Breaking Point a5-2

by Kristen Simmons

  He was evading. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  “I know,” he said finally. His shoulder jerked up, reminding me of the boy he’d once been before the world had hardened him. “I used to believe if you were good, good things would happen to you. I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

  “So that’s it?” I said. “You die and that’s the end. There’s nothing else?” The panic swelled inside of me. I could barely keep my voice from breaking.

  I watched him try to swallow. “My mom said there was more. She called it the spirit world. She said death is just the bridge there, that souls stick around to guide us.”

  That felt truer than anything could at the moment. I felt my mother’s ghost constantly. I felt it now, in the space between Chase and me.

  He reached for my hand, holding it between both of his.

  “Ember, I think if there is someplace like that—someplace good—I think that’s where your mom would be.”

  It was instantaneous. The pain, the fear, the loneliness, all balled together inside of my gut and soured. My eyes burned, but not with tears. I wanted to cry. I’d wanted to cry for days, especially when this happened, but I hadn’t since our escape from the base. My tears had been choked off, and all that remained was anger.

  Nothing felt right. My thoughts didn’t feel right. My skin didn’t feel right. Even Chase sitting beside me made me claustrophobic. I wanted to run away. Disappear. Forget myself.

  I couldn’t stop the questions: Did you do enough? Could you have stopped him from killing her? Why couldn’t I stop this? Why couldn’t I see this coming?

  I didn’t want to grieve my mother. I didn’t want to wonder if she’d been hauled to the crematorium outside the base like any other bin of trash. I didn’t want to remember that she loved pancakes and hot chocolate and contraband books. I didn’t want to remember her at all, because I didn’t want her to be dead.

  It wasn’t fair. My mother had been murdered simply because I’d been born.

  At that moment I could see exactly why someone would snipe off soldiers.

  I shook Chase’s hand away. He looked intolerably sad, and that infuriated me, too. What was wrong with me? I was taking it out on him, even when I didn’t want to. She was gone and he couldn’t change that. Nothing could change that.

  I shoved off the tailgate and paced around the garage.

  “Maybe if you talked to me,” he suggested tentatively.

  “I’m talking! We’re talking! It doesn’t fix anything!”

  He was standing now, too, hands hanging limply at his sides. He moved closer.

  “I don’t know if it works exactly like that.”

  “What are you, my damn therapist?” I fumed, fists balled at my sides.

  “No!” His hand raked through his hair, but it was so short, his hand slid back to the collar of the holey, borrowed golf shirt. “No, I’m just your…” he shrugged. “Neighbor,” he muttered, his face darkening. His eyes fixed on a particular spot of oil on the floor.

  “My neighbor?” I said, and the laughter that bubbled out of my throat sounded so evil I turned away so I couldn’t see my own cruelty reflected in his face. Not his best friend. Not his girlfriend. Just the neighbor. My mind flashed to Sarah, and her once-pretty dress, and suddenly I was sick with wonder of how Chase had spent his nights in the MM.

  The silence grew thin and was punctuated by another clap of thunder.

  There was something in the way he looked at me then, as if he’d asked a question and were waiting for an answer. As if he were willing me to answer, but how could I? I didn’t know what we were, even if what I felt was strong enough to die for.

  “We’re loading the truck,” announced Riggins from the stairs. I jumped at the sound of his voice and noticed that Cara was with him. I wondered how long they’d been standing there.

  Chase pulled back, averting his gaze.

  “Right,” he said.

  An hour later, Cara and Tubman, in the MM uniform, took the stolen government truck filled with refugees east under the guise of delivering rations to a soup kitchen in Maryville. I prayed the guards on the freeway would see the MM vehicle, see Tubman and Cara in uniform, and usher them through without question. With or without the instatement of Article 9, they were as good as dead if caught.

  CHAPTER

  7

  AFTER the carrier’s transport had gone, I’d crawled back into the cab of the yellow Horizons truck to wait out the night. Chase had watched me cautiously, but we hadn’t spoken anymore. There were bigger things to worry about; like how we would get back to the Wayland Inn, or whether Sean had made it safely across town and found the recruit. Still, I hated the distance between us. It left me unsettled, unbalanced. Like the good parts of myself were fading.

  I wished I could talk to Beth. I missed her, and I missed home, at least the way home used to be. That all seemed a long time ago now, like something out of a different life. Still, thoughts of my redheaded friend brought a smile to my lips. The MM could ruin lots of things, but not my memories of her. As long as she kept her head down, she’d be safe. Her family was compliant, after all.

  By dawn, the weather’s tantrum was over and had left the garage eerily silent. The cool air made me shiver, and when I drew my knees to my chest, the St. Michael pendant slid to the floor mat.

  I went to retrieve it, hand searching blindly beneath the seat, and came up with more than just the necklace. A cartridge shell. I rolled it over my palm, curious as to why a food delivery crew would have need for this kind of ammunition. I hadn’t heard there had been any weapons fired when the resistance had hijacked the truck.

  Something wasn’t quite right with this bullet. It was pointed at the end, copper, not silver, and almost three inches long. The cartridges that filled the 9mm were no more than an inch, and rounded on top. I was no weapons expert, but I’d inventoried our supplies at the Wayland Inn, and it didn’t take much experience to figure out that this was for a much larger gun than the typical resistance-issued pistol.

  “We’re moving,” called Chase from the outside of the truck. I shoved the cartridge in my pocket, and with a conceding sigh, slipped the necklace over my head.

  “Can’t hurt,” I said aloud, remembering what Chase had told me about protection.

  * * *

  CHASE stayed close as we raced west toward the resistance hideout. Both our uniforms were slung over his back in a black trash bag, but the gun, I knew, was still tucked in the waistband of his pants beneath that holey sweater. Up ahead, Riggins scouted the way for soldiers, but I remained watchful anyway. I was pretty sure my safety wasn’t his top priority, despite his show of support at the garage.

  The streets were littered with storm debris. Tree limbs, broken glass blinking in the early morning sun, sopping Statute circulars. Fallen power lines that probably were out of commission in this area anyway. I could only imagine what had become of Tent City or the Red Cross Camp in the park, and again felt concern for Sean tingle at the base of my neck. The air smelled like dirt and moisture, cleared, finally, of the crematorium’s thick white smoke that hung like death over the city.

  I tried not to think about that place.

  My pulse didn’t slow until we crossed the threshold of the Wayland Inn. The foyer was thick with bitter cigarette smoke, emanating from a man sitting on a stool behind the counter. Orange hair, bright as a flame, leapt from his head, and his eyes were bloodshot from too much gambling with the boys.

  His name was John, and he was the landlord at the Wayland Inn. I’d only seen him a couple times in the past month, as I so rarely left the fourth floor.

  “Your rent’s due for next month, darlin’. Can’t hide forever.” His words flowed with a faint Irish rhythm.

  I winced. Though his other tenants had to pay, those in the resistance fed his nicotine addiction, and we had returned without a carton of Horizons brand cigarettes.

  “We’ll get you next time,” said Chase. He switched the ba
g of uniforms to his other shoulder.

  “I’d always take a kiss,” he said with a devilish gleam in his eye.

  “You’re not really my type,” said Chase.

  John laughed. “You’ll come around.” He winked so pathetically at Chase that I couldn’t help but laugh.

  We bypassed CJ the stairway guard—a seemingly drunk, homeless man with dreadlocks—and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Each step closer to resistance headquarters brought more relief. I couldn’t wait to tell Wallace and Billy of our success. I hoped it would overshadow the fact that Tubman and Cara had left without his approval. I wasn’t yet sure how we were going to break that to him, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be pretty.

  With Chase on my heels, I pushed through the stairway door, which led to a long corridor lined by old beige wallpaper and stained blood-red carpet. Billy’s mangy black cat curled around my calf, purring her greeting.

  Home. It wasn’t the home I’d always dreamed of, but the feeling was there, nonetheless, and I smiled, because I’d finally earned the right to stay here.

  Raised voices in the hallway drew my attention. We weren’t the only ones back. Chase veered into the surveillance room to see if there were any new updates to the mainframe, but I wasn’t ready for bad news, not after completing my first mission. I sped toward the supply room, netted by the gathering crowd blocking the way, and warmed at the sight.

  Sean was standing just outside the supply room door, hands behind his head, stretching his back. He looked worn out and dirty, and as I pushed through the others I could smell the mud and sweat on him. It didn’t matter; I was glad he was safe. Without a second thought, I wrapped my arms around his waist.

  “You’re back,” I said, relieved. “God you stink.”

  He squeezed me tightly, ruffling my hair into knots. “Like you smell so much better.”

  The greeting party made for a tight fit in the hall, and when he tried to avoid my punch he backed into Lincoln, who, when he saw me, said, “Hey, you’re alive,” and slapped me on the back. Houston, just behind him, offered his congratulations as well.

  Sean pulled me off to the side. For the first time in weeks he looked genuinely happy about something.

  “The new guy remembers Becca coming through the base,” he said. “He never saw her before she went to Chicago, but he remembers her name from the inmate roster.”

  A smile spread across my face. Finally we had a lead.

  The way cleared momentarily, revealing the recruit within the supply room. I could see only his profile, but his face was scruffy, his blond hair oily, and his muscular shoulders bowed. He wore donation-bin black slacks and a gray, long-sleeve thermal, rolled up to the elbows to reveal a scuffed cast half-torn off one arm. From where I stood I could see the faint pink lines of three parallel scars clawed from ear to collar.

  Fingernails had scratched those marks.

  My fingernails.

  Tucker Morris.

  There was a moment of fear. Crystallized, unbreakable fear, that congealed the blood in my veins and iced the breath in my throat. A moment where the frenzied images petrified me. The arrest. The hatred in his eyes. The taste of his breath. Those words I’d heard over and over again: I’m a damn good soldier. I did what needed to be done.

  And then fury consumed me, and without another thought I pounced. He’d followed me. He’d come to finish the job. Well, I was going to finish it first. I was going to tear him to pieces. But Sean had grabbed me around the shoulders. I fought him like a cornered animal, no longer seeing my friend, only seeing danger. Feeling it rip through my limbs. My elbow swung back and connected with his jaw and a string of curse words tore from his mouth.

  The breath released from my lungs in one burning strike: “Run!”

  Wallace burst through the door of the supply room, but there was another person blocking my way. Riggins. I jerked to the side. His fingers caught in my clothing, but maybe it was deliberate. Maybe he was holding me back purposefully.

  “Ember! Where is she?” I saw his black hair first, the glint off the silver gun barrel a moment later. The way cleared as those nearest to him contorted out of the way. Billy jumped on Chase’s outstretched arm, but it was too late. The trigger had already been pulled.

  A crack of gunfire had me hitting the deck reactively. A flash of a red sweatshirt fabric and my fingers were smashed under someone’s shoe. The next thing I knew Sean’s fist was in my collar as he was shoving me farther down on the floor.

  Chaos. Shouting. Running feet, echoing in my eardrums.

  “Chase!” I screamed.

  I got away from Sean. I shoved past Riggins. Tucker had ducked back into the supply room, and for a brief moment I panicked, realizing he had access to more than one weapon inside. But I had to find Chase first; everything else came second.

  I could barely see him. He was beneath at least four other men. One of them was Houston, and he was slamming Chase’s forearm repeatedly into the floor to get him to release the gun.

  “Stop it!” I jumped on Houston’s back and he burst up, spinning me into the wall. I grunted as all the air fled from my lungs at the impact. But I didn’t let go. I held fast to his neck.

  Hands gripped my waist, pulling me down, squeezing me into submission with one arm locked firmly behind my back.

  “Stop!” Sean ordered. “I don’t want to hurt you, okay?”

  “Then let go!”

  He released my arm but trapped me in a bear hug against him, where I struggled until his knees locked my flailing legs in place.

  “Ember!” I heard Chase yell.

  “I’m here!”

  “THAT’S ENOUGH!” roared Wallace.

  Houston and Lincoln hauled Chase to his feet, and I glanced fleetingly over his body to assure he wasn’t badly harmed. They pointed guns at him. As if he were the danger.

  I smelled it now. Gun smoke. Just like in the house on Rudy Lane. Where had the bullet lodged? Somewhere in the floor. Every muscle pulled taut, like frayed twine, ready to snap.

  “You and your damn hot head!” Wallace was shouting. “You had it, Jennings. You had it, and you threw it away. Dammit.” He got right up in Chase’s face, and I had the sudden image of a drill sergeant yelling at his troops.

  Chase spat a mouthful of blood on the maroon carpet. His white teeth were stained red, and for some reason, of all things, this frightened me the most.

  “Tucker and I have business,” Chase said.

  “Not here you don’t,” said Wallace furiously. “You come here, into this family, and draw on one of your brothers? You’re out, Jennings. Clear your effects and get out of my sight.”

  Silence.

  “What? Hold on a second.” Sean was the first to speak. He loosened his hold for just a moment, and in it, I dove in front of Chase, blocking Wallace’s words with my body.

  “You want a gang, go find one,” said Wallace sharply over me to Chase. “There’re lots of them, right outside. You can shoot anyone you want.”

  “I don’t want to shoot just anyone,” Chase said.

  “There’s a reason,” said Billy in a tenuous voice. “There’s a reason, right, Chase?”

  Chase didn’t answer.

  “There’re a lot more than one.”

  The way parted, and Tucker was revealed, one hand in his pocket, the casted arm hanging limply at his side. I immediately scanned for weapons. None that I could see, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one in the back of his waistband.

  “But one main reason, I suppose,” he finished flatly.

  “Care to elaborate?” challenged Chase.

  “Not really,” he said. And his head hung down, as if in shame. As if he were capable of such a human emotion. “But for the record, she kissed me.”

  The shock exploded within me.

  “You…” I began, ready to spring on him again. To scratch out his eyes and choke him with my bare hands. He spoke as if my mother’s murder held the same gravity of some stupid,
fraudulent kiss! As if either one of these occurrences could be the reason Chase might want to kill him.

  “Stay back,” Chase whispered to me. I felt a string break somewhere inside, beneath the hardened exterior of fury. That kiss was a secret I would have taken to the grave.

  I stood as tall as I could, feeling Chase warm and solid against my back, and Wallace just inches in front of me. I placed my hands squarely on his narrow chest and pushed him away.

  “We have to get out,” I hissed at Wallace, every muscle braced to defend myself. “He’s brought others!”

  “He’s brought no one,” said Wallace.

  “I got kicked out,” said Tucker. “Because of you.” His voice was rougher than the last time I’d seen him, but it still sent waves of dread through me. A hateful, green-eyed gaze met mine.

  “Hey, come on, man,” said Sean, nursing his jaw and grimacing at his recruit.

  Wallace put one hand on my vibrating shoulder and clamped down slowly, like a tightening vise. Then he turned around to Tucker and told him authoritatively:

  “We play nice around here. We play nice, or we don’t play at all.”

  Tucker scoffed, then stared at the wall beside him, as if it might burn him to look at me one second longer. The air hummed with tension.

  “I don’t know what he told you,” I said, voice shaking with adrenaline. “But he lies. That’s all he does. He’s here to take us down.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” said Tucker, his face dirty, his expression flat. “I liked you better when you thought you were dying.” He turned to Sean, who was now snarling in my defense. “If she and Jennings are here, forget it. I’m out.”

  Every nerve crackled within me like the end of a live wire. The hallway thickened with spectators, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Tucker. I had to watch him, be ready for anything.

  “Cool off,” said Wallace loudly. I tried to jerk away but his grip on my bicep did not loosen. “We knew he was coming, remember? The recruit from the Knoxville base. Billy retrieved his discharge papers from the mainframe after he made contact with Sean last week.”