Controllers (Book 1)

by Lynnie Purcell

  It doesn't take the others long to make sleds. They only have to make three. James, Fred and Gerald pull the sleds behind them while Macy and Veronica scout the area in front of us for trouble. Max disappears behind us after only a minute of walking. He's watching our backs. I walk with Angela in silence. One look at her face tells me she has doubts about what we're doing. We all do.

  Helping the rebels is the same as picking sides to the government. They will not look at it kindly. If they find us, they will kill us all. It's simple for them. They won't care about guilt or truth. Killing us off is the safer course, and the government is good at protecting the city. They've been doing it for a long time.

  As we walk, I look at the fallen rebels for clues to their past. I wonder if they will get us in trouble. Around the blood and dirt, it takes me a minute to realize the man who tried to shoot me is on the sled behind Gerald. His eyes are closed and blood soaks his shirt. His presence makes me uneasy. It's difficult to get the image of him trying to shoot me out of my head. He would have killed us had his pistol not failed him. I don't think the heat of battle is his only reason for trying to kill us. The need runs deeper.

  Despite my worry, the walk back to camp is silent. There are no more drones and certainly no more soldiers. The forest is filled with birds chirping and a wicked wind that increases in fury the longer we walk. The warm air brings the fresh smell of trees, plants, and water closer.

  "There's gonna be a storm tonight," Gerald says quietly.

  The skies are clear and sunny but no one doubts him. Gerald always knows when bad weather is coming. He says it's his knees. Whatever the truth is, it works.

  At the door to the camp, Angela urgently ushers everyone inside. I know how she feels. The forest suddenly feels exposed and unfriendly. The fight has found us at last. I wait at the door after the others have gone inside for Max to join me. He appears around a tree a couple of minutes later. He makes absolutely no sound as he walks.

  Max nods at me sharply when he sees me. The tension falls away from his face like water being poured from a glass as he steps closer and sees my fear. He smiles and pushes me inside the camp playfully. I bat him away just as playfully, glad he has regained some of his good humor. My happiness doesn't last long.

  I see the dead and dying around me again. The blood is everywhere. The smell is overwhelming. I can't believe that such sights, smells and sounds can exist. I realize how protected camp is in that moment. The other refugees have spoken of such fights, but I didn't think I would ever see one. It makes me feel like I have never truly seen people before. The blood and gore has given me new insight into their awfulness.

  Max sees my expression and pulls me in to a tight hug. I cling to him, glad he knows me so well. He pulls away and touches my chin to give me courage, then he punches me lightly on the arm and walks away. I know he won't be back until dark. I don't try to follow him. He wants to be left alone.

  I start to follow Angela toward the medical tent, figuring I can be of some help, but movement to my right catches my eye. Riley is hiding behind a tree. She gestures me away from the tents with a wicked glint to her eyes. She's hiding from her mother; she wants to escape before anyone sees us.

  I smile at her halfheartedly and join her behind the tree. She immediately grabs my forearm and pulls me away from the tents. She stops at an unspoken boundary that both of us know well. It's where the shield ends. Walking into it is as good as death. It burns organic matter to ash in a matter of seconds. Animals have learned to avoid our section of the woods. She pulls me over to a large tree and starts climbing. I know her ritual well enough to know what she's up to.

  I want to be alone, to think about what happened, but I know that nothing good will come of my thoughts. They'll just make me depressed. Riley knows how to take away the darkness. She's always happy, even when complaining about the fact that camp never changes. She can't help her natural cheerfulness, and I can't help but be affected by it. She climbs to the very top of the tree and then straddles a large branch so she's facing east. I find a different branch that is pointing in the same direction. We set our backs against the tree and look out over the forest.

  Our tree is one of the largest in the area. We can see for miles. The city glitters white and silver in the distance. Lifts fly around the interior and along the wall. The city seems to shine with the sunlight. It's difficult to imagine that it was destroyed and then rebuilt after the hundred-year occupation. It looks as if it has always existed. I know I will never see the other side of the wall. I don't want to. The forest is far safer than a shining city where freedom is not a guarantee.

  Riley does not feel the same way. "It's just so beautiful!" she tells me.

  "It hasn't changed much from when we were up this tree yesterday," I tell her.

  "It seems to change every day," she replies. "And it just gets prettier."

  "That's because you can't feel the government's cameras watching us here," I say. "Everything is better at a distance."

  "I'm not saying I want to live there," Riley says. "I just want to see it once in my life!"

  We've had this conversation many times. I know better than to reply. She wants to leave camp. I've seen the spark in her eyes from the day she first got wind of the city being near. She'll find the courage to run away one day. Riley is brave and strong. The unknown does not frighten her. I fear that day more than any other. I'm convinced she will not survive her trip. No one ever does. The city does not take kindly to refugees, particularly those with a direct link to the War of Independence. Riley's relationship to Angela puts her squarely on the enemy list.

  Riley sighs wistfully and realizes there are bigger problems brewing than her wanderlust. She turns to me, her worry in her eyes. "Are you okay?" she asks.

  "It was awful," I confess. "I could hear them all dying. It took such a long time."

  "I'm sorry," she replies quietly. She smiles at me tentatively. "But I'm glad you're okay."

  "Thanks," I say.

  "Who are the people Grandma brought back?" she asks.

  "Rebels," I say.

  "She actually brought them here?!" Riley is flabbergasted. Her mouth hangs open, and her eyes are wide.

  The camp has long taken the stance of neutrality. The ex-soldiers who stay with us have all been disillusioned by the fighting. None of them want any part of it. It has kept us safe.

  "She said she didn't want to leave them to the RFA."

  "I would have never thought Grandma would take the risk," Riley says.

  "I guess she's gambling on the fact that the rebels will be grateful. She's hoping they won't tell anyone," I say.

  "Sounds kind of reckless," Riley says.

  "Devlin thinks so," I say.

  Riley's eyes turn dreamy. She's always had a crush on Devlin. It doesn't matter that he's thirty-five and she's barely seventeen. Lots of girls at camp feel the same way, but I can't. It's like thinking of Max as attractive. It's creepy.

  "That's good enough for me," she decides.

  "It's a big risk," I agree. "But we have to trust Angela's judgment. She's protected us all these years. I don't see why it's any different now."

  Riley looks down at her hands. She starts playing with her fingers and her expression turns pensive. It's the look she gets when she remembers her reasons for not running away. She's thinking of her family. The moment passes quickly. She turns to me again, her eyes full of a secret. She's ready to put the drama of the attack behind us.

  "Guess what?" she asks.

  "What?"

  "I snuck to the road again today," she says.

  I don't waste time telling her it's dangerous to go near the road. She knows it. She doesn't care about the danger. She likes to watch the traders and refugees as they make their way to the city. Usually only the traders make the return journey. It saddens me to see the refugees. They always look hungry, tired and ragged. They think the city will be their answer. Very few are actually let inside. Those who are let inside are
never heard from again.

  "Oh yeah?" I ask.

  "There's something going on in the capital," Riley says. "Some kind of celebration in a few weeks. The traders were all talking about it. And then I saw, get this," she holds her hands out to prepare me, "an actual horse. Twenty of them, to be exact."

  "We know horses exist," I say. "Particularly out west."

  "But I've never see one before," she replies.

  I shrug.

  "Don't you ever think about anything outside of the camp?" she asks in exasperation.

  "I have everything I need right in front of me," I say. "And I don't see the point in dreaming about a place that sounds so completely terrible."

  "It can't be all terrible. The people in camp are just upset about the way the war ended. They haven't gotten over it yet. Nothing is ever completely horrible," she decides.

  "It's not safe for us," I say.

  Riley doesn't say anything. She stares at the city in the distance. We watch as a large lift rises out of the middle of the city. It turns slowly and then heads our way. I know it's the RFA. Riley and I watch apprehensively as it approaches. We know the people inside can't see us through the shield, but we're uncomfortable. We climb down the tree before it reaches us and walk back to camp. Even Riley isn't comfortable with the RFA breathing down our necks. Her curiosity does not extend to them.

  The camp is buzzing with excitement and worry when we return. They're talking about the fight. The news has spread quickly. The older people are worrying about what it means for camp. They've realized we might have to move. The younger people talk of the fight like it's sport. They don't think anything of the danger, only that something new and exciting has happened.

  Several other people my age are near the door. I don't know them nearly as well as I know Riley, but we've grown up together. I can name all of them without having to look. They catch sight of me as I step around the tent and the tallest boy, Jessie, calls us over.

  "Yeah?" I question.

  I'm not openly hostile, but I'm not exactly friendly either. The group has never liked me. They don't like the fact that the older people in camp treat my brother and me with so much respect. They don't like that we are not forced to help with the chores, such as making clothes, because of our skills at hunting.

  "Did you really see the fight?" Jessie asks.

  "Yes," I say.

  They all stare at me, expecting a long description of the battle. They want to live the excitement of the fight vicariously. All I hear are the screams of the dying. They won't leave my ears. I wonder if they ever will.

  "Well? What happened?" Jessie asks.

  "There was a fight," I say. I thumb over my shoulder toward the medical tent, my expression impassive. "I'm gonna check on the survivors now."

  I turn away without waiting for a response. Riley is silent next to me. We can both hear Jessie call me a bitch and the others laugh. She doesn't mention it, and neither do I. It doesn't serve any purpose to talk about him. It'll just make me mad. Devlin has taught me restraint; I know better than to attack Jessie just because I can. Knowing I have no choice now, I go to the medical tent and push back the flap.

  Angela is inside with our medic, a woman named Leslie. Leslie has blonde dreadlocks and a nose ring. She's one of the few refugees in camp to come all the way from the west coast. She tells me that things are different out there. The landscape is wilder and people are reckless and dangerous, though the cities are built the same: with large walls and cameras everywhere. Like Devlin, she fought in the war with my parents.

  Angela spots us and starts to usher us out, but Leslie stops her with a look. She gestures me over to the man she's working on and gets me to hold down the fabric she's placed over his wound. She knows I am not squeamish. Dressing down animals has taken away my gag reflex. It takes a lot to upset my stomach. I hold the wound firmly, knowing she needs the pressure there so she can continue to work. I hear Riley gag from behind me and the tent flap quickly closes.

  Angela stands over us, pacing and fretting as Leslie works. Leslie says nothing to her, but I know she's annoyed. She does not like it when people hover. She gives me a look that speaks volumes, and I hide my smile from Angela.

  Finally, an hour later, there's nothing left to do. The rebels are all patched up. It's up to their bodies to do all the heavy lifting. Leslie and I clean our hands via a pump on the exterior of the tent. I pump the water for her, then she does the same for me. It takes a while for the blood to come off. It lingers almost as much as the sound of screaming.

  Angela is still inside the tent when we walk back inside. She is standing over the woman we rescued. Her eyes are full of worry. She is biting her thumbnail, a habit she only does when she's thinking about the future.

  "Perhaps it would be best to move and leave them here," Angela says thoughtfully. She's already regretting her choice. She's not as firm about it now that she's had time to think her way through the possible consequences. That's part of Devlin's disgust. She wavers when she should be like a stone, and she's like a stone when she should be adaptable.

  I don't know if she's talking to me, Leslie or herself. Leslie decides to answer. "They won't make it. They need a bit more care before we can leave them."

  "Its just..." Angela doesn't finish her sentence - Leslie doesn't give her the chance. Leslie shares a lot of Devlin's opinions. She doesn't speak of them, but I know her well enough.

  "I'll let you know when they're stable. For now, they need some peace." Her words are not commanding, nor are they particularly submissive. It is a perfectly neutral statement. She's careful not to show Angela disrespect. Everyone in the camp is. We all know who built and owns the shield that keeps us safe.

  Angela hesitates and then nods in agreement. "You're right. Of course. The minute you know something..."

  "I will be at your door," Leslie says.

  Angela looks at the rebels one last time before she leaves the tent. I hear the others on the outside asking her what happened and what to expect next. She calms them down and urges them to be patient. She's more in control on the outside than she was pacing around the injured. She can pretend to know what she is doing around them.

  "Ridiculous," Leslie mutters under her breath.

  "What is?" I ask quietly.

  Her eyes search my face. I sense her questioning something. She decides against telling me. "Don't worry about it."

  "Why does no one tell me anything?" I ask irritably. "You know I don't run my mouth like the others do. I can keep a secret."

  "Because you're young," Leslie replies.

  That's one thing I love about Leslie. She never lies to me. She either says nothing or tells the truth.

  "And because some of the things around camp don't need to be explained until you're older...You'll probably figure out a lot of it by then anyways."

  "That's a rotten answer," I say.

  "Yeah," Leslie agrees. She kneels next to the boy who tried to kill me. "He's sort of handsome," she adds.

  I look at him. It's hard to be certain around the dirt and blood, but I have to agree with her. He looks just like the sort of boy who is used to getting his way with his looks. He has almond-shaped eyes, a square jaw and a perfectly symmetrical nose. His hair is sandy-blond and he has stubble along his cheeks and chin. A tattoo is clearly visible on his forearm. It's of a dragonfly. The dragonfly looks skeletal and ready for battle. Another tattoo is on his upper arm, but I only see the bottom of it.

  "He looks very young," I say.

  Leslie smiles at me knowingly. She thinks I'm interested in him. I roll my eyes at her.

  "To be fighting a war," I add.

  "I was fifteen when I killed my first government agent," Leslie replies. "Age doesn't matter as much as doing what you have to."

  "Do you agree with the rebels?" I ask her suddenly. "Do you think they're right to continue fighting even though they lost the war?"

  Leslie shrugs and her eyes dart to the tent flap. "I don't agr
ee with the government," she replies evasively.

  "But you don't agree with the rebels either?" I press.

  She shakes her head at me, her eyes darting back to the tent flap and I understand. She doesn't want to, or can't, talk about it. I decide to respect her wishes. I don't want to get her in trouble with anyone. I look down at the man again.

  "He tried to shoot me," I say.

  Leslie sighs and wipes away the sweat from her forehead with a rough cloth. She looks down at the cloth for a minute. "In a fight, you often keep firing, even if you don't know if the other person is on your side or not. It's healthier that way."

  "I wouldn't," I say defiantly.

  Leslie's smile is full of sadness. "I hope you never have to find out. Come on...Help me get them cleaned up."

  We clean off the dirt and blood with water from the pump. By the time we're finished, the talking outside has died down and lunch has come and gone. I take the last of the dirty water outside to dump and see Devlin and Max talking near the creek. Before I can call out to either of them, Devlin spots me and turns away. Max looks over his shoulder at me. He's angry. I've never seen him look so mad. I frown at him. His expression shifts with my frown. He carefully tries to look happy. I'm not deceived. I ask him with a look what's wrong, but he just shrugs. Devlin disappears behind the tents and Max's friends call him away. It's the first time I've seen Devlin and Max argue.

  I dump the water and then search out Riley, who has finally been caught by her mother. They are in the largest tent in camp. It's where our goods for trade are made, as well as clothes, bags, baskets and everything else we need to survive. Riley looks irritable as she sews a pair of brown leather pants together. Despite her reluctance to be involved in the work, her stitches are perfect.

  I sit next to her and pull a shirt toward me. My stitches are nowhere nearly as practiced, but she cheers up with my company. She starts talking about the horses again, describing them in detail. I listen to her with a happy smile, but the emotion is a lie. My mind is back to the fight and the truth that something strange is happening around me. There's an intangible shift. It feels like it's happening right under my nose, but I can't actually see anything moving.

  The fight has started something that cannot be undone.

  We work in the tent until Riley is released for dinner. We eat next to the bubbling creek. Riley sits in her tank top and shorts, soaking up the sun. I'm hot and sweaty, but I still have on my leather hunting gear. I feel like I need it, for a reason I can't explain.

  There's a stir behind us as we talk. I look over my shoulder and see Leslie stumble out of the tent. She's holding her head and looks dazed. I jump up, but Devlin is already there. It's like he materialized out of the shadows. He grabs her arm and asks her what's wrong. Her reply is cut short as the man who tried to shoot me appears around the tent flap. He is holding a laser cutter meant for surgeries. The light flickers as he holds it up in front of him. He holds his chest in pain, and his eyes are weak, but he looks determined.

  Devlin pushes Leslie behind him and looks at the man coldly. There's no fear in his eyes at the sight of the man's weapon. He does not set his stance or look aggressive at all. He believes that putting his guard up just tells the person he can fight. He likes the element of surprise. It's the same way I have been taught to fight.

  The man steps forward, the laser cutter crackling with energy. In the blink of an eye, Devlin lashes out. The laser cutter falls to the ground and Devlin puts his hand on a pressure point in the man's back I know personally is excruciating. The man screams in pain and people come running. Devlin does not need the help. He picks the man up and throws him back into the tent almost lazily.

  I run to Leslie and check on her. She tells me she's okay, but there is blood on her forehead. The man hit her hard. She's lucky he didn't use the laser cutter on her. I force her to sit and use the tail end of my shirt to collect water from the pump. I put the water on the cut and look over my shoulder. The sounds from inside the tent have died down. A man holds the flap open. Devlin is tying Leslie's attacker to the bed. The man is in a daze. An empty syringe is on the floor. It's morphine.

  I look at the man's face again in anger and notice almost absently that he's afraid. He doesn't know where he is or what's going on. He wants to be free. And he's willing to do whatever he can to get away. I don't trust his motives. Something about him is all wrong.

  He will have to be watched.

  Chapter 4