Infiltrators

by Alison Ingleby

  The word hangs in the air.

  Before it really matters.

  I lean my head on my hand and yawn. Perhaps I’ll go back to bed.

  “Do you think they—” There’s a banging on the door and Abby falls silent. Bryn opens it and a boy of about twelve falls inside. He’s red-faced and panting hard.

  “They’re coming,” he gasps. “Metz … East Gate …”

  “How many?” Bryn asks, pulling the boy roughly to his feet.

  The kid looks up and the fear in his eyes makes my breath catch in my throat.

  “Many,” he whispers. “I-I didn’t stop to count ’em. But they were still comin’ through when I left to come here. More than I’ve ever seen in me life.”

  “Where were they going? Down into Four? Along to Three? Up here?” Bryn’s voice is harsh.

  “Everywhere,” the boy pants. “They were going everywhere.”

  Bryn lets go and the boy stumbles back. “Good work.” He pulls something from his pocket and presses it into the boy’s hand. “Make sure you stay away from it, okay? Go up to Six. Find somewhere to hide out and wait until it’s all over.”

  The boy nods, wide-eyed, and stumbles out of the door.

  “This is it?” Abby asks.

  Bryn nods. “This is it.”

  “You don’t have to go.” Abby’s face is pinched and tight. “After what they did … to Mr Goldsmith … you don’t owe them anything.”

  Bryn closes the distance between them and plants a soft kiss on her forehead. “It’s my job,” he says quietly. “Only Katya has seen anything like this before. They need me.”

  Abby gives the slightest of nods. “Come back?” she whispers, turning her head away.

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll be getting things ready, then,” she says, unhooking the bag of medical supplies from the wall.

  “Stay here, Abby,” Bryn warns. “People will be coming to you soon enough. At least here you have water and shelter.”

  Abby shrugs and nods. “Sure.”

  My legs suddenly come to life and I lunge forward, reaching for my boots. “I’m coming with you.”

  Bryn turns, his face angry. “No, you’re not. Stay here, Trey.”

  “But I can help—”

  “No, you can’t.” He walks over and grips my shoulders. “And I can’t be worrying about you. You’ll be too much of a distraction. Stay here and help Abby.”

  He hesitates for a second, then pulls me into an awkward hug. “Take care of her for me, okay?” he whispers in my ear.

  He pulls back and stares down at me. I give a half nod and he pats my shoulder and turns to pull on his boots. “If the fighting reaches here, barricade the doors and get upstairs. If the worst happens, escape out of the skylight in the loft onto the roof.”

  Abby’s head snaps up. “You think they’ll come this far north?”

  Bryn shrugs. “I don’t know. It depends whether people in Four run or fight. How far they want to take this. How much resistance we can provide.”

  Abby moves around the table. “The Chain … you do have a plan, right?”

  “If Jameson’s box works then we have a plan.” Bryn pulls open the door.

  Abby grabs his sleeve. “And what if it doesn’t work? What then?”

  Bryn gently strokes her cheek. “Then we’re in for a fight.”

  The door bangs shut behind him.

  Abby stares at it for a second then shakes herself and returns to the table. Her hands tremble as she unpacks then repacks the medical bag, her lips moving as she silently checks off supplies in her head.

  This is it.

  My stomach churns with indecision, the porridge turned sour in my gut.

  Staying here, out of the way of the fighting, feels cowardly. I glance at Abby and reach again for my boots. She’ll be safe here.

  “Don’t do it, Trey.” Abby doesn’t look up. “Bryn was right. You don’t know how to fight. You’ll just get yourself killed.” She glances up. “It’s not worth it. Think of how your mother would feel, to lose her husband and her son.”

  Irritation surges through me. More emotional blackmail. Part of me knows she’s right. But I push that part of me down.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I say through gritted teeth.

  At the top of the stairs, I lean forward and rest my head against the rail.

  They killed my father. Katya’s face and the cries of the mob still ring in my head.

  Why should I help them?

  Because not every Outsider was part of that mob. There are people who need protecting. People who can’t fight.

  Like Abby?

  I feel a pang of guilt. But Abby will be safe here. They’ll target Area Four. Three, maybe. Bryn’s always a pessimist.

  I pad silently across the floor to Abby’s bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, and through it I see a pile of Bryn’s clothes, scattered on one side of the bed. Gently, I push the door open and step inside. It feels wrong to be in here. Intruding on their personal space. But I need a weapon. I rifle through Bryn’s clothes, searching for a knife. He seems to have a never-ending supply of them – he can’t have taken them all with him.

  But my hands come up empty.

  I’m about to leave when something on the side of the bed catches my eye. A leather sheath, strapped to the leg of the bed. A thin handle protrudes from it.

  Within reaching distance should someone disturb them in the night.

  Bryn, the pessimist. The six-inch blade gleams in the light. I press the tip of my finger lightly to the edge of it and winch as it breaks the skin. At least it’s sharp. After replacing the knife in its sheath, I unstrap it from the bed and wrap the leather cord like a belt around my waist. Then I tiptoe back out of the room.

  I wait in my bedroom until I hear Abby’s footsteps on the landing and the bathroom door click shut. Then I run lightly down the stairs, missing out the step that creaks, and into the kitchen. Adrenaline surges through me as I pull on my boots and reach for the door handle.

  It’s locked. Damn her.

  The key is missing off its usual hook. I search the kitchen to no avail. Finally, my eyes alight on the medical bag, still sitting on the table. I open it and dig inside the small front pocket. My fingers close around a metal key.

  Footsteps on the landing. I run to the door and fumble with the key.

  “Trey? Is that you?” Abby’s voice comes from the stairs.

  The key turns with a click and I yank open the door just as Abby walks into the kitchen.

  “Sorry.” I pause in the doorway. “Stay … stay safe.”

  Then I slam the door behind me and run down the path to the yard gate.

  I come across the people fleeing first. Men and women, already bloodied, limping in search of safety. Mothers clutching children to their chests. Unlike the refugees from Six, these people don’t carry anything with them.

  A young woman, supporting an older man who’s bleeding heavily from his head, passes by me and I grab her arm. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

  She stares at me with wild eyes. “The Metz. They just came … One minute we were in the kitchen and the next, everything’s gone crazy. Like a Cleaning, but with no warning.” She glances at her companion. “Is there a medic round here?”

  I hesitate and glance at the man who gives a weak moan. “There’s someone who may be able to help.” I give her directions to Abby’s house.

  “Wait!” I call after her. “Where’s the fighting?”

  The woman pauses and turns to look at me. “Everywhere.”

  At the road that marks the boundary between Areas Four and Five I hesitate and pull back, wondering where to go. My heart’s pounding and my limbs feel jittery.

  Calm down. You’ll be no good in a fight if your hands are shaking.

  I close my eyes and draw in a slow breath. My nose wrinkles as an acrid smell hits my nostrils. Smoke. The pounding of my heart intensifies. Except it’s not just my heart. Nothing can be
at that loud.

  I peer out onto the main street. A haze of smoke hangs in the air, but through it I can just about make out the outline of the Metz officers filling the street. They move steadily toward me, lashing out with their batons at the people who run across in front of them, trying to escape to the relative safety of Five.

  My breath turns sour in my mouth. Screams and shouts echo between the tall buildings across the street. There’s the occasional shot, but more often it’s the dull thud of a baton or the clash of metal against metal.

  I take a step back. Bryn was right. I’m not a fighter, not really. If I went back to Abby’s, I could help her with the wounded. Except I’m not much good at that, either.

  If Jameson’s box works then we have a plan.

  But their plan has a single point of failure. Jameson is the only one who knows how to use the box. Apart from me. And it doesn’t have much range. They’ll have to get it to the heart of the fighting.

  The thought makes me sick.

  You wanted to help, didn’t you?

  I pull out Bryn’s knife, take a deep breath and launch myself across the street.

  Just as I reach the other side, a man lunges out in front of me. His hair is lank and matted and the knife he holds in front of him is dark with blood.

  I tense, readying myself for a fight, but he just pushes past me. I walk further down the street, but a scream makes me turn around, just in time to see a Metz officer raise its baton and bring it down with a sickening crack onto the man’s head. He crumples to the ground. The officer steps over the body and turns to look straight at me.

  I run.

  Everywhere I turn, it feels like there’s a Metz officer waiting. Twice I get fired at; the second time I feel the air move as the bullet passes by my ear. I lose track of where I’m heading. The fighting is all around me.

  Just keep moving.

  The smoke is thicker here. Flames leap from the window of a ground-floor apartment. The dull thud of an explosion sounds from a few streets away. I glance up and see faces pressed against the windows of apartments higher up, their occupants trapped by the fire.

  There’s a whoop from a side street. A Metz officer is on the ground being beaten by a group of young men. People are fighting back. But most of the time, they’re not winning.

  “Get down!”

  The voice is familiar, though the words aren’t aimed at me. I skid to a halt and look around.

  “Slowly now …”

  I backtrack up the street to a narrow alleyway. It opens up into a large courtyard a few metres down. Murdoch has a gun pointing at someone out of sight. As I walk up the alley, he raises his hand. “Now!”

  There’s a crash and he darts forward. I run out into the courtyard and just have time to take in the Metz officer prone on the floor when a gun is pointed at my face.

  “Trey?” Murdoch scowls at me and lowers the weapon.

  “Did we get it?” Zane leans out of a third-floor window, smashed open.

  “Yup!” one of the men on the ground shouts up.

  Murdoch wipes his hand over his forehead, smearing dirt with blood. “We think it might be one of the captains.” He looks back at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I-I came to help. Did Jameson get the device working?” I look around. “Where is he?”

  “I damn well hope so,” Murdoch growls. “He’s holed up in an apartment block through there.” He nods to an archway. “Turn right and it’s a few doors up. Blue snake on the wall.”

  He turns back to the officer. “Right, let’s see if we can get its helmet off.”

  The archway leads to a wide street. Glancing up it, I see the apartment Murdoch mentioned. The painted snake along the wall is just visible through the grime that extends up to the ground-floor window. On the fifth floor, a child’s face is pressed to the window. As I watch, a woman pulls her away and glances anxiously down at the street.

  A shot rings out and I pull back, pressing my back against the wall. There’s the sound of running feet and I catch a glimpse of Katya’s retreating back, her long blonde braid whipping out behind her.

  I peer out again. The coast is clear. I run across the street to the entrance to the apartment block and press the intercoms for the apartments at random until the door buzzes and I can push it open.

  Once inside, I close the door behind me and sag against it in relief.

  “Trey?”

  I look up at the voice. Matthews looks down from the first landing. Her brown hair is grey with dust. “Get up here before you’re seen.”

  I follow her into a room that looks onto the street. There’s a bed on one side of the room and a table and a couple of chairs against the opposite wall. Jameson is hunched in a corner, the box in front of him. His eyes are red-rimmed with dark circles underneath.

  There’s a slight crackle and Matthews puts her hand to her ear. She nods at Jameson. “They think they’ve got a captain down. Try it now.”

  Jameson brings up the display and types something into it. “Has that done anything?”

  Matthews crosses to the window and looks out. “No. They’re still fighting. Shit!”

  “What is it?” I join her at the window. A mass of Metz officers comes into view. They walk three abreast and I count ten rows back. They’re marching toward us.

  My stomach tightens. “H-how can there be so many of them?” I whisper.

  “They must have emptied the compound,” she says grimly. “Jameson, now would be a great time to get that device working.”

  “I’m trying.” But his voice is tight with fear and his hands tremble as he types in another command.

  There’s a flash of movement overhead. A black pod shoots down the street. I catch sight of Murdoch standing in the archway, looking up at us. Matthews shakes her head and he pulls back.

  The marching officers pause outside the apartment block and Matthews yanks me back from the window.

  “Do they know we’re here?” My voice cracks and I swallow, trying to get some moisture into my mouth.

  “Come on, come on!” Jameson mutters. “Stop, damn you! Why won’t you stop!” He slams his hand down on the device and closes his eyes.

  There’s a pounding on the door downstairs.

  “Trey, go and check the back window,” Matthews says quietly. “See if there’s a way out. Jameson, get ready to move.”

  “This should work … I don’t understand,” he mumbles, not appearing to have heard her.

  I walk over to a door that leads into the back room of the apartment. There’s a small window and a door leading out onto a fire escape. The door’s locked, but when I press my hand to a security pad on the inside, it clicks open.

  There’s a crash from downstairs. Heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  “Jameson, we’re going. Now!”

  I run back to the doorway. “This way!”

  But it’s too late. The door to the room explodes inwards. Matthews turns, already firing, but a spray of bullets hits her in the chest, her body jerks and she slumps down the wall.

  Jameson huddles in the corner, clutching the black box to him. For a second his eyes meet mine. Then the Metz are on him, dragging him up. He screams in pain as a bolt of energy from a taser jerks his body.

  I stumble backward. My brain’s screaming at me to move, but my legs don’t seem to have registered the command. My foot scrapes on the floor and, slowly, one of the black figures turns.

  I duck and slam the door just as the bullets hit it. They whizz through the air above me.

  Of course a door won’t stop them.

  Reaching the back door, I yank it open and run onto the fire escape. But there’s no way down. The ladder has been pulled up. A bullet whistles past my cheek as I climb over the rail and drop to the ground.

  The impact knocks the air from my lungs and shoots pain through my knees, but I manage to roll behind a small outbuilding. Somehow, I force myself up and stumble away.

  Matthews is dead. Jameson,
as good as dead. And the control device – the control device has failed.

  27

  Aleesha

  When I awake, Giles is watching me from the other side of the room, the black box clutched protectively to his chest. I wonder if he’s been like that all night, not daring to fall asleep.

  My limbs feel heavy and I stifle a yawn. It doesn’t feel as if I slept much. Whenever I closed my eyes, Andrew Goldsmith appeared in front of them. Kneeling in front of me. Talking to me about mercy.

  I shake my head in an attempt to dispel the image.

  The lights in the room brighten and Giles walks over to the counter. I push myself up off the soft cushions and massage my neck. Must have slept awkwardly.

  “Here.” Giles holds out a mug.

  I take a cautious sip, but the drink isn’t too hot. I gulp the rest down and a surge of energy courses through me. I look up in surprise.

  “A stimulant?”

  Giles nods. “I use them occasionally, for late nights.” He holds out a pair of protein bars. “Yellow or red?”

  I take the red bar, rip it open and chew hungrily. The drink helps with the cardboard-like texture.

  Giles opens the other bar and chews it slowly. “What would you do if you were in charge of this city?”

  The question takes me aback. “You mean if I was President?”

  “Yes. If you could do three things, what would they be?”

  I think for a minute. “Legalize all citizens classed as illegal and give them a chip. Allow Outsider children into Insider schools and move some Insider kids to Outsider schools. Open big kitchens where people can get food – real food – for free. And make all Insiders go on a compulsory tour of Area Four.”

  “That’s four things.”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t decide.”

  “You wouldn’t bring down the Wall?”

  “That would be my fifth thing. After the others.”

  “Interesting.” He takes another bite of the bar. “Why?”

  I shrug. “Take the Wall down and the Outsiders will just raid the homes of Insiders. Same thing as what’s happening in Six. Insiders need to see what life is like for Outsiders. Really see. They need to care that Outsider kids get the same education as their kids. And Outsiders need to know they’re not a threat. Then you can take the Wall down.”