“Can you break for half an hour? I want to show you something.”
He checks the clock on the wall. “I have another unit coming at eight. And another at ten. I finish at midnight.”
“Fifteen minutes,” I say. Jude consults his pad.
“Ten,” he says. “Another set after this and then rotate!” he tells the soldiers. They don’t groan or huff or any of the things I used to do. They smile, happy to be driven hard.
I tap on the studio door a couple of times, then let myself in. Bea is standing with her arms wrapped around herself. Jude gazes at her and then at the people strewn on the floor, the table with boxes of protein bars and jugs of water arranged on it, and the pile of air tanks in the corner. “What is this?” His jaw tenses. “You haven’t . . . I thought they were living in the alleys.”
“We’re running out of space,” I tell him. Old Watson brought me another five fugitives yesterday. The studio is crammed to capacity, and there’ll be more.
“With Niamh downstairs? You’re asking to get caught, and when you do, we’re all in for it.” A few people are meditating on their sleeping bags.
“Harriet’s training us as best she can,” Bea says. “We do sit-ups and push-ups, yoga and meditation. It’s only been a few days and already I’m so much stronger. If only we could lower the levels of oxygen in here.”
Jude presses his lips together like he’s preventing himself from saying something cruel. “The buggy’s waiting. I have to get back.” He charges down the stairs.
“Have you asked him yet?” Bea asks. I shake my head and she shoos me out the door.
By the time I reach the bottom, Jude’s out of sight. I catch him as he reaches the buggy. “This is the last straw. We’ll be hanged. I should never have agreed to any of it,” he says, climbing into the back of the buggy.
I stick my head through the window. “You have to train them quicker.”
“I’m doing the best I can.” He rubs his temples.
“Can you hide a few in your house?” I whisper, keeping an eye on the driver.
Jude laughs, banging his fist against his leg. “You can’t be serious.” He pauses. “You are. You’re serious.” He laughs again so hard he coughs. When he’s recovered, his expression becomes hard as granite. “The girl doesn’t love you. If that’s why you’re doing this. If you think you’ll win her over, you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve known her since she was a child and she’s always been devoted to Quinn. And he’s been devoted to her. I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is.” He stares at me: a challenge. And I have to think about it. Is all this about Bea and some latent feelings I have for her? It’s true she makes me want to be a better person and fight for a better world. I think of her earnest round face framed by black hair. She’s pretty and smart and brave and kind, but Jude’s right—she doesn’t look at me with eager eyes. Maybe that’s why I’ve never let myself be drawn to her. I know it would be hopeless, and hopeless is not the love I want.
“Something should have been done about the Ministry a long time ago. Bea woke me up.”
Jude wipes his eyes. “I have a double garage. But with the buggy in there, it wouldn’t leave a lot of room,” he says.
“Can I give you ten people?”
“You can give me eight. But we do it at night. I don’t want Cynthia finding out. She’s close to her due date.”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
Jude leans forward and taps the glass between the backseat and the driver. “Get me out of here,” he says.
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44
ALINA
Abel knows the area better than anyone, so he has been heading up the group finding the safest route down slopes and over streams for the last three days. The rest of us stay in small groups, and we do a regular headcount, so no one gets left by the wayside.
When we left Sequoia, we scuttled along lanes and through fields for what felt like hours. And we never slowed. Not when the benefactors got weak or when those of us who are inefficient breathers had to increase the density of oxygen in our air tanks. Only when the children began to cry did we stop to feed them.
We’re huddled among a cluster of moss-covered boulders by the edge of a half-frozen lake. Mostly we’re quiet; if we hear anything, we’re ready to move again at a moment’s notice. It’s night, so we have barely enough light to see what we’re doing. When the sun is up, we’ll move on.
“What was that?” I whisper. I can’t rest and jump at the slightest crackling. When the Ministry was after me, I was afraid, but it was a faceless enemy. I can’t think of anything more horrible than being caught by Maks.
Maude stops stirring the powdered formula and water. She clicks her tongue “I don’t hear nothing. Just these poor babies’ tummies grumbling. Mine, too. We got any more grub for the adults?” She lifts the milky spoon out of the bowl, licks it, and grimaces. I go back to rocking Lily, the child I’ve been carrying. She wriggles and reaches out to Maude. Maude pulls Lily onto her knee and forces a spoon into her mouth. “Shh, pet,” she soothes.
My stomach is knotted in hunger, and I only have one protein bar left. I break off a small piece of it and pass it to Maude, who chews and swallows it in a few seconds. I hand the rest of it to Jo. She looks down at the offering and wells up. She has plenty of reasons to cry, but I pretend I don’t notice and join Silas, who’s poring over a map. He’s put himself in charge of the route, and no one’s arguing, not even Dorian, whose clamor for control has come to a swift end. “We’ve almost no food,” I tell him. We didn’t have much in the first place, but now we’re dangerously low.
Silas points to a spot on the map. “Another day at most,” he says. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s where we’ll find solar respirators. We can leave everyone there and head for the pod.”
“Great, Silas, but you said that yesterday.” He continues to study the map. “Silas?” I say, and prod him. He looks up. His eyes are deep in their sockets and he has a glazed expression, like he can’t really see me properly. I’ve always looked up to him; he’s older than me and tougher, but sometimes I forget Silas is just as breakable as any of us. “Have you slept since we left Sequoia?” I ask.
He turns to Song, who’s sitting against one of the boulders, a toddler asleep in his arms. A girl of around eight, who’s been helping Maude carry supplies, is asleep with her head on his shoulder. “Do you think there might be a way to transfer the air from the solar respirators to air tanks?” he says.
“It’s possible,” Song says wearily. Being on the run is hard enough, but doing it and carrying kids is backbreaking. Song checks the gauge on the toddler’s air tank and puts a hand to his chest to make sure he’s breathing.
Bruce has taken over stirring their formula, and Maude is busy feeding the babies. I go to him. “Bruce . . . How did you survive when you were drifting? What did you eat?”
He clanks the spoon against the bowl. “Well, it’s too cold for berries, but if we can make it back to the city, we can find us some houses that ain’t been ransacked. Plenty of supplies in houses,” he says. He pulls me toward him. “But listen . . . Maude and me were talking about it. We’ve had a good go of things. If it gets bad, and I mean stinking terrible bad, I’m happy for you to chew on my old bones.” He smiles, and when I try to pull away, he clings to my arm. “I’m serious, Alina.” With his other hand, he makes the motion of slicing his own throat.
I put my hand to my mouth, and try not to heave. Bruce pats me and laughs, but how is what he’s saying or how I feel or any of this mess funny? “Get off me.” I push him. “And if you ever say anything like that again, I’ll break your nose.”
I stomp off.
I want to be alone.
The children have been fed and most are sleeping along with the benefactors. The rest of us are huddled in a circle to stay w
arm. Quinn sidles up to me. I surprise myself by being pleased to have him close. He puts the opening of his blowout valve to my ear. “We have to tell them what Vanya’s planning,” he says. I nod. He’s waited a couple of days to bring it up, but with the city in sight, he’s worrying about Bea. And if Clarice was right, we should all be worried—the pod will soon be a graveyard. “If we want to save anyone, we have to split up. The children are slowing us down,” he says. He isn’t being callous; if he were, he would have left a long time ago. And he’s right: Vanya has a zip and could be at the pod already. Then what use will a revolt be?
I drag myself off the ground. “We have to ask the group,” I say.
“I’m heading for the pod in the morning, Alina. I hope I’ll have company, but I’ll go alone if I have to.”
“You’ll have company,” I tell him. “Listen up,” I say loudly, and briefly tell everyone what we know about the brewing coup in the pod and Vanya’s demented plan to cut off its air supply.
“You kept this from me?” Silas exclaims angrily. But at least he knew half the truth. Song, Dorian, Maude, and Bruce have been kept in the dark about everything. I just figured they all had enough on their plates. Anyway, it’s too late for Silas to be upset.
“You can have a go at her another time. Tonight, let’s talk about what we’re going to do,” Quinn says, sounding nothing like the person I met only weeks ago. He’s grown a backbone. And a purpose.
Dorian snickers. “Oh sure, let’s think . . . How can we save ourselves and a load of children, join up with rebelling Resistance members, and then stop Vanya’s armed troops from irreparably damaging the pod and killing everyone in it?” I pick up a pebble and hurl it at him. The last thing we need is his sarcasm. Lives are at stake. “Who threw that?” he says, putting his hand to his forehead.
“I wish I had. Keep your trap shut for once, you dozy twit,” Maude says. “Me and Bruce know how to take care of the little ’uns and survive out here. And we got a map to help us find air. You go and save the world. Save Bea,” she says.
Song raises his hand. “We have no food, our air is low, and we have one gun between us. I’m not sure we’re in a position to be saving anyone.”
“All we have to do is warn them. Let’s try not to forget that there are thousands of lives at stake,” I say.
“And most of those people are auxiliaries. They’re your people,” Quinn adds.
“How can we warn the Ministry without getting killed?” Abel asks quietly, pretending this is the first he’s heard of Vanya’s plan. If I had time, I’d call him out on it because if Jo knew about it, so did he. But it isn’t worth wasting my breath.
“I’ll speak to my father,” Quinn says. “He’s on our side.”
“What if he isn’t? You saw what he did to The Grove. What if Bea’s wrong about him and Ronan Knavery?” Dorian asks
“So maybe I’ll be arrested. But by then my father will know, and he has nothing to lose by being prepared.”
“I’ll go with Quinn,” I say. A baby lying in Maude’s arms squeals. She puts her knuckle in its mouth and it settles.
“I’ll go, too,” Silas says. “The rest of you help Maude and Bruce find the respirators and keep the others alive. You’ll have to carry two kids apiece.”
“Not a problem,” Song says.
“Then it’s settled,” Silas says. “Now let’s get some sleep. We’ll leave at first light.”
I drift toward the group of benefactors, looking for Lily, when Abel stops me. “The Ministry won’t welcome you. And what if Maks catches you before you get to the border?” I look deep into Abel’s eyes, wondering what it was I ever saw in him. He’s dangerously close to being a coward.
“Maks will make you pay,” Jo says. She has been quiet for most of the trip, but if there’s one thing she can speak to, it’s Maks’s vindictiveness.
“Not if I make him pay first,” I say. It’s bravado; I’m terrified. Taking a risk is all very well, but not when the odds are stacked so high against us. The rate things are going, we’ll all be dead in weeks.
And I can’t help feeling that I’m going to have a notable part to play in everyone’s destruction.
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45
RONAN
After spending my second day helping Jude drill the soldiers at the gymnasium, I’m exhausted. I want to have some dinner and go and see Bea, but when I get home, Niamh is pacing the kitchen. Wendy, who is cooking dinner on the stove, shoots me a look I can’t translate as Niamh storms toward me. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“No, it is not.” Niamh has my pad in her hands, which she thrusts at me.
“Were you trying to contact me? I forgot it.” I look down. She’s managed to get into it. But what did she see? I haven’t been sending any incriminating messages or pinging anyone I shouldn’t. I’ve been very careful. “How did you open it?”
“Your password has been the same for years, Ronan. Picasso. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, why do you have a picture of Bea Whitcraft on your pad?”
I freeze. She’s right. At the station I took a photo of Bea, and she told me to delete it. Why didn’t I?
Wendy is stirring the pot furiously. “Anyone hungry?” she asks.
“Well?” Niamh says, pushing me.
I step back and open the photo application on the pad, then scroll through trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “That’s weird. Probably from school or something.”
Niamh snatches the pad from me and pulls up the picture. Bea’s fretful face is clearly distinguishable—an orange sunset and ramshackle buildings behind her. “I checked the date and location. You took it when you were in The Outlands. Don’t bother lying. You met Bea?” I stare at Bea’s picture, not saying anything. If I look suitably ashamed, will she let it go? “So you did meet her,” Niamh says. “And instead of killing her, you took pictures. What the hell’s going on?”
“I met her, yes. But she’s no threat. She’s living like a drifter, and she’ll die out there. I couldn’t kill her in cold blood, Niamh. I just couldn’t. Could you?”
I mean it to be a rhetorical question because I don’t think Niamh has it in her to kill anyone, but she prods Bea’s picture with her finger. “Anyone who contributed to the riots and Daddy’s death deserves to die. I’d knife her if I got the chance,” she says. Her face is steel.
“Dinner?” Wendy asks. She is trembling, and I should be, too.
I have to move Bea and the others, and I have to do it soon because if Niamh gets a sniff of who she’s living beneath, we’re all done for.
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46
BEA
We’ve been cooped up in Ronan’s attic for a week, and it’s already taking its toll on the group. None of us have showered, and the occasional buckets of water Wendy sneaks in for washing quickly turn brown. The smell is acrid. Conversations are turning into debates, debates into arguments, and Harriet and Gideon are constantly forced to mediate over sleeping spaces. I keep to myself and focus on training.
Today Ronan is late, and when he arrives he’s in a hurry. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“Niamh’s only gone down to the store to get a shake. I can’t stay,” he says. He won’t look at me. Is there something he isn’t saying?
“One of the girls is sick. She’s been on the bucket all day long,” I say.
“Gideon told me. I’m going to try bring up some loperamide later.”
“Thanks. I was worried about her.” I turn to make sure no one’s listening. “Can I take a shower?” I ask.
He looks at me uneasily. “Downstairs?”
“I need to get out of here,” I admit.
“I don’t think it’s
a good idea.”
I wring my hands. “Please.” I sound desperate, and I can’t help it.
He looks down the stairs and taps his index finger against his chin. “I have an en suite bathroom,” he says.
“Perfect.”
His bedroom is larger than the entire apartment I used to share with my parents. He has a monstrous wall-mounted screen at one end facing a set of sofas and easy chairs, and a huge bed at the other end. The adjoining bathroom contains not only a mammoth shower, but also a Jacuzzi tub and double sink. I’m irritated by the extravagance. It doesn’t fit Ronan’s character. But this is his life.
“Towels are in the cupboard,” he says.
I take a quick, hot shower, and when I emerge, Ronan is sitting on his bed rooting through his nightstand. He waves me over. “I have something for you,” he says. I sit next to him and he hands me a printed picture of me with my parents. I trace my finger across their faces. My mother’s sweet, haggard smile, and my father’s unshaven chin. Their frayed shirts and too-tight clothes. I press the picture against my chest.
“Where did you get it?” I wipe the corners of my eyes with my knuckles.
“I went to your old place,” he says.
“You never stop surprising me,” I say. He is not only a better person than I thought he could be, but he’s my friend, too.
“I looked for one of Quinn, but I couldn’t find any and didn’t want to rummage through your stuff,” he says.
I close my eyes, so I can imagine Quinn, just as the doorknob rattles. Ronan launches himself at me, throwing me onto the bed and covering my body with his own. He presses his face against mine. My instinct is to struggle, but I know he’s protecting me.
“Ronan, we need to—” It’s Niamh. “Ronan?” She laughs. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Have you heard of knocking? Get out!” he yells. I bury my face in his pillow. There’s a scuffle and a couple of hard bangs. “She’s gone.” I sit up and he turns the lock on the door. I deliberately wipe my mouth with the cuff of my sweater. Was there no other way to stop Niamh seeing me?