Zach didn’t know why she was the ringleader. Nobody liked her. He couldn’t even remember her name. His eyes scanned the group and spotted the only other girl there. The girl with the long, black braids, and dark, mysterious eyes.
Delaney.
With a start, he saw Delaney smiling at him. Heat rushed up his neck, and he smiled back. Then she slid over and patted the spot next to her. In that moment, Zach knew he would have done two months of Amber’s chores for a chance to be here.
He crossed the loft, careful to hide his limp, and took the open spot, making sure his knee touched Delaney’s.
“Sorry,” Zach whispered to her. “We’ll be here next time.”
Delaney’s shoulder bumped him playfully. “You better be.”
* * * * *
Greg spotted signs of life before they reached the first campsite. Brush matted down where people had walked. Trees cut for firewood. Creeping silently, he and Isabel inched as close as they dared.
Unlike other clans he’d encountered, this clan wasn’t squatting in houses. They lived in dozens of tents in the middle of nowhere under the thick canopy of woods–exactly where McCormick said they’d be, which made Greg’s skin crawl. He scanned the camp of illegals milling about. They were the Bedouin type. If Greg and Isabel didn’t make a move soon, the group could be gone by tomorrow.
“If they’re part of the rebellion,” Isabel whispered, “there will be obvious signs. They’ll be heavy on weapons and have more adults than children—usually more men than women.”
Three men stood on the outskirt, rifles drooping in their arms. Guards. Greg figured they hadn’t seen much action in a while because they hardly scanned the woods. Several other men moved through camp, a few women, and only one kid that Greg could see, maybe nine or ten years old.
Rebels. His gut clenched. Could he really do this, become the ultimate traitor?
Isabel unzipped her supply bag and packed away her radio. “They seem mild enough. I say we go in now.”
Still miffed, Greg said, “Go ahead, but I’m not goin’ in until tomorrow night.”
She glared at him. “Are you always so stubborn?”
He sat on the moist ground and leaned against a tree trunk, hands behind his head. “It’s gonna be a long night. Might wanna settle in. It looks like rain.”
“I bet you don’t treat Carrie like this.”
The comment stung. There was a time he’d treated Carrie worse, but he let it slide. “I’ll take the first watch. Or you can, and I’ll find a spot to bury the—”
A sudden snap of twigs brought his head around. Another shift and somebody jumped out of the woods behind them. In a flash, Greg was staring into the barrel of a rifle.
“Who are you?” a man barked.
thirty-five
GREG AND ISABEL’S HANDS shot into the air.
“Who are you?” the man shouted again, waving the end of the rifle a foot from Greg’s face. He had brown, shaggy hair and a beard to rival a Neanderthal.
“Greg and Isabel Pierce,” Greg said, standing slowly, hands high. “We’re alone.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you sneaking around these woods?
Greg’s supply bag sat at his feet. He nudged it under the nearest bush. He didn’t dare check to see where Isabel’s bag was. “We saw your camp. We’re just lookin’ for shelter actually. We weren’t sure if y’all are friendly or not, or open to passersby, so we wanted to watch for a bit to be sure.”
“Why?”
“To see which side of the rebellion you’re on,” Isabel said easily. “We’re looking for others like us, people who want change, and we were told to come here, to West Chicago.”
A bold response. Even the guy seemed surprised by her direct answer. He glanced over his shoulder to where more people came crashing through the woods. Greg took advantage of the distraction and kicked his bag the rest of the way under the brush, keeping his gaze snapped upwards and hands high.
“How do we know you’re not government spies or something?” the man asked.
A chill ran down Greg’s spine, and the lie he had rehearsed suddenly stuck in his throat. But without missing a beat, Isabel lifted the sleeve of her ratty t-shirt and showed her mark.
“Live free or die,” Isabel whispered.
She looked at Greg, and Greg followed suit, hating himself for it.
By then, five others had surrounded them, people ready to swoop in for the kill. They were dirty, thin, and yet hardened with years of strife. These were survivors, and they had survived for a good reason.
“How did you get those?” one asked, a big guy with gray streaks running through his beard. “Yours looks new.”
“It’s a long story,” Isabel said. “Lower your rifles, and we’ll explain.”
“No.” The first guy’s grip tightened on his rifle. “Explain first.”
* * * * *
Oliver felt like an idiot. He spent the first few minutes apologizing to Carrie for the atmosphere, and the next few apologizing for the food. The deli wasn’t as nice as he remembered. The floor was sticky, and the air buzzed with flies. Maybe if he’d had longer to plan, he could have come up with a better option. Luckily, Carrie didn’t seem to mind. She fingered the paper napkins, stroked the salt shakers, and stirred the ice in her glass as if she’d never seen anything so wonderful. But she seemed most interested in the TV in the corner, glancing at it every few minutes. Oliver tried to put himself in her shoes, experiencing all this for the first time in six years.
They sat in a red booth in the corner under the ambiance of cheap fluorescent lights and cigarette smoke. A few other patrolmen sat around with their coffee—officers Oliver didn’t know. The rest of the patrons looked normal enough and uninterested in Oliver and his date, which was as he hoped. Because tonight, Oliver would tell Carrie about the papers.
He nearly had in the car but chickened out. But now he would do it over burgers and fries. He would. He had to.
But not yet.
He tried to keep the conversation going, small talk that seemed to fall flat. He asked about her parents, and she asked about his. A horrible topic considering both sets were dead. So he asked about her hobbies, and she found out that he had none. The longer they talked, the more pathetic he felt. He should just tell her.
“Do you like your burger?” he asked instead.
“Yeah, it’s great,” she said. “I’m surprised they have tomatoes this early in the year.”
Her eyes strayed to the TV again, but his stayed on her. The soft waves of her hair, her blue, round eyes watching the anchorwoman report on a hurricane in Virginia.
“PBS?” Carrie asked.
“Yeah. The only station that survived.”
“Wow. That looks awful.”
The footage cut to President Rigsby addressing a large, blue card municipality in Norfolk, promising more help, supplies, and food for the hurricane victims. The usual rhetoric. Only Oliver didn’t trust the news anymore. Too many stories of devastation with President Rigsby coming to the rescue. For all Oliver knew, the hurricane footage was from twenty years ago since he doubted anyone had that kind of food or clothing resources to hand out now, even the government.
“I can’t believe he’s still president,” Carrie said. “He looks a lot older than I remember. I guess he’s aged.”
“We all have,” Oliver muttered.
He hadn’t meant for her to hear, but she laughed anyway. “True.”
Oliver wanted to kick himself. Carrie was fifteen years younger than him, which meant she’d been in her late teens when the Collapse hit. He’d been in his early thirties, making their date feel suddenly creepy.
“It’s easy to forget that life keeps going outside of Logan Pond,” she said. “It’s like I’ve…” Her voice trailed off as the anchorwoman switched stories.
“In the latest on the Midwest Uprising,” the anchorwoman read, “more fires erupted overnight on Chicago’s west side. President Rigsby promis
ed the new task force will be ready to join federal troops within a week. The White House has not yet released the numbers, but according to sources, the size of this task force is large enough to tip the scales.”
The news feed cut back to Rigsby addressing a different crowd. “These illegals will be brought to justice,” he said, stabbing the podium, “as will all who oppose the liberty and freedom of the American people. America will be great again. United we stand!”
People in the background—unseen as usual—started chanting, “United we stand! United we stand!”
The light faded from Carrie’s eyes.
Oliver couldn’t believe it either. A new task force ready in a week? Why would they send new soldiers out with such little preparation? Were they that desperate? One word hung in the air between them:
Greg.
Oliver thought about shutting off the TV. Instead, he said, “Do you want dessert?”
Without hearing, she continued to watch the screen until the anchorwoman switched stories again.
“Sorry,” Carrie said, turning back. “It’s just so strange to watch TV again. Is it…” Her eyes lifted to his. “Is it really as bad as it sounds?”
He shrugged. His latest training had been all about ways to spot signs of the rebellion. After the red-bearded man, Oliver figured it wasn’t too hard.
“We’ve seen some activity in this area,” he said honestly.
As if reading his mind, she asked, “Whatever happened to that squatter you arrested? The one who was freaking out on our drive?”
“He…” Oliver paused, hating himself all over again. “He died.”
“What? No. How? I know he attacked you, but…” The rest of her sentence was implied. But did you have to kill him? It pained Oliver that she thought he would.
He pushed some fries around his plate. “He was dead before I got back to the station.”
Carrie paled. “It was my fault. Your partner wanted you to go back. If I hadn’t been with you, that illegal wouldn’t—”
“No!” Oliver said firmly.
She flinched at his outburst, and he instantly regretted letting it come out so sharply. He never raised his voice, especially not with her.
“It wasn’t your fault, Carrie. It was mine.” Every last bit of it. “When my boss found out, he…” His voice dropped. “He made me burn down the guy’s house.”
“Why?”
“The man was part of the rebellion. My boss wanted to make an example of him. Only I…” He begged himself to shut up, but part of him was desperate to unburden his soul. “I didn’t know how to burn down a house. I did a horrible job, only getting the garage and part of the main floor, but still.”
Carrie stared at him, her expression horrified. Suddenly he saw himself how she did. A patrolman. The enemy.
They both tried to eat after that, but Oliver no longer had an appetite. He kept reliving that day over and over, wondering how he could have saved that man.
After a minute, something out the window caught his eye. He dropped his fry, splaying ketchup on his polo. He grabbed a napkin, wiping his shirt frantically while watching three men approach Oliver’s patrol car. He recognized two of the three, even though they weren’t in uniform.
Why were they here? his mind screamed. Had they followed him? Probably not, since both Jamansky and the mayor looked surprised to see his car there. If they came inside and saw him with Carrie, he’d be in huge trouble. Carrie, too.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
David Jamansky searched the sidewalk and surrounding shops for Oliver. And then, straight from Oliver’s worst nightmare, he turned toward the deli window. Oliver twisted in his seat and pretended to study the far wall at the same time he searched for a back exit.
“Are you okay?” Carrie asked.
His pulse quadrupled. No back exit. Only one door out. And it swung open with the tinkling of a bell. The three men entered, and Oliver felt time slow down.
This could not be happening.
Chief Jamansky spotted Oliver in the far red booth and scowled—his usual greeting. Mayor Phillips spotted him, too, and then said something to Jamansky.
Jamansky leaned sideways for a better look.
Oliver knew the moment David Jamansky spotted Carrie because his eyes widened to huge, hungry circles. When he looked at Oliver again, his face split into the kind of menacing smile that made Oliver’s pounding heart stop cold.
No, no, no, no, no.
If they asked for Carrie’s card, he’d have to show them her papers and pray it was enough. But if they saw her address, if they knew what he’d done—if she knew what he’d done—no amount of citizenship could stop the avalanche.
“Do you know them?” Carrie whispered, noticing the group eyeing her like sharks.
“I-I-I work with them,” Oliver stuttered as he raced through every option, including breaking the window and making a run for it. “The tall guy is my boss.”
Her face went white. “Greg. Mariah.”
He nodded. “They’re not supposed to be here. I purposely came to South Elgin to be away. They’re not supposed to be here!”
Oliver peeked over his shoulder. The three men waited to place their orders. The third man he didn’t know was as old as Mayor Phillips, but David Jamansky, who was closer in age to Carrie, just smiled sweetly at them, letting Oliver know he was on the hunt.
Pulse racing, Oliver whipped back around. He and Carrie were basically done eating. If they left now, they might be able to sneak out with few questions.
“Do they know that I’m not”—Carrie’s breaths came faster—“legal?”
“No.” At least, he prayed they wouldn’t guess. Patrolmen weren’t allowed to associate with illegals. They shouldn’t suspect her lack of citizenship.
He could say that Carrie was his sister, but Jamansky knew he didn’t have one.
Think!
“Just ignore them. You’re safe,” Oliver said, begging himself to believe his own words. Carrie had papers now. They couldn’t touch her. Except…a sweaty, pale face made him look as guilty as he was.
Stupid papers or not, Carrie didn’t belong in his world. It was time he stopped pretending.
A hand landed on Oliver’s shoulder. “Officer Simmons?” Jamansky said with a broad smile. “What a surprise to see you so far from your patrols. What brings you to South Elgin this evening?”
“Chief. Mayor Phillips,” Oliver said in a voice bordering a squeak. He didn’t bother introducing himself to the third guy because Jamansky had already turned his gaze on Carrie.
“Introduce us to your pretty lady friend, Simmons,” Jamansky said.
Oliver took a quick breath. He could do this.
He thought about making up a name for her, but if they asked for her papers, they’d know he lied.
“Um…this is Carrie,” Oliver said.
“Nice to meet you, Carrie,” Jamansky said, reaching out a hand to her. “I’m David Jamansky, Chief of Patrols. I’m Oliver’s boss.”
White and terrified, Carrie looked at Oliver as if to ask for permission. She knew what Jamansky was capable of—what he’d done to Greg and Mariah. She looked as excited to shake that hand as she would be to pet a rattlesnake. Oliver didn’t know what to tell her. They assumed she was legal, which was good, but Jamansky wasn’t just here to torture Oliver. His eyes roamed over young Carrie with too much interest.
Carrie shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, David,” she said softly.
As she shook the other men’s hands, Jamansky leaned down and pretended to brush something from Oliver’s shoulder. “Looking good, Simmons,” he whispered. “Where’d you get the shirt? The black market?” Before Oliver could answer, Jamansky straightened. “I didn’t think Officer Simmons had a sister. Are you his cousin?”
Again, Carrie checked with Oliver for how to answer, but he was useless, nearly mute, and ready to pass out.
“No,” she said. “Just a friend.”
/> “Really?” Jamansky shot Oliver a look, wondering how a guy like him was on a date with a girl like her. Then, to Oliver’s complete and utter horror, David Jamansky slid onto the red bench next to her.
“Well, then, let’s get acquainted.”
thirty-six
“DO YOU LIKE YOUR FOOD?” Jamansky asked Carrie, all cozied up to her.
Oliver stared down at his own plate.
This couldn’t be happening.
“Yes, it was good,” Carrie answered, although she politely slid as far from Jamansky as the small, red booth allowed.
“The food here is…well…” Jamansky grimaced exaggeratedly. “Let’s just say I don’t like to eat here. We were headed to a nicer place when we spotted Oliver’s car. I’m disappointed my buddy Ollie brought you here. You look like you deserve better, Carrie.”
The comment implied more than the food. The mayor snickered.
Oliver went stiff with fury. If he was any other guy, he would have leveled Jamansky by now. As it was, his fists balled under the table. Jamansky had Ashlee Lyon, but it wasn’t enough. It never would be. Jamansky wanted to prove he could steal a girl right out from under Oliver’s nerdy nose.
Thankfully, everything in Carrie’s demeanor spoke abhorrence. Oliver was glad he’d told her what Jamansky had done. He wanted her to know the kind of man he really was.
The introductions were finished, no papers had been requested, and so Oliver pushed his plate away.
“Are you done, Carrie?” he asked. She had a few bites left of her burger, and she’d barely touched her fries, but she nodded quickly, looking only too relieved.
“Good,” Oliver said. “We should go.”
Without any acknowledgement of the comment, Jamansky swung an arm up over the seat back behind her. “So, Carrie, I thought I knew all the pretty girls in this area. Where do you live?”
That did it.
Oliver shot to his feet. “I’m sorry, Carrie. I didn’t realize what time it is. It’s getting late. We really should go.”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 67