Maude reaches across the table and snatches a hunk of cake from a platter. Terry politely fills everyone’s cup with water.
“I doubt it,” Silas says. “They’re all dead.”
“Oh,” Wren says, emptying her cup in one long gulp and reaching forward so Terry can refill it. “The Ministry wants us all dead, don’t they? As I see it, our best bet is to finish them off first.” Wren holds my gaze for a moment. Terry and the others at the table nod, and I do, too. If there were a way to get rid of the Ministry, I’d love to hear about it.
The dining hall falls to a hush, and as Vanya and Maks enter, everyone stands. Vanya takes her place at the center of a table on the stage and Maks sits by her side. He catches my eye across the room and winks. I pretend I haven’t seen and focus on Vanya. “Here’s to life!” she shouts. Everyone cheers as the remaining platters are distributed.
“We have to give thanks,” Song says. He hasn’t touched anything on his plate. Instead he’s looking around, slightly horrified, as everyone tucks into the food on the platters.
“Just eat,” Silas says.
“I’m not going twice in one day without giving thanks . . . or remembering,” Song says.
“What’s he mean?” Wren asks, giving me a prime view of the food she’s chewing.
He means we have to remember where our food came from, but I don’t think that’s what’s really worrying him. “We haven’t forgotten Holly, you know.” I place a hand on his arm and rub it gently. No one did this for me when Abel disappeared, and I wish they had; just a pat to tell me I wasn’t alone.
“Song’s right,” Silas adds, softening. “We should keep our traditions alive.”
“We thank the earth,” Song says. I put down my knife and fork and Silas and Dorian do the same. Maude and Bruce are oblivious. Terry and Wren watch silently. “We thank the water. We thank the plants and trees—the roots, leaves, fruits, and flowers. We give thanks to one another. We give thanks to the spirits of all those who have died. We offer our devotion in the earth’s name. We salute you.” I hold my palms together in front of my heart and bow my head.
“So it is,” we say.
“Is that voodoo or something?” Wren laughs.
“We acknowledge that nature has more power than we do,” Dorian explains.
Terry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “But it’s humanity at the center,” he says. “Well, not humanity. Us. You.”
“Do you know your pairings yet?” Wren asks. She licks her lips.
“Pairings?” I ask. I almost don’t want to know.
“Wren!” Terry snaps, and as he does, a commotion at the top table has Vanya waving and shouting. “Troopers to the gates!” No one moves.
Maks leaps from the stage. “Troopers!” he bellows. “Weapons!” He dashes past our table and slams through the doors. Around fifty others scramble to their feet and gallop after him.
“What’s happening?” Silas asks, jumping up.
“We must have more visitors,” Terry says.
19
RONAN
I take slow steps through the station toward the girl wielding the knife and the hissing child, and try to examine their faces in the waning light.
I recognize Bea Whitcraft right away, even with her mask on. I don’t know her personally, but I’ve seen her picture, and the word WANTED, flash up on the screen about a hundred times a day since the press conference.
They didn’t show any video footage, of course. I had to ask the press secretary to send me that as a favor. I had to know how it happened, and what I saw was my father shoot Bea’s parents in cold blood. So now they’re saying she’s a terrorist, though she looks more like a drifter.
On the floor are empty bottles and bloodstained rags.
“Can I help you?”
Bea swings the knife. “What do you want?”
“Who cares? Stab him,” the child mutters. Her pallor is frightening, and she doesn’t seem able to move from the floor. One leg of her pants is torn open, and blood has dried on the tiles around her. She’s crying, and there are tear tracks down Bea’s face, too.
“I won’t hurt you,” I tell them. “I heard noises, that’s all. I came to look.” Niamh complained about what she called Quinn’s stupid attachment to Bea, which could mean that if I’ve found her, he’s close by.
I stash the gun in my pocket and inch closer. Bea winces at each step, and when I’m near enough to touch her, she stiffens. “Get back,” she says. She holds the knife inches from my face. Her eyes are wide with fear, exhaustion, or madness—maybe all three.
“The girl is very sick,” I say. Gently, I push Bea’s hand and the knife away from my face. But she swings it back toward me and presses the tip so hard against my neck, she nicks the skin. I’m not expecting it and jump back, wiping the blood. She holds her arm out farther and straighter. “I told you to stay away,” she says.
I could easily wrench the knife from her, but if there’s a chance she knows where Quinn is, I have to gain her trust. So instead, I step way back and pull a flashlight from my backpack, which I shine at the child’s leg. It’s red and swollen, the skin taut, and a long gash is yellow. My stomach lurches. Bea looks at me steadily.
“How long has she been like this?”
“I don’t know. A week?” she says, her chin trembling. The child hasn’t long left, not without real medical attention.
“I see,” I say. I consider lying, but I have no reason to. “I can get her help. I’m Ronan Knavery.”
She looks at my earlobe, then holds the knife up again. Her expression is hard. “Your father killed my parents,” she spits. I can’t deny this because I watched it again and again on the video footage, so I nod. But if she hates me just because of what my father did, there’s no knowing how she’d react if she knew I was personally responsible for so much destruction at The Grove. The number of people and trees I cut down doesn’t bear thinking about.
We watch each other, neither of us speaking, until she sniffs. “You look like your father,” she says. People have told me this before, as a compliment, but she’s insulting me. She clenches her jaw.
“I know,” I say. “But I’m not him. And I’m really sorry for what happened to you.” I speak quietly, gently, hoping she’ll trust the sincerity in my tone.
“So I suppose you’re here to bring me back and see me hanged.”
“No. I’m looking for someone else.”
Her features give nothing away. “We’re all that’s left.”
I hold my breath. “From what?” I ask, when I know what she’s going to say.
“From The Grove. A safe place that your father razed to the ground.”
When we left The Grove, it was collapsing, but I’m sure I saw survivors fleeing. Did I imagine it to make myself feel better? Did we kill them all? The people and the trees?
And Quinn? Where is he?
Bea is studying me.
“Actually, Quinn’s father was in charge of that mission,” I say, watching for a reaction.
“Quinn?” the child murmurs through semiconsciousness, and Bea quickly hushes her.
So the child knows him, which could mean he’s been here. And maybe he’ll be back, although I can’t be sure Jazz didn’t meet him at The Grove when the Resistance supposedly captured them.
I root in my backpack and pull out a strip of penicillin, pressing one through the foil and holding out my hand. “Antibiotics.” She looks at the pill in my palm, suspicious. “If I wanted to hurt her, I’d have used the gun,” I say. “Now put away the knife . . . Please.”
Still holding the knife, Bea reaches out with her other hand for the pill. I consider wrestling the knife off her. I don’t. I drop the pill into the pit of her palm and step away. She eases the girl into a sitting position and presses it between the child’s lips, forcing her to sip some water from a flask. The child manages to take the pill before her eyes roll back in her head—she can’t fight her fatigue.
We w
ere warned about terrorists in training, and back then my mind filled with images of stocky, square-jawed youths wielding guns and throwing grenades. I didn’t picture anything as pitiable as this: a child being eased into death by a hollow-cheeked girl fighting for her own breath on a dirty, solar-powered respirator.
“I can radio the pod,” I say. I doubt Jude would help, but she’s a child, and I should try. It’s the least I can do after what I did to her home. Were her parents at The Grove? Were they killed?
“Touch any kind of radio and I’ll cut you,” Bea says.
I hold my hands in the air. “I understand,” I say.
She erupts, jumping up and pushing me. “How dare you? You don’t understand a thing!”
I stare at her and lean away. “My father died in the riots, too,” I say.
“It’s not the same thing. My parents were good. Your father was . . . he was . . .”
“He was an asshole,” I say, and she blinks. I pause. I don’t want to say something untrue. “But I wish I loved him more.”
Her eyes well with tears. “When people leave, you always wish you’d loved them more.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. And then she is sobbing and pressing her face against her arm to stifle the noise.
I’ve never been able to cry like this. My mother spent long days in bed, coughing and moaning, until one morning she was gone and the noise was replaced by silence. I cried only once—quietly and alone in my room. Why didn’t I honor her by mourning?
I delve back into my pack and pull out the radio. Bea looks up. “No,” she says, starting toward me again.
“If she doesn’t get to a hospital, you’ll be digging a grave.”
“They’ll kill her.”
“She’s dying anyway.”
Bea chews on her lips.
I stand up and walk away.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“She could wake up and cry out while I’m making contact. I want them to think I’ve found the person I’m meant to be hunting.”
Bea doesn’t argue or ask any questions. “Her name is Jazz,” she says.
The rumble of the buggy’s engine can be heard when it’s still miles away. Bea pries each finger on Jazz’s hand from its grip on her arm. “You’ll be okay,” she says, almost like she believes it. She kisses Jazz lightly on the forehead, and stands up to gather her things. “What will you tell them?” she asks me.
“I found her alone and scared.” Jazz nods to show she’ll corroborate the lie. “Now find somewhere to hide and only come out when you hear the buggy leave,” I say.
Bea turns to Jazz. “You’re not as much of a brat as I thought you’d be,” she tells her, and laughs.
“Bye,” Jazz says. She chokes back her tears. And Bea doesn’t let herself cry either. She nods and moves away.
I watch her leave, then take Jazz out to the roadside where we sit shivering under the winking stars and sliver of a sickle moon. Her wounded leg is so bloated, I doubt they’ll be able to save it. Hopefully they’ll save her.
“Can you imagine what it must have been like to live out here before The Switch? So much space.” I am talking to myself more than to Jazz, who shuts her eyes. I hold her tighter. “People used to travel across the whole world. No one stayed in his own country. Now even Outlanders don’t get very far. We’re all trapped. Trapped in the pod or on this big island. Is there a difference?” Jazz reaches out, takes my thumb in her cold hand, and closes her eyes as the buggy trundles out of the shadows, its bright lights, like giant eyes, blinding.
I stand holding Jazz in my arms. The buggy slows and stops. Jude steps out and stands in front of the vehicle.
“Who’s that? And where’s Quinn?” Jude growls. He is wearing loose-fitting trousers and an old sweater rather than his uniform and looks like a very ordinary man. A dad.
“I haven’t seen him.” He wouldn’t have thought a RAT was worth the journey, so I lied when I radioed in: I told him I’d found Quinn.
“Then why the hell . . .” He stops, steps forward, and peers at Jazz. He sweeps her hair away from her face. “What am I meant to do with her?”
“She needs a doctor.”
“This wasn’t part of the deal.” He wheels around.
“I’m close to finding Quinn. And I want to take you up on your offer. I’ll become an auxiliary if it means I don’t have to kill any more innocent people.”
Jude turns. “They weren’t all innocent,” he says, looking at Jazz, who he almost killed. “And anyway, why should I believe you?”
“I only lied about Quinn to help her. And I doubt I’ll find anyone else who needs saving,” I say, thinking of Bea.
He opens his arms. “Hand her over,” he says coolly, and without flinching, studies her leg.
“Is Niamh okay?” I ask.
“She’s still angry. Your sister has a good deal of your father in her,” he says. “You, though . . . you didn’t catch it.”
“Nope, and Quinn didn’t catch much of you either,” I say, in case he thinks that this spell of conscience and unexpected concern for his own son makes him some sort of hero. Jude stares, and Jazz squirms.
I step out of the glare of the headlights and into the shadows. “The drifters are vicious. Watch out for them,” Jude says on his way back to the buggy.
Carefully, he places Jazz in the rear seat and climbs behind the wheel. He reverses roughly over the rubble, and is off.
I return to the station. “Bea!” I call out. Within minutes she appears. She’s shivering. My heart lightens. I was worried she would have run off, and I don’t think I want to be alone out here.
“Do you think she’ll live?” she asks.
“She has a chance,” I say.
The top buttons of her coat and shirt are open, exposing pointy collarbones and pale skin. I go to her, and she holds out her hand. “Thank you,” she says. I take her hand and shake it, and finally one corner of her mouth curls into a faint smile.
“I am glad you found us,” she says.
“Me, too,” I say.
20
ALINA
Vanya orders us to finish eating our dinners—the troopers have everything under control. “But what if it’s the Ministry? They nuked The Grove. They could do the same here,” I say. Is it possible that the chatter in the room is masking the sound of zips and tank treads?
“I’m sure it’s nothing Maks can’t handle,” Terry says. He takes a spoonful of white powder from a bowl and sprinkles it over his steaming dessert, then pushes the platter toward my plate, but I’m too nervous to eat. Is nowhere safe? I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to run anymore; I want to stay in Sequoia and have it be home. Is that too much to ask?
I rub my face vigorously, to wake myself from pointless daydreaming, when the room stirs. Vanya stands and Terry climbs up onto the bench to get a better look. Then he hoots and dashes toward a growing crowd.
All at once, the hall is a volcano of cheers.
“Can’t I eat my grub in peace?” Maude complains, disinterestedly chomping.
“Come up on stage!” Vanya calls. The crowd edges forward and the first person to appear on the platform is Maks. He’s holding his pistol in one hand, a balaclava in the other. Vanya puts her hand to his chest.
A girl climbs up onto the stage after him, and when she turns to the side, it’s clear she’s at least six months pregnant. Yet she’s no older than fifteen. Her hair is lank and her clothes torn. She is still wearing a facemask, which Vanya rips off and throws aside.
“Jo!” someone at our table shouts.
“Welcome back!” Vanya says, and everyone claps. “And someone new. Welcome to you also.” Another figure, taller, mounts the stage. But it can’t be. I glance at Silas who, without even looking at me, nods. “Who are you?” Vanya asks.
“Quinn,” he says aloud. Everything around me goes fuzzy. Why is he here? And where’s Bea?
“And one more,” Vanya says, pulling the last visitor onto the stage. Is it Bea
? I close my eyes. I can’t look.
I reach for the table as the room erupts in a round of riotous cheering.
“Open your damn eyes,” Silas says, shaking me. “He’s alive.” And when I see what he sees, I gasp.
Bea is missing, but Abel stands on stage. Abel is alive. He scans the room and our eyes meet. His mouth drops open. I hold up my hand in a half-wave and he shakes his head in disbelief. His face has the mottled yellow-and-purple look of someone who’s been beaten up, but he’s here. The Ministry didn’t kill him after all.
“I can’t believe it. He’s goddamn, bloody-well alive,” Silas says through his teeth.
“Yes,” I say. I’m smiling. For the first time in a long time, I’m happy, and I don’t care how ridiculous I seem.
And then I realize Maks is following Abel’s gaze. He looks at Abel, then at me. Abel and me. And although every one else in the room is cheering, Maks is frowning.
He is not very happy with Abel’s homecoming at all.
Without saying so, Silas and I decide to keep what we know about Abel to ourselves. Dorian, who I’d mentioned Abel to back at The Grove, doesn’t remember the connection. “At least he’s alive,” I whisper when we’re back in the cabin. Silas splashes his face with cold water.
“You say it like it’s a good thing,” he throws back. He’s right: we already knew Abel wasn’t Resistance and that he duped us, but we still don’t know why. “And you shouldn’t get your hopes up,” he adds.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Just because he went missing and has turned up doesn’t mean he’s here because of you. You’re not to let your guard down again, Alina.”
I nod, embarrassed, and Silas pats me on the back awkwardly, lies down in his bunk, and pulls a blanket over himself. But Maude’s frantic. “If Quinn’s here, then where’s Bea?” she wants to know.
“I promise we’ll find out in the morning,” I tell her, and reluctantly, she goes to bed.
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