Resist

  “They’re coming with me,” I say. “That’s nonnegotiable. Are you coming, too?” I ask. I don’t want her to die. She’s my mother, after all.

  “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? Your father hasn’t been the same since you—” She presses her thumbs against her eyelids, draws in a quick breath, and holds her belly.

  “Mom?” Keane says. I keep a tight hold of him. She’s faking it.

  “You’ve destroyed this family.” She starts to sob—big, blistery tears. But they’re not for me.

  “I’m taking food and air tanks,” I say.

  “Take what you want, but please leave the boys,” she whimpers. A rock hits the living room window and she screams. She drops to her knees and puts her hands over her head.

  “Go get a few things! Quickly!” I push my brothers toward the stairs. “Mom, we all have to go,” I say. I can’t leave her at the mercy of marauding auxiliaries.

  She looks up from the floor. “You’ve chosen your life, stop dragging us all down with you.” Another window smashes and a screwdriver lands on the couch. “What’s happening? The world’s gone mad.”

  I lift her up. “The world’s changing, that’s all. And you have to change with it.”

  “They’re going to destroy my beautiful home,” she says.

  “You have to pack some stuff,” I say, and steer her into the hall and then her bedroom.

  I sprint down the hallway and into the basement, where I snatch as many air tanks as I can carry. By the time I’m back, Keane and Lennon are standing at the bottom of the stairs, packs slung over their backs. They’re ready to leave everything behind and join me.

  “Mom!” I call out.

  She appears wearing a heavy coat. She doesn’t look angry anymore. She holds her stomach and winces.

  “The baby’s coming,” she says.

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  54

  BEA

  I leave the other Resistance members to loot the Breathe headquarters and head for the infirmary on the Zone One–Zone Two border. The oxygen in the streets is dwindling, but it’s more than I had in the cell. I walk quickly, passing brawling groups of men and women, until I turn a corner into a quiet street where two boys are grappling over a mini-air tank lying next to them. I snatch it, cover my mouth and nose with the face mask, and speed off. They holler things after me, but I’m faster than them. Stronger. Running hurts my legs and my breathing gets short, but it feels like a small triumph against the Ministry.

  When I get to the infirmary, a broad white building taking up an entire block, the security hut is empty, and the gate is open. I scamper along the lane and into the deserted lobby where the switchboard is madly ringing and blinking and cots and wheelchairs are strewn in every direction.

  A doctor with a stethoscope around her neck and blood spots on her white coat stumbles from a room. “We don’t have any spare oxygen for visitors,” she says, and tries to jam me back through the revolving doors.

  “I’m looking for a child,” I say.

  She lets me go and rushes to the switchboard, where she mutes the ringing. “Auxiliaries have been moved to Premium wards upstairs. We’ll loose our jobs over it, but looks like we won’t have jobs anyway,” she says. The building shudders and the doctor takes a long look me. “I have my own kids. I have to go,” she says, and scrambles through the infirmary doors and away.

  I take the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The hallway is alive with brittle chatter and crammed with people coughing or hooked up to IVs. I weave my way through the throng and make out Jazz at the end of the hallway, her leg in a heavy cast, her curly red hair heaped like spaghetti on top of her head.

  Thank goodness.

  “Jazz!” I shout. She hops down the hallway holding her crutches.

  “You took your time,” she says, and hits me hard in the stomach.

  I’m unable to resist kissing her fist. “You ready to get out of here?”

  “I was ready yesterday,” she says, and continues to hop all the way to the staircase. She clings to the handrail and takes the steps two at a time. “Hurry,” she says as a door at the bottom slurps opens.

  I grab Jazz, ready to defend her if I have to, when Keane and Lennon appear, followed by Quinn, who’s supporting his mother. “We need a doctor,” he shouts. His mother’s bump has dropped. I don’t believe it. Today of all days.

  “Stay there,” I tell Jazz, and help haul Mrs. Caffrey to the third floor. She screeches and writhes when we lay her on the floor. “Someone help us!” Quinn calls out.

  “The doctors have all left,” an auxiliary with a bandage taped to his eye says.

  Cynthia Caffrey howls and grips her stomach. “I have to push,” she says.

  Quinn turns to me. The blood has drained from his face. “She has to push,” he repeats.

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  55

  QUINN

  Every bed in the ward is taken and the people in them avoid meeting our eyes. I’m about to flip out when a pale woman with wispy hair drags herself out of bed so my mother can lie down. “There isn’t a nurse in the whole bloody place?” I ask. Alarms start to whir all over the building.

  The woman shakes her head. “All the medics who bothered to stick around have gone to deal with a burst appendix,” she says. She lifts a set of stirrups attached to the side of the bed and places my mother’s feet in them.

  My mother clutches the mattress. “Get me Doctor Kessel!” she shouts.

  “There are no doctors, Mom,” I say.

  She tries to stand. “I won’t do this here. No. No.” And then she screams and squeezes her eyes shut.

  Bea rolls up her sleeves and turns to my brothers. “You shouldn’t be here. Go and take care of Jazz, the girl who was with me on the stairs.” Keane looks like he might cry. “Be brave,” she adds, and they both run off.

  “We need hot water,” I tell the pale woman. I don’t know exactly what for, but I’ve heard it said and hopefully we’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.

  “Yes, yes. And other things,” she says, and rushes away.

  Bea pushes my mother’s skirt up past her knees and pulls down her underwear. I hold my mother’s hand and she looks up at me. “You’ve changed,” she says. I nod; I have, but I’m not sure whether or not my mother means this as a compliment.

  “You don’t need to stay, either, Quinn,” Bea says. A month ago I might have been squeamish and wanted to get as far away from here as possible, but as the alarms ring and more screams and shouts filter up from the streets, it isn’t seeing my mother give birth that’s worrying me; all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to make it out alive, and what’s going to happen if we do.

  The woman returns with her arms loaded. She joins Bea at the foot of the bed. “I need something for the pain,” my mother pleads.

  “Too late for that,” the woman says. She nudges Bea. “Ready?”

  Bea pulls her lips into her mouth. “Yes.”

  “Where did you get that stuff?” I ask the woman, looking at the gauze and scissors.

  The woman waves distractedly toward the hallway. “Closet was smashed open.” My mother’s face is maroon.

  “Go and get what we need,” Bea says. She doesn’t know that we’ve gathered up dozens of kids from Sequoia, but she realizes we’ll need supplies. “You have time. I don’t think babies coming shooting out.”

  I zigzag my way along the hallway until I find the closet. Bottles, linens, and pacifiers have been tossed everywhere. I find a sheet and spread it out on the floor, then scan the shelves. I throw all the formula I can find onto it then Band-Aids, acetaminophen, codeine, blades in sterile packets, cotton wool, alcohol wipes, and one of ever
ything else, just in case. I fold the ends of the sheet into the center, tie them together, and as I step into the hallway, I hear my mother. She is so loud, everyone goes silent and turns toward the ward. I shudder and rush back.

  Bea is staring down at a messy purple bundle in her hands. “Well, I guess he was in a hurry to see everyone,” she says.

  The woman uses a towel to reveal a puckered face.

  My brother—with sticky black hair and a flat nose.

  He squirms and cries. Bea hands him to my mother. A part of me wants her to be indifferent, to prove what kind of person she is, but she’s crying, too, and kissing the top of my brother’s head and filled with all the love I imagine she had for me—once. Sixteen years ago I was perfect and pure and anything was possible. I just didn’t grow into the person she wanted.

  “We can’t stay,” Bea tells me. “Did you get everything we’ll need?”

  “And more.” I stare at my brother’s tiny toes. He has toenails. “We have to take them with us.”

  My mother looks up. “I’m staying here,” she says. Despite all the noise and blood and people, she is smiling. I’ve never seen her like this—I’ve never seen her happy.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “The pod’s my home. I won’t leave it.”

  “You want the baby to grow up here?”

  A siren sounds somewhere beyond the infirmary and does battle with the alarm on the lower floors. “I doubt Premiums will be very welcome wherever you’re going,” my mother says.

  Bea puts her arm around my waist. “Quinn,” she says.

  “But . . .” I begin.

  “It has to be her choice.”

  “His name is Troy,” my mother says. She breathes him in. He scrunches his toes, and I stretch out my arms to take him from her.

  “No,” Bea says, and blocks my brother from view. “It’s not okay for him to lose his mother.” And she should know. I should know, too.

  I kiss Troy and my mother turns her cheek toward me, so I can kiss her, too. But I can’t. I step away.

  An explosion booms through the pod and the ward of the hospital. Bea takes my hand. “We’ve done all we can,” she says.

  “I just . . .” Words stopper up my throat.

  “She knows you love her,” Bea says.

  My mother is sniffling. Maybe she loves me, too. I take one last look at Troy, and turn around.

  We have to go. There’s a war on, and we’re needed.

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  56

  RONAN

  The bottom of the tower is being pummeled from outside and the door has a sizeable dent in it. The gunfire makes my teeth vibrate. Shots are fired and the thumbprint panel on the wall sizzles and sparks. “They’re almost through,” Silas says.

  “We only kill if we have to,” Alina says. Silas looks at her warily.

  “We have to,” I say. I sound sure. I don’t feel it.

  We reload our rifles and crouch beside the door. It’s a pack of them and three of us. In place of fear, impatience streams through me—I want us to have won already.

  The locks are bombarded with bullets, the door crashes inward and with it, a band of Sequoians. They charge the spiral staircase, not bothering to check behind them and giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to unleash a round of ammo. Shots ricochet through the tower and blood flecks my face. I keep firing. Better to shoot than to think.

  Many of the rebels fall backward down the stairs, their limp bodies cracking against the floor. It’s hard to tell in the dimly lit tower which of them are dead and which injured, but they’re all young. They’re as young as I am.

  Silas and Alina go to the pile of groaning bodies to collect the guns. One boy lying on a low step clings to his rifle, and as I make a grab for it, he tries to kick me with both feet. I dodge and use my own rifle to jab one of his legs. He howls and releases his gun. I seize it and jump over him to get to two others, but they’re quite still, their eyes glinting. I look away; the last thing I want is to see their eyes.

  “Ronan!” Alina calls. I join her and Silas at the door. The enemy has overpowered our inexperienced army and charge toward the door to Recycling Station East. Our soldiers are either lying dead or with their hands behind their heads, their faces in the dirt. Now I know Jude was right; you can’t train an army in weeks.

  Even with my mask on I can taste the grit in the air. What now?

  Before I can decide, Silas and Alina are gone, sprinting toward the station. I try to catch them, but they’re too quick. They leap over the station’s sandbags, use them for cover, and begin firing. I drop next to them and do the same.

  Half the rebels trying to get through the door collapse under our gunfire. The rest turn their car door shields around trying protect themselves. But the doors aren’t bulletproof and within a minute we’ve taken down all but a few. It’s easier than it should be.

  Those still alive abandon the tower and make a run for it. I watch them through my scope, but I can’t get a good shot, and they escape.

  “They’re heading for the south station,” Silas says. “Caffrey said it was the control tower.”

  “Damn!” I say. “If that goes down . . .” I don’t need to finish. Alina and Silas zoom away again. Anyone would think they’d been training with the Special Forces. I follow, but no sooner are we away than a rebel with a thick neck and tattoos down each arm is barring our route. He isn’t wearing a helmet nor carrying any kind of shield. And he has an assault rifle trained at us. The others all had simple rifles. We stop running. We haven’t got a choice.

  “Drop the guns,” he growls.

  “Maks?” Alina says. Her voice quivers. But the only thing that scares me is the fact that he’s stopping us getting to the south station.

  “Guns down, hands up,” he repeats, and we throw our guns to the ground and put our hands in the air. “On your knees.”

  “Get on with it,” Alina says. I can feel her shaking. I’d grip her hand, but I have a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate it. And neither would this thug.

  “Where are the others?” Maks asks. I look at Silas, not sure who he means.

  “They’re safe,” he says.

  “They won’t be when I find them,” Maks says.

  “I should’ve killed you in your sleep,” Alina says, acting more like herself. She spits at his feet. Maks laughs.

  The zip fires and showers us in small rocks and shards of metal. We shrink from the shrapnel and Maks is thrown to his knees, his gun knocked from his hands. It gives me just enough time to retrieve my own and aim it at him. He puts his hands up and grins. Silas and Alina snatch up their guns, too, but they don’t shoot him, so neither do I, though one bullet is all it would take.

  “You’d rather fight alongside the Ministry than fellow rebels,” he sneers at Silas and Alina.

  “Thousands of innocent people live in the pod. You’re lunatics,” I tell him.

  Alina approaches Maks and his chest puffs out. She rams her gun against it. She pauses, and I think she’s about to say something, but without warning, she pulls the trigger.

  Maks stares at Alina in disbelief and falls forward. His face hits the clay and his green jacket darkens where the blood soaks through.

  Alina looks at me. “He would have killed us.” She doesn’t have to explain; I should have done it for her.

  “The south station,” I remind them, and we take off, leaving Maks to bleed into the earth.

  We squat behind the sandbags again, scanning the battlefield teeming with bodies and soldiers for a safe way into the station. “Straight through,” Silas says. Alina nods in agreement as one of our tanks grinds past.

  It fires and hits the zip. Shrapnel showers down and both Sequoians and Ministry soldiers are injured.

  Everything stops, giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to get to the tank. The hatch opens
and a figure appears, lifting the visor on his helmet. It’s Jude. He shouts, but over the thunder of engines and distance gunfire, it’s impossible to tell what he wants.

  And then a single gunshot rattles the air and Jude reels like a spinning top. He falls from the tank. I turn to see Maks on his elbows holding his gun, smiling. Silas and Alina flog him with a round of ammunition. This time he stays down.

  But Jude is down, too. A soldier is next to him. “Medic!” he shouts, and I run to them. I pull Jude’s radio from his inside pocket. “General Caffrey has been shot. Send a stretcher.” No one responds. Just static.

  Silas and Alina are next to me. Neither of them tries to help, and I don’t bother appealing to them. I wrench off my jacket, and place it beneath Jude’s head.

  “Is he dead?” Alina asks.

  “He’s got a pulse,” the soldier says.

  Jude opens his eyes, and I take a relieved breath. “It’s too late,” he croaks. “They’re at the south station. Get the people out of the pod. Get them all out.” He pulls at his collar. He’s been hit in the only unprotected place—his neck. I rip the arm from my shirt, scrunch it into a ball and press it against the wound. He can’t die. We need him.

  “There’s no time to evacuate so many people,” I tell him.

  “The south station,” Silas says coldly. He isn’t looking at Jude. He doesn’t know what Jude has become or that he’s spent these last few weeks protecting the Resistance.

  “Go,” I say, and they are gone, as is the soldier who clambers through the tank’s hatch and rolls away. Sequoia’s zip aims for the tank, barely missing it.

  Within a minute the piece of my shirt against Jude’s neck is soaked through with blood. My stomach clenches. I try appealing to whoever is on the other end of the radio again. But I may as well be talking to myself.

  Jude fingers his face mask. I increase the density of oxygen, for all the good it will do.