“I’ll take her from here, Caden,” Tabatha says tightly, and I feel her cool, slim fingers wrap around my wrist, her hold tight, unyielding. Like she’s ready to drag me bodily from the compound and Caden if she has to. I almost smile at the image. It’s unnecessary. One kiss changes nothing. If anything, it just confirms how fast I have to get away from this place. From him.
“Good luck, Davy.” His voice rolls over me. It sounds deeper, a little husky, and makes my lips tingle with the memory of his taste.
“Good-bye,” I say.
Tabatha tugs me and I move, slide one step and hope she’s not about to lead me into a wall. Or off a cliff.
I strain, listening for his voice, convinced that his eyes are still on me.
“Here,” she instructs. “Take his hand.” She shoves my hand at one of the other carriers. My fingers get lost in the larger, sweaty grip of a man. I’m the last one in the chain. “Don’t let go,” she whispers near my ear. “I’m happy to leave you behind out there.”
I just bet. In moments the man in front of me is moving, pulling me after him. It’s start and stop. I collide into his back several times. No one slows, though, as I ease my way over the door. There’s momentum in the chain by then, and I nearly fall and lose my grip on the carrier’s hand in front of me.
He yanks hard as he pulls me up. Free of the underground compound, the air feels crisper, laced with a lingering heat left over from the day. I sniff the aroma of mesquite and cedar. In the distance, I think I hear the door clicking shut, sealing us out. Sealing Caden in.
He kissed me. I curse under my breath. What did he go and do that for? That kiss is the last thing I needed.
And no matter where I’m going, I know I will always remember him. The dead already haunt me. Now I’ll be haunted by the living, too.
PART TWO
CROSSINGS
* * *
911 Transcript
911 DISPATCHER 02910: What’s your emergency?
BETTINA MORGAN: Oh my God! Help! Help us! We’re dying!
911 DISPATCHER 02910: Ma’am, calm down. Can I have your name?
BETTINA MORGAN: Bettina. Bettina Morgan.
911 DISPATCHER 02910: (typing) Bettina, where are you?
BETTINA MORGAN: I’m at the Wainwright Headquarters on Fourteenth Street. Th-there’s been an explosion. Bodies are everywhere. I’m hurt. My leg . . . oh my God. My leg . . . (sobbing) I—I can’t walk. I’m just twenty! God, oh God! I don’t want to die!
911 DISPATCHER 02910: (typing) Stay where you are, Bettina. Can you do that? Help is on the way.
BETTINA MORGAN: (whispering) Please, p-please. I can’t feel my leg.
911 DISPATCHER 02910: Can you look around and describe your surroundings? Are you on the first floor? Bettina? Where are you in the building?
BETTINA MORGAN: I was on the third floor, b-but the explosion . . . there’s debris everywhere. I don’t recognize anything. Everything’s been leveled. There’s light to my left. Maybe an opening that way.
911 DISPATCHER 02910: (typing) Good. Can you call out? Shout for help?
BETTINA MORGAN: I never wanted to work here. My dad said the internship would look good on my résumé. You know my driver’s ed teacher turned out to be a carrier. He was a nice old guy, but they sent him to a camp. (sobbing) He was a grandpa. He kept pictures of his grandkids on the visor. I shouldn’t be here. I should never have—
911 DISPATCHER 02910: Bettina, I need you to calm down so that you can help me help you. Understand?
BETTINA MORGAN: This is my punishment. Don’t you see? We’re all being punished. . . .
SEVENTEEN
TABATHA IS RIGHT ABOUT THE VAN AT LEAST. WE don’t have to go very far. Thankfully. We all make it, even me, the caboose, holding my free hand out in case I fall, stumbling blindly over broken and uneven ground.
Once we’re inside the back of the van, Tabatha is good to her word and announces we can remove our blindfolds. The windows are blacked out, so we won’t be seeing much of anything besides one another’s faces, but still. I look around, almost as if I expect to see Caden somewhere in the van with us. As if that final glimpse, that taste, of him wasn’t the last.
I note the outline of a man behind the driver’s wheel, his shape shadowy and indistinct in the gloom of the van.
I turn back to the windows and strain my eyes as I stare at the painted glass, wondering about the direction of the compound. Then I wonder why it matters. I’ve left that place. Never to return. My future lies ahead.
We drive maybe an hour before the van stops. We don’t have to put the blindfolds on again before we’re urged from the van and herded through the brush into a small clearing. There’s a small fire pit, so I know they’ve used this spot as a camp before. In the not-so-far distance, I think I hear the gurgle of running water. I stand off to the side, listening as the van drives away, leaving us, feeling very alone even though I’m not.
The others mingle together, familiar with one another. I hadn’t spent any time at the compound with them. It didn’t seem important. Or necessarily wise. We’ll part ways soon enough after we cross. Maybe some of them are going to the same refuge as me. Maybe not. I don’t care either way. Can’t afford to. Caden’s face flashes across my mind like a blinding bright snapshot and I kill it, shove it back into the dark. My lips hum, and I resist the urge to brush my fingers there.
My chest feels hollow as I look out at the horizon. Morning tints the sky, edging the landscape in orange as several of the carriers find a place to sit. I stand. I sat long enough inside the van. A restlessness buzzes through my muscles. I can hear the river, just a faint murmur in the distance, and know we’re close. We’ll cross today. I’ll leave the country of my birth behind. My family. Regret pinches my heart. But then I left them behind months ago. The moment I tested positive for HTS. Even Mitchell. As much as I love him and he loves me, my brother is virtually as far from me as the moon.
My nerves stretch and thrum with tension. I glance around, feeling exposed and vulnerable out in the open like this. Despite the attack on my life, there was a measure of security within the compound. Out here, in the open, anyone could find us. Border Patrol. The Agency. Vigilante civilians. Or rogue carriers—which yes, seems to be a bit of an oxymoron in itself. Or even people from Mount Haven. If they’re still looking. The list of threats seems endless. And my life feels dark and hopeless with the possibilities swirling around in my head.
“You thought you were going to stay, didn’t you?” There’s a definite smirk to her voice.
I hadn’t even heard Tabatha approach. I turn and stare at her blankly. “What are you talking about?”
“Caden. You thought he wanted you to stay.”
I don’t bother letting her know that he asked me to more than once. She obviously has a thing for him, and me getting on her bad side—even more than I am—when I already have to rely on her to get me across the border is just all kinds of dumb.
So I play ignorant and kick at the dirt with the toe of my shoe. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What was that kiss? You trying to tempt him to let you stay?”
I stare at her. Is that what it looked like to her? That I kissed him? Shaking my head, I turn and look out across the camp. “You got it all wrong.”
“Oh, I had you pegged from the moment you showed up. I saw the way you looked at him like a bitch in heat.”
I inhale through my nose sharply. “I did no—”
“Hey, I get it.” She shrugs her slight shoulders. “He’s hot. He’s powerful and in charge and can get you nice things when there’s just not a lot of nice things to be had for carriers these days. What’s not to want?”
I snort. “So you think I want to be the first lady of your resistance cell? No, thanks.”
“Yeah, you say that now ’cause he threw your ass out with the rest of them.” Her gaze skims the group, and I see how little she thinks of us all.
Unable to stand another word
from her, I start to walk away.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“All right,” she responds, as though I asked her for permission. “Don’t go far. We’ll be leaving here soon, and we’re not going to wait on you. Once the guide is in position on the other side and gives the signal, we’re moving out. Any minute now.”
I give a slight wave of acknowledgment and keep walking, leaving the campsite behind. I rotate my shoulder gingerly, working the dull ache there as I walk. The ground is rocky, full of rises and dips and short scrub and brush that grab at me like greedy hands. I don’t really need to relieve myself but figure I might as well. I don’t know when I’ll get the next chance.
The ground breaks suddenly, dipping into a small gully. I jump down, the soles of my boots skidding for a moment before I catch my balance. With a quick glance around to make sure I’m alone, I do my business.
Buttoning up my pants, I rise and slap a hand on the ground at eye level above me, prepared to haul myself up. That’s when I hear the first shot. Screams and shouts follow.
Everything inside me seizes as I’m flooded with the memories of the last time gunfire riddled the air. When I was shot. The wound stings and pulses and my right hand drifts there instinctively, curving over my shoulder. Trembling, adrenaline pumping hotly through me, I haul myself out of the gully. I inch forward in a crouch in the direction of camp.
Pop! Pop!
Staccato gunfire cracks the air, rapid-fire, and then the shooting stops. The screams and shouts fade away, and that silence chills me even more than the noise. My mouth dries and I swallow.
Everything in me tells me to run, get away. But I have to see. I have to know.
The closer I get, the lower I drop to the ground, practically belly-crawling. Cacti and all manner of plants tear at my flesh, but I keep going, ignoring the pain. The camp comes into view, and I stop, holding myself still, peering through the knee-high scrub and weeds. I convulse at what I see and press a hand to my mouth, stifling a cry. I bite down on my finger, my throat contracting against the surge of bile.
Bodies are everywhere. The ripe, coppery scent of blood stings my nostrils. Tabatha is there, facedown, her cheek turned to the side on the ground, facing me. She’s as still as stone, her eyes wide and glassy. The surprise is caught there, etched in her frozen expression, captured forever in the moment of death.
A dozen men walk amid the bodies, prodding at them with the barrels of their guns. My chest pushes against the ground, my breath laboring as I will myself to disappear. To be anywhere but here.
I look away from Tabatha. My gaze moves on, fastening on one small body with carrot-red hair tangled in the dirt, the light strands stained with blood so dark it looks almost black in places. I didn’t know her name, and this seems so wrong. I should know her name. I wish I knew her name. I bite my hand harder, muffling the cry that swells up in my throat, the stifled sound mingling with the salt of tears.
“Looks like your tip paid off, Allister,” one of the men congratulates, slapping another man on the back. “Good work. Bet you get a promotion for this.”
“Yeah.” I can hear the grin in Allister’s voice. “I was a little skeptical, too, but turns out the informant was legit.”
I register this dully. I’m still grappling with the fact that everyone who sat in the back of that van with me only minutes before is now dead.
One of the bodies moans, and Allister turns to the offending carrier and squeezes off another round. I jerk at the sharp crack, feel its vibration rattle through me and bleed into my bones. I must have gasped or made some small sound. One of the men swings around, lifting his weapon level with his waist.
I sink down, pressing myself as flat as possible while peering through the tall grass. Tense, I don’t breathe. He inches in my direction, setting his boots down carefully, one after the other. He stops just a few yards from me, scanning the far outskirts of the campsite, his gaze fixed directly above me as he searches the horizon.
After several moments, he lowers his gun, lets it point back down at the ground. One of the other men calls out for him, and he turns. My body sags, some of the tension ebbing away.
“All clear,” a guy calls out. A radio crackles, and he speaks into a small handheld device, his voice too low to hear. My eyes fly over them, noting their attire. Not uniforms exactly, but they’re all dressed in browns and khaki. Like Caden and his bunch, but their clothes look a little better. Less rumpled, less worn. Better quality.
They’re not carriers and they’re not Border Patrol, either. They would have some kind of uniform with markings to symbolize their law enforcement branch. They must be Agency.
My gaze moves on, and this is confirmed. Two tan SUVs with Agency insignias and one pickup truck sit parked near the campsite. They’re systematic, calculating as they look over the dead bodies. One man walks to each one and snaps a photo of their faces. Done with that, the rest of them then lift and deposit the corpses in the back of the truck, tossing them like sacks of corn. I flinch at the thud of each body. Soon they’re all gone, collected like garbage to be discarded.
That could have been me.
If I hadn’t walked away when I did. Sweat beads my face, and I shake. I squeeze my eyes in a tight, pained blink. Lucky doesn’t begin to describe it. Maybe it’s fate. Or maybe there is a God . . . some entity greater than everything and everyone, looking out for me. The instant I think this, I feel sick. Selfish and stupid. Why would I think myself any more important than all those people in the back of that truck? No. Not people anymore. Bodies. Corpses.
The men survey the campsite again, tossing a few bags and other miscellaneous items into the back of the truck, leaving nothing behind.
Doors slam shut as they clamber inside the vehicles. Engines rev and dust billows in the air as they drive off, their taillights fading away in the morning light. Except for the still ripe scent of blood in the air and stained earth, it’s like nothing ever happened here. I wait several moments, half-afraid they’ll come back. Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe they left someone here and he’s crouched out in the brush, waiting for me to surface. Maybe that guy who stared in my direction knows I’m hiding out here somewhere.
Or maybe I’m all alone. Stranded.
I drop my forehead against the ground. The grit grinds into my skin, but I don’t care. My shoulders shake with silent sobs. I’m alive. But for how much longer?
* * *
The bombing of Agency headquarters in Los Angeles only further confirms the necessity of our role in a country ever closer to chaos. This is not a time to weaken our resolve. Greater measures need to be taken to fight carriers. We need to find the head of the snake and cut it off. . . .
—Dr. Wainwright
in a private hearing before Congress
EIGHTEEN
I’M NOT SURE HOW LONG I STAY PUT. AT LEAST LONG enough to convince myself that they are well and truly gone. Long enough to stop shaking so very badly. Long enough to decide that I have to try and get to Caden. Tell him what happened. Warn him.
By the time I lift my face and sit up, it’s well into morning. The sun is high in the sky. My scalp feels burning hot beneath my hair, and I wish I had brought a hat with me.
I think of Caden and how when he found me out here we only traveled at night, seeking shelter during the day. There’s a reason for that beyond avoiding patrols. I understand that now. The heat is misery, and it’s only going to get worse as the day advances.
Rising to my feet, I look around, rubbing my sweating palms on my thighs.
The cicadas’ song congests the air, loud as an angry army. I survey the empty camp. Caden will come looking for Tabatha when she fails to return, but I can’t stay here. What if the men with guns return? They could, suspecting just the thing that I do—that a search party will venture out.
Glancing up at the sun, I try to determine which way is west. Whoever knew that I’d be navigating a des
ert on my own?
I’m pretty sure it’s not noon yet, so with the river at my back, I face west, surmising from my cursory glance at the map that the compound is that way. I set off in that direction. I know it would be best to travel at night and rest during the day, but I don’t see any semblance of shelter nearby, and I’m not going to just sit down where I stand and let the sun roast me. Hopefully I’ll run into someone from the resistance. And soon. Before I pass out from sunstroke.
And hopefully it will be before I meet more people okay with killing little redheaded girls.
The heat ripples on the air. I almost laugh when I think that I grew up in Texas and once thought I was immune to heat like this. It’s easy to consider yourself tough when you can dive into air-conditioning at a moment’s notice. My feet move, one after another, a slow and steady rhythm that I’m convinced will get me somewhere. Eventually. As long as I don’t stop. If I stop, if I slow for even a moment, I’ll drop and never get back up.
My head aches, the sun beating down on me. I applied sunscreen this morning, and for that I’m thankful. However, I didn’t apply it to the back of my neck. When it starts to sting, I lift my collar to try to offer some protection to the exposed skin there.
The day slips away. I work my mouth, parched and desperate for a drink as I stumble along. I study the horizon as I move, holding a hand over my eyes as I gaze into the rippling waves of heat, looking for signs of life. Nothing.
I push ahead through the night, finding a little more energy as the temperature dips to a bearable degree. There’s enough moonlight to keep going. At this point, I’m not sure which way is west, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I know where the compound is anyway. Funny, considering that was Marcus’s first gripe with me. That I wasn’t blindfolded when Caden took me to the compound. That I might lead the wrong people back there.