Resist

  “It’s okay. Relax now,” I tell her. I fumble for the pills. I was foolish to spend my life studying politics and philosophy, thinking that was the way to a better life, when I should have been learning how to survive in the real world. If only Alina were here. She’d know what to do, and Jazz might have a fighting chance.

  Jazz nudges me and squeals. A yellow discharge is seeping from her wound. I bend down to get a better look. “No! Look!” I follow the line of her finger down her leg to her feet, across the tiled floor of the station to the other end, where a pair of boots appears.

  A boy.

  I rub my eyes in case I’m still in a dream. Then I grab the knife and jump up, slicing the air with it.

  How much more am I meant to endure? When am I allowed to surrender? If it weren’t for Jazz, I might drop the knife and do just that. As it is, I swing the knife again. “Get out of here.”

  “Let’s talk,” the boy says. “All I want to do is talk to you.” Calmly, he unburdens himself of his backpack and holds his hands in the air. One hand is holding a gun.

  Jazz screams in terror.

  And so do I.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  18

  ALINA

  As soon as we’re done with the tests and back in the cabin, Maude hitches up her skirts. Her knees are bleeding and her hands are caked in mud. “What’s your answer to this, smarty pants?”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, what happened? Where were you all day?” Maude kicks me in the shin, and Bruce pulls her away before I retaliate. I don’t want to fight anyway; I have a raging headache.

  “It ain’t her fault, Maddie,” Bruce says. Maude removes her boots, hurling them at the wall and barely missing Silas.

  “Didn’t they test you?” Silas asks, rubbing his temples. We’ve spent the last four hours cooped up in that dingy room answering math, science, and logic questions as well as filling in surveys about our skills and hobbies. None of us are feeling very peppy.

  Bruce sits on his bunk and rubs his dirty, bare feet. “Just after yous lot left, we was given gardening gloves and told to dig,” he says.

  “No medical testing?” Dorian asks.

  “Of course not. Not if I’m right about what they want to know,” Song says. I want him to be wrong about the fertility screening, but none of us can think of another explanation for why they’d give us intimate medical exams.

  “What do they wanna know? What’s going on?” Maude squawks. “I don’t wanna be no servant. The drifter life ain’t easy, but at least we was free.”

  Maks throws open the door to the cabin without knocking. With the light at his back, only his bulky silhouette is clear. “Dinner,” he says, stepping inside.

  “They’re exhausted,” I say, indicating Maude and Bruce. “Why were they put to work? They should be meditating and training to breathe on lower levels of oxygen. Are you trying to kill them?”

  Maks narrows his eyes. “If we wanted to kill them, we’d have them digging their own graves, not vegetable patches.” Silas tugs on my sweater, warning me not to answer back because that’s exactly what I’m about to do. Maks nods triumphantly and leaves.

  “We should think about finding somewhere else to live,” Silas says.

  “You think she’ll just let us walk out the way we came in? Petra wouldn’t have.”

  Song takes a lungful of air from the oxybox. “And it’s pretty well fortified here. They’ve used the old rubble and brick to build new structures. It’s solid.” He raps his knuckles against the wall of the cabin to demonstrate how sturdy it is.

  “You know what’s weird?” Bruce says. “No forest. We walked all round this compound today, probably five acres, and nothing.”

  “Not a single tree?” I ask. It doesn’t make sense. “You probably missed them.”

  “Really? Oak trees and alders and whatnot? Yeah, cuz they’re a cinch to hide,” Maude says.

  “Maybe they know trees will lead the Ministry here,” Dorian says, buttoning up his jacket.

  “Then where’s the air coming from?” Song asks.

  “Greenhouse,” Maude says. “Big thing behind the annex. Some little trees in there, all right. Apples and pears and the like. But they got veggies mostly. And tomato vines.”

  “That won’t be enough to make a difference,” I say. The whole point in raging against the Ministry is to restore the earth to what it had been. Trees are a symbol of that, and also the only plants big enough to set people free. It might take us a millennium, but we have to start somewhere.

  “I suggest we go to dinner and discuss this later,” Dorian says. “They’ll be waiting.”

  We all nod in agreement. It’s best not to raise any suspicion just yet.

  The red brick annex is newly built using old materials. We file in along with everyone else and choose seats around a long table as far from the stage at the front as possible. The tables are empty apart from cups and water jugs, but as we sit down, servers appear from swinging doors holding platters of food over their heads. No one joins us at first. They file into the hall in pairs and seem to take their places in predetermined seats. I’m about to stand up in case we’re sitting where we shouldn’t when a young man with long, curly hair sits next to me, and some girls join him.

  “You found the loners’ table then,” the man says, and laughs. “I’m Terry.” He holds out his hand. “You can take off the masks. They pump a little air in here so we can eat comfortably.”

  “Alina.” I pull off my mask and take his hand.

  Opposite sits a girl with thin eyebrows and icy blue eyes who introduces herself as Wren. A black scarf is tightly wound around her head, covering up her hair. “We’ve never had a whole group join us before. Always individuals. The rumor is The Grove’s been destroyed. Is that true? You think others will follow you here?” she asks.

  Maude reaches across the table and snatches a hunk of cake from a platter. Terry politely fills everyone’s cup with water.

  “I doubt it,” Silas says. “They’re all dead.”

  “Oh,” Wren says, emptying her cup in one long gulp and reaching forward so Terry can refill it. “The ministry wants us all dead, don’t they? As I see it, our best bet is to finish them off first.” Wren holds my gaze for a moment. Terry and the others at the table nod, and I do, too. If there were a way to get rid of the Ministry, I’d love to hear about it.

  The dining hall falls to a hush, and as Vanya and Maks enter, everyone stands. Vanya takes her place at the center of a table on the stage and Maks sits by her side. He catches my eye across the room and winks. I pretend I haven’t seen and focus on Vanya. “Here’s to life!” she shouts. Everyone cheers as the remaining platters are distributed.

  “We have to give thanks,” Song says. He hasn’t touched anything on his plate. Instead he’s looking around, slightly horrified, as everyone tucks into the food on the platters.

  “Just eat,” Silas says.

  “I’m not going twice in one day without giving thanks . . . or remembering,” Song says.

  “What’s he mean?” Wren asks, giving me a prime view of the food she’s chewing.

  He means we have to remember where our food came from, but I don’t think that’s what’s really worrying him. “We haven’t forgotten Holly, you know.” I place a hand on his arm and rub it gently. No one did this for me when Abel disappeared, and I wish they had; just a pat to tell me I wasn’t alone.

  “Song’s right,” Silas adds, softening. “We should keep our traditions alive.”

  “We thank the earth,” Song says. I put down my knife and fork and Silas and Dorian do the same. Maude and Bruce are oblivious. Terry and Wren watch silently. “We thank the water. We thank the plants and trees—the roots, leaves, fruits, and flowers. We give thanks to one another. We give thanks to the spirits of all those who ha
ve died. We offer our devotion in the earth’s name. We salute you.” I hold my palms together in front of my heart and bow my head.

  “So it is,” we say.

  “Is that voodoo or something?” Wren laughs.

  “We acknowledge that nature has more power than we do,” Dorian explains.

  Terry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “But it’s humanity at the center,” he says. “Well, not humanity. Us. You.”

  “Do you know your pairings yet?” Wren asks. She licks her lips.

  “Pairings?” I ask. I almost don’t want to know.

  “Wren!” Terry snaps, and as he does, a commotion at the top table has Vanya waving and shouting. “Troopers to the gates!” No one moves.

  Maks leaps from the stage. “Troopers!” he bellows. “Weapons!” He dashes past our table and slams through the doors. Around fifty others scramble to their feet and gallop after him.

  “What’s happening?” Silas asks, jumping up.

  “We must have more visitors,” Terry says.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  19

  RONAN

  I take slow steps through the station toward the girl wielding the knife and the hissing child, and try to examine their faces in the waning light.

  I recognize Bea Whitcraft right away, even with her mask on. I don’t know her personally, but I’ve seen her picture, and the word WANTED, flash up on the screen about a hundred times a day since the press conference.

  They didn’t show any video footage, of course. I had to ask the press secretary to send me that as a favor. I had to know how it happened, and what I saw was my father shoot Bea’s parents in cold blood. So now they’re saying she’s a terrorist, though she looks more like a drifter. On the floor are empty bottles and bloodstained rags.

  “Can I help you?”

  Bea swings the knife. “What do you want?”

  “Who cares? Stab him,” the child mutters. Her pallor is frightening, and she doesn’t seem able to move from the floor. One leg of her pants is torn open, and blood has dried on the tiles around her. She’s crying, and there are tear tracks down Bea’s face, too.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I tell them. “I heard noises, that’s all. I came to look.” Niamh complained about what she called Quinn’s stupid attachment to Bea, which could mean that if I’ve found her, he’s close by.

  I stash the gun in my pocket and inch closer. Bea winces at each step, and when I’m near enough to touch her, she stiffens. “Get back,” she says. She holds the knife inches from my face. Her eyes are wide with fear, exhaustion, or madness—maybe all three.

  “The girl is very sick,” I say. Gently, I push Bea’s hand and the knife away from my face. But she swings it back toward me and presses the tip so hard against my neck, she nicks the skin. I’m not expecting it and jump back, wiping the blood. She holds her arm out farther and straighter. “I told you to stay away,” she says.

  I could easily wrench the knife from her, but if there’s a chance she knows where Quinn is, I have to gain her trust. So instead, I step way back and pull a flashlight from my backpack, which I shine at the child’s leg. It’s red and swollen, the skin taut, and a long gash is yellow. My stomach lurches. Bea looks at me steadily.

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “I don’t know. A week?” she says, her chin trembling. The child hasn’t long left, not without real medical attention.

  “I see,” I say. I consider lying, but I have no reason to. “I can get her help. I’m Ronan Knavery.”

  She looks at my earlobe, then holds the knife up again. Her expression is hard. “Your father killed my parents,” she spits. I can’t deny this because I watched it again and again on the video footage, so I nod. But if she hates me just because of what my father did, there’s no knowing how she’d react if she knew I was personally responsible for so much destruction at The Grove. The number of people and trees I cut down doesn’t bear thinking about.

  We watch each other, neither of us speaking, until she sniffs. “You look like your father,” she says. People have told me this before, as a compliment, but she’s insulting me. She clenches her jaw.

  “I know,” I say. “But I’m not him. And I’m really sorry for what happened to you.” I speak quietly, gently, hoping she’ll trust the sincerity in my tone.

  “So I suppose you’re here to bring me back and see me hanged.”

  “No. I’m looking for someone else.”

  Her features give nothing away. “We’re all that’s left.”

  I hold my breath. “From what?” I ask, when I know what she’s going to say.

  “From The Grove. A safe place that your father razed to the ground.”

  When we left The Grove, it was collapsing, but I’m sure I saw survivors fleeing. Did I imagine it to make myself feel better? Did we kill them all? The people and the trees?

  And Quinn? Where is he?

  Bea is studying me.

  “Actually, Quinn’s father was in charge of that mission,” I say, watching for a reaction.

  “Quinn?” the child murmurs through semiconsciousness, and Bea quickly hushes her.

  So the child knows him, which could mean he’s been here. And maybe he’ll be back. I watch Bea for a few moments, but her expression gives nothing away. I can’t be sure Jazz didn’t meet him at The Grove when the Resistance supposedly captured them.

  I root in my backpack and pull out a strip of penicillin, pressing one through the foil and holding out my hand. “Antibiotics.” She looks at the pill in my palm, suspicious. “If I wanted to hurt her, I’d have used the gun,” I say. “Now put away the knife . . . Please.”

  Still holding the knife, Bea reaches out with her other hand for the pill. I consider wrestling the knife off her. I don’t. I drop the pill into the pit of her palm and step away. She eases the girl into a sitting position and presses it between the child’s lips, forcing her to sip some water from a flask. The child manages to take the pill before her eyes roll back in her head—she can’t fight her fatigue.

  We were warned about terrorists in training, and back then my mind filled with images of stocky, square-jawed youths wielding guns and throwing grenades. I didn’t picture anything as pitiable as this: a child being eased into death by a hollow-cheeked girl fighting for her own breath on a dirty, solar-powered respirator.

  “I can radio the pod,” I say. I doubt Jude would help, but she’s a child, and I should try. It’s the least I can do after what I did to her home. Were her parents at The Grove? Were they killed?

  “Touch any kind of radio and I’ll cut you,” Bea says.

  I hold my hands in the air. “I understand,” I say.

  She erupts, jumping up and pushing me. “How dare you? You don’t understand a thing!”

  I stare at her and lean away. “My father died in the riots, too,” I say.

  “It’s not the same thing. My parents were good. Your father was . . . he was . . .”

  “He was an asshole,” I say, and she blinks. I pause. I don’t want to say something untrue. “But I wish I loved him more.”

  Her eyes well with tears. “When people leave, you always wish you’d loved them more.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. And then she is sobbing and pressing her face against her arm to stifle the noise.

  I’ve never been able to cry like this. My mother spent long days in bed, coughing and moaning, until one morning she was gone and the noise was replaced by silence. I cried only once—quietly and alone in my room. Why didn’t I honor her by mourning?

  I delve back into my pack and pull out the radio. Bea looks up. “No,” she says, starting toward me again.

  “If she doesn’t get to a hospital, you’ll be digging a grave.”

  “They’ll kill her.”

  “She’s dying anyway.” Bea chews on her lips.

  I sta
nd up and walk away.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “She could wake up and cry out while I’m making contact. I want them to think I’ve found the person I’m meant to be hunting.”

  Bea doesn’t argue or ask any questions. “Her name is Jazz,” she says.

  The rumble of the buggy’s engine can be heard when it’s still miles away. Bea pries each finger on Jazz’s hand from its grip on her arm. “You’ll be okay,” she says, almost like she believes it. She kisses Jazz lightly on the forehead, and stands up to gather her things. “What will you tell them?” she asks me.

  “I found her alone and scared.” Jazz nods to show she’ll corroborate the lie. “Now find somewhere to hide and only come out when you hear the buggy leave,” I say.

  Bea turns to Jazz. “You’re not as much of a brat as I thought you’d be,” she tells her, and laughs.

  “Bye,” Jazz says. She chokes back her tears. And Bea doesn’t let herself cry either. She nods and backs away.

  I watch her leave, then take Jazz out to the roadside where we sit shivering under the winking stars and sliver of a sickle moon. Her wounded leg is so bloated, I doubt they’ll be able to save it. Hopefully they’ll save her.

  “Can you imagine what it must have been like to live out here before The Switch? So much space.” I am talking to myself more than to Jazz, who shuts her eyes. I hold her tighter. “People used to travel across the whole world. No one stayed in his own country. Now even Outlanders don’t get very far. We’re all trapped. Trapped in the pod or on this big island. Is there a difference?” Jazz reaches out, takes my thumb in her cold hand, and closes her eyes as the buggy trundles out of the shadows, its bright lights, like giant eyes, blinding.

  I stand holding Jazz in my arms. The buggy slows and stops. Jude steps out and stands in front of the vehicle. With the lights behind him, he remains a silhouette in the darkness.

  “Who’s that?” Jude growls. He is wearing loose-fitting trousers and an old sweater rather than his uniform and looks like a very ordinary man. A dad. “Where’s Quinn?”