by Hunter, Ryan
I slowly unwrapped the bandage, the heat and pain increasing as soon as the wound was exposed to air.
Cray recoiled and gagged. “Oh, sick.”
I grimaced and T tensed. “You’ve split it open again.”
I caught my breath before saying, “I hit a little hard when I jumped.”
Cray’s head swung back and forth between us. “Jumped from what?”
“We … we had to make a quick getaway …” I said.
T silenced me with a hand on my forearm and asked, “Did your father happen to leave any antibiotics lying around?”
Cray shook his head as he took in the wound, and T’s bandage in the same location. “You did it too?”
“They were listening to us, sent out hits to kill us,” T said.
He clamped his left hand around the back of his neck and stared past my shoulder, eyes vacant. “This isn’t right.”
“I really didn’t want to involve you,” I said, “but I’ve got to get some meds—it’s infected—and if there’s a chance they’re after you too …”
“The Alliance?” he asked.
“Yes,” T replied, “the same people who killed your father.”
He looked at the ground then, his back rounded, shoulders slumped.
“It’s true, Cray,” I said. “The Alliance was responsible for our father’s deaths. I know it’s hard to hear …”
“Difficult, yes. Surprising, no. In fact, I already knew who was responsible when I met you during the mourning.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
He raised his right hand, the jammer still firmly in place. “I’m bugged.”
“Is everyone bugged now?” I demanded. “It used to be only a sensor.”
“My father’s job required it of the entire family, though we didn’t realize that’s what it was at the time.”
I wanted to hit something but I flattened myself out on the grass instead when we heard the next bus rolling by. As long as we weren’t obvious, nobody would even see us as fixed as they were on those PCAs.
We stayed down as a neighbor rode his bike past, then another.
I knew if Cray didn’t show up for school on time there’d be an inquiry. T must have felt the same because before I could say anything, he whispered, “Brynn didn’t want to involve you, but your dad was a doctor, and I was hoping he might have some meds somewhere that could help her.”
He shook his head slightly before burying his face in the grass. “I’m already in so deep I’m dead as soon as they piece it all together.”
“Piece what together,” T asked.
“I need to show you something,” he said. “Can you meet me after school?”
I nodded.
T didn’t budge, his skepticism drawing a scowl.
Cray rattled off an address. “Remember that.”
I recited it silently several times before saying, “Got it.”
“I’ll meet you there at five,” he said, extending a hand to return the jammer to T.
“You’ll need that, Cray,” T said.
He shook his head. “I’ve got my own.”
Cray jogged toward the bus stop, never making any move to indicate we were hiding in the grass at the back of his lot.
T waited until the bus rolled by before he stood and brushed his shirt off. “We’ve got to get out of here, Brynn,” he said, grabbing my hand.
We interlocked fingers, threw our packs over our shoulders and walked opposite the bus stop, each of us praying that nobody would question our ages or why we weren’t in our uniforms.
CHAPTER 17
We tried to blend in as we walked through quiet neighborhoods, holding hands in some as we played a couple—thrusting our hands into our pockets to hide our bandages as we skirted others. We talked little, each of us consumed by thoughts of leaving the comforts behind, but we couldn’t change the course now even if we wanted to. We could only embrace it and keep the faith that we’d find a way to regain the greatest comfort of all—freedom.
The neighborhoods ended abruptly, the dark road replaced by crackling asphalt and potholes. It stretched out to a long-forgotten life in the desert, sagebrush replacing the manicured lawns and cheat grass growing through the road. Concrete squares aligned in a row to our left were all that remained of a neighborhood struck down by pandemics. We kept space between us now, our shadows little blobs as the sun ascended in the sky.
“Do you trust him?” T asked, kicking a rock. It skittered until it caught in a hole, then silenced.
I thought I did, but walking so far from town, with so little cover, made me think twice. “I guess I really don’t even know him.”
We gravitated to the side of the road where a few junipers clustered. “It could be a trap.”
Pausing in the shade, we looked both ways down the road and saw a gate a hundred yards up the road, but nothing moved. “I’m hoping it’s not.”
He raised his eyebrows and started walking.
“So I guess that comment wasn’t really necessary,” I mumbled.
He chuckled. “It was a bit obvious.”
I ignored him. “The address has to be this way—but I really didn’t expect it to be so far out here.”
The ground sloped up on our right, rotted cedar posts lying in a jagged line, barbed wire still connecting the posts as they lay tangled in weeds. A brick chimney crumbled on the hill—all that remained of the rancher who’d run this land.
T nudged me when we neared the gate, the rusted posts on either side of the road supporting a thick chain that read: No Trespassing Under Penalty of Law. “Looks like we have to go back now,” he said, stepping over the chain and continuing down the street.
The hillside fell away and a dirt road skirted behind it. A crumpled street sign identified it as our turn. “Stay in the shadows—behind the bushes,” T said, easing into a dried riverbed. The stones were so deeply embedded in the dirt that they made for solid, silent footing. Black stemmed bushes with sparse leaves grew amid the cheatgrass providing cover—while dying cottonwoods towered over us, their bark half-stripped to exposed white, gawking limbs like bleached bones.
We kept on in silence, walking hunched, popping up only as we peered around to look for a structure to match the address. It didn’t take long. An old barn sagged on the opposite side of the dirt road, the skeletal trees zagging against the blue sky to frame the building. Patched and re-patched with boards, plywood and tin, I doubted much remained of the original building at all. The corrugated roofing had been blown away in sections and half a dozen windows filtered filthy light. The huge double doors on the end had been secured with a wrought iron bar and lock.
We stopped. The ground to the left of the barn lay sparse and open, the trees fading out to sagebrush. The ground to the right raised to the meet the hill we’d skirted, growing into foothills against the towering mountains beyond. Pines and spindly oaks replaced the cottonwoods and provided cover for anyone who waited in ambush.
“I don’t think I trust your friend Cray,” T whispered.
“It does look kind of creepy.”
T cast a sideways glance at me. “Kind of? Do you know how easy it would be for us to disappear out here?”
A lizard darted across the rocks near my foot. “What if he’s inside waiting for us?”
“What if someone else is in there waiting for us?”
“Cray wouldn’t do that,” I argued.
T swiped his finger across his lip and cheek. “How well do you know Cray?” he whispered.
“I—I met him at my father’s mourning.”
“That’s it?”
I nodded. “He just doesn’t seem like the type to set us up.” I scooted forward, the silence of the day deafening, making my heart pound in my ears. “I want to go inside.”
“What about the idea of this being a trap?” he asked.
I checked both ways on the street, seeing nothing. “I don’t think it’s a trap.”
“Because there are no
men standing around with warning signs?”
“Because it doesn’t feel like a trap.” I started across the street, toward a greasy window a little more than chest high.
T jogged to catch up and spun me around when he caught my arm. “Shhh.” He slowed his breathing but didn’t loosen his grip on my arm. “You just said you don’t even know Cray. How would you know what he would or wouldn’t be capable of?”
I tried to yank my arm away but he still wouldn’t let me near the building. “We need to get out of here, Brynn. Something doesn’t feel right.”
I hesitated.
“There are no animal sounds at all, no insects, nothing.”
“Because we’re here,” I ventured.
He shook his head, and I allowed him to drag me back to the bushes and the cover of trees.
T backed further into the shadows, his whispers growing urgent. “Whether or not Cray’s involved, something is off here.”
I stayed by his side, the unease multiplying, making my heart pulse faster, until Cray crept down the road. I stopped, pointing.
T stopped too, waiting, watching as Cray stuck to the darkest shadows, half-running toward the building. He paused at the corner and swept his eyes from one end of the building to the other, with his back flattened against the tin. Minutes passed before he disappeared around the corner.
I pulled against T’s hand, the grasses whispering against my legs. Cray had obviously come alone, cautious about where he led us. T stilled me, giving me the signal for silence followed by one finger. I could give him one minute—he deserved at least that.
T pointed toward the corner of the building where Cray reappeared, squatting as he rounded the building and felt carefully along one of the metal panels. He lifted it, the metal scraping metal in a faint screech. He paused, the panel only about four feet tall, poised in the air in front of him. Carefully, he placed it against the building beside a now gaping, dark hole. He ducked inside and silence followed.
“He’s alone,” I whispered.
T’s hand loosened on my arm. “Maybe I was wrong.”
I moved forward, T with me. We crept up the embankment and over a fallen log when boards clattered inside. We flattened ourselves against the ground, peering cautiously between the thin plants that barely provided cover.
Another board dropped and footsteps pounded across a wooden floor before Cray cried out, “No … no … no!” His head appeared at the hole where he’d entered, his arms propelling him outward just as his back arched and he crumbled face first into the ground.
My fingers dug into the rocky soil, my teeth clenched tight. I wanted to help him. I had to help him, but T’s hand rested on my arm rooting me.
Cray’s arms moved, dragging him forward as he searched over his shoulder into the dark abyss. He made it to his knees before a security officer ducked from the hole and lifted his rifle to his shoulder. Just a few feet from Cray, he set his finger on the trigger and squeezed.
A hole opened in the back of Cray’s head, blood spreading across the ground in front of his face.
My fingers dug deeper into the soil, my jaw cramping to keep from screaming out.
The officer prodded Cray with the toe of his boot and began to whistle an upbeat tune I’d never heard before. He searched Cray’s pockets, tossing a few things to the ground before pocketing others. He bent, took hold of Cray’s left foot and dragged him up the hillside into the trees. Minutes later he emerged, kicked dirt over the blood and replaced the metal sheeting. He slung his gun over his shoulder and walked across the road, to the ditch where T and I had been seconds before. He turned his back to us, unzipped his pants and relieved himself.
I closed my eyes, hoping he didn’t turn around. He’d see us for sure. T’s hand tightened on my arm, his tension reflecting mine.
Don’t turn around … don’t turn around.
The man’s whistle stopped, he zipped his pants and his footsteps crunched away. I opened my eyes to his swaying back, heading down the dirt road toward the asphalt where we’d come in.
I didn’t dare move for what felt like an hour. My brain screamed at me to be still while my heart demanded that I get up to check on Cray. It wouldn’t help, I argued with myself. Cray was dead. Nobody could survive what I’d just witnessed.
My back stiffened. My legs tensed and before I’d even made a conscious decision, I bolted across the road, sprinting toward the tree line where the man had left Cray.
T muttered something that sounded like a curse before he sprinted after me, catching me as I entered the shade. He caught me in an embrace, tight against his chest but I recoiled, my stomach heaving and my head thundering. “We have to help him, T.”
T stroked my hair but I wouldn’t be pacified. I had to see Cray. I had to be sure before I left him suffering in those woods. “It’s too late,” T said. “It’s too late.”
“But we can’t leave him. How can we just leave him there without even checking on him?”
T pulled me back into his arms and held me tight against his chest until some of the shaking subsided. “Checking on him will just give you another image to dream about. You’ve already seen enough.”
“But he’s in there. I saw them … I saw it all …”
He placed his hand on either side of my face, fingers twined through my hair and he raised my face so he knew I listened. “He’s dead, Brynn. You cannot bring him back, but you can avenge his death. You can make his life count.”
His fingertip brushed my lips, and I shuddered, my voice lowered when I spoke again. “Why would they kill Cray?”
He looked at the building, and I knew that if we wanted an answer, we had to go inside.
CHAPTER 18
It smelled like mildew and stale urine inside the building. I assumed from the officer who’d camped out waiting for Cray. I kicked a rusted can across the floor, but only earned the sign for silence from T and a sympathetic glance.
My stomach churned as I imagined him lying in the woods with half of his head missing, and I wanted nothing more than to do the same to the officer. He’d treated Cray like a rodent. It hurt to relive it, to see him dragged with no regard to the way his body flopped and bumped along the ground. At least he hadn’t felt those final moments …
I poised to kick another can but restrained myself, this time earning a strained smile from the only friend I had left in this world. I sucked in a deep breath of the rancid air and focused on the room. The filth on the windows kept most of the light outside, but allowed enough in to see the shapes of the old farm equipment I recognized from my history lessons. In the center of the room, we found a square hole, a ladder descending several feet to a dirt floor below. The cover for the hole lay beside it, possibly the source of the clatter we’d heard before Cray lay dying on the ground outside. Whatever he was killed for lay in the darkness beyond.
T fumbled in his backpack long enough to produce a small solar flashlight. After being in his backpack for days, however, the flashlight only glowed dimly, even in the darkness of the hole. He crept down first, the ladder groaning, and I worried at the sound, walking to the entrance and back repeatedly to make sure nobody waited outside. When he’d scanned the underground space he motioned me down, and I huddled in beside him.
Dozens of boxes bowed the wooden shelves, row upon row that covered an entire wall. “What do you think’s in them?” I asked T.
He pulled a box free and opened the top but his light wouldn’t illuminate the contents. He lugged it up the ladder and I scurried after him, checking our exit before I joined him where he rocked back on his heels and said, “Holy—”
Dust billowed, and I sneezed—twice. T grew still and waited, listening to any indicator we’d been heard. Then he reached down and pulled out one of the knives. As long as my forearm, the serrations on the back of the blade made it look cruel while the groove on each side proved it had been made to kill. Each was cradled in a black pouch, secured with straps. But there were more, other weapons li
ned the bottom of the box and leather gloves had been thrown on top. We didn’t have time to dig through it all, so T placed one knife in his pocket and we scrambled down the ladder to bring up all the boxes and scavenge through them to find anything we could use.
The second box contained bandages, medical scissors and splints. I dug anxiously but found no medication.
Other boxes contained meager clothing and dried foods. We scattered enough supplies across the floor to provide for several families during a long, remote hike—the staging grounds for the men joining the revolt.
“I think we know why they killed Cray,” I whispered.
T grabbed one of the heavy backpacks and filled it full of foods, water and a change of clothing. He pushed it aside and filled another with medical supplies, a couple of knives and whatever food he could fit on top. I hefted mine and hoped the weight wouldn’t slow me down.
As I stood, I noticed one last box, and I threw it open to find a few medicines. I bypassed the penicillin and grabbed a bottle of antibiotics I recognized from having taken them for an infection the year before. I wouldn’t chance any medicines that could start another allergic reaction. I showed it to T, and he tossed it in his pack, zipping the top just as tires crunched outside.
T stood, crouched over the box and grabbed one last item as I pressed myself to the wall, voices picking up when the vehicle silenced.
T crept to the four foot tall opening and peered out, holding up two fingers. Great. Two men. He held up two fingers again and made a gun out of his hand. And two guns. My heart pounded, trying to escape, trying to convince my legs to go with it but I pushed myself into the wall, forcing myself to stay and be smart about our escape.
Footsteps crunched rhythmically and T pointed to a rusted tractor on the opposite side of the room. I crept toward it, placing each step carefully on the wooden floor, remembering the creaks we’d made on the way in and hoping I could avoid them now. Even if I avoided them, I wondered about my heartbeat. It would give us away for sure. I took a deep breath and concentrated on slowing the harsh pounding but it didn’t slow, didn’t mute. T watched me, his body never moving except to check our escape every third step.