13
Reed
I slam the back door. The whole cabin shudders in response.
“I hate goats!”
Riley smiles from behind the pile of clean sheets she’s folding. “Did you get kicked again?”
I show her the hole in my shirt. “And almost bitten!”
“It just takes a while to get the hang of it. I’ll milk them.”
“Great!” I slump on a stool, grab a clean towel, and start folding it. “I’ll just stay inside, doing laundry and…and cooking while you catch fish and milk the goats.”
She reaches for another sheet.
“And, hey! Grab one of those guns hidden in the cellar and shoot a bear while you’re at it?”
Riley says nothing, but her smile has morphed into a snicker. She might be cute, but she’s also annoying. And I can’t seem to let it go.
“I mean, did Claire teach you how to skin animals while I was sleeping off the flu? Set traps? Make deer jerky?”
“No, but the word ‘jerky’ seems appropriate.”
I look up to glare at her, but she’s already out the door—probably going outside to milk those stubborn goats since I can’t seem to master it. Claire says they’re used to a woman’s touch, but what does that even mean?
I put down the laundry and stick my head in Claire’s room, but she’s sleeping again. She’s been mostly asleep for the past four days now, which seems like a lot. Riley says it’s perfectly normal.
“She’s old. She needs extra time to recover.”
Still, I can’t help wondering if she’s ever going to get well. Ever since my recovery, I have been antsy to get back on the road toward The Rose. My flu symptoms are pretty much gone, except for the coughing, which I’m convinced is never going away at this point.
A couple of nights ago, while Riley and I were staring up at the stars and talking about this crazy pause in our plans, she told me she was afraid I would die. There was a catch in her voice, a vulnerability I might not have noticed if we hadn’t been lying on Claire’s deck, looking up at the Milky Way and surrounded by unimaginable silence. I felt like I had been stung by a bee or something, right in my chest. But then the feeling spread through my body in a way I can’t explain. I thought about taking her hand then, but I wasn’t brave enough. By then she had changed the subject to Claire and her revelation that she knows who we are, so I guess I lost my moment.
Part of me is glad Claire figured out who we are. It has been fun reliving the heist, telling her all the details of our story, watching the glee in her eyes. Another part of me is nervous. Claire said she figured it out during the UDR inspection, when Captain Ogas set his tablet on the counter and she saw my name on the Secret Service’s Most Wanted List.
“Your face too, though you look different,” she said, “with your hair so short and your scruffy face.”
For some reason I blushed.
“It was big news, even out here,” Claire said. “Every trader who came through had something to say about the Liberty Bell and the kids who stole it. You inspired people, you know. Since then, I’ve seen American flags sewn to the inside of jackets, or on antique pins people are wearing under their collars. They’re keeping them mostly hidden since the crackdown in the Sand, but several are waiting for the day when they can pull them out again. ‘We’re gearing up for a revolution!’ one of them told me.”
I tried not to smile at that but couldn’t help myself. We stole the Liberty Bell to keep it from going overseas to decorate a foreign bank lobby as nothing more than a curiosity, its significance forgotten. The thought infuriated me. Then, because an amazing set of events and manipulations by Sam’s hacking skills put the Bell directly in our path, our plan intersected with opportunity, and we took it. Our escape wasn’t part of the plan. It was just what we had to do to save Sam from Kino, who would have killed him if we hadn’t gotten him on that train.
“Our own night of Jubilee,” Xoey said, putting a religious spin on things, as usual. And that’s how we ended up not just stealing the Bell but delivering it to the Resistance—to a tiny piece of American soil that only exists in secret for now, but nonetheless, exists. Something I never dreamed of when we were locked up at Windmill Bay.
So the idea that what we did has spread across the web, or been shared person to person in the middle of the Dirt, and that it has even inspired people to look back to American liberty—to yearn for it and secretly plan for a time when they can speak their allegiance out loud—well, that’s a feeling I can’t put into words.
Claire has also been telling us everything she remembers about the second civil war, the Contagion, the fall of the U.S. government, and the first days of the UDR, which mirrors a lot of what my grandmother wrote as Floodlight, the renegade blogger. It’s so strange to hear about our history from Claire’s perspective, though. Just listening to the uncertainty of that time. The fear of not knowing what was happening or what was to come is so different than looking at it all from fifty years later. Still, I yearn for more information, which is why I return to her bedside as often as possible, always ready with a mental list of questions that only gets longer the more she talks.
Riley is fascinated too, but mostly with the Contagion. Claire is reluctant to answer all of her probing questions, but Riley is relentless. She wants to know everything: Where it began, what it looks like, how it spreads, what she should do if she ever encounters it.
“You’re a natural-born healer,” I told her back at Fort Unity after she spent hours in conversation with the medics, her eyes lit up with interest as she asked hundreds of questions I never would have considered. But now I wish she would let it go. “A plague that wiped out a third of the world’s population isn’t something I want to think about while I’m still hacking up a lung, Riley.”
She just absently patted my arm. “You’re fine.” Then she turned back to Claire. “Please. I want to know everything.”
Claire finally nodded. “At first, there were just a few isolated cases in America—a virus transmitted from birds to humans. We heard about it on the news but didn’t pay much attention. It was happening far from home, to people we didn’t know. Then it began to spread—faster than it should have.
“Then it intersected with civil unrest in an organic way. You know there have always been fanatics on the fringes of society—zealots who believe their grievances are important enough to justify hate, terror, even murder. A lot of those groups were active in the years leading up to the end. Then when the Contagion hit and the death tolls started to rise, it was like a spark was lit. Instead of laying aside their differences to combat this…viral horror with some semblance of unity, those on the far right and the far left fought even harder over who should be helped, who wasn’t being helped and why.” Claire shook her head. “It’s not as simple as that, and the Contagion was only part of the problem, but it was significant enough. Before we knew it, all that violence escalated into the second civil war.”
“And that’s when your family escaped?”
“Not all of us. My mother died in the first wave.” Claire’s eyes swept past mine and fixed on the window. In her reflection I saw something darker than grief.
“I’m sorry,” Riley said.
“My father was heartbroken, but a natural survivor. He decided to leave everything to come up here and live off the grid.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know anyone could live like this for so long.”
Claire snorted. “That’s what I thought too. I refused to come. Technology was my world. I had a good job, and there was a young man, of course. Joseph, whom I loved desperately.”
“But you came after all,” Riley said.
“Yes. Joseph was conscripted into the army, but I wasn’t.” Her hand fluttered over her chest. “I have a heart condition. Nothing serious, but it kept me out of the draft. Joseph begged me to hide up here with Dad. He said he would worry about me if I didn’t. So I left my job, kissed him goodbye, and came here to wait o
ut the horror back at home. Trouble was, by the time the war was over, there was no home to go back to.”
“And your boyfriend?”
“He was killed during his first battle.” Her expression changed. For a second, I could see who she was back then—a young woman in love. “He was a beautiful man. A scientist, not a soldier. I don’t suppose he ever stood a chance.”
Today, I tuck my mental list away and let her sleep. Heading back to the kitchen, I take a seat at the kitchen counter and return to my favorite activity: mentally planning Lexie’s rescue from The Rose. Riley and I tried to make plans while traveling, but always ended up arguing instead. Here’s how that went: Riley hated my ideas and I hated hers.
Actually, I didn’t just hate her favorite idea. I refused to consider it.
I had to tighten my hands into fists to keep them from shaking the first time she brought it up. We were heading east on a crumbling highway that spanned a wide plain. It was the dead of night, but the moon and billions of stars did a pretty good job of lighting our path.
“It will be easy to get into The Rose,” she said. “I’ll just pose as a new escort.”
My heart twisted. Bile rose in my throat.
“You must be out of your mind!”
“Come on, Reed. It makes the most sense.”
I stopped walking and shook my head, trying to clear it.
“No, it doesn’t. Do you realize the risk? So many things could go wrong…then you’d be stuck in that place.”
Riley didn’t answer. She just kept walking, forcing me to stumble after her.
I have been imagining the horrors of The Rose for months now, ever since I learned Lexie’s fate. I often fall asleep at night picturing her abused, imprisoned, scared, neglected.
And worse. Much worse. All because of me.
But sometimes when I dream, it is Riley I imagine at The Rose instead of Lexie. Locked in a velvet-covered room, her face covered in makeup. Sometimes she’s screaming: “I hate you! I will always hate you!”
I wake from these dreams blanketed in sweat, my breath ragged. When I remember the truth—that Riley isn’t there but Lexie is—I always feel relief. Always.
Then shame washes my relief away.
“We have to take risks,” Riley argued, kicking aside a large rock. “They don’t just let these girls out to take walks in the fresh Dirt air, you know.”
“Exactly. Which is why we don’t need you stuck in there as well!”
“Are you scared I’m going to ditch you? Take Lexie and run?”
“I wish you would take this seriously, Riley.”
“I am! You’re the one who’s being ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? How is my solution ridiculous? We steal a UDR uniform, and I wear it into The Rose. We know that place will be filled with soldiers—mostly men. All drinking, listening to loud music, and totally focused on the girls. They’re not going to notice some random soldier dressed just like them.”
“Okay, but if I get caught, I won’t be taken outside and shot in the back of the head, Reed! That’s exactly what happens to anyone impersonating a UDR soldier. You know that!”
“Better than what could happen to you!”
That was the gist of our argument—or arguments, because they all went pretty much the same way.
Since arriving at Claire’s, we’ve both been avoiding the subject. Instead, we’ve spent the last couple of days examining old maps of Slick City and the surrounding area, planning our trip. Claire helps when she’s awake. Tonight she tells us everything she knows about UDR patrols, travel patterns, refugee safe zones, rebellion activity, and even which patrols are most likely to look the other way—so long as a bribe is involved.
“You have altered IDs, right?” Claire asks.
“Yes.”
“Then your biggest challenge will be facial-recognition software,” Claire says.
“I know.” Riley sighs deeply. She’s been worried about this part of the plan ever since we left Fort Unity. “But Sam and Gwen said they would have ours fixed by the time we reach the UDR checkpoints.”
“Fixed where?”
“In the UDR’s Secret Service database.”
“They’re changing your images? But that won’t work. People like Director Kino already know what you look like.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. But Sam says they can hide our faces with an invisible digital mask.”
“How does that work?”
I shrug. “Not sure exactly. I remember Sam saying something about data for facial-recognition software being stored separately from our photos.”
Riley nodded. “Right, so he’ll replace the facial-recognition data of our aliases with our facial models. You know, like the 3D models of our jawlines, cheekbones, and eyebrows.”
“He’s just…moving them, I guess. But on an invisible layer that gets imbedded on top of our photos.”
“So your photo will look the same to the eye…” Claire says.
“But not to the software. Exactly.”
Claire shook her head. “Sounds complicated and risky.”
I nod.
“And someone could still recognize you the old-fashioned way.”
“I know.” It’s my greatest worry. “We’ll just have to rely on the old-fashioned way of disguising ourselves.”
“A bad haircut and scruffy beard?”
I laugh. “It worked on you.”
“For a while,” Claire says mildly.
“And since Kino shaved us at Windmill Bay, I don’t look like my picture,” Riley adds. “Which, ironically, might be enough to disguise me while we hop transports and—”
“You don’t want to hop a transport into Slick City,” Claire says sharply. “Your best bet is to walk down the mountain, then catch the train near the old phosphate mine. Travel in with a group of refugees. There’s risk there, yes. But not as high as if you go it alone.”
I look out the window. “Which mountain?”
She points beyond the ridge. “That one over there. See? It’s almost a double peak, then it flattens out on the north side.”
I find the mountain matching her description. Even now, in the middle of summer, streaks of white paint its peak. I hate the thought of going that way. “That far?”
“It’s not as far as it looks. This may seem like an isolated spot to build a cabin, but just past that line of trees are the ruins of an ancient ski resort. That’s the way you should go.”
“What’s a ski resort?”
Claire points to a bookshelf by the window, where she guides Riley to pull out a large volume with a snowy scene on the front. Riley hands it to Claire, who flips to one of the pages and turns it so we can see. “Skiing used to be a popular winter sport in America. See those long planks attached to her boots? Those are skis. Ski resorts were the mountaintop areas where people gathered to ski.”
I turn to the next page and find a picture of what looks like power poles running up the side of a mountain, only there are benches dangling from the powerlines, filled with people wearing skis.
“They rode those—chairlifts—to the top of the mountain then skied back down, using only their skis and those poles they carry to stay upright in the snow.”
I frown at the picture. “They did this for fun?”
“It was fun! When I was a little girl, my father took me skiing almost as soon as I could walk. I spent every winter on the slopes. That was a lifetime ago—back when people could enjoy life rather than endure it.”
I think about that later when I stand on the back porch, watching Riley feed the chickens. She smiles as she spreads the feed, then stops to pick blackberries on the edge of the clearing, gathering some in the hem of her shirt while plopping others in her mouth.
She looks happy, I think. Peaceful. The idea of taking her away from this place suddenly twists in my gut. What if this is it? Our last moments of peace when the rest of the world out there is going crazy?
It doesn’t matter, and I know
it. She’ll never rest until we rescue Lexie. I won’t either, so I push the thought away and walk toward her. Those blackberries are so good.
After Claire falls asleep tonight, Riley and I go out on the deck and talk long into the night. We decide we should hike toward the ski lodge ruins first, like Claire suggested, and sleep there during the day before hiking down the other side of the mountain to catch the train.
“How do you feel about riding a train car full of refugees?” Riley asks.
“Honestly, I would rather wait for one we can ride alone. But once we get on the outskirts of Slick, we’ll have to hide in a crowd of people. It’s the only way.”
We study Claire’s paper maps in the light of my Readybeam, finding the train tracks by the phosphate mine, which looks like it’s about five miles from the abandoned ski resort.
“I just hope the train still runs that way—that no one has blown up the track.”
“Claire said she’s ridden it into Slick before.”
I snort. “Yeah, but how long ago was that? I get the impression she hasn’t been off this mountain in a couple of years.”
Riley nods. “At least.”
I trace the train tracks with my finger. “But if we’re lucky we can ride it all the way to the outskirts of Slick City. And at least we’ve traveled by train before.”
“You have,” Riley says. “I was driving that old Red Cross Truck, remember?”
How could I forget? Adam got shot as they were escaping in the truck. He hasn’t been the same since—something I hold myself responsible for. And if Riley had been struck by a bullet? That’s something I can’t even think about.
“So we head for the track and wait for a train headed south…” Riley says.
“Yeah, and I can show you how to jump on a train—even if it’s moving.”
“Lucky me.”
We’re both quiet after that. I’m feeling antsy again. I need to leave another report for General Kelly and check in with Sam as soon as possible. Riley and I are both dying to know what’s been happening since we left—whether Xoey and Adam were able to rescue Oliver and Paisley from Windmill Bay and escape with their lives intact.
Weeping Justice Page 10