Among the Brave sc-5

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  He didn’t understand how the Population Police could promise people food, and then not give it to them. Or just give them ruined food.

  Aldous Krakenaur isn’t running the Government very well, They thought, then almost giggled at the absurdity of it all. Of course Aldous Krakenaur wasn’t running the government well. He was most concerned with killing people.

  What if that was the guard’s goal too?

  Just drive, Trey told himself Don’t think

  The road that led toward both the Nezeree prison and the Slahood detention camp carried them away from the city after just a few miles, and Trey was heartily relieved. The countryside seemed much less threatening.

  Trey left the back window of the truck open, and he could hear Mark muttering behind him.

  “. . wire cutter’s not strong enough, but maybe with the pliers—”

  “Can’t you hurry?” Trey shouted back at him.

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Mark yelled. “Just like you. But it’d help if you stopped weaving so much!”

  Trey concentrated on driving in as straight a line as possible. But then the road swerved to the left, and he barely managed to turn in time.

  “Hey!” Mark yelled. “Watch it!”

  “Sorry,” Trey said.

  He slowed down for all the curves after that, which was frustrating. He didn’t have a watch on, but he could feel each minute ticking by. The sky was starting to brighten a little directly ahead of him — to the east, he guessed.

  It was five thirty-three when we left. Is it six o’clock now? Six thirty? And Mark’s still in his cage and I’m scared to drive very fast… What if we don’t get there in time?

  The road got curvier. Mark seemed to have given up on trying to escape, and just focused on coaching Trey around each turn.

  “Ease the clutch out gradually,” he was saying as Trey maneuvered around a particularly narrow hairpin twist.

  They was concentrating so completely on his shaking leg muscles that he didn’t see what hit the opposite side of the truck. But he heard shrieking, and then Mark screamed behind him, “Speed up! We’re under attack!”

  In his panic, Trey let his foot slip off the clutch pedal entirely. The truck died. Trey glanced quickly off to the right as he reached for the key to restart the engine. Dark shapes were swarming all over the truck. They began to rock it.

  “Food! Food! We want food!” the crowd chanted, bouncing the truck up and down.

  “Leave us alone!” Mark yelled.

  The next thing Trey knew, the truck was turning over.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The truck landed on its side with enough force that the windshield shattered. Trey sat still, absolutely stunned, for several seconds, then unfastened his seat belt and shimmied out through the gaping hole in front of him.

  Mark hadn’t had a seat belt His cage hadn’t even been anchored down.

  The mob had flowed around to the front of the truck, but nobody seemed to notice Trey escaping.

  "An apple core!” somebody screamed. Trey’s must have fallen out onto the dirt by the side of the road. The whole crowd gathered around and seemed to be fighting over what little flesh still remained around the seeds.

  Trey slipped around toward the back, and, in the darkness, practically tripped over Mark’s overturned cage. He felt around inside the bars, even though he was terrified that he might find only a dead body.

  "Mark?” he called. “Mark?”

  “Over here,” a voice called behind him.

  Trey rushed over to a huge rock beside the road. Mark was crouched there.

  “How—?” Trey couldn’t make himself understand. “What happened? Why aren’t you in the cage?”

  “Cage busted open when it hit the ground,” Mark whispered.

  “Really? That’s great!” Trey said, not even fazed by the wacky grammar of “busted open.” It seemed downright miraculous that the mob had actually helped them.

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “But my leg busted open too.”

  Trey reached down, his fingers brushing sticky blood.

  “Don’t,” Mark said. “I think the bone’s poking out a little. You probably shouldn’t touch it.”

  “People with open fractures aren’t supposed to be moved,” Trey remembered from a phase when his dad had had him memorize all sorts of first aid information.

  “What was I supposed to do — lie there and let those people trample me?” Mark hissed. He winced, and for the first time Trey realized that Mark was in intense pain.

  “We should wrap it until we can get you to a doctor,” Trey said.

  “Uh-huh,” Mark said, grimacing. They eased Mark’s arms out of his flannel shirt, and wrapped the shirt around Mark’s leg. But this was crazy — how would they ever get him to a doctor?

  “You go on,” Mark said through gritted teeth. “Go get Luke before it’s too late.”

  “But—,” They started to argue.

  “You’ll have to walk from here,” Mark said. “I don’t think it’s much farther.”

  They stared out at the mob, still swarming around the truck. They’d discovered the knapsack now, and were fighting over it like a bunch of wild animals. How long before they decided to come looking for Mark and Trey?

  Trey looked down again at his injured friend. The choice before him now was not between cowardice and bravery. Whether he stayed to take care of Mark or left to rescue Lee and his other friends — as well as the guard’s mysterious prisoner — Trey would need immense courage. How was he supposed to choose?

  “Go,” Mark moaned.

  “No,” Trey said. He looked back and forth between Mark and the mob again. “Just a minute.”

  He took his Population Police shirt off and dropped it beside Mark. Then he stepped out from behind the rock and joined the mob.

  “Gimme some! Gimme some!” he snarled, just like the others were doing. He pushed and shoved, reaching toward the backpack.

  A boy beside him — also shirtless — glanced toward Trey but said nothing, only elbowed him out of the way.

  “Wait! Wait! It rolled under the truck!” Trey screamed.

  He rushed over to the truck and began pushing uselessly against the cab top.

  “Lots of food rolled under the truck!” he screamed again.

  A few members of the crowd joined him, shoving against the truck as well, trying to set it back up on its tires.

  “Oranges! Bananas! All under the truck!” Trey yelled. Then he worried that someone might ask him how a banana might roll — or how anything could roll under a truck lying flat on its side. But nobody said anything, except to grunt in exertion. The mob was too hungry for logic. Even more people joined him, pushing and pushing on the truck. With one great shove, they had it upright again.

  A cheer burst forth, and everyone instantly fell to the ground, feeling around for the promised oranges and bananas. Everyone, that is, except Trey. He backed away, then took off running down the road, toward one of the curves he’d navigated right before being attacked by the mob.

  “Truck alert!” he yelled once he was sure he was out of sight. “It’s — ooh, it looks like a whole truckful of bread. It’s loaded! Come and help stop it! Come and eat!”

  For a second, Trey was afraid his trick wouldn’t work Even though the sun was beginning to rise, it was still too dark to see what a truck down the road might be loaded with. But then he heard the trample of feet behind him. He circled around, hiding behind rocks and trees as the mob passed him. Then he took off sprinting toward Mark.

  “What?” Mark murmured. “What are you doing?”

  Trey grabbed his Population Police shirt back and stuffed his arms into the sleeves, then grabbed Mark under the armpits and dragged him toward the now-upright truck.

  “Ooooh,” Mark moaned, the most agonizing sound Trey had ever heard. Then Mark’s body went limp. Had he passed out from the pain? Trey didn’t take the time to check He jerked open the truck door and hoisted Mark into the
cab, then slid in beside him.

  The keys were still in the ignition. Trey reached for them.

  “It may not start,” Mark moaned beside him. So he was conscious, after all. ‘After being flipped like that, some of the wires might have been scrambled, the engine case cracked or something…

  Trey turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life.

  “Good old Bessie,” Mark muttered. “I’ll never talk bad about this truck again.”

  Trey eased off the clutch as gently as possible. He shifted through the gears like a pro.

  When he got to fourth gear, he floored the gas pedal, and the truck zoomed toward the dawn, air streaming into the cab from every direction.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  They arrived at the Nezeree prison fifteen minutes later. Trey slowed down approaching the gates.

  “We’ll pick up the guard’s friend first,” he told Mark. “I think we have to play by his rules even if. . even if it might be a trick.”

  Trey was kind of hoping that Mark would challenge him, offer some other brilliant plan. But Mark just moaned in response. It was light enough now that Trey could see the pallor of Mark’s face, the bloodstains on the shirt wrapped around his leg.

  “Maybe the guard’s friend will be a doctor who can set your leg for you,” Trey joked halfheartedly.

  “Chains,” Mark muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Chains. . under the seat,” Mark said. “Put them around my wrists to make it look like…”

  “Oh. So you’ll look like a prisoner,” Trey finished, to spare Mark the effort of talking. After an anxious glance in his rearview mirror to make sure there was no mob ready to pounce again, he pulled over to the side of the road, dug around under the seat, and pulled out a length of chain, which he draped across Mark’s body. Mark held his right hand off to the side.

  “What’s this?” Trey said, staring at a painful-looking wound on the palm of Mark’s hand.

  “Burns,” Mark said through gritted teeth. “From the electric fence. Got some on my back, too.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “No time,” Mark groaned. “Hurry up.”

  They was careful not to place any of the links directly on Mark’s leg or burns, but Mark still groaned in pain.

  “Heavy,” Mark muttered. Beads of sweat glistened along his hairline, but he was shivering. Trey struggled to remember: Could somebody die from a broken leg? And was Mark still in danger from touching the electric fence the day before?

  He pushed those worries to the back of his mind and drove on up to the gates of the prison. They stood between tall walls of chain-link fence topped with loops of razor wire.

  “Not another prisoner coming in,” the guard on duty griped when he glanced into the truck.

  “No, no,” Trey said soothingly. “I’m picking up one of your prisoners. Then I’m taking both of them to Churko.”

  He was relieved that the guard seemed to accept him as a Population Police officer and Mark as a prisoner — in spite of their ragged appearance, in spite of the smashed-up truck. Trey held the authorization papers out the window. The guard looked through them and handed them right back.

  “Warden’s office is straight ahead on the right,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Trey said.

  “Warden’s a stickler for appearances, if you know what I mean,” the guard said.

  “Oh,” Trey said.

  “I’m just warning you, that’s all,” the guard said. “He likes spit-polished shoes.”

  Trey glanced down at the mud flaking off his shoes, the stains and rips arcing across his pant legs.

  “Got an extra uniform I can borrow, then?” Trey asked.

  The guard shook his head, grinning.

  “Good luck,” he said, like it was all a joke.

  Great, They thought. Mark’s almost passing out from pain, I may be walking into a trap, I still don’t know if I can save Lee and Nina and the others in time — and this guy thinks it’s funny that I’m going to get yelled at for not spit-polishing my shoes.

  Or maybe I won’t be able to save Lee and Nina and the others — or Mark — just because my shoes aren’t spit-polished….

  Thinking hard, Trey drove on to the warden’s office. It was a small, tidy building, with flowers planted along the walkway. A boy about They’s age — but wearing a much neater uniform — was scrubbing the windows. Behind the office, dozens of official-looking Population Police cars and trucks and buses gleamed in the early-morning sunlight. They looked like they’d each been polished with a toothbrush; they looked like someone had used a ruler to make sure all the vehicles were parked at exactly the same intervals.

  Trey let the engine of his truck die several feet back from a concrete divider in front of the warden’s office. It was his best parking attempt yet, but his tires still overlapped the white lines marking his space.

  That was the least of his worries.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” They told Mark.

  Mark nodded, and seemed to turn a few shades paler.

  Trey got out of the truck and walked to the front door of the warden’s office. He rapped his knuckles against the wood frame, trying to make his knock sound precise and official.

  “Enter,” a voice called.

  Trey took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped in onto luxurious-looking carpet. A man in a heavily decorated uniform sat behind a huge mahogany desk. Trey reminded himself he didn’t have time to stare at all the man’s ribbons and medals.

  “Sir!” Trey barked, snapping his arm into a salute against his capless forehead. “Officer Jackson reporting. Request permission to present papers.”

  The man looked bemused.

  “At ease,” he said. “Proceed.”

  “I must first offer apologies for my appearance, sir!” Trey said.

  The man looked him up and down, a slight frown playing across his heavyset face.

  “Apologize, then,” he said.

  “Sir!” They repeated yet again. “I am a disgrace to the honor of this uniform.” He remembered the excuse the guard had given back at the Grants’ house. “I was subduing a prisoner who had no proper respect for Population Police authority. I know it is no excuse, but that is why my uniform is ripped and I am covered in mud. And I lost my cap. I am deeply ashamed to appear before you like this.”

  “Indeed,” the man said. But he was smiling now. “I wish the guards in my unit shared your concerns. You did succeed in subduing the prisoner, though?”

  “Yes, sir,” Trey said. On the theory that a smidgen of truth strengthened any lie, he added, “I broke his leg, sir. I believe he may be on the verge of death.”

  “Well done,” the man said.

  Trey barely managed not to gag with revulsion at that How could this man care so much about spit-polished shoes and so little about a human life?

  The man glanced out the window, to where Mark sat in chains.

  ‘This prisoner is being transferred into my jurisdiction?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Trey said. His arm was beginning to ache from saluting for so long, but he kept it in position. “I am picking up one of your prisoners and taking both of them on to Churko.”

  The warden motioned for Trey to give him the paperwork. He looked through the papers, seeming to read each one carefully.

  “You’re taking prisoners from Slahood as well? That’s odd…,“ he murmured.

  “I’m only following orders, sir!” Trey said, hoping to distract him.

  The warden narrowed his eyes, looking straight at Trey. Trey worried that he had carried his act too far. He’d been trying to behave like a groveling flunky had in a military book he’d once read. How did he know how Population Police officials talked in real life?

  Then the warden said, “I like your attitude, young man. Are you a new recruit?”

  Just in case the warden had some way of checking, Trey told the truth.

  “Yes, sir! I join
ed up yesterday, sir!” Had it only been yesterday that he’d stood in that long line at the Grant house? It seemed many, many lifetimes ago.

  “The new recruits I’ve been sent lack your enthusiasm for our cause. They seem most concerned about eating,” the warden sneered. It seemed like an unfair gibe, considering that the warden must have weighed more than two hundred and fifty pounds — he’d obviously spent a lot of time himself being concerned about eating. “Any chance I could have you transferred to my unit?”

  Oh, great, Trey thought. I’ve played my part too well.

  “Sir?” Trey said cautiously. “I would not want to be disloyal to my current commander. I must finish my assignment before I could think of being transferred.”

  “Of course,” the warden said. “I should have known you’d have that response.” He tidied Trey’s papers into a single stack. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll have one of my guards go pick up the prisoners from Slahood right now. That will save you quite a bit of time. I’ll have another guard retrieve prisoner”—he glanced down at Trey’s forms— “prisoner 908653 from cell block three here at Nezeree. And I’ll have a fresh uniform sent up for you to change into while you’re waiting.” The warden barked a few short commands into an intercom on his desk, and it was all set in motion.

  “Thank you, sir,” Trey said, unable to believe his good luck

  “And the prisoner in the truck,” the warden said. “I’ll write up an order to have him shot right now.”

  “What?” The luxurious room seemed to be spinning slightly. Surely Trey hadn’t heard the warden properly. Surely his brilliant lies hadn’t led to this.

  “For attacking a Population Police officer,” the warden said casually “It’s a capital offense, you know.”

  And he reached for a pen.

  Chapter Thirty

  The room was truly spinning now. Mark was the one being sentenced to death, but it was Trey whose life flashed before his eyes. How could he have done this? How could he have rescued Mark — twice — only to see him killed here, now, just as he was about to be reunited with his brother?