Legend

behind us, in the hall leading to the firing squad, I force myself to turn around and keep going.

Zero seconds.

Guns are reactivated. We keep going. More seconds pass. I hear a commotion in the halls somewhere behind us. I tell myself not to look back.

Then we reach the exits, burst out into the street, and a pair of soldiers is upon us. I have no more strength to fight. But I try. Then someone’s wrestling with me, and the soldiers go down, and Kaede runs past my line of vision. “They’re here!” she shouts. “Move out!”

They were lurking near the back exits. Just like we agreed. The Patriots came for us. I want to tell them to wait for John, but I know it’s no use. They grab us and lead us toward their motorcycles. I take the gun out from my belt and fling it to the ground. I can’t have its tracker follow me now. Day goes on one motorcycle—I go on another. Wait for John, I want to say.

But then we’re off. Batalla Hall moves away from us.

A CRACK OF LIGHTNING, AN EXPLOSION OF THUNDER, the sound of pounding rain. Somewhere far away, the wailing of flood sirens.

I open my eyes, then squint at the water falling into them. For an instant I can’t remember anything—not even my name. Where am I? What happened? I’m sitting right next to a chimney, soaking wet. I’m on the rooftop of a high-rise tower. Rain blankets the world around me and wind whistles through my drenched shirt, threatening to lift me off my feet. I huddle against the chimney. When I look up at the sky, I see an endless field of churning clouds, jet-black and furious, illuminated by lightning.

Suddenly I remember. The firing squad, the hallway, the flat screens. John. The explosion. Soldiers everywhere. June. I should be dead right now, filled with bullets.

“You’re awake.”

Slouched next to me, almost invisible against the night in a black outfit, is June. She’s sitting awkwardly against the wall of the chimney, oblivious to the rain that runs down her face. I shift to turn toward her. A spasm of pain shoots up my injured leg. Words stick to my tongue and refuse to come out.

“We’re in Valencia. On the outskirts. The Patriots took us as far as they were willing. They’ve moved on to Vegas.” June blinks water from her eyes. “You’re free. Get out of California while you can. They’ll keep hunting for us.”

I open and close my mouth. Am I dreaming? I scoot closer to her. One of my hands comes up to touch her face. “What . . . what happened? Are you all right? How did you get me out of Batalla Hall? Do they know you helped me?”

June just stares at me, as if trying to decide whether or not to answer my questions. Finally, she glances over at the edge of the roof. “See for yourself.”

I struggle to my feet. Now I can look over the roof at the JumboTrons lining the walls. I limp to the edge of the rooftop and stare down from the railing. We’re definitely in the outskirts. I can tell now that the building we’re perched on is abandoned and boarded up, and only two JumboTrons along this entire block are functional. I look at the screens.

The headline playing on them takes my breath away.

DANIEL ALTAN WING EXECUTED TODAY

BY FIRING SQUAD

A video recap plays behind the headline. I see the footage of me sitting in my cell. I look at the camera. Then the video cuts to the yard, where the firing squad lines up. Several soldiers drag a struggling boy out into the center of the yard. I remember none of this. The boy’s blindfolded, with hands cuffed tightly behind him. He looks just like me.

Except for a few details that only I would notice. His shoulders are slightly broader than mine. He walks with what looks like a fake limp, and his mouth looks more like my father’s than my mother’s.

I squint through the rain. It can’t be . . .

The boy stops in the center of the yard. His guards turn away and hurry back the way they came. A line of soldiers hoist their guns, then point them at the boy. There’s a brief, horrible silence. And then smoke and sparks pour from the guns. I see the boy convulse with each shot. He collapses facedown in the dirt. A few more shots ring out. Then the silence returns.

The firing squad quickly files out. Two soldiers pick up the boy’s body and take him away to the cremation chambers.

My hands start to shake.

The boy is John.

I whirl to face June. She watches me quietly. “That’s John!” I shout over the rain. “The boy is John! What was he doing out there, out in the yard?”

June says nothing.

I can’t catch my breath. I understand what she did now. “You didn’t take him back,” I manage to say. “You switched us instead.”

“I didn’t do it,” she replies. “He did.”

I limp back to her. I grab her by the shoulders and push her back against the chimney. “Tell me what happened. Why did he do it?” I shout. “It should’ve been me!”

June cries out in pain, and I realize that she’s injured. A deep gash runs across her shoulder, staining her shirt with blood. What am I doing, yelling at her? I tear a strip of cloth from the bottom of my shirt and try to wrap her wound the way Tess would. I pull the cloth tight and tie it off. June winces.

“It’s not that bad,” she lies. “A bullet scraped me.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” I run my hands down her other arm, then gently touch her waist and her legs. She’s shivering.