“I got it,” she snaps.
I allow her to run ahead, taking a few minutes to bend over my knees and rest. When she passes by on the next lap, I begin running again.
“We need a way to exchange messages,” Sofia says.
I fall into place beside her, keeping pace with her stride, and ask, “Is there someplace out of sight of the cameras?” The old secret spot under the stairwell where Quinn and I used to meet is now under the beady eye of a new camera installed after someone — me — set off a false fire alarm.
“The girl’s restroom, northeast wing, on the ground floor. Last toilet cubicle. We could leave notes in the S-bend of the outlet pipe. On the outside of the pipe, obviously.”
“What about the camera?”
All restrooms here have a camera in the corner which covers the basins and cubicle doors, even if they don’t record what goes on inside the actual stalls. Anyone analyzing the footage would be suspicious if the same two girls repeatedly used the last toilet when other stalls were empty.
“No, the angle at which it’s mounted is off. It only captures the basins and the first cubicle door. The rest are out of range.” She’s getting out of breath now. She’ll need to stop soon.
I know the restroom she means. I call an image of it into my mind, trying to visualize the sight-lines, like a sniper looking for ways she might get spotted by the enemy.
“What about the mirrors? Wouldn’t they show the reflections?”
“Camera’s aimed too low. Trust me, alright?”
I don’t want to, but I’m going to have to.
“Okay. Thanks,” I say and pull off down the straight section of the track when she collapses onto the AstroTurf.
When I finally call it quits, it’s because of a rapid fluttering of my heart that has nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with rising panic. Seventy-two hours have passed since Connor was captured. He has only two days left, at best, before they begin torturing him in earnest.
Chapter 12
Hand-to-hand
Late Monday morning, I visit the last toilet cubicle in the female restrooms on the ground floor of the northeast wing. I latch the door closed, sit on the lid of the toilet and feel along the outside length of the S-bend with my hand, trying not to think about the source of the dirt I can feel under my fingertips. Tucked into the inside bend of the pipe is a small, folded piece of paper. I open it, read the message, “Done,” and then tear the paper into tiny scraps which I throw into the toilet pan. It takes several flushes until they’ve all disappeared.
Done. Good.
The rest of the day drags by slowly as I wait for Sarge to summon us for a mission to Freedom Park. My head is full of doubts. What if he’s decided that I shouldn’t go? What if I get to go but they aren’t there? What if we go at the wrong time?
Four o’clock comes and goes, and the only gathering of the sniper unit is in front of the darts board and PlayState virtual reality game consoles in the rec room. Damn. Connor’s five days are up. If they hold to their plan, his interrogation will start tonight. Time is running out fast.
I leave a message of my own in the S-bend: Nothing yet. Can you ping the park again?
Tuesday morning lasts a century. Finally — finally! — after the lunch-hour, Sarge sends a message that we’re all to be in his office at 14h30.
There’s more elbow room in the small office without the presence of Leya, but it’s still a squash. Next to Sarge stands a tall person of around thirty years, with short brown hair, bulky muscles bulging out from a camo vest, and some kind of strange scar on one forearm. Since I left home, I’ve seen many of the ways people try to make their appearance stand out when they’re so often disguised behind their masks — weirdly colored contact lenses, tattoos, bizarre hairstyles, and all kinds of piercings, but this raised, white pattern of skin is a new one for me.
A swift glance to either side confirms that Mitch, Tae-Hyun, Cameron and Bruce are all staring with puzzled expressions at the stranger. They’re probably wondering the same thing I am: is this a man or a woman? There’s no softness to the features, no fullness to the lips, but I don’t see any stubble on the jaw either.
“Right, piglets, this here is Charlie.”
Male, I think. Then immediately remember that one of the girls in my online study group called herself Charlie — short for Charlotte.
“It has been brought to my attention that there is a deficit in your training, a gap in your skills.” Sarge gives me a hard look. “Apparently, overpowering someone in this specialist unit and taking their weapon is easier’n taking candy from a baby. So Charlie here is going to be spending time with you over the next few weeks, teaching you the skills of hand-to-hand combat.”
“Cool!” says Mitch, fist-bumping with Bruce.
“Awesome,” says Tae-Hyun.
Cameron, as usual, says nothing.
I’m not enthusiastic. I expect I will soon be sporting even more bruises. Also, I’m disappointed — I was hoping we had been summoned to go on a ratting mission.
It strikes me that Charlie is not wearing a mask or gloves. Is this due to macho bravado, or insider knowledge?
“Interrupting an attack, disarming and disabling an opponent, protecting yourself and your unit members — these are the skills you will learn,” says Charlie in a deep, gruff voice.
“Will we be doing knife work?” asks Bruce.
“I will show you how to turn your hands into lethal weapons.”
On the last word, Charlie pulls a fist back to waist height then strikes out with an open-handed blow, like a karate chop, which stops a millimeter short of Bruce’s throat. I see that what I thought was a scar on the forearm is actually a pattern of cuts and scratches etched into the skin like a raised white tattoo. It’s of a clenched fist with flames rising from the knuckles. Male or female, this is not someone I want to mess with. Neither does Bruce, judging from the hard swallow he gives.
Tae-Hyun laughs a little nervously, but the rest of us stay silent. Sarge grins his mad smile, thanks Charlie and says we’ll attend our first training session at 20h00 this evening.
“Right, item two on our agenda, we’re going ratting this afternoon.”
Excellent. As long as I’m included.
There are murmurs of appreciation from the boys. I guess this is the first mission since the disaster with Quinn and Connor last Wednesday.
“Bruce, Mitch, and Tae-Hyun on point. Cameron, you can spot if it’s necessary — I don’t know the distances.”
“Sir?” I look my question.
“You, Blue, will not be on point. You will not even be spotting. But Ms. Roth has given permission for you to clear the area of civilians. And I’ll be coming along to keep my eye on you.”
So far so good. “Thanks, Sarge,” I say, all enthusiasm.
Bruce asks the question I desperately want answered. “Where are we going, Sarge?”
“Freedom Park, this afternoon.”
Yes!
“We’ve received multiple reports of a rat infestation there. Suit up and get your weapons and ammo from the armory. We leave from bay C at oh-fifteen-hundred precisely. Damndest thing — the varmints seem to come out every afternoon at four when some folks bring their kiddies to the play park on the southern side. Don’t look at me like that, Mitch, there are still some people who like to get out of the house. I guess kids bring snacks and the rats are looking for food, but we can’t risk someone getting bit.”
“Plague rats or ordinary rats, sir?” says Mitch.
“The report didn’t specify, son, but we need to be prepared for both. Dismissed.”
On the way to the armory, the boys argue about whether Charlie is a man or a woman. I’ve already made up my mind on this one.
“He’s a man, definitely. Did you see those biceps?” says Mitch.
“Dude!” agrees Bruce. “And did you see that scarification on his arm? My older brother wanted to get one. He told me they cut it with scalpels and peel off the skin, or
sandpaper it. And then they rub crap into the wounds — iodine or toothpaste or lemon juice — to make the scar worse. That’s pain, man, Pain! With a capital P that rhymes with T that stands for testosterone. No way a woman could handle that.”
“Charlie is a woman,” I say, firmly. “Not only can we handle as much or more pain than you bozos, but we also don’t have Adam’s apples.”
After a moment’s silence, Tae-Hyun says, “Hey, Jinx is right, I didn’t see one on her.”
Cameron nods. He’s real observant. He would have noticed, too.
“Huh,” says Bruce.
“She’s hardcore — the real deal,” says Tae-Hyun.
Mitch elbows Tae-Hyun in the ribs and mocks, “Hey, Tae-Hyun’s in luurrve!”
Tae-Hyun cuffs Mitch behind the head, and the two scuffle the entire way to the armory.
“Hey guys? Guys! Why do you think she wasn’t wearing a mask or gloves?”
“Maybe they tested her before allowing her in,” says Bruce.
But that can’t be right. The results would take twelve days to come back, and it’s been less than a week since I raised the issue of hand-to-hand combat.
“Nah, she’s too badass for any virus. Any microbe that lands on her will just check her out and fly the other way,” says Tae-Hyun, aiming a blow at Mitch, who is making kissing noises.
If the rebels are right, that’s wrong, too. The Rat fever virus isn’t airborne.
We pass through the decon units to transport bay C and troop noisily into the armory, where Juan is on duty behind the counter.
Juan asks, “What are we hunting today, boys — rabids? Or rats, or terrs?” Juan gestures behind him to a different shelf of ammunition as he names each target type. Rabids, or M&Ms, are people who are so far gone with the rat fever plague that they’ve gone “rabid”. “Terrs” are terrorists, the creators and spreaders of the plague.
“Just the rodents,” says Mitch.
“Right you are, rifles first,” says Juan.
He begins issuing Bruce, Mitch and Tae-Hyun their weapons. Cameron leans up against a wall while I hop up to perch on the counter and begin fiddling with a high-power scope I find lying there. I put it to my eye and squint out the doors to where our transport, a black, unmarked Hummer van, is parked. Through the scope, I can see every detail, including the mud splattered on the bumper, and a scratch above one wheel well. I can even make out the tiny date stamp on the registration plate.
I turn and peer inside the armory. Through the scope, the boys appear so close that I’m overwhelmed with the detail of stubble, pores and pimples. I twist around and peer at the racks of weapons and the shelves of ammunition. On the shelf Juan indicated when he said “rabids”, there’s a Plexiglas ammunition canister. Inside are the special cartridges — each filled with instant-tranquilizing drug — packed upright in molded foam. There’s a tiny sticker on the outside of the box, and I focus the scope until I can read it. 1000 x bi-fill cartridges (C11H17N2NAO2S + KCl).
I have no idea what this is, but in my new, unofficial role as spook-on-the-inside, I want to know everything, so I try to take a mental snapshot. Most likely, it’s nothing important, just a product code or something, but I create a quick mnemonic to help remember it. Cats 11, Hats 17, New 2, Now Attempt Olympics 2 Sing + Kick Crappy lovers.
Once the boys have had their thumbs scanned to acknowledge receipt of their rifles and ammo, and Sarge has arrived, we leave. Bruce and Mitch are singing, tunelessly, a ditty they’ve just made up about rodent annihilation, Tae-Hyun is clicking his tongue-stud against his teeth, and Cameron, as usual, is silent. Me? I’m silently chanting the mnemonic while picturing the hatted cats (two of them shiny and new) kicking the shins of a lover who looks a lot like Quinn.
The Hummer carries us in air-conditioned comfort out of the compound and through the largely empty streets of the city. Most folks are like my mother, preferring to stay safe inside at home, but we do pass a rare jogger apparently determined to run on the roads rather than on a treadmill, a band of leather-clad bikers gathered under an overpass and an ancient black station-wagon with a coffin fitted on top of the roof. The warning “Turn or Burn” is stenciled on the sides, “Repent or Lament” on the blackened rear window, and a strident man’s voice broadcasts Bible verses out of a hood-mounted loudspeaker as it rolls slowly down the deserted suburban streets.
As soon as we arrive at Freedom Park and clamber out, we’re hit full-force with the sweltering mid-August heat and humidity. We dump our gear at the base of a sign reading: Caution! Premises and facilities used at own risk. The City accepts no responsibility for injuries or illnesses incurred on these premises. Report any sightings of rats, infected animals or persons to 1-800-RAT-REPORT.
“Man, this is hot. It’s going to be like trying to shoot inside a sauna,” Bruce complains, wiping a sleeve across his face.
“Suck it up, cupcake. If you think this is bad, try marching through the desert carrying 120 pounds of gear in temperatures in excess of 46° Celsius. That’s over 114° Fahrenheit, my sweaty little hogs,” says Sarge.
I am definitely sweating like a pig. The thick cotton boiler suits which are the standard uniform of the sniper unit aren’t ideal gear for weather such as this, and the fabric rubs painfully up against my sores and scabs, but I’m not complaining. The suits also have a number of pockets and webbed pouches which are useful for stashing extra clips of ammo, bottles of water or packs of gum.
Or something else you might wish to hide.
“Listen up, soldiers. Put your comms in now, so we can stay in contact with each other.”
We all insert the tiny earpieces which are both speakers and microphones, and do a sound-check.
“That clump of dogwoods down there must be the trees where, according to the reports, the rats are hiding out. We can probably get quite close — I don’t think you boys will need a spotter. Up there are the civilians that need clearing,” says Sarge.
I look up the grassy rise to our right, and a surge of adrenalin fizzes through my veins. At the top of the sloped embankment is a play park. A woman in a yellow dress is sitting on a bench beside a baby stroller, and a few feet to her right, another woman in jeans is pushing a child on the swings.
Can it really be them?
Chapter 13
In the palm of my hand
Please, please let it be them. If it isn’t them, then I have no idea how to get a message to Quinn.
“I’ll go,” says Cameron and begins walking.
“No! No, it’s okay, I’ll do it,” I say quickly. “They might freak out if they’re approached by a big, strange man. I’m less threatening.”
If Cameron thinks that they might be equally freaked by my Technicolor face, he doesn’t mention it.
“Haul ass, then, Blue. I want them cleared out of the park, stat.”
“On it, Sarge.”
As I walk off and climb the embankment, I hear, through the earpiece, the sounds of the boys loading ammo clips into their rifles and discussing where best to set up their firing positions.
Climbing higher, I notice a man to the rear of the play park, several meters behind the woman in yellow. He’s wearing a respirator and is leaning up against a large boulder, his eyes on the two figures at the swings. His face turns to me as I draw nearer. This must be one of the spooks tailing the O’Riley family members. Crap. I should’ve anticipated this. If the spooks find out who this cadet is, or if Sarge figures out who the mother and daughter are, they’ll guess that the contact can’t be coincidental. I’ll be toast.
The mother on the bench has neon-yellow hair and also wears a respirator. Has she fitted one on her baby, too?
I’m close enough to make out features now, and I see that it definitely is Quinn’s mother pushing his little sister on the swings. Mrs. O’Riley is not wearing a respirator. Her face is as pale as the small piece of paper tucked inside my front breast pocket. She looks tired and her features are tight with worry. I reckon she has been
getting as little sleep as her eldest son.
Kerry — also mask-free — is the first to recognize me. She is high in the air on an upswing when she smiles widely, showing me the gap of her missing front tooth.
“Mom, look! That’s —”
“Excuse me for interrupting you, ladies,” I cut in quickly, all too aware that everything I say, and maybe even what they say, is being carried to Sarge’s ears. I have to be careful with hand gestures too, because of the presence of the spook and the other civilian. I can’t have him see or hear anything he might regard as suspicious, and I can’t have her reporting the odd behavior of a cadet to someone later. Some people take the “If you see something, say something” warning all too seriously.
“But —” begins Kerry, looking puzzled.
“Listen up now, folks,” I interrupt, before she can say anything more, and then I raise a finger to my lips in a silent shushing gesture.
I hope that the spook just thinks I’m telling the kid to be quiet and pay attention. My back is square to the rest of the team down below, so they won’t see it. As Mrs. O’Riley pulls the swing back, she whispers into Kerry’s ear. Kerry gives a small nod, and then her face is clear of any recognition and she keeps swinging, pumping herself higher into the air with her legs.
“I have an important message for you.” I say this, loudly and clearly, while staring directly into Mrs. O’Riley’s accusing eyes. It’s clear that she’s aware of my role in Connor’s capture.
“If you’ll all look down there, you’ll see a bunch of men with weapons.”
As expected, all of them, including the spook, look down the hill to where the sniper unit is gathered, and I use the moment’s distraction. Keeping the elbow of my right arm close to my side, I reach with the hand into the breast pocket and remove the folded note, on which I have written, in tiny print, details of the plan to weaken and interrogate Connor. Although I’ve forgotten the name of the detention center, I still remember the address, and I’ve written that down, too. I keep the note in the palm of my hand, pressed against my midriff, to still the shaking which has started up again.
The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel Page 28