Glory

by Maureen McGowan

  “Yes.” She’s been trailing us like a fog, but now her shoulders straighten and she lifts her chin. “Come.” She gestures to us. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Thanks.” I look at Burn, but his face is a mask. I turn back to Morag. Then back to Burn. She’s staring at him, and it might be my imagination, but the more I see them together, the more they look alike.

  We follow Morag through the rest of the enormous building, and at the other end, large doors stand open, creating a space that’s nearly a story high and wide. Outside, various smaller buildings are scattered around a massive fenced-in space. In the distance lie fields, much like the ones we have around Concord, and rows of windmills. No one I know inside Haven or at Concord would believe that Shredders could be this organized, this civilized. Civilized if it weren’t for the bodies hanging from the fence.

  “Attention, citizens of Simcoe.” Houston’s voice comes over a loudspeaker. “If anyone has seen Hector Solis, or a teenage boy and girl who arrived last night or earlier today, please report the information to the Mayor’s office immediately.”

  I’m shocked to hear that my dad’s so well known here that Houston uses his name. “What’s a Mayor?” I ask Morag.

  “Houston is the Mayor.”

  “Is that like a President?”

  “Not like in that dome,” she replies. “We hold elections.” Morag looks over at Burn, but he’s standing silent, like he’s ignoring our conversation.

  A group of children rushes by, jumping and shouting, and it makes me smile. One of them, a boy of about four or five, slams into Morag’s legs. “Mommy!”

  She rubs his head. “Go play, poppet. Mommy’s busy right now.”

  I turn back to Burn. In spite of his claims, he might still have family—somewhere. He’s given me contradicting stories about his past. Is that why Morag’s staring at him? Is she why he comes here? I can hardly think it—Is Morag his mother? If so, is this little boy Burn’s brother? Half brother? I want to ask him, but I should wait until we’re alone.

  “What’s an election?” I ask.

  “An election”—she pats the boy on his bottom, and he skips off to follow the other kids—“is when we choose Simcoe’s leaders.”

  “Who gets to choose?”

  “Everyone over thirteen,” she answers. “Elections are held every five years. That way, if someone’s not doing a good job—”

  “They’re replaced,” I finish. “That’s an amazing system. Don’t you think so, Burn?” He raises his eyebrow a fraction of an inch.

  “We should do that in Concord,” I go on. “I mean, how was Rolph chosen to head the FA? And why does the army run things, anyway?”

  Burn shakes his head, either unsure or unwilling to discuss it further. He won’t even look at Morag, fueling my suspicions.

  “Mommy! Catch!” The little boy runs back and throws a ball, but not nearly hard enough, and it’s too far to the right.

  Morag holds out her arm and the ball veers, changing direction and altitude until it lands in her hand.

  “How did you do that?” I ask.

  She rolls it toward her son. “It’s my Gift. I can draw objects toward me.”

  “Anything? Can you pick that up from here?” I point to a stool not far from us.

  “No.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “I can only alter the trajectory of something already in motion.”

  “That’s cool, don’t you think, Burn?”

  He looks the other way.

  Morag glances behind me, and I turn to see Houston striding down the path toward us.

  “Did you find them?” I ask.

  Houston shakes his head. “If anyone’s seen them, we’ll find out soon.”

  Burn glowers. I wonder if he knows or detects something I don’t. I’m certain that no one’s messing with my judgment. After my experience with Mrs. Kalin, I can detect that kind of interference in my thoughts, and my gut still says that this place is safe.

  “What’s behind that fence?” Burn points to a solid fence—more like a wall—that I assumed formed the end of the settlement.

  Houston frowns. “You know very well what’s behind there.”

  “Tell her what you’re hiding.” Burn leans forward. “It’s not all smiles and laughing kids here.”

  I remember the bodies on the fence as Houston raises his hands, palms facing us. “We have nothing to hide.” He turns to me. “But speaking of hiding, do you know how often Burn comes here? He thinks we don’t see him watching us, but we do, don’t we, Morag?”

  Morag’s hand trembles as she tucks her hair behind her ear, again. “Yes, I’ve seen him.” She moves toward Burn.

  Burn shoves his hands into his pockets.

  Morag’s skin looks flushed. “I’ve wanted to talk to you. To apologize—”

  “Apologize?” The word bursts from Burn like a gun blast, and he drops Caroline’s rope.

  I touch Burn’s arm. “Calm down.”

  He shrugs off my hand. The telltale vein pulses on his temple.

  I gently turn his face so his gaze meets mine. “Take a deep breath,” I say. “Calm. Down. Now.”

  Rage twists his features as he looks into my eyes. But he doesn’t change.

  He turns to Houston. “Show Glory what’s behind that fence.”

  Chapter Twenty

  WE FOLLOW HOUSTON and Morag, and as we get closer to the fence, I can hear noises—screams and shrieks, the pitch and tone of metal on metal. The sound of Shredders. As badly as I want to find my family, I hope I won’t find them behind this fence.

  We reach a set of stairs. “Best to leave her down here.” Houston nods to Caroline.

  Morag reaches for the rope joining Burn to Caroline. “I’ll watch her for you.”

  Caroline’s eyes glow, but she says, “Okay.”

  Following Houston, we climb the stairs and find a series of catwalks. The space below is divided into three large sections, each about one hundred yards wide and maybe double that in length. It’s hard to judge the sizes from this distance. We can’t see inside any section except the area right below us. The walls between each segment are solid.

  We slowly walk along the railing of the catwalk. Below us, people mill around in groups. Most look like Shredders; some are obviously Deviants; some are constrained—hobbled or shackled—but none are fighting against their restraints. The shrieks are coming from farther away.

  “Is this a detention center?” I ask. “What did these people do?”

  “People?” Burn says. “They aren’t people.”

  “This is Stage Three of our renewal center,” Houston says. “Most of the people you’re seeing below have been fully off the dust for at least three weeks. They undergo daily interviews, and a committee decides when they’re ready to enter Simcoe again.”

  “Again?” I turn toward him.

  “Some for the first time,” he says, “but some are former residents who slipped.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They inhaled too much dust and needed help.”

  “Holding people captive isn’t help.” Burn’s voice is full of scorn.

  I tug on Burn’s coat sleeve. “You can’t have it both ways. One minute you’re claiming they aren’t even people, and the next you accuse Houston of holding them against their will.”

  “Show us the rest,” he says to Houston.

  “You know what’s there,” Houston replies. “You’ve been spotted climbing up to look in more than once.”

  Burn doesn’t respond. He pushes off the railing and strides down the catwalk.

  He stops halfway along the second pen and I join him.

  “This is Stage Two,” Houston announces.

  This pen’s smaller, and all of the Shredders inside are restrained—some are shackled to the sides, others trapped in cages, and still others are facedown in the dirt. Most of them are shrieking and moaning, writhing in obvious pain.

  I flash back to the rooms in the Hospital inside Have
n and Mrs. Kalin’s barbaric experiments. Is this any better? And what about my own treatment of Caroline?

  “Admittance to Stage Two is voluntary,” Houston tells us. “Many of the addicts in the farthest section”—he tips his head toward the final barrier—“were put there against their will—captured by our recruiting team, or at the request of a family member or friend who’s already recovered.”

  “How exactly do they volunteer to get into this part?” I ask.

  “See that door?” He gestures to the wall that divides this area from the pen we have yet to see. There’s a dented and rusting steel door.

  “To get to that door,” he says, “the applicants crawl through a tunnel, then submit to our guards, lying facedown, arms behind their backs, before they’re constrained and brought through.”

  “What if they want to leave here once they’re in?” If I’ve learned anything over the past months, it’s that the line dividing right from wrong can be fuzzy. Before I decide about this place, I need to know all I can.

  Houston puts a hand on the fence in front of us. “Once they enter Stage Two, they have to stay for at least a week. After that, they’re given a choice: either leave Simcoe or remain in captivity until they’re ready to be interviewed for admittance to Stage Three, the final stage.”

  “And can we see what’s in Stage One?” Past the next wall, the catwalk itself is fully enclosed like a cage, and it’s covered in razor wire.

  “Are you sure you want to?” Houston asks. “It isn’t pretty.”

  “I already saw the bodies strung up around your gate. Where do they come from?”

  Houston shifts. “They’re Shredders who never made it out of Stage One.”

  “I thought you said they could leave renewal if they wanted.”

  “I said that entering Stage Two was voluntary. We need to keep Simcoe safe.” He motions for me to follow.

  The ethics of this place bother me, but I’ve seen Shredders in action. It could be a disaster if Shredders who left here led others back to attack.

  Once we cross onto the caged portion of the catwalk, the noise level increases, and as I step up to the edge, Burn slides his arm over my shoulders. Below, a gangly male Shredder charges the wall, his bulging eyes focused on me. He jumps and his hands tear on the razor wire. He drops to the ground.

  Something slams into the fencing above me. I jump. Another Shredder has landed on our cage. Blood as thick as oil drips down. I wipe some off my cheek and move out of the way. Bracing myself, I look up, ready to kill the Shredder—but he’s already dead.

  Burn squeezes my shoulders.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, and I nod.

  “We need extra security for the Stage One viewing area.” Houston points to the cage above us. “In addition to the razor wire, there are spring-loaded spikes.”

  I creep back to the edge of the fencing and scan the throng below. What if my dad’s down there? When I first saw him, after three years of thinking he was dead, his skin was darker and thicker. I shudder. No. My dad was never a Shredder. I can’t think that. His skin was just darker and wrinkled from the sun.

  This last pen is smaller and more crowded. A few Shredders are at the far side, keeping quietly to themselves, and I can see the opening to the wire-covered tunnel system that Houston told us about. A female Shredder is crawling very slowly over—

  “Is that razor wire?”

  Houston’s jaw tenses. “Yes. Razor wire and glass shards.”

  “Why?” The word comes out as a high-pitched breath. I wanted to believe that the people of Simcoe were good, that it was possible to recover fully from being a Shredder, but it looks as if Houston and the others have set up a torture course as the price for so-called renewal. Crawl over glass or get strung up on the fence.

  “We need to be sure that those in Stage Two want to recover. That they aren’t coming in to attack those already in renewal.”

  Bile burns my throat as I watch a Shredder cut long slices along the bare chest of another who’s being held by more Shredders. Screams rise, and I cover my ears. “Why do you let them have weapons?”

  “We confiscate everything we find,” Houston says, “but they always have ways.”

  “That knife’s made from an arm bone,” Burn says.

  “Exactly,” Houston says. “They make knives by sharpening bones against the rocks.”

  Another snarling Shredder leaps up to try to reach us. Hooks—that must be part of his Deviance—protrude from his wrists. If he can jump as high as the Shredder who landed above us, those hooks could easily snag on to the fencing right in front of our faces.

  He tries again and again, and on his fourth attempt, I hear breaking bones when he lands. He walks away, dragging one leg at an awkward angle behind him.

  Another Shredder with scalelike skin jumps on the wounded one, knocking him down. The scaled Shredder steps on the broken leg and laughs at the screams of pain.

  I’ve had enough.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I RUN BACK along the catwalks, not looking down, even when I reach the Stage Three area.

  I take the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, I squeeze my eyes shut and bend over, wishing I could erase the images from my mind.

  “Which one of you is responsible for her?” Houston gestures toward Caroline, who’s standing very close to Morag, her rope on the ground.

  “I am,” Burn says loudly before I can respond.

  “Don’t agree to anything without talking to me first,” I tell him. The thought of Caroline being tossed into the Stage One pen makes me ill. Even Stage Two. And I promised we wouldn’t leave her here.

  “You said I could decide,” he replies, but his voice is soft. “Trust me.”

  “Let’s talk. The three of us,” Houston says, and he leads Burn and Caroline to the side of one of the buildings.

  Morag starts after them, but I stop her. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Okay.” We sit side by side against the wall of a wooden building.

  I’m not sure where to begin. I don’t want to blurt out my real question without first talking to Burn. “How long have you lived in Simcoe?”

  “About thirteen years—on and off.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “The first time”—she shifts on the ground—“I escaped from a camp. Me and my—”

  “You and Burn?” I can’t help myself.

  She turns away from me, and I draw a long breath. “Morag, is Burn your son?”

  She nods.

  “Are you sure?”

  Tears are running over her dark, wizened cheeks. “I knew the moment I saw him.”

  “He’s sixteen—he thinks.” I rest my hand on her back. “He must have changed a lot.”

  “He turned seventeen last month.” Her eyes well. “But I’ve seen him over the years. The first time when he was eight.”

  “How? And how did you first lose him? And . . . if you live here, how and why did Burn end up where he did?”

  “I didn’t live here when I gave him up.” Her voice trembles. “I escaped the Shredder camp and took Burn to the settlement when he was three. I left him at the bottom of the ridge.”

  She draws a ragged breath. “I grew up at the settlement. I took him to the only place I knew he’d be safe. After I left him there, I expected to die. But I stumbled on this place instead. They saved me.”

  “What about Burn’s dad?”

  “Killed, trying to keep the Shredders from taking me. When I was captured, I was already pregnant with Burn.”

  “That’s terrible.” I squeeze her hand.

  “I don’t like to think of those times.” She runs a hand over her long hair. “After I found my way here and finished renewal, all I could think about was my son and whether I dared to try to see him again.”

  “So you went to find him when he was eight?” I ask.

  “No.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I would have been shot by the tower guards if I tri
ed to get anywhere near. A group from the settlement came here. Burn was with them. I think he followed in secret. He was such a brave boy, even then.” She pauses, and I bite my tongue to keep from interrupting.

  “I recognized him right away. I thought”—she twists her hands in her lap—“I thought he came to find me.” She blinks and tears trail down her cheeks. “I ran out to talk to him, but he didn’t remember me.”

  She looks into my eyes. “I tried to tell him who I was. I tried to tell him that I loved him, that I only gave him up so that he’d have a chance of a real life—a life away from Shredders—but he didn’t let me explain.”

  “What happened?”

  “He pelted me with rocks.” She tugs at the neck of her shirt. “He nearly killed me.”

  “But you deflected the rocks with your Deviance?”

  She rubs a scar on her head.

  “You let the rocks hit you?”

  She nods. “The commotion drew attention. A fight erupted between Simcoe and your people. The talks broke down.”

  “Is that why no one from Concord comes here? Why no one talks about it?”

  “Probably. That was the worst day of my life. Still, that was no excuse . . .” She bites her lower lip so hard it draws blood, which I’m glad to see looks human.

  “Excuse for what?” I whisper.

  “I left here. I went back on the dust. For more than three years I was back in a camp, tortured daily, raped . . . But I got out. I did it for my baby.”

  “The little boy we saw?”

  She nods. “I didn’t know I was pregnant when I escaped the camp. Not for sure. But Duncan was born when I was in Stage Three of renewal.”

  I gasp.

  Her eyes well up again. “He was so tiny. He almost died. So did I.”

  I squeeze her arm. I don’t want to ask about Duncan’s father. Not if he was conceived in a Shredder camp. “You saved both of your boys. You made sure they didn’t grow up to be Shredders. That was brave.”

  She stares at the ground. “Burn probably still wants to kill me. Or would if he figures out who I am.”