Among the Brave sc-5

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Following Mark’s instructions, Trey broke off branches to drape over the back of the pickup, where it stuck out the most. Even Trey could hear the edge in Mark’s voice as he patiently told him that everything Trey tried to do was wrong.

  “No, Trey, you can’t break off a ten-inch-thick branch with your bare hands — you’d need a saw for that….”

  “No, Trey, if we just pull off a leaf or two at a time, this is going to take hours….

  When Mark was finally satisfied that the truck was hidden well enough — even creeping back up to the road to see for himself — he and Trey got out some of the food Trey’d taken from the Talbots’ house and sat down in the brush to eat

  “Eat the heaviest stuff first,” Mark told him. “We’ll carry the lighter food with us.”

  And then Trey had to compare. Was a banana heavier than a peach? Was a bag of peanuts heavier than a box of raisins? Mark watched him in disgust.

  “Just eat whatever you want,” Mark said. “We’re strong enough to carry it all. Or — I am.”

  Trey wanted to say, “Why are you bringing me along? What good am I if you don’t even think I can carry a knapsack?” But he swallowed his words, along with the peanuts. Both stuck in his throat.

  Their meal was a quick affair. In a matter of minutes, Mark was on his feet again, pouring food into the knapsack. Trey climbed back into the cab of the truck and pulled out the papers he’d taken from first the Grants’ house, then the Talbots’.

  “Put these in there too,” he said.

  Mark hesitated.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “If anybody stops us — if Trey search our bag..

  Trey knew what Mark meant The papers could make them look like thieves. How could he explain where he’d gotten them? But the papers were all he had left. He had nothing from his life with his parents, nothing from his life at Hendricks. The papers were the only link he had to any point in his life when anyone cared about him.

  “I’ll carry them myself then,” Trey said. He stuffed the most important Grant papers — and a few of the Talbots’ papers he’d grabbed blindly — into an inside pocket of his flannel shirt. He wanted to take everything, but it wouldn’t fit without bulging. He knew he couldn’t push his luck too far. He shoved the leftover papers back into the slit in the seat.

  Mark’s eyes looked troubled, but he didn’t object. He turned away and rearranged the branches over the truck one last time.

  “I thought we could walk along the river,” Mark said quietly. “If we’re lucky, there’ll be trees the whole way.”

  Trey nodded, but panic clutched him. Trey were leaving the truck behind. For all Trey knew, the Grants’ house might still be miles away. Did Mark really expect Trey to walk that far outdoors? And once they arrived, they had no guarantee whatsoever that Lee would be there too.

  “Are you sure this is the best way?” Trey asked. “What if — what if the phones are working now? Shouldn’t we at least check?”

  “You see anyone standing around offering us a free call?” Mark asked mockingly. “Would you trust anyone who did?”

  “No,” Trey whispered.

  Mark turned and started off walking. Trey scrambled to keep up.

  Walking, Trey found, was possible as long as he stayed right behind Mark. He kept his eyes on the gray plaid of Mark’s flannel shirt, and didn’t look up or down or side to side. This made Trey stumble every so often, and he probably looked like a total fool, always lifting his feet too high, just in case there were any logs or undergrowth in his path. But Mark didn’t say anything about it, just looked around every now and then to make sure Trey was still nearby.

  After they’d gone a few yards, Mark whispered back over his shoulder, “Down!” When Trey didn’t respond right away, Mark grabbed him by the arm and jerked him toward the ground. Trey lay flat, his right ear pressed hard into the dirt. Was he hearing tramping feet or just the beating of his own heart?

  “We’ll crawl from here on out,” Mark whispered.

  Trey didn’t ask why, just silently panicked. How could he keep his eyes on Mark’s shirt if Trey were crawling?

  Mark was already sliding away from him. The toe of Mark’s boot disappeared over the edge of a branch, and suddenly Mark was out of sight. Trey was alone again.

  “Wait!” Trey whispered urgently, and dived over the branch.

  Mark was right there, waiting in a hollow of dirt and leaves. Silently he started moving once more, and Trey followed, terrified of losing sight of Mark again.

  What they were doing couldn’t properly be called “crawling.” It was more like slithering. Mark had the grace of a snake, slipping unseen through the brush. Trey broke branches and crunched leaves. An elephant, he thought, could not have been any louder or clumsier.

  Hey, Dad? Trey thought Why was it more important to learn Latin than this?

  But Trey knew. His father had never thought that Trey would ever have to move anything but his eyes as they flicked across lines of print, or his fingertips as they turned the pages of a book.

  Why? Trey thought. If you knew I wasn’t going to hide forever— That was too close to dangerous thoughts, thoughts he never wanted to think again. He forced himself to concentrate on keeping up with Mark.

  After what seemed like hours — or maybe even days— Mark stopped in the midst of a small clearing. He crouched beside Trey and pointed, whispering, “Is that it?” Trey looked up, even though it was scary to gaze straight toward the sky. The peak of a roof rose just above the tops of the tallest trees. A cupola soared above the roof. Squinting, Trey could just barely make out a stylized “G” in gold on the pinnacle of the cupola. Was it “G” for aGrantn?

  “Maybe,” Trey whispered back.

  Mark nodded and started crawling again.

  “They have a fence, I think,” Trey said, straining to remember. He’d arrived at the Grants~ in a car that had whisked him through. . was it a gate? He hadn’t been paying attention. He’d been too busy worrying.

  “I know,” Mark said. “Peter told me everything.”

  Trey had to struggle to remember that Mark meant Smits, that Peter was Smits. Then he had to struggle to catch up with Mark before he disappeared behind a tree. When Trey caught up, Mark was still talking.

  “The fence goes all around the entire property, but it’s stone, and at the back, closest to the river, there’s a place where a stone comes out, just wide enough for a boy to squeeze through. Peter and his brother used to sneak out that way….

  Trey was glad that Mark knew so much. He’d known to I hide the truck, he’d known to follow the river to the Grants’ house, and now he knew exactly how to get in. Really, Trey had nothing to worry about as long as he stuck close to Mark.

  Then Mark stopped in front of him, so abruptly that Trey’s nose slammed right into the bottom of Mark’s shoe.

  “Listen,” Mark hissed over his shoulder.

  A booming voice echoed through the woods. At first Trey couldn’t make out any words, but as he crept forward a little, the voice got louder: “There! And there! Faster!” it screamed in the distance.

  Trey looked at Mark, but his face was wrinkled up in puzzlement too.

  “Should we turn around?” Trey asked, sotto voce.

  Mark shook his head.

  “Just be very, very quiet,” he said, so softly that Trey practically had to lip-read.

  Trey inched forward at an excruciatingly slow pace. The voice was even louder now.

  “Come on, men! You think you’re going to get paid for such shoddy work? I’ve never seen such a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing louts! Move it!”

  They could hear hammering, too, and grunts of pain or exertion. Trey couldn’t figure out why Mark thought Trey should be so quiet: Nobody would be able to hear a few boys creeping through the forest in the midst of all that racket.

  Trey saw the stone wall first He was so relieved Trey wouldn’t have to creep past the voice and the hammerers that he couldn’t speak. He tug
ged at Mark’s sleeve and pointed.

  But Mark shook his head warningly. He led Trey along the wall, closer and closer to the noise.

  They rounded a curve in the wall, and Mark suddenly jerked Trey behind a big bush.

  “There,” he mouthed.

  Terrified, Trey peeked through the leaves. All along the stone fence ahead of them, a team of gray-uniformed men — forty? fifty? a hundred? — were driving stakes in the ground and nailing long strands of wire to the stakes.

  “Why,” Mark whispered, “would they need a stone fence and a barbed-wire fence too?”

  Trey shrugged, totally confused. Why would anyone build a new fence around the Grants’ house after Mr. and Mrs. Grant had died? Who had authorized it? Lee? The chauffeur?

  “Let’s just climb through the hole in the stone fence,” Trey begged. “Quick. Before Trey see us.”

  “Can’t,” Mark whispered back. “The hole’s over there.” And he pointed straight into the midst of the uniformed men.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By silent agreement, Trey and Mark crept deeper into the woods to figure out what to do next. Trey was all for waiting until the team of workers left — maybe even rethinking the entire mission.

  “What if there’s a better way to help Lee than climbing through two fences?” he said. “Let’s both think for a while, talk it out… Maybe we’ve been overlooking an obvious solution. Maybe we don’t even need to step foot on the Grants’ property at all.”

  The more he thought about it, the more the second fence spooked him. It just didn’t fit.

  “You want to sit around thinking and talking?” Mark asked incredulously. “Doing nothing? it could be hours before those men leave. And during those hours, my brother could be—”

  Trey didn’t want to hear how Mark finished that sentence.

  “So what do you want to do?” he challenged.

  “Let’s go around that way and see if there’s another way in,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction from the men assembling the barbed-wire fence. “Maybe the front gate’s open.”

  Trey couldn’t believe Mark thought Trey might be able to just stroll right in, in broad daylight. But Mark wasn’t waiting for Trey to continue the debate. He was already moving gingerly through the underbrush, away from Trey.

  Silently fuming, Trey followed.

  By the time Trey reached the edge of the woods, every muscle in Trey’s body ached. He just wasn’t used to lifting his feet so carefully, then placing them down again so precisely that no twigs cracked, no leaves rustled. Really, he wasn’t very accustomed to moving his feet at all. And it wasn’t just his feet and legs — his arms ached from shoving away branch after branch. His back ached from crouching. He’d scraped one hand on the rough stone of the wall, and the other on a thorny plant he hadn’t noticed until it scratched him. He was in such a fog of pain and exhaustion that he didn’t even mind seeing the patch of clear sky up ahead. What more could the horrible outdoors do to him?

  It was Mark who stopped him from stepping out into the clearing.

  “Wait,” he whispered, grabbing Trey’s arm. “Look.”

  Once again, Trey peered through leaves. He blinked twice, sure his eyes were fooling him. There, on the driveway leading to the gate of the Grant estate, stood hundreds of men and boys, lined up and waiting patiently for. . what? And why hadn’t he and Mark heard them? How could so many people be so quiet?

  Then Trey noticed that none of them were talking. Or, no — a few were, but whispering, their heads bent close together, their voices low. It was like they were as scared of being overheard as he and Mark were.

  “What do you reckon they’re doing here?” Mark asked.

  Trey just shook his head. Mark looked disappointed, as if he’d thought this huge crowd was some city phenomenon that Trey would understand and explain instantly.

  “I’m going to go ask one of them,” Mark said.

  “No!” Trey exploded. “they might—”

  “What?” Mark asked. “What’s the worst thing anyone could do to me, just for asking a question?”

  “Kill you,” Trey argued quietly Mark rolled his eyes.

  “Help me,” he said. “Let’s pick the right person.”

  As far as Trey was concerned, one person standing in a line was pretty much the same as any other. But he obediently peered through the leaves again. Everyone in the line was dressed in ragged clothes; everyone was thin, with a gaunt face. But, looking closely, Trey could see some differences. Some of the boys were young — his age, maybe even younger — and they had the most hopeful expressions. Some of them even looked like they thought they might be embarking on an adventure. The oldest men in the crowd, though, had dead-looking eyes and vacant gazes. Some of them looked like they really might kill someone for asking a question. Or maybe they thought they were about to be killed themselves.

  “That one,” Mark said suddenly.

  He pointed at a boy about his age. Trey knew instantly why Mark had chosen him. He was wearing the same kind of flannel shirt as Mark and Trey.

  “You shouldn’t — you can’t—,” Trey sputtered.

  But Mark was already stepping out of the brush, walking toward the line.

  They peered fearfully after him. He clutched the trunk of the tree beside him so tightly that bark came off in his hands.

  Mark’s walk was almost a saunter. At first, no one from the line even glanced at him. Then, as he reached the edge of the blacktop, a few boys raised their eyes in his direction. One was the boy in the flannel shirt.

  “Hey,” Mark said. “What’s this line for?”

  Flannel-shirt boy looked around desperately, side to side, as if he was hoping that Mark was speaking to someone else — was drawing attention to someone else. But then he answered. Trey could see his mouth moving, even though Trey couldn’t hear a single word he said.

  Mark moved in closer to flannel-shirt boy. Mark had his back to Trey now, but Trey could tell by the way he turned his head that he was talking now too, just so softly that Trey couldn’t hear. Mark and flannel-shirt boy were having a regular conversation, back and forth and back and forth. They were both intense. Once, flannel-shirt boy frowned at something Mark said, then cupped his hand over Mark’s ear, whispering so no one else could hear.

  After a few minutes, Mark walked back into the woods.

  “What?” Trey asked as soon as Mark was close enough. “What are Trey doing?”

  “They’re waiting in line to join Population Police forces,” Mark said.

  “What?” Trey said. He looked again at the long, long line, and held back a shiver. “At the Grants’ house? What do the Grants have to do with the Population Police?”

  Mark was peering out at the line too. But his eyes didn’t seem to be focusing.

  “It’s not the Grants’ house anymore,” he said. “It belongs to the Population Police now. In fact — it’s their new headquarters.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Trey jerked back, like he actually thought he could get away from this horrible news Mark had just revealed.

  “No,” he moaned.

  “Maybe that kid’s lying,” Mark said tonelessly. “But I don’t know. Why would he lie?”

  Trey realized he was trembling. He tried to stop, to regain control of his muscles, but it was useless. He was mere yards away from the headquarters of the Population Police, the people who had wanted to kill Trey ever since he was born. He had every right to tremble.

  Without thinking about it, he plunged his hand into his pants pocket and clutched the false identity card his mother had given him after his father died. He’d carried it with him ever since. It was his only protection against certain death.

  “Trey?” Mark said. “Maybe my brother’s not in there. Maybe he and his friends — your friends — maybe they escaped before the Population Police took over.”

  Mark thought Trey was trembling on Lee’s behalf. Mark thought Trey was only worried about his friends
.

  “Maybe the chauffeur who took Lee was working for the Population Police the whole time,” Trey said, and was instantly ashamed. Why was he trying to upset Mark?

  “We’ve got to find him,” Mark said.

  But he didn’t suggest a plan, just stared dully out at the line of new recruits for the Population Police.

  Trey couldn’t help staring at the line too, even though it terrified him. He couldn’t see the line’s beginning or its end. It seemed to go on forever, all those men and boys.

  “That many people want to work for the Population Police?” Trey whimpered. “Do they all hate third children so much? Does everyone?”

  “No,” Mark said, finally looking away from the line. “They probably don’t know anything about third children. They’re just hungry.”

  “So what? Who isn’t?” Trey asked.

  Mark sighed.

  “Apparently the Population Police announced this morning that nobody can sell food now except the Population Police,” he said. “And nobody can buy food unless at least one person in the family works for the Population Police. So everybody’s joining up. So they don’t starve.”

  Trey closed his eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy with hunger himself. Or maybe it was just fear again. He’d been so terrified for so long, he would have thought he’d be numb to the emotion by now. But he wasn’t. Fear seemed to have taken control of every nerve ending in his body He couldn’t quite make sense of what Mark had said. lf the Population Police controlled the food supply… If everybody joined the Population Police.

  He was doomed. So was every other third child. So was the entire country.

  “Listen,” Mark was saying. “I–I told that kid I had food to sell. I told him he didn’t have to join the Population Police. I don’t know, I guess I went a little crazy. I was even telling him how to grow food….”

  Mark’s words took a while to sink in.

  “What?” Trey asked. “What if he turns you in? What if the Population Police are offering a big reward for turning in people who try to sell food illegally just like they offer rewards for turning in third children?”