“Truck alert!” he yelled once he was sure he was out of sight. “It’s—ooh, it looks like a whole truckful of bread. It’s loaded! Come and help stop it! Come and eat!”
For a second, Trey was afraid his trick wouldn’t work. Even though the sun was beginning to rise, it was still too dark to see what a truck down the road might be loaded with. But then he heard the trample of feet behind him. He circled around, hiding behind rocks and trees as the mob passed him. Then he took off sprinting toward Mark.
“What?” Mark murmured. “What are you doing?”
Trey grabbed his Population Police shirt back and stuffed his arms into the sleeves, then grabbed Mark under the armpits and dragged him toward the now-upright truck.
“Ooooh,” Mark moaned, the most agonizing sound Trey had ever heard. Then Mark’s body went limp. Had he passed out from the pain? Trey didn’t take the time to check. He jerked open the truck door and hoisted Mark into the cab, then slid in beside him.
The keys were still in the ignition. Trey reached for them.
“It may not start,” Mark moaned beside him. So he was conscious, after all. “After being flipped like that, some of the wires might have been scrambled, the engine case cracked or something….”
Trey turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life.
“Good old Bessie,” Mark muttered. “I’ll never talk bad about this truck again.”
Trey eased off the clutch as gently as possible. He shifted through the gears like a pro.
When he got to fourth gear, he floored the gas pedal, and the truck zoomed toward the dawn, air streaming into the cab from every direction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
They arrived at the Nezeree prison fifteen minutes later.
Trey slowed down approaching the gates.
“Well pick up the guard’s friend first,” he told Mark. “I think we have to play by his rules even if … even if it might be a trick.”
Trey was kind of hoping that Mark would challenge him, offer some other brilliant plan. But Mark just moaned in response. It was light enough now that Trey could see the pallor of Mark’s face, the bloodstains on the shirt wrapped around his leg.
“Maybe the guard’s friend will be a doctor who can set your leg for you,” Trey joked halfheartedly.
“Chains,” Mark muttered.
“Huh?”
“Chains … under the seat,” Mark said. “Put them around my wrists to make it look like …”
“Oh. So you’ll look like a prisoner,” Trey finished, to spare Mark the effort of talking. After an anxious glance in his rearview mirror to make sure there was no mob ready to pounce again, he pulled over to the side of the road, dug around under the seat, and pulled out a length of chain, which he draped across Mark’s body. Mark held his right hand off to the side.
“What’s this?” Trey said, staring at a painful-looking wound on the palm of Mark’s hand.
“Burns,” Mark said through gritted teeth. “From the electric fence. Got some on my back, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“No time,” Mark groaned. “Hurry up.”
Trey was careful not to place any of the links directly on Mark’s leg or burns, but Mark still groaned in pain.
“Heavy,” Mark muttered. Beads of sweat glistened along his hairline, but he was shivering. Trey struggled to remember: Could somebody die from a broken leg? And was Mark still in danger from touching the electric fence the day before?
He pushed those worries to the back of his mind and drove on up to the gates of the prison. They stood between tall walls of chain-link fence topped with loops of razor wire.
“Not another prisoner coming in,” the guard on duty griped when he glanced into the truck.
“No, no,” Trey said soothingly. “I’m picking up one of your prisoners. Then I’m taking both of them to Churko.”
He was relieved that the guard seemed to accept him as a Population Police officer and Mark as a prisoner—in spite of their ragged appearance, in spite of the smashed-up truck. Trey held the authorization papers out the window. The guard looked through them and handed them right back.
“Warden’s office is straight ahead on the right,” he said.
“Thanks,” Trey said.
“Warden’s a stickler for appearances, if you know what I mean,” the guard said.
“Oh,” Trey said.
“I’m just warning you, that’s all,” the guard said. “He likes spit-polished shoes.”
Trey glanced down at the mud flaking off his shoes, the stains and rips arcing across his pant legs.
“Got an extra uniform I can borrow, then?” Trey asked.
The guard shook his head, grinning.
“Good luck,” he said, like it was all a joke.
Great, Trey thought. Mark’s almost passing out from pain, I may be walking into a trap, I still don’t know if I can save Lee and Nina and the others in time—and this guy thinks it’s funny that I’m going to get yelled at for not spit-polishing my shoes.
Or maybe I won’t be able to save Lee and Nina and the others—or Mark—just because my shoes aren’t spit-polished….
Thinking hard, Trey drove on to the warden’s office. It was a small, tidy building, with flowers planted along the walkway. A boy about Trey’s age—but wearing a much neater uniform—was scrubbing the windows. Behind the office, dozens of official-looking Population Police cars and trucks and buses gleamed in the early-morning sunlight. They looked like they’d each been polished with a toothbrush; they looked like someone had used a ruler to make sure all the vehicles were parked at exactly the same intervals.
Trey let the engine of his truck die several feet back from a concrete divider in front of the warden’s office. It was his best parking attempt yet, but his tires still overlapped the white lines marking his space.
That was the least of his worries.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Trey told Mark.
Mark nodded, and seemed to turn a few shades paler.
Trey got out of the truck and walked to the front door of the warden’s office. He rapped his knuckles against the wood frame, trying to make his knock sound precise and official.
“Enter,” a voice called.
Trey took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped in onto luxurious-looking carpet. A man in a heavily decorated uniform sat behind a huge mahogany desk. Trey reminded himself he didn’t have time to stare at all the man’s ribbons and medals.
“Sir!” Trey barked, snapping his arm into a salute against his capless forehead. “Officer Jackson reporting. Request permission to present papers.”
The man looked bemused.
“At ease,” he said. “Proceed.”
“I must first offer apologies for my appearance, sir!” Trey said.
The man looked him up and down, a slight frown playing across his heavyset face.
“Apologize, then,” he said.
“Sir!” Trey repeated yet again. “I am a disgrace to the honor of this uniform.” He remembered the excuse the guard had given back at the Grants’ house. “I was subduing a prisoner who had no proper respect for Population Police authority. I know it is no excuse, but that is why my uniform is ripped and I am covered in mud. And I lost my cap. I am deeply ashamed to appear before you like this.”
“Indeed,” the man said. But he was smiling now. “I wish the guards in my unit shared your concerns. You did succeed in subduing the prisoner, though?”
“Yes, sir,” Trey said. On the theory that a smidgen of truth strengthened any lie, he added, “I broke his leg, sir. I believe he may be on the verge of death.”
“Well done,” the man said.
Trey barely managed not to gag with revulsion at that. How could this man care so much about spit-polished shoes and so little about a human life?
The man glanced out the window, to where Mark sat in chains.
“This prisoner is being transferred into my jurisdiction?” he
asked.
“No, sir,” Trey said. His arm was beginning to ache from saluting for so long, but he kept it in position. “I am picking up one of your prisoners and taking both of them on to Churko.”
The warden motioned for Trey to give him the paperwork. He looked through the papers, seeming to read each one carefully.
“You’re taking prisoners from Slahood as well? That’s odd …,” he murmured.
“I’m only following orders, sir!” Trey said, hoping to distract him.
The warden narrowed his eyes, looking straight at Trey. Trey worried that he had carried his act too far. He’d been trying to behave like a groveling flunky had in a military book he’d once read. How did he know how Population Police officials talked in real life?
Then the warden said, “I like your attitude, young man. Are you a new recruit?”
Just in case the warden had some way of checking, Trey told the truth.
“Yes, sir! I joined up yesterday, sir!” Had it only been yesterday that he’d stood in that long line at the Grant house? It seemed many, many lifetimes ago.
“The new recruits I’ve been sent lack your enthusiasm for our cause. They seem most concerned about eating,” the warden sneered. It seemed like an unfair gibe, considering that the warden must have weighed more than two hundred and fifty pounds—he’d obviously spent a lot of time himself being concerned about eating. “Any chance I could have you transferred to my unit?”
Oh, great, Trey thought. I’ve played my part too well.
“Sir?” Trey said cautiously. “I would not want to be disloyal to my current commander. I must finish my assignment before I could think of being transferred.”
“Of course,” the warden said. “I should have known you’d have that response.” He tidied Trey’s papers into a single stack. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll have one of my guards go pick up the prisoners from Slahood right now. That will save you quite a bit of time. I’ll have another guard retrieve prisoner”—he glanced down at Trey’s forms—“prisoner 908653 from cell block three here at Nezeree. And I’ll have a fresh uniform sent up for you to change into while you’re waiting.” The warden barked a few short commands into an intercom on his desk, and it was all set in motion.
“Thank you, sir,” Trey said, unable to believe his good luck.
“And the prisoner in the truck,” the warden said. “I’ll write up an order to have him shot right now.”
“What?” The luxurious room seemed to be spinning slightly. Surely Trey hadn’t heard the warden properly. Surely his brilliant lies hadn’t led to this.
“For attacking a Population Police officer,” the warden said casually. “It’s a capital offense, you know.”
And he reached for a pen.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The room was truly spinning now. Mark was the one being sentenced to death, but it was Trey whose life flashed before his eyes. How could he have done this? How could he have rescued Mark—twice—only to see him killed here, now, just as he was about to be reunited with his brother?
“No!” Trey exploded.
“What did you just say to me?” the warden asked, his pen hesitating over the paper.
“I mean, ‘No, sir’. I mean—” Trey scrambled to think. “The prisoner certainly deserves to die. Not because he attacked me, but because he showed no respect for me, as an officer of the Population Police. Still … the warden at Churko has personal reasons for wanting to … to torture this particular prisoner. And for wanting to oversee his death himself.”
“Ah,” the warden said. He seemed to be considering. “I see.” He reached for a different paper from one of the stacks on his desk. “Then I’ll order that our infirmary sets his leg and gives him medicine. So that he lives long enough for my colleague at Churko to see him tortured.”
Trey watched in awe as the warden scribbled out an order and summoned an underling over the intercom on his desk.
What kind of person is willing to kill or save a boy’s life on a whim, just like that? Trey wondered. What kind of government allows someone to have that kind of power, all by himself?
A uniformed guard showed up at the door and entered without speaking. The warden looked at him disapprovingly.
“Nedley, drive this man’s vehicle over to the infirmary and have his prisoner treated there,” the warden said. “Officer Jackson, you can give him your keys.”
“I—I feel responsible for the prisoner, sir,” Trey said. “I’ll drive him there myself, if you just tell me where to go.”
“Oh, no,” the warden said. “Son, you need to learn about chain of command. Mark my words, you’re going to advance high up in the Population Police, and you need to learn to delegate. Nedley—do as I say!”
Trey saw no choice but to hold the keys out to the silent Nedley.
What’s going to happen when they discover that Mark isn’t really chained up? Trey wondered. What if this is all a trick? What’s Mark going to do when this strange officer climbs into the truck?
But that last worry, at least, proved unnecessary. Trey glanced out the window and could see: Mark appeared to have passed out from the pain once again.
“Oh, and Nedley?” the warden was continuing. “Gas up his vehicle before you bring it back.”
“Yes, sir,” Nedley said in a dispirited voice.
Trey watched anxiously as Nedley climbed into the truck, started it, and pulled away. The warden misread Trey’s concern.
“So good to see a young recruit taking his responsibilities seriously,” the warden mumbled. “I will request that you be transferred here after you deliver your prisoners to Churko. This is a much more prestigious posting. See this phone here?” He pointed to a dark, heavy phone that seemed to occupy a place of honor in the center of his spotless desk. “I’ve got a direct, secure line that goes straight to Population Police headquarters. I’m talking to the highest-level officials constantly. Out at Churko—bah! I bet half the time headquarters forgets they’re there.”
“Your status is impressive, sir,” Trey said politely, though he was distracted worrying about Mark, worrying about Lee and the others, worrying about the mysterious prisoner he was supposed to take back to the guard at Population Police headquarters.
We don’t need that prisoner to trade for the key to Mark’s cage anymore, Trey realized with a jolt. If I can get all of us out of here safely, what should we do with the extra prisoner? Leave him by the side of the road for the mobs to attack?
And then Trey felt a wave of shame. He was thinking like a true Population Police officer, seeing human life as disposable. He swayed slightly, suddenly feeling faint.
The warden was still talking about the glories of the Nezeree prison.
“We’re a model for the entire system, I tell you—oh, just put it over there. Dismissed.”
An aide had come in with a new uniform for Trey. The warden glanced at his watch as the aide put the uniform down on a chair and silently departed.
“It’s time for my morning inspection of the barracks,” the warden said. “I am never late. Tell you what. You go back into my personal quarters and take a shower and change. Have some breakfast, too, if you like. I’ll be back momentarily. And we’ll have those prisoners ready for you in a flash.”
“Yes, sir,” Trey said. He picked up the clean clothes and went through the door the warden indicated. But his legs were rubbery, and his mind felt equally numb.
What are they doing to Mark right now, while I’m getting a nice, hot shower? How long until Lee gets here? What if we can’t pull this off?
A tiny, tiny part of his brain suggested slipping out the nearest window and finding a place to hide, but he ignored that impulse. He undressed and stepped into the shower instead, turning the water on full blast.
If they see through my bluff, at least I’ll die clean, Trey thought bitterly. The warden would like that.
The hot water did seem to clear his brain. For the first time he noticed that the water faucet
handles were pure crystal, the showerhead was shiny brass. After he’d toweled off and gotten dressed again, he used the towel to wipe out the expensive-looking tiles of the shower floor and walls. He soaked up every last drop of water so it looked as though the shower had never been used. The last thing he needed was to upset the warden over something stupid like a messy shower. He deliberated about what to do with his old, filthy uniform, and finally tucked it into a waste can hidden under the sink.
He was halfway out the bathroom door when he remembered the Grants’ and the Talbots’ papers, still tucked in the old uniform’s pockets.
Surely they don’t matter now, he thought. He was dangerously close to thinking that nothing else mattered either, that he and his friends were doomed, regardless. But he forced himself to turn around anyway and rescue the papers yet again. He stuffed them into a hidden pocket in his new uniform.
If I can save the papers, maybe I can save my friends, too, he told himself superstitiously.
And then he was antsy, wandering from room to room, fretting about when the warden would come back, when Mark would reappear, when the prisoners would arrive.
How bizarre, Trey thought. I don’t know how to sit still anymore.
He forced himself to choke down two English muffins and a bowl of cereal in the small but well-stocked kitchenette, but it was more out of necessity than desire. Though he knew he needed the energy, he couldn’t force himself to concentrate even on food.
When he was up and wandering again, he noticed voices coming from behind a closed door just down the hallway from the warden’s office. Thinking the warden had returned—or that maybe his friends had finally arrived—he leaned toward the door to listen.
“… at the top of our news …,” a voice was saying.
Television? Trey thought.
He knocked lightly. When no one answered, he turned the knob and opened the door a crack. The television was speaking to an empty roomful of chairs. Trey eased into one of them.
The warden wouldn’t get upset about me watching TV, would he? Trey wondered.