Resist

by Sarah Crossan

  I wake to find Ronan shaking me. “Bea, wake up,” he whispers. “Bea.” I yawn.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “Never mind that. Move!” he says.

  “What’s happening?” I try to stand and stretch but he takes hold of my thighs, so I can’t.

  “They’ll see you!” he says.

  I slide off the chair and onto the balcony floor. “Is it the Ministry?”

  Ronan shakes his head. “I have no idea who they are. They must have spotted us.”

  I suddenly feel less cold. My aching limbs lighten. It must be Quinn and Alina and Sequoia come to save me. “At last, they’re here!” I say, trying to get a glimpse of the road.

  “I’m pretty sure you don’t know these people,” he says. “This way.” Reluctantly I slither through the balcony doors behind him and into the restaurant, which is strewn with dozens of chairs like the ones outside. “Stay low,” he says, remaining hunched. We go to a window.

  “Do you know them?” he asks. It isn’t easy to see through the grimy window. I rub the glass with my sleeve and put my face to it. Three bearded men dressed in rags are inspecting the station. Each is armed: one with a broken pitchfork, one with a baseball bat, and another with a thick metal pole. And they have bulky solar respirators on their backs. “Drifters,” Ronan says. He pulls out his gun and loads it with a handful of bullets.

  “What are you doing? They aren’t monsters.” Certainly not Maude, and not those who Jazz said helped defend The Grove. I grab for Ronan’s gun, but he pushes me away so hard I fall, landing on my arm and twisting it. I groan, but he doesn’t apologize or try to help me up.

  “Shh,” he says, finding a broken windowpane and taking aim.

  “Give them a chance,” I say. I crawl to the window. The men skirt the station, all the time peering up.

  “They look like they’re on their way to a lynching. Don’t be naïve, Bea.” The condescension in his voice makes me well up with anger.

  “You’ve been out of the pod two seconds and think you know everything. Watch and learn.”

  “Where are you going? Come back. Come back.”

  I march out of the restaurant, down the staircase, and outside, where I stand by the exit.

  I’m about to speak to the men when the one carrying the baseball bat turns his back on the station and shouts. “Oi, Brent, you sure it was this building? I can’t hear nothing.” He shuffles away and leans against a van on the other side of the road.

  “Chill your boots, Earl. There’s definitely meat in there. I heard it squalling last night,” Brent says, using his metal pole as a kind of walking stick.

  “Yeah, well if there ain’t, maybe I’ll just eat you.”

  Brent jabs Earl in the stomach with his pole and cackles. Even from a distance I can see his black teeth.

  Earl quickly recovers, and when he does, he bashes Brent’s knees with his baseball bat. “Watch it, or next time I’ll use your head for ball practice.” This doesn’t seem like bravado; I’m sure they’d happily kill one another.

  I’ve made a mistake.

  I back away from the road and through the station doors, but when I spin around the third man, the one with the pitchfork, is standing staring at me. “Well, well, well. Look at the treat we’ve got here,” he says, and rubs his belly.

  I dip to the side as the man swings for me. Luckily he’s half-starved and carrying a solar respirator and isn’t fast enough. I hurtle up the stairs and into the restaurant. “Ronan! Ronan?” I call.

  But he’s disappeared.

  “Get back here, you stupid cow,” one of the men hollers. The others hoot.

  I jump over broken chairs and overturned tables, smashed plates and glasses, and when I get to the kitchen door, push on it. I expect it to swing open, but it doesn’t budge. Something’s blocking it on the other side. I scan the restaurant. There’s no other hiding place or way out unless I dive off the balcony. I find a broken bottle and hold it by the neck as the men saunter in, their eyes gleaming.

  Earl swings his baseball bat, and they all grin. He comes closer and I try dodging him, but he’s quicker than the man with the pitchfork. He leaps at me and knocks me to the ground. Earl pulls me up straight using my hair. His face is flecked with scars and his thinning hair is greasy and matted. “Annoying,” he says, “but comely. What do you think, Getty?”

  The man with the pitchfork throws down his weapon and steps up. “She’ll do,” he says. He unbuttons my coat and ogles me.

  Brent shuffles forward. “Dibs on her air tank,” he says, loosening it from its belt.

  “Leave that ’til we’re finished,” Getty says, shoving him.

  I try to thrash free, but when I do, Earl, who’s standing behind me, pulls my hair harder. “Settle down,” he croaks.

  It’s obvious what these savages are planning, and I can’t endure it. Anything but this. Anything.

  I whimper, wishing I’d let Ronan shoot them. Where is he now? And where’s Quinn?

  Getty holds my face next to his, and licks my cheek. Even through the mask I can smell his rotten breath. I cry out, and they laugh. “Please don’t,” I say, looking into his eyes, but he’s too far gone to see my humanity.

  He throws off his heavily stained jacket and scrapes his finger along my collarbone. “I’m first,” he says. And I decide, in that moment, that I will shut down and think of Quinn and my parents and Maude and anything else that is not this, is not now.

  “Ready?” Earl asks.

  I shut my eyes. “Quinn!” I shout. “Quinn!”

  But he doesn’t hear me.

  No one does.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  22

  QUINN

  I dream about Bea and wake up in a sweat, my mind whirring with images of her body on the tracks of an old railway line being pecked at by hungry drifters, their mouths like beaks. She was calling my name over and over even though she was already dead. It was horrible.

  I’m stuffing things into my backpack, ready to find Alina, when Vanya barges into my room. “How did you sleep?”

  “I had nightmares,” I say, still feeling the effects of the dream.

  “It’s always hard to sleep in a strange bed,” she says with this weirdo smile on her face. She flutters by me and throws open the curtains. “A glorious day!”

  “Not for my friends, it isn’t. They need help before it’s too late.” I move to the door. “Do you have a buggy?”

  “A buggy? Of course we have a buggy, Quinn. This isn’t The Grove.” She sits on the end of the bed and pats the spot next to her. I stay where I am.

  “A child’s bleeding to death,” I say quickly, pointing out the window.

  “Sounds serious.” She shifts her weight on the bed and the springs creak. The more composed she is, the more my limbs jitter. If she isn’t interested in helping, then what does she want?

  “Is there a doctor or nurse? All I need is a buggy and medic . . . please.” I’m not used to begging anyone for anything, but I’d gladly get on my knees and lick her shoes if it meant she’d help. In fact, I’d do absolutely anything.

  “No one’s leaving here,” she says, and grins like this is some kind of joke instead of a person’s life we’re talking about.

  “I won’t let my friends die!” I shout.

  She rises and comes to the door, where she stands ridiculously close to me and speaks slowly and quietly. “This is not a hotel, Quinn. You can’t pop in and then leave when you’ve showered and had a good meal and long rest. Abel should have explained that to you. I’ve arranged for you to complete some tests this afternoon. If you want to live here, I suggest you comply with our requests. I’m more than a little irritated by all the disruptions.”

  “I’m not hanging around here while they’re out there. What kind of crazy woman are you?” I seize her arm and, like a w
ild drifter, she spins around and punches me on the ear. She’s stronger than she looks.

  “Never lay your hands on me,” she snarls.

  I push past her and out the door into the hallway. “Going somewhere?” Maks says.

  Vanya cracks her knuckles and a vein in her neck pulses. “Take him to the lockup. Give him a few calmers and administer the physical tests,” she says. And with that, she turns away.

  “You’re worse than Petra,” I say.

  Vanya spins around. “I take that as a compliment,” she says.

  “So that’s it? Jazz is going to die?” I push Maks off and step away from him. He’s beefy, but I’m fast. If I make a run for it, I might get away.

  “Jazz?” Vanya says slowly.

  “Yes. She’s just a child.”

  “Well, that changes everything. Come with me.”

  I’m wasting precious time sitting in what can only be described as Vanya’s boudoir while Maks is sent on an errand. Vanya isn’t cool and creepy anymore, she’s flustered. She keeps firing questions at me: “Who is this Bea? How old is the child? Where was she born? Who are her parents? How did she end up at The Grove?” I don’t have any answers—and the less I give her, the more Vanya frets.

  Eventually Maks drags Alina and Dorian into the room. “What’s going on?” Alina asks.

  “You said everyone from The Grove died. You lied.” Vanya says.

  “The place was decimated,” Dorian says. He looks at Maks who, denied the opportunity to beat me up, may have his sights set on him.

  “Quinn tells me there are more survivors,” Vanya says.

  “How would he know?” Dorian spits. “His father was the one who destroyed The Grove. What’s he doing here, anyway?”

  Alina elbows Dorian in the gut. Maks smirks. “We can trust Quinn,” she says. “If he says there were survivors, then there were. We didn’t know.”

  Vanya goes to the oxybox on the wall and takes a lungful of air. “So people were in there when you ran for it?”

  “We tried to get Petra out,” Dorian says. “She refused. She climbed a tree and wouldn’t come down. We have no idea what happened to the others because we were all stationed at different locations. But Petra—she was determined to die.” Dorian is rambling and making himself breathless.

  “Quinn found a child,” Vanya says. “Who could that be?”

  Alina and I have already gone through this, but Alina pretends she’s working it out. “Jazz was the only kid at The Grove,” she says pointedly. “We tried to save her, but she wouldn’t leave Petra behind.”

  Vanya taps her chin and studies me. “I don’t like this,” she says.

  “Help me find them,” I say.

  Vanya turns to Maks. “Get the zip ready.”

  “Thank you.” I sigh.

  “I’m not doing it for you,” Vanya says. “I’m doing it for my daughter.” She marches into the adjoining bathroom, leaving all of us gawking after her.

  Maks is standing with one hand on Dorian’s shoulder, the other on Alina’s. He pushes them aside and takes after Vanya. “Jazz is your daughter?” he asks.

  “Yes,” Vanya calls from the bathroom. “Now go and find her.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  23

  RONAN

  By the time I make it through the back exit of the station and around the front, hoping to take the drifters by surprise, they’ve vanished. And so has Bea. She’ll have run, and I hope she has the sense to go back into the station as it’s the only building not on the brink of collapse. “Bea!” I yell, hopping over fissures in the road and hurtling back through the doors.

  I hear them braying before I see them. “Get on with it, Brent, don’t be a sissy. If you’re not in the mood, let me have a go.” I finger my gun and climb the stairs. When I peer through the glass in the restaurant door, they have Bea trapped by the balcony, prodding her like a cold dinner. “Don’t,” she peeps. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “We know you will.” They hoot. Bea sobs. She’s no longer wearing her shirt. She is trembling in her bra and pants.

  I slink into the restaurant, planning to be on top of them before they notice, but in my haste I don’t look where I’m stepping and glass breaks under my foot. The men spin around. And they don’t waste a second. Two of them dive toward me and only hesitate when I raise my gun, ready to shoot.

  “Careful, hombre,” one says.

  “Let’s talk about this,” the other suggests.

  “Down on the ground,” I say. They snicker like this is the silliest thing they’ve ever heard.

  “Shoot them,” Bea says, her voice eerily calm. The man still holding her smacks her. Bea’s knees buckle, and I fire.

  One man falls without a sound. I fire again to be sure he’ll never get up and the others grab their weapons. The one holding Bea presses the pitchfork to her throat.

  “Try that with me, you little bastard, and I’ll rip her open,” he barks. “Now hand your gun to Earl.” The drifter with the baseball bat eases toward me.

  “Stay where you are,” I say.

  “Don’t give him the gun. We’ll both be finished if you do,” Bea says. “Shoot him.”

  “Can’t you shut her up?” Earl says, turning. The guy with the pitchfork knocks the side of Bea’s head with the heel of his hand.

  I close one eye, focus on the forehead of the man holding Bea, and pull the trigger. I am driven back only a fraction. The drifter crumples to the ground and as he does, Bea seizes the pitchfork from him and rushes at the last man. He turns, but it’s too late: the last thing he sees before he dies is Bea thrusting the prongs of the pitchfork into his chest.

  She lets go of the weapon, watches him slide to the ground, and collapses. The delicately ridged track of her spine is clear through her chalky skin.

  Her shirt and sweater have been trampled into the carpet, and when I shake them, glass and dirt cling to the fibers like a razor-edged reminder of what’s happened.

  I throw them aside, remove my coat, and pull my own sweater over my head.

  A sob comes from deep inside her belly as I touch her gently on the back. She covers her chest with her arms. “Here,” I say, and turn away.

  “I should have listened to you,” she says. “I was trying to be strong. Now I’m a killer.”

  I turn back around and crouch beside her. “It was him or you.”

  “I thought you’d left. I thought I was alone.” She can’t say any more. She’s crying too hard.

  “I’d never have left you,” I say. I watch her and breathe in the deathly silence of the station. My gun is still warm. I fasten the safety catch. The men I killed are sprawled across the carpet. Perhaps I should feel a shred of remorse, but I don’t.

  All I care about now is getting back to the pod. And I’m going to have to convince Jude to find a way to help Bea instead of Quinn.

  Because she shouldn’t have to live out here.

  No one should.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  24

  BEA

  Ronan leads me to one of the green chairs, turning it to face the windows, so I don’t have to look at the drifters. He opens up a compartment in his backpack filled to the brim with protein and nutrition bars and hands me one. I pull away my mouthpiece and take a small bite, which is all I can stomach. “You have to keep up your strength,” he says.

  He’s watching me for signs I’ll break down, but I wish he wouldn’t. Every time I catch his eye I see the pity and horror of what might have been. And I’m ashamed. It was my own fault. I wanted to prove to myself how strong I’d become. And I wanted to prove to Ronan that everything he knew about drifers was untrue. Except it wasn’t.

  “What are you ev
en doing in The Outlands, Ronan? Isn’t there a servant at home waiting to run you a hot bath and cook you a meal?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But I told you, I’m looking for someone.” He pauses. “For Quinn Caffrey. His father sent me. Do you know where he is?”

  I want to trust him, and after what he’s just done for me, I probably should, but if Mr. Caffrey’s the one looking for Quinn, it must mean trouble. “I haven’t seen Quinn since the pod.”

  Ronan studies me. He knows it’s a lie. “Well, I have to find him,” he says. “Will you help me?”

  “I wish I could.”

  “I’m a member of the Special Forces, Bea. I was at The Grove. I know what the Ministry did because I was there fighting for them.”

  I sit up, pull off the sweater he gave me using one hand to keep my face mask in place, and fling it at him. How could he have destroyed all those trees? And killed so many people?

  He doesn’t have the face of an enemy, but that’s what he is—he’s his father’s son. “You. Make. Me. Sick,” I say, and head back into the restaurant, where the three dead men are still bleeding into the carpet.

  Ronan runs after me and forces me to look at him. “I didn’t know what we were doing until it was too late. I know the Ministry is full of crap. I want out, and Jude said he’d help. If I find Quinn for him, he’ll change my identity and I can leave the Special Forces. He’ll do it for Quinn, too. . . . And you, I’m sure.” But he doesn’t sound so sure. No Premium father would want his son involved with the likes of me.

  I scratch Jazz’s dried blood from my hands. “I don’t want to go back,” I say simply. “And how could you, after you’ve seen what’s possible?”

  “I’ll become an auxiliary. I’ll be like you.” He says this like it’s the most magnanimous gesture in the world. It’s all I can do to put my hands behind my back to stop myself from punching his puffed-out chest.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be an auxiliary? Do you like running or dancing or kissing or anything remotely normal? Because once you become like me, every breath will cost you. You think that’s a life I want to go back to or one I’d want for Quinn? Leaving the Special Forces and living in Zone Three isn’t going to solve anything. You’ll be in hiding, that’s all. A coward in hiding.” I stop. I’ve been shouting, and my throat hurts. I didn’t hit Ronan, but from his guilty expression, I may as well have.