by Ann M. Noser
“Yeah,” says Gus. “I’ve been ready and waiting for over an hour.”
“Then let’s go.”
Carts squeak and roll past. When another cart jolts the one I’m on, I brace myself, biting my lip so as not to make a sound.
With a sudden jerk, I’m on the move, sliding back and forth in the bag. The wheels whine and complain beneath the weight, catch on the grate of the ramp, and then the gurney steadily inclines into the truck. The cart bangs into the next one in line, and we halt to a stop.
Doors clang shut. The truck engine comes to life. And we’re off, headed for the Incinerator.
I can hear Gus’s monitor crackle to life. The hum moves from side to side around the truck. I wait in silence. After what seems like forever, Gus unzips the bag.
“How’re you doing in there?” He frowns. “We should be out of the main part of the city and onto the outer-lying roads soon.”
“Then what, Gus?” I ask. “Do I jump out and run for it?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Where would you go?”
“I don’t know.” I can’t sit up; the rack is right over my head. I’m trying so hard not to cry, but it’s no use. A few tears squeeze out. “They’re going to kill me, Gus. And what about my mom? What’s going to happen to her?”
Gus sighs. “At the moment, your mom will have to fend for herself. But she could be in trouble.”
I wipe my eyes. “She was freaking out when I was taken. And now there’s no one left in our family to take care of her.”
“I’m afraid things might be even worse than you think, now that Franco talked to her.”
“What do you mean?” I can still feel Franco’s kisses on my lips, but that seems unimportant now and so far away. “What does he have to do with this?”
“Franco went looking for you this morning when he woke up,” Gus explains.
“He did?”
“Yeah, he said there was some misunderstanding between you two.” Gus waves his hand. “I don’t need to know the details. But when he didn’t find you at work, he went to your home and found your mother, instead.”
“So, what does my mom think happened?”
“Franco told her everything. In fact, now she knows more than you, and we’ll get to that. But, my point is, that’s how I knew where to find you.”
“I’m glad you found me, and I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but what do you plan to do with me at the Incinerator?”
Gus chuckles. “Well, I don’t plan to turn you to ash. That’s for certain.”
The truck grinds to a sudden halt.
“What the Hell?” Gus exclaims before zipping the bag back over my head.
I hold still in the stale darkness.
The back doors of the truck slam open.
“Truck’s overheated!” yells a Handler. “Do you have any water?”
“Yes.” Gus swears under his breath, fusses with his tool rack, and clambers out. I strain to hear the voices outside the truck, but they’re too muffled to comprehend.
Finally, Gus clambers back inside and shuts the doors. The engine starts again, and I take a deep breath. The zipper opens overhead to reveal Gus’s sweating face.
“Stupid piece of crap truck, trying to carry too heavy of a load. Damn thing overheated, but some water did the trick. Unfortunately, you’ll be needing that water later, but there was no other way. I have to get you to the Incinerator.”
“What am I going to do at the Incinerator?”
He points toward the floor. “You’ll be going out the sewer.”
“What?”
“The sewer drain. It’s there in case the building catches on fire. There’s an overhead emergency sprinkler system. I’ll unscrew the drain cover, down you’ll go, and then you’ll run ‘til you reach the woods for cover.”
My heart races. “The woods outside the fence? But there’s wolves and man-eating creatures out there.”
“Silvia, don’t be scared of the wilderness. That fence was built to restrain you, not protect you.”
“But I’ll starve.” I rub my stomach. I’m hungry right now.
“No, you won’t.” Gus shakes his head. “I’ll give you the supplies you’ll need. All you have to do is to find the others.”
“What others? What are you talking about?”
“After the War, some people resisted the move to the cities.” Gus takes a deep breath. “Ben’s brother was one of them.”
I gasp. “Your Ben?”
“Yes. His name’s Frank. He’s the one who sets off the firework show every fourth of July, just to let me know he’s still out there.”
“So, that’s why we waited for the fireworks. But I still don’t understand.”
“Don’t you get it? I’m the Underground Railroad for getting people out of this Godforsaken city.”
“Why? Because of what they did to Ben?”
“Yes, it started with Ben. When I realized that the New Order basically enslaved the survivors of the WWIII to serve their own needs, I knew I had to do something.”
A cold chill races down my spine. “Holy crap, Gus.”
“I wanted to tell you. I was working my way toward it. My plan was for you to take over for me. I’m getting old, Silvia.”
“To take over?” I feel dizzy. Good thing I’m already lying down. “But where do these people go exactly?”
“Don’t worry. Once I set the Incinerator on fire—“
“Once you what?”
“Don’t interrupt; there’s no time. I hid explosives in one of the body bags. That will start a fire once it hits the Incinerator. Then you’ve got to get out of this bag and jump down into the sewer system. I’ll drop down all the supplies—maps, compass, and the like. They’re hidden in another one of the body bags in case you’re wondering. Oh, and I have some stuff stashed in my tool chest.”
I’m shaking all over. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Sure you can. You’re smart—and you have no other choice.”
“But what if I want to come back? Then what do I do?”
Gus shakes his head. “You’re never coming back, Silvia. It’s hard enough getting you out.”
“No, I’m coming back. I’ll find all the others and convince them to join me.”
“Join you in what?”
“Overthrowing the New Order just like Franco said when he was drunk. I thought it was crazy talk, but now I know he was right. It’s time to destroy it. Blow it to smithereens.”
Gus’ eyes widen. “Franco was drunk? No wonder he smelled—oh, never mind about that. But, Silvia, put the thought of coming back out of your mind. This is goodbye.”
“No, I’ll see you again.” I get up on both elbows, so he can see my face. “I swear it, Gus. I’m coming back for you and my mom at the very least.”
Gus chuckles, but he grabs at his chest like it hurts him. “That’s what they all say, that they’ll come back. But it never happens.”
“No, I’m coming back!” I protest. “I’m not like the others.”
He holds up a hand, and I fall silent.
“Silvia, that’s exactly what your father said. And he never came back, did he?”
“W-what?” I can’t breathe.
“That’s what else I had to tell you. Your father was in the accident along with Jack, Liam’s dad. Neither one of them died. And it was no accident, either. It was staged by the New Order trying to get rid of the rebels working in that sector of the clothing industry. Your father and Jack were unconscious when they were brought to me, but not dead.”
“He’s not dead?” My heart ricochets in my chest. Now that I finally have proof, I can hardly believe it’s true.
“No. Not yet. But I knew the Representatives had their eyes on them, so I drugged them to make it look like they’d been killed in the fire. They were covered with soot when they arrived, and I used my stage makeup to make their injuries look worse than they were. I fooled the examiners, who were just a bunch of politicians anyway. Not a r
eal doctor in the bunch, thank goodness.”
My hands shake. “What the Hell are you telling me, Gus?”
“Your father’s alive. And you’re going to see him again.”
The truck halts with a bang and a wheeze that echoes my own.
Gus zips me back up.
Trapped again inside the bag, I force myself to take calm, shallow breaths as the truck backs up to the Incinerator. Dad’s alive, and I’m getting out of here. I have to find him. I have to.
The back doors bang open. The metal gurneys roll off the truck, one by one.
I’m moving, bouncing off the truck, rolling up the incline and into the sweltering Incinerator.
The air inside the bag is stifling.
Sweat trickles into and stings my eyes, but I can only blink. I can’t wipe it away.
Voices shout out commands. Metal clanks. Papers shuffle.
I remain still as a stone, so they won’t find me. I know what a body bag looks like when a corpse is inside.
The Incinerator flares to life.
Gus directs the Handlers.
The body on my right side on the gurney is removed.
Terror splashes acid in my stomach.
My hands start to tremble, and I press them flat to my sides.
More voices. More clanging.
The grinding of the conveyer belt rings in my head. Smoke chokes me.
I carefully stuff a hand in my mouth to keep from coughing then tremble with the possibility that somebody noticed the movement within my bag.
The overhead sirens wail.
Heavy footsteps race across the floor.
People scream and shout.
Drops of water pelt the body bag.
My cart rolls over to the side.
Gus unzips the bag. The room is filled with black, cloudy smoke.
“Get ready.” Gus clanks open his tool chest and unscrews the drain cover. It clangs to the side. “It’s open. Now, jump.”
I scramble through the dark smoke, find the opening with my bare feet, and pause.
“Go,” he orders. “You don’t have time to think.”
“Visit my mom,” I beg. “Turn two teacups over on the kitchen counter. She’ll know what it means. Do it, Gus. I’m counting on you. And this isn’t good-bye. I’ll be back for both of you.”
When he nods, I jump down the rabbit hole.
Two bags drop down beside me. A lit flashlight clatters on the ground, near my feet.
I grab the light and dig inside the first bag.
The drain cover clatters into place far above me.
I’m alone now. It’s up to me.
Voices shout overhead as I pull out Franco’s jean jacket. I check for the Property of Franco Harman label to make sure. It’s still there. Why do I have his jacket?
I dig in the pockets. They’re filled with small books detailing what plants are safe or toxic to eat. But I still don’t know why he would give me his jacket. Then on the last page of one of the books, I discover a handwritten note: Please wear this jacket at all times. I need to know you made it out alive.
My empty, aching stomach clenches. If they find me wearing Franco’s coat with his name branded across it, they’ll know he was in on my escape and come for him, too. This means he’s risking his life for me. And it also means he’s in on Gus’s Underground Railroad scheme.
He knows about my father.
That’s why he said I’d hate him if I knew the truth.
But he’s wrong. I don’t hate him. I only hate one thing: the New Order and every Representative that enforces it.
And I’m coming back with an army to take it down.
Smoke scratches my eyes as I scramble into travel clothes, then I stuff the second supply bag into the backpack. The corners of my mouth twitch in a short-lived smile. Gus even made me a sandwich. Quickly, I cram the scrubs in the backpack in case anyone comes down here in the sewer. I can’t leave any clues behind.
I slip a compass and a first aid kit into a side pocket and creep along the sewer floor. The flashlight catches on remnants of other bags, scraps of food, and small bone remnants. The beam of light scatters small rodents and one tiny snake.
None of it bothers me. I’m only afraid for those left behind. What if they discover Gus saved me? What will they do to him? Or to Franco? To my mom?
Together, they saved my life.
And I don’t know if they’ll be alive, come morning.
Reaching the end of the huge drainpipe, I peer out of the sewer, into the night.
Fire climbs into the heavens. Smoke billows far into the distance. Siren wails blast my eardrums.
It’s the perfect cover for my escape.
I squeeze between the rusted metal rungs. Franco’s jacket catches on a sharp edge, holding me back. With one more pull, I yank free and stumble away.
Breathing hard, I race across the field, into the trees. The ground is rugged, but my pothole-trained feet never slow their pace. I push through the thick smoke until branches and leaves scratch my face and catch in my hair.
Hidden in the brush, I’m tempted to look back at the Incinerator, but I force myself to continue onward without slowing. I must cover as much ground as I can before morning.
My chest expands with each deep breath, the fire in my heart burning stronger than the one behind me.
I must stay alive in order to save Franco and the others.
So I run for all our lives.
Dead Girl Running is a cross between The Giver, The Handmaiden’s Tale, and Agenda 21. Along with the huge debt of gratitude I owe all the authors I’ve read over the years, I’d like to especially thank Lois Lowry and Margaret Atwood for building written worlds that stuck with me long after closing the covers.
As always, I’d be lost without my critique partners (the lovely Christa Worrell, Caitlin Spivey, and Emma Adams) and my beta readers (the wonderful Colleen Chmelik, Josh Noser, Kristin D. VanRisseghem, Danielle Allen, and Rachel Erickson).
My miraculous editor, Vicki Merkiel, who wrote in her comments: “Looking forward to re-reading and being absolutely floored by how far you’ve taken it.” I hope I’ve done you proud. Your guidance was invaluable, enlightening, and I will use your wise advice in every book I write (or revise) for the rest of my writing life. Thank you.
To Eugene Teplitsky, my stunning cover designer (and CQ boss): what a patient, patient man you are. Thank you for endlessly asking me what exactly I wanted on my cover, then re-asking when I gave answers I believed were super-specific but, in reality, were hopelessly vague. Thanks so much for my eye-catching cover and all the fussy details involved with making my book so cool.
There are so many people to thank from Curiosity Quills (CQ). My CQ Writers Critique Group has been oh-so-helpful: Samantha Bryant, Yolanda Renee, and Katie Hamstead. Matthew S. Cox has been everything from a shoulder to lean on to a meticulous proofreader. I am lucky to be included in such a great group of fellow crazy authors.
In addition, I must throw bouquets of whatever flower represents extreme thankfulness at Andrew Buckley, who has fielded at least a million emails from me during the past year. At least a million—probably more. (And I forgive you for not getting a picture of James Spader at Comic Con for me. Twice this has happened now, but who’s counting?)
Silvia’s dependence on running reminds me to appreciate my hilarious high school running coach, Mary Allen, who first introduced me to running because I was lingering in an empty school hallway doing nothing and she needed a warm body to fill up her Cross Country team. Even though I deemed Cross Country “hell in a bucket” at the time, you planted a seed that grew into one of my great lifelong loves. Additional thanks go out to my caring college Cross Country coach, Jen Arneson, who put all her athletes first. How I wish I had the confidence back then that I have now. With age comes wisdom, experience, and a heavy dose of reality. Thank you for showing me how life can lead you down any road you have the courage to follow.
In addition, I’d like
to express my eternal gratitude for all the fellow runners I call friends starting in Regis High School (talking to you again, Colleen Chmelik), continuing through the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire Cross Country and Track teams, and now through Team R.E.D. and SE MN Trail Runners. Thank you for encouraging me back then and leading me back to the only sport I truly love. Extra kisses to my canine running buddy, Daphne. And cushy running socks and non-chafing sports bras to my human running buddy Lisa Klotzbach. (Lots of squirrels to chase to her canine partner, Ruby.)
Last, but most certainly not least, I thank my family and friends for putting up with me while I write. You know how I can swing from frustration to elation and back again in the matter of an hour. What would I do without you? Definitely not eat. (Thanks for cooking, Josh.)
My to-do list dictates that I attempt to cram forty-eight hours of living into a day instead of the usual twenty-four. I’ve chosen a life filled with animals. I train for marathons with my dog, then go to work as a small animal veterinarian, and finish the day by tripping over my pets as I attempt to convince my two unruly children that YES, it really IS time for bed. But I can’t wait until the house is quiet to write; I have to steal moments throughout the day. Ten minutes here, a half hour there, I live within my imagination.
Like all busy American mothers, I multi-task. I work out plot holes during runs. Instead of meditating, I type madly during yoga stretches. I find inspiration in everyday things: an NPR program, a beautiful smile, or a newspaper article on a political theory.
I’d love to have more time to write (and run, read, and sleep), but until I find Hermione Granger’s time turner, I will juggle real life with the half-written stories in my head. Main characters and plot lines intertwine in my cranium, and I need to let my writing weave the tales on paper so I can find out what happens next.
Where to find me:
Blog: http://www.annmnoser.com
Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/AnnMNoser
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AnnMNoser
Goodreads page: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8124757.Ann_M_Noser
Clavicles = Collar bones
Core muscles = Think beyond the stud-muffin six-pack. Core muscles involve your spine, pelvis, abdomen—everything that’s not your arms and legs.