise,” I said. “Cline has her. He’ll take care of her.” And then Farrell Dean was helping me fight our way through the panicked crowd.

  Miraculously we made it out of the chaos and past the watchtower, into the silent streets. Even the electric blue lights were out, and it was very dark. Behind us the uproar continued unabated.

  Cautiously we made it past the cafeteria, past the girls’ dormitories, running blind in the darkness, moving as swiftly as we dared, holding to each other’s sleeves, hands, stumbling now and then but never falling. I was glad I knew the streets so well, glad I had explored them with Meritt so many nights.

  We had made it to the edge of the meadow where the beehives stood when behind us the blue streetlights flickered, came on. I risked a backwards glance; the watchtower spotlight was back as well, stretching its white probing finger north, sweeping counterclockwise, towards us.

  “Hurry,” I said, pulling at Farrell Dean’s sleeve, but there was nowhere to hide. In a heartbeat the spotlight was washing us in its relentless white light, illuminating every inch of the meadow, every hive, every stone. I hoped no one was watching—surely their attention would be on the circle, on the chaos there.

  As the light passed on, leaving the darkness blacker than before, Farrell Dean staggered. I caught his arm to keep him from falling, and as he regained his balance I felt him take a deep wincing breath.

  “It’s not much further,” I said. “We just have to make it to the woods.”

  The heavy clouds parted, showing bright stars, and in their light he turned a startled face toward me.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve been there, I’ve met someone—the head Guardian—and he’s going to help us.”

  Farrell Dean shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them he looked at me, not like Cline had done, as if I might be crazy or lying, but as if I’d said something perfectly sensible.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Chapter 25

  We had to go more slowly through the meadow, avoiding the hives, feeling for each step in the darkness that felt darker every time the stars shone and then vanished again.

  Farrell Dean was breathing shallowly, cautiously, as if every inhalation hurt. I could only guess at the extent of his injuries. Broken ribs? Weakness from loss of blood? I couldn’t imagine what it must have taken for him to move as fast as he had through the city streets.

  What would I do if he fell? He must outweigh me by sixty or seventy pounds. I wasn’t strong enough to carry him, probably couldn’t even get him back on his feet if he went down. I found myself talking in my mind to the First Star—yes, I know, stars are burning balls of gas. But I talked to the First Star anyway, telling it I knew it was back there somewhere behind the clouds, begging it to keep Farrell Dean going, to keep him on his feet until we reached safety.

  In the orchard the trees were twisted shadows, hardly visible through the darkness and shroud of mist. Even the spotlight couldn’t reach cleanly through their tangled forms. Eventually the waning moon would show, unless the clouds covered it, and walking would be easier, but we’d also be more exposed. By then, I hoped, we’d be safely with Sir Tom.

  When we neared the gap in the wall I stopped. “We’ll wait for the others here,” I said, not wanting to leave the camouflaging shadows of the apples trees. If Sir Tom wasn’t out there yet, I didn’t want to cross the wasteland vulnerable and exposed and with an injured man to protect.

  “Try to rest,” I said, and Farrell Dean carefully lowered himself to the ground and sat, unsupported, because his back couldn’t bear leaning against a tree.

  I wanted to ask him about what had happened to him in the prison—I wanted to know how many times they’d lashed him, and whether his wounds had been treated in any way, and what questions they’d asked him, but all of that would only make him focus on the pain.

  “How long have you known about Alice?” I said instead.

  Beside me, in the darkness, Farrell Dean shifted. “A long time,” he said. “She told me as soon as I was old enough to keep a secret.”

  “Cline knew, too.” It came out sounding petulant, which surprised me, but come to think of it, I was a little peeved. Apparently lots of people had been keeping secrets from me.

  “He figured it out,” Farrell Dean said.

  A muffled noise made us both go very still. “That must be the others,” I whispered. Surely it was, but it wouldn’t do to get careless now.

  Farrell Dean began, slowly and painfully, to get to his feet.

  I put a hand on his arm. “Stay here,” I whispered. “I’ll go check it out.”

  After a heartbeat he made a resigned gesture.

  “I’ll be careful,” I said, before he could tell me to, and I began picking my way through the twisted trees toward the sound, but veering to the left of it, flanking it. As I drew closer and slowed to a walk I could tell that someone was moving through the orchard—more than one someone.

  I crept closer, until I saw movement among the shadowy trunks of the apple trees. Whoever it was came carefully, trying to be quiet, but the darkness and the trees made it hard. As they drew nearer I heard a murmur—a female voice.

  Only when they were almost to me did I see that their clothes were gray, not the black of wardens. Then, finally, I recognized them. It was Joe and Harding—the ones Cline had chosen—and with them, Shawna and Liza.

  Trying not to startle them, I called out softly.

  Shawna and Liza hurried to me, exclaiming quietly, asking questions; Joe and Harding hung back. A look passed between them that I couldn’t read, but guessed it had to do with the presence of the girls.

  Sure enough, Joe—dark haired and slight, not tall, but known for being tough and quick with his fists—tilted his head apologetically. “Followed us,” he said shortly. “Our fault.”

  Harding nodded grimly. He was a big sandy-haired guy—not as big as Cline, but in that range, and strong. “We started to send them back,” he said. “But then we figured, the city’s gotten as bad as the woods these days.” He glanced at Shawna, who smiled sheepishly at me, and suddenly I understood.

  Liza shook her frizzy hair out of her face and spoke, her voice, as ever, practical and brisk. “You need us. You know you do,” she said. “Listen, we’d best not hang around here. It’s pretty chaotic back there but someone still could have seen us go.”

  And so I led them to where Farrell Dean waited. When we reached him Harding and Joe huddled in close, muttering under
their breath, and he nodded and replied equally quietly. Shawna and Liza stayed with me.

  I glanced at Shawna out of the corner of my eye; I’d been so busy being glad she was keeping my secret that it hadn’t even occurred to me to wonder whether she had a secret of her own. Had she slipped out at night, after I did? Was she that sly? The thought made me nervous for a moment, but then I decided that in this situation, slyness was all for the best. More power to her.

  Something about the way Liza held herself told me she and Joe were not a couple; she was self-contained, somehow, while Shawna kept glancing Harding’s way. And when Joe left Farrell Dean and came over to me, she didn’t seem gravitationally drawn to him, the way I knew I was with Meritt.

  “Where’s this friendly Guardian?” Joe asked.

  I nodded toward the woods.

  “Does he have a place, a house or something? Someplace safe? Because Farrell Dean’s in no fit state to go much further.”

  I’d been trying not to think about that. The place I knew about—the cave by the sea—was a long way away. I didn’t think Farrell Dean could make it that far. But maybe Sir Tom had someplace else, someplace closer.

  Before I could explain all this to Joe, we heard a shout—not close, but closer than anyone should have been. Joe and Harding glanced at each other.

  “You girls stay here,” Harding said, and they were off.

  Liza rolled her eyes. “Oh, please!” she said. “We’d be quieter than they are.”

  Another yell split the silence, and though I couldn’t make out the words I knew the voice. Without a word or a thought I started running, ignoring the questions Liza flung after me.

  How many times had I crossed this orchard today? The trees still did not seem familiar; they reached out of the mist and grabbed at my hair with small branches, their shadows mingling with solid trunks until I couldn’t tell which was which and was constantly dodging, clipping my shoulder, unsteady on my feet. It felt as if it took forever to reach the voices.

  They were at the edge of the orchard, almost to the city proper.