Page 16 of Children of Exile


  And then I scurried over to the place where the book had landed. I felt around on the floor beside it. I felt under it. I felt between its thin, whispery pages.

  And then, when my fingers finally brushed something slender and solid and spiky, I understood that the thing I’d barely dared to hope for was real:

  The missionary hadn’t just left me a Bible. He’d left me a Bible with a key hidden inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Freedom, I thought.

  I looked up at the dark corner of the room where the missionary had pointed out a video camera. During the instant when the book was flying through the air, was there any chance that the camera had captured a view of the key in the book? When the key landed, was the recording device strong enough to have heard the same ping that I did?

  Nobody came. I could dare to hope that either the camera had caught nothing, or nobody had started watching and listening to the images and sounds it captured. I had time, but I didn’t know how much.

  I remembered what the missionary had told me, the information I’d barely paid attention to: The Enforcers are also installing security cameras along the hallway that leads out of here. They’re putting in video cameras to watch every part of this community, to make sure that no battle starts up again. It’s too late in the day right now, but I’ve been told that all those cameras will be up at first light tomorrow.

  He’d said that so I would know I had to leave tonight. I couldn’t hold on to the key for days, thinking and planning and figuring things out. Tonight was my only chance.

  I tiptoed around the edges of my prison cell, feeling along the bars for the door and the padlock.

  You have to do this quietly, I told myself. You don’t know how carefully they’re listening.

  The padlock clanked against one of the bars when I finally reached it. The sound seemed to echo forever. If anyone was listening, there was no way they could miss hearing that.

  Cover for it, I thought. Make them think there’s some other explanation besides me escaping. . . . Maybe just me being upset?

  “Awful, horrible, terrible bars and lock,” I moaned. “I give up! There’s no way out!”

  Maybe I had learned something about being sneaky. The key slipped easily into the lock while I was moaning. I twisted it and felt the lock click open even as I cried I give up! I pushed the door open as I finished There’s no way out!

  I stood in the doorway of my unlocked prison cell. Somehow the air hitting my face felt cooler and fresher now.

  But probably this was just the easy part of escaping.

  Don’t make any mistakes, I told myself. Pretend . . . pretend this is a school assignment, and you want to get one hundred percent. A perfect grade.

  Was there anything I needed to think of before I stepped out into the hall?

  That Bible, I thought. You can’t leave it or the key behind, or someone will figure out that the missionary helped you get out. You don’t want to get him in trouble.

  Weaving slightly, I retraced my steps in the darkness and picked up the book. I tucked it into my dress and made sure my belt held it in place before I headed back to the doorway. Then I eased the key out of the lock and dropped it into one of my pockets. I stopped to listen—no sound, anywhere. The silence was as thick and vast around me as the darkness.

  Doesn’t mean you’re safe, I told myself. Doesn’t mean you can take any chances.

  I tiptoed toward the hallway where I’d seen the missionary leave. But my sense of direction was off—I bumped into a wall and scraped my chin on solid rock.

  What’s another scrape when you’re already so beaten up? I thought. You’ve been beaten—but not defeated.

  This near-rhyme amused me, and carried me through another series of steps forward. This time I had the sense to brush my fingers along the stone to keep myself from running into the wall again.

  Five steps. Ten. Twenty. Had I missed a door in all this darkness? Was there nothing but darkness left in the world?

  Unbidden, the thought came back of all those fists raining down on me, all the punches and kicks. How could people who didn’t even know me hate me so much for things that had happened before I was born?

  How could I survive outside this prison when there were so many people who hated me for no good reason?

  That thought made me falter. But the Bible jabbed against my stomach, reminding me that the missionary had taken risks to help me. That my parents had sent him to me. The least I could do was help myself.

  I decided I would think about how to survive after I got out of this hallway.

  I’m not sure how far I had gone—thirty steps? forty? a hundred?—when I saw the first glimmer of light both ahead and above me. Was the floor sloping upward?

  A few steps more and I could see: I was in a tunnel, and the tunnel was about to come to an end. Evidently, my prison cage had been underground.

  I tiptoed closer to the light and the tunnel’s end, and I saw why this arrangement made sense: That meant there was only one exit to guard.

  And this exit was guarded: A man sat at a desk, blocking the way out. I still stood in darkness, but I could see the profile of the man’s head. It was framed in the light glowing from a lamp on his desk. And, seeing that, I understood why it wouldn’t do me any good to appeal to the Enforcers, why they wouldn’t even listen to my explanations.

  The man sitting at the desk was the whiskery-faced man who’d been so mean to me on the plane.

  He’d come back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I felt hopeless all the way down to my toes. There was no way I could get past that man. No way he’d be kind enough to just let me go.

  I heard footsteps coming from the other side of the man’s desk. Was it someone planning to come down into the cave? Would I have to run all the way back to the cage to hide? And if I did that, would I ever make it this far again?

  A chin came into my range of vision; apparently, a second man had stepped up alongside the desk.

  Is that—?

  I couldn’t see well enough to tell who it was until I heard the man’s voice.

  “I came back to tell you . . . the Lord would forgive even someone like you,” the voice said.

  It was the missionary.

  “Go away,” the man at the desk snarled.

  He looked back down at papers strewn across his desk, and the missionary stretched his neck forward, gazing down toward me. I could see his whole face. Would it help if he could see me, too?

  I thrust my hand into the lit-up area in front of me. I waved at the missionary, and hoped against hope that the whiskery Enforcer wouldn’t choose that moment to glance back too.

  The missionary gave a slight nod, as if he’d seen me. What was I supposed to do next?

  All I could think to do was yank my hand back out of the light. The missionary didn’t glance my way again.

  “What I say is true,” the missionary told the whiskery man. “I swear. Want me to tell you the story of a jailer in the Bible? Of course, it took an earthquake to get him to believe. I’ve always kind of pictured the rocks of his prison as being a lot like the rocks hanging right over your head.”

  Now the whiskery man glanced up. And then, before I had a chance to move, he glanced back toward me.

  You’re completely in darkness again, I told myself. You got your hand back out of the light in time. He can’t see you! You’re safe!

  “Oh, sorry—am I making you nervous?” the missionary asked, and the whiskery man snapped his attention back that way. “I didn’t mean to. Look, if you want, I can help you move your desk so it’s not right under those rocks.”

  And then, without waiting for the man to say yes or no, the missionary grabbed one side of the desk and yanked it toward him.

  I saw what he was trying to do before it happened. The lamp on the desk tilted over and plummeted to the ground. It hit with a sound of breaking glass and shattering lightbulbs. I dared to hope for total darkness afterw
ard, but there was still a dim glow coming from overhead, outside the tunnel. Was it that same bright moon that had guided Edwy and me the night before? Or some other lamp mounted in the rock over the guard’s head?

  I didn’t have time even to guess. Because the guard stepped out from behind the desk and started swinging fists at the missionary.

  “I told you to go away!” the guard screamed. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  “Sorry, sorry—but if you punch me, aren’t you violating the code you’re sworn to uphold as an Enforcer?” the missionary asked, dancing away from the guard.

  “Enforcers are allowed to use violence!” the guard yelled back at him. “We’re the only ones who are!”

  I hoped they kept screaming, because I needed noise to cover the sound of my running feet. I launched myself up the last few meters of the sloping tunnel.

  Keep fighting, I thought, as if I could control the movements of the guard and the missionary. Keep screaming, keep moving farther from the desk. . . .

  I reached the opening of the tunnel just as the guard grabbed the missionary by the scruff of his neck and threw him into the darkness.

  “And don’t come back!” the guard hollered. “Ever! I just put an electronic tracker on you! Your movements will be monitored from now on!”

  Was that true or just a bluff? Was that even possible?

  All that fell out of my mind. Because I could see the guard shift his weight, ready to turn back to the desk, back toward me. Unless I moved instantly, I’d be in full view of the guard in mere seconds.

  I couldn’t tell what lay just beyond the opening of the tunnel. For all I knew, maybe I’d be in full view of the guard no matter which way I turned. But he would definitely see me if I stayed in the tunnel.

  I squeezed through the space between the rock of the tunnel opening and the shoved-aside desk. I held my breath and leaped over the broken lamp and its broken glass. As soon as I landed, I whirled off to the side. I pressed against the side of a dark building and burrowed into the shadows lurking there.

  The only light was from the moon. The overhang of this building’s roof kept me out of its glare.

  The guard walked toward me, but he was looking down, toward the lamp. He swore under his breath as he turned away. And then I heard him slide out a drawer. He spoke into some sort of intercom or walkie-talkie.

  “Yeah, bring me a pack of lightbulbs as soon as you can get someone over here,” he growled. “And put missionaries on the list of people who aren’t allowed to see prisoners.”

  I eased back farther into the shadows, farther from him. My heart pounded furiously in my chest. I’d gotten away. Thanks to the missionary, I’d escaped the prison.

  But if his every move was being monitored now, I couldn’t expect any more help from him. I just had to hope that he would stay safe. It would be too dangerous to try to follow him home or to hide out at his church.

  So what was I supposed to do now? Where could I possibly go?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  To Bobo, I thought, his name thrumming inside me just as it had ever since I’d awakened in the prison cell.

  Wherever I went, whatever I did, whatever safety I managed to find, I couldn’t leave Bobo behind. I couldn’t let him think I’d abandoned him.

  That told me where I had to go first. I could figure out the rest from there.

  I edged silently along the dark building, still hidden in the shadows. My eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness. I could make out an expanse of uneven cobblestones; I could make out rows of abandoned, tipped-over sawhorses. And suddenly I knew where I was, what the prison faced: the marketplace.

  It was deserted now, desolate in the moonlight. My feet skidded on something dark and wet.

  Blood? I thought in horror. Was there so much blood left behind this afternoon that no one could wash it away? Did anyone even try?

  I had to get Bobo away from this horrible town. The two of us needed to run away—back to Fredtown, if we could. To anywhere else that was safe, if Fredtown wasn’t possible.

  There. I had a plan.

  I reached the edge of the building with its wonderful low shadow-throwing roof. I glanced cautiously from side to side before leaping into the shadows alongside the next building. The marketplace looked different by moonlight, but I thought I was heading toward the creek.

  I heard footsteps behind me.

  Take off running and risk being heard? I wondered. Or just keep hiding and hope they don’t come close?

  My legs decided for me. They were trembling so much, I didn’t trust them to hold me up if I tried to run. I pressed my body as tightly as I could against the building.

  “Here. The lightbulbs you asked for,” a voice said behind me. “Now I’m back to patrol.”

  “Oh, stay and have a drink with me.” This was the voice of the whiskered man back at the desk. “This is a town of rabbits. Did you see how they scattered when we showed up this afternoon? No one’s going to break our new curfew tonight.”

  A new light appeared, menacingly bright. The lamp on the whiskery man’s desk was working again. Was the glow strong enough to expose me?

  I directed my thoughts at the guard and the patroller: Don’t look this way. Don’t come over and walk along this building. . . .

  By craning my neck, I could see the shadows of the guard and the patroller, stretching across the cobblestones. The shadows were so long, they looked like monsters.

  “Oh, but if I do catch anyone breaking curfew, remember, I’m allowed to shoot them,” the patroller said. “Gotta love Agreement 5062!”

  Agreement 5062? I thought. My brain ached. My heart did too. The paper I’d found by Edwy’s seat on the plane had mentioned Agreement 5062. But it hadn’t said anything about shooting people. I would have remembered that.

  Unless . . . was that in the section of the page that was torn off? I wondered in horror.

  “You wanted these people to mess up?” the guard asked the patroller. “You wanted to have to come back here?”

  “Oh, you know,” the patroller said, chuckling. “I do love hunting rabbits.”

  I heard a clicking sound, and the patroller’s shadow held something long and thin up to his shoulder. He grunted: “Pow!”

  Is that a gun? I wondered. I told myself he was just showing off. But when he talks about hunting rabbits, does he really mean people? Would he really shoot them? Actual people? He’d hurt someone just for being out at night?

  I couldn’t stay here. And I couldn’t leave Bobo in this horrible town for an instant longer than necessary.

  Now my legs wanted to run and run and run—to never stop running. But I didn’t. It took all the self-control the Freds had ever taught me to make my next movements slow and steady, an easing away from the guard and the patroller, rather than a frantic fleeing.

  Go, go, go, go! sounded in my brain, even as my feet slid forward one sloooowww step at a time.

  I reached the edge of the building and crawled to the edge of the next.

  It was like this all the way to the creek, and then I had to creep from tree to tree to tree.

  This was the longest night of my life, and it had barely even begun.

  Peeking down along streets I passed, I saw three more patrollers, guns cocked at their shoulders as they turned and aimed at every noise. Three times I had to freeze behind trees and wait until the patrollers passed by.

  I reached the turnoff for Edwy’s street and wondered where he was. Had his family somehow gotten him back, even without my help? Which would be worse, being trapped by kidnappers or being out here in the darkness, cowering like a rabbit, just waiting for one of those patrollers to find me?

  I told myself that being held by kidnappers was worse. Because I had choices and control—at least for now—and Edwy didn’t.

  I kept going.

  I reached the turnoff for my own street, and I told myself the rest of the route would be no different than it had been the night before.
/>
  But the night before, I’d been afraid only of the men chasing after Edwy. There hadn’t been patrollers out with guns, planning to shoot anyone they saw.

  And the night before, I’d left the door unlocked. And, even then I’d accidentally awakened the father.

  I’ll go in through a window this time, I told myself. I’ll be so quiet, nobody will hear me. I’ll just scoop up Bobo in my arms and sneak back out. . . .

  The street seemed endless as I darted from house to house, hiding in shadows. My muscles ached from tiptoeing—or maybe it was from being beaten earlier in the day. The pain blended together. Every step hurt.

  The missionary believed I could get away, I told myself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have taken a chance on giving me a key. Or annoying the guard.

  Somehow this helped. I spared a thought—or maybe it was a prayer—for him. I hoped he made it home safely too.

  I didn’t quite understand why he had risked his life to rescue me.

  He almost acted like a Fred, I thought. Better than a Fred, even.

  Did the Freds understand what they were sending us back to? They’d stopped a war a dozen years ago—didn’t they understand that one could start again? That having us children back could make these townspeople start it again?

  There were rules, I thought. Agreements. They didn’t want to send us home, but they thought they had to. Freds believe in following rules.

  I wasn’t sure I did anymore. Not every time. Not if rules put children in harm’s way.

  Was this what Edwy meant back on the plane when he wouldn’t help me settle the other children down? I wondered. Is that all Edwy ever believed? Did he think the rules keeping us ignorant were dangerous too?

  My mind was carrying me farther than my feet. I made myself concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, inching from one shadow to the next. All I could think about was getting to Bobo.

  Finally I reached the front of the parents’ house and slipped around the side. I was in luck—the window to the room where Bobo slept was open. I couldn’t see inside, but it was late now—it felt like it had taken me hours to walk from the marketplace. Of course, Bobo would already be in bed.