Unleashed

  “Caden said she came from some special camp,” Dr. Phelps volunteers. “That’s what she told him.”

  His name is Caden. I turn my head as though I can still see him somewhere in the room even though I know he left.

  “There, now.” A hand on my good shoulder eases me back down. “Take it easy on her,” Dr. Phelps—if I’m to believe he’s an actual doctor—says as he bustles around me, wheeling a cart closer that nudges Buzz Cut out of the way. “You can ask her questions later.”

  “This is important for the security of the compound—”

  “And if I don’t get this bullet out of her, she’ll likely die, Marcus.”

  Marcus makes a sound in his throat that tells me he doesn’t care overly much about that. He wants what he wants from me.

  “We need that information now—”

  “You can get information out of her later. Caden didn’t feel it critical to interrogate her at this very moment, so why should—”

  “Anderson is not in charge,” Marcus snaps, angry color flooding his face. Apparently his name is Caden Anderson.

  “Neither are you,” Phelps returns in a decidedly calm voice that Marcus doesn’t seem to register. He just keeps talking.

  “Just because his old man started this cell doesn’t mean he’s in charge here. Dumont runs this cell now.”

  “And he’s not here,” Phelps reminds him, sounding bored. Like a parent talking a child down from a tantrum. “Now I need to be alone with my patient.”

  Marcus makes another sound, part grunt, part sputtered protest. Phelps’s body steps in front of him, blocking him completely, as if that is the end of the subject. After a moment I hear Marcus’s steps fade from the room. A door slams after him.

  “You shouldn’t make him angry,” a soft female voice speaks up. I didn’t even realize anyone else was in the room, although there had been a lot of hands touching me earlier.

  “He’s a bully. I’m here to administer medical care. That’s what I’ll do.”

  A tool glints and swings past my vision. I suck in a sharp breath, knowing it’s going to be used on me. He doesn’t miss the sound of my gasp. Or maybe he simply notices how tense I’ve become.

  “Sorry. This will hurt a bit. I’m afraid we have to ration the use of our sedatives. I’m going to have to dig that bullet out of you. If you ever need surgery here, you’ll thank me for my temperance when you really need those meds.”

  I don’t even allow myself to consider that I’m going to stay here—wherever here even is. Instead, I just say through my cracked lips, “You mean I’m going to hurt more? That doesn’t seem possible.”

  He chuckles. “She’s got a sense of humor, this one.”

  A girl lowers her face to observe the doctor work on my shoulder. She watches with rapt fascination. Her nose wrinkles at whatever she sees. A nose covered with brown freckles. She’s sporting a short boy-cut that complements her round features.

  “That bad?” I mumble.

  Her moss-green eyes lock on mine. “Oh. Sorry. I’m just squeamish. Trying to overcome that. Working in the infirmary, I really need to.”

  “Hopefully it won’t hurt too much more, Davy,” Phelps continues in his easy manner. “Cross your fingers the bullet is easy to dislodge and hasn’t shredded too much of the muscle. I don’t think it struck bone. You’re very lucky.”

  I’m a carrier. I’ve lost my family and the only friends I have left. Sean probably thinks I’m dead, and he’s gone, headed to a refuge without me. Unless they were captured.

  I don’t feel lucky.

  I brace myself. “Go for it, Doc. I’ve had worse.”

  “Tough, huh? That’s good. We need more strong ones in here.”

  Again with the implication I’m going to be here for a while. “Sorry. I’m not staying.”

  “No? That’s a shame. Well, maybe you’ll reconsider once you’re up on your feet and see our setup. We have a good thing going here. Some resistance cells are little more than campsites. They’ve got to move every day. Always running. Looking over their shoulders. Never enough food.”

  A good thing? Are there good things left? For carriers? I don’t allow myself that hope.

  “Doc,” the girl says warningly. “You shouldn’t be handing out invitations. You don’t know that she can stay.”

  “You young people,” he mutters. “All so serious.”

  I snort. Now who’s the comedian? He’s one of the first adults I’ve met who doesn’t seem to be taking anything seriously. Even the bullet in my shoulder, and that’s a troubling thought, since I’m depending on him to get it out.

  “Where’d you go to med school?”

  He chuckles again at my question. Instead of answering, he says, “All right now, here we go. Hang on. And remember to breathe.”

  Then I’m dying.

  Or I wish I was, because he’s digging into my shoulder and searing pain flares through me. I open my mouth wide on a silent scream, my teeth scraping the mattress.

  He mumbles something. Assurances or sympathetic words or advice to himself. I’m not sure. I just want him to shut up and finish already. But he’s not. He digs a little deeper and I bite down on the mattress, clenching the sheet between my teeth.

  “There we are.” I hear the sharp ping of a bullet as he drops it in the tray.

  I unclench my teeth and sag into the mattress, panting, all tension easing from me. A sharp ache takes the place of the searing pain. The warm sensation of blood trickles down my side, but there’s a cloth suddenly there to catch it, wiping at my flesh. Phelps and the girl clean me up. I wince as needle and thread puncture my serrated flesh.

  “Now you’ll need to remain in the infirmary for a few days,” he explains as he sets to stitching me up. “You’re going to be in a great deal of pain, and it will be best for you to be in here where I can keep an eye on you. Something tells me you’re the type who might not want to stay in bed.”

  “I need to find my friends.” My lips brush the mattress as I speak. “They crossed into Mexico. I mean I hope they did. If they weren’t captured—”

  “Nah, we would have heard on the wire if any carriers were captured or killed last night in this area. Although they’re lucky they made it. Few carriers make it across without our help. There are other groups out there, but none as efficient and organized as us. But you can worry about them later. In your condition, you’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  His words, even as I register their logic, fill me with bitter frustration. Every moment that passes makes the gap between me and the others stretch wider. It’s like I can almost touch them, my fingers stretching, reaching, but they keep getting farther and farther away from me.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  Phelps pats the back of my head. “Hasn’t anyone told you? Welcome to the resistance.”

  * * *

  2016 Conversation between Colonel Anderson and General Dumont

  COLONEL ANDERSON: You know where this is headed . . . this Wainwright fella. People are actually listening to him. Important people. People with power.

  GENERAL DUMONT: I’m guessing you don’t see our forced retirement as an opportunity to finally write that memoir?

  COLONEL ANDERSON: Let them think we’re perfectly satisfied to take an early retirement. I want them to have no suspicions.

  GENERAL DUMONT: What do you intend to do?

  COLONEL ANDERSON: The same thing we do every time we head into war. Start preparing.

  GENERAL DUMONT: Well, you’re not doing it alone.

  EIGHT

  I SPEND THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS SLEEPING, waking only occasionally to sip some water. Despite the limits on their medical supplies, they slip me something and it makes me really drowsy. This new world I find myself in, complete with Dr. Phelps and his assistant—who always looks one breath from hurling whenever she checks my shoulder—blurs before my eyes whenever I emerge from unconsciousness.

  On the second day, I sleep o
n and off, and take the broth that Phelps and his assistant—whose name I learn is Rhiannon—force on me. Every movement jars my body and reawakens the pain. If I lie very still and barely breathe, I can almost not hurt. I do this a lot. Holding myself close, like if I move I might splinter apart, and taking tiny sips of air.

  “So this resistance . . . how many are there of you here?” I still have yet to get a clear answer on where here is, exactly. That seems to be confidential. Cue Marcus flipping out when he learned I wasn’t blindfolded before being brought in. Despite waking up to that less-than-cheerful welcome, I know I’m lucky to be here. Lucky that Caden found me.

  Rhiannon turns swiftly from where she is organizing the contents of a cabinet. “You’re awake.”

  “I think I’ve slept as much as I’m going to today.” Gritting my teeth, I start to roll on my side. I don’t normally sleep on my stomach, and despite the discomfort in the back of my shoulder, I can’t take it anymore.

  Rhiannon hurries forward and helps me turn. “Easy,” she cautions. “You don’t want to tear your stitches.”

  On my back, I stare up at the girl, panting and hurting. “Tell me where I am.”

  “You’re in an underground facility—”

  “Like literally . . . underground?”

  She nods. “It’s how we’re able to remain undetected. We have about forty permanent residents. A dozen or so carriers pass through en route to Mexico any given week. Sometimes more. Depends how many carriers we’re tasked with transporting.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me put it like this . . . we’re a cell. A single hub on the resistance’s underground railroad.” She smiles. “You’re lucky Caden found you. Patrols could have picked you up. Or some other lowlife trolling the border.”

  The heavy steel door clangs open as Dr. Phelps breezes into the room. He wears a faded graphic T-shirt. A washed-out yellow smiley face covers his chest. “Ah, our patient is awake.” He drops down on a stool and rolls over to me with a clatter of wheels. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been shot.”

  He chuckles, scratching his scruffy chin. “Yeah, I bet. Good thing Caden found you when he did.”

  “Yeah, if it had been Marcus, he would have left you out there.” Rhiannon grimaces. “He’s not the kind of guy to stick his neck out for strangers, even though that’s sort of the whole point of what we’re doing here.” Rhiannon wrinkles her freckled nose as she goes back to organizing her cabinet.

  A flicker of something flashes in Phelps’s eyes, like maybe he’s going to add a comment about Marcus, but then it’s gone. “If you’re up to it, I’d like you to try standing today. A little exercise will help. Don’t overdo it. Just move around a bit.”

  Unease shoots through me as I realize I’m probably not going to Mexico anytime soon. The doctor must see some of that sentiment reflected in my face, for he continues, his voice softer, almost consoling, “You won’t be able to travel for some time. We don’t send anyone out without a clean bill of health. The journey is risky enough. The Agency knows there’s a bigger, more organized resistance cell in these parts. They’re constantly looking, so we have to be careful. You need clearance from me if you want to go out with the next convoy.”

  I suddenly imagine them as prairie dogs, sticking their noses out of burrows to see if the coast is clear. Mental image aside, finding them, being among them here, saved my life. Yes, I’m grateful for that, but I need to find my friends. I need out of this place. My skin itches just thinking about the last time I was in a place full of carriers.

  “When do you think I can leave? When will I be healthy enough?”

  Phelps smiles uneasily, his gaze flickering to Rhiannon and back to me. “It’s . . . delicate. We’ll get this all sorted out and figure out what to do with you. Tomorrow or the next day we’ll see about moving you into one of the dorm rooms.”

  Suddenly it feels like the walls are closing in. I’m back in the Cage again. Someplace to stick me, contain me. An animal. I shake my head, fighting the feeling. I remind myself that we’re all on the same side here. These people don’t work for the Agency. They’re like me. Just trying to survive. They’re helping me.

  Still, I hear myself asking, “Who’s in charge? I need to talk to them.”

  Dr. Phelps stares at me with such over-the-top patience that I feel like a child making unreasonable demands, and I feel bad. He’s been good to me . . . kind. I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for his care. He sighs and slides his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “Very well. I’ll let them know, but you’re only going to hear what I’ve already tried explaining.”

  I nod and offer up a smile. “Thank you.”

  Shaking his head, Dr. Phelps places his hands on his knees and pushes to his feet with a sigh. He leaves the room with quiet steps, the door clanging heavily after him.

  Rhiannon closes a cabinet sharply, deliberately. It echoes in the mostly empty room.

  I study the girl’s back. “What?” I ask, preferring to get to the point.

  She whips around, slamming a bottle of peroxide on the counter. “We saved your life.” Color heats her skin beneath her freckles. “You should be thanking us instead of . . .”

  “Instead of?”

  Her chin firms. “Instead of being a bitch.” It’s almost funny. Watching her spit that word out like it’s something she’s never tasted before. She’s here. She’s a carrier. Swearing can’t be the worst of her transgressions.

  I hold her stare for a long moment, showing no reaction to her insult. Really, it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve been called since my life spiraled into this.

  I finally point to my neck. “See this?”

  She crosses skinny arms over her chest. “Half the people in here have those. Is it supposed to impress me? Scare me? What?”

  “It should let you know what I am. Am I grateful you people saved my life? Yeah, I am.” I incline my head in a small nod of acknowledgment. “But I still need to leave.”

  Her top lip curls. “Maybe they should just let you go. Waste all our efforts so you can get yourself killed for good this time.” Turning, she marches from the infirmary. I resist calling her back. The old impulse to apologize is there. To be a polite, well-behaved girl. I remind myself that I’m not staying here. No need to invest myself, but some habits are hard to kill.

  Mom had drilled manners and societal niceties into me since I could walk. It went right along with the voice and instrument lessons. It was important to her that her children be well-bred. I assumed that was simply what a woman like her, raised with everything, did. Now I understand there might have been more to it than that. It might have mattered to her simply because the world was sliding into a place where such things no longer existed. No one asks. They do. They take.

  And no one apologizes.

  Mom would have better served me and Mitchell by teaching us less about manners and more about how to be ruthless. How to survive. It’s a bitter truth.

  Alone, I drop my head back on the bed. Tension eases from my muscles as I lower my guard. I can relax here in this place. At least for a little while.

  I carefully test my arm, seeing how much I can comfortably move it. I wince when I rotate my shoulder and quickly put a stop to that. I glance at the door, wondering how long I’ll have to wait for someone to come and speak to me. It seems like forever ticks by as I lie there. The silence grows oppressive. Or maybe it’s just the knowledge eating at me that I’m actually underground. I shove off the notion that I’m buried alive in one giant coffin with a swarm of carriers, ants ready to devour one another.

  Exhaling a heavy breath, I lift myself up on the gurney and swing my legs over the side. I stare at my cotton gown for a moment, plucking at the paper-thin fabric, and deliberately don’t think about the fact that they undressed me. A flash of amber-brown eyes fills my mind. Heat scores my cheeks, and I can’t help hoping he didn’t see that much.

&n
bsp; The memory of him chases me. His eyes. His voice. The singing. Caden. My interaction with him was like something from a dream, fuzzy snapshots, but I recall the deep timbre of his voice as they cut my shirt from my body. He’d been right there. Of course he noticed.

  “Perfect,” I mutter, easing my bare feet down to cool concrete. Are we really underground? A shiver passes through me. It doesn’t seem possible, and yet I know it is. People have been making underground bunkers, dungeons, for centuries.

  I glance up as if I expect to see dark earth, complete with dangling worms and tree roots. Instead a typical ceiling stares back at me, including air vents.

  Facing forward again, I take cautious steps, easing toward the door that didn’t seem so far before but now feels miles away as I inch toward it with shuffling steps. Maybe I’m still under the influence of whatever they gave me to help me sleep. It’s easier to accept that than that I’m really this weak.

  Sweat trickles down my spine. All of me is flushed with suffocating heat. I’m panting by the time I reach the door. My hand seizes the latch desperately, clinging to it as if the slim hook of metal can support me and keep me from falling.

  I pull down. Then up. Nothing.

  I rattle the latch wildly, confirming that it’s locked. Grunting in defeat, I glare at the door like it’s a living thing standing in my way. An opponent. One in a long line of many.

  They locked me in like I’m some sort of prisoner. I slap the door with my hand, ignoring the sting in my palm as I shout. “Open this door! You can’t keep me trapped in here!”

  Of course that’s just what they’re doing. I didn’t escape Mount Haven for this.

  I don’t know how long I shout, but I’m hoarse and exhausted when the door suddenly flings wide, nearly knocking me down. I stumble, catching myself, my hand flying to my racing heart.

  Caden enters the room, closing the door firmly behind him. I blink at his sudden appearance. The bright fluorescent lighting reveals him to be much different from my hazy recollections of him inside a dim cave or against the dark mountainous landscape.