Article 5

Sean pushed through the door into the hallway on the fourth floor. The lights were out here, and the dim corridor made me feel claustrophobic. A man and a woman, dressed in street clothes, loitered in front of one of the scuffed wooden doors. They had been playing cards and stood abruptly when we came into view.

“This is the resistance,” Sean said.

* * *

“WHO are you?” asked the man, sizing us up. He was not much taller than me but built like a tree trunk. Even his head was shaped like a can. He seemed impressed by Chase, but he frowned my way. He probably thought Chase would be more useful to the rebellion—an assumption that irritated me.

“I know her from the girls’ school,” Sean said. “She’s Miller, and he’s…”

“Jennings,” the girl finished. She knotted her long black hair back in a ponytail. I could tell it wasn’t her natural color: Her eyebrows were nearly transparent, and her skin was very light. I wondered where she’d gotten the dye; that was contraband now. Indecent, the MM called it.

“We’ve been following you on the nightly report,” she explained.

My eyes widened. People knew who we were, just from my name. This couldn’t be good. If they knew, the MM was still tracking our flight. Waiting for us to screw up. I couldn’t tell by her neutral tone if she objected to our presence.

“They haven’t been cleared,” the guy said irritably. “You know the rules, Banks.”

“I know the exceptions, too. Miller’s got information.”

For him. Information for Sean about Rebecca. I didn’t know anything else. I sincerely hoped Sean wasn’t setting me up for trouble by bringing us here.

Can-Head narrowed his eyes at me. “Yeah, I bet she does.”

Chase shifted.

“I’ll take responsibility for them.” Sean gave Chase a stern look as if to say Don’t make me regret it, and knocked twice on the door they guarded.

“What’s his problem?” I asked Sean under my breath.

“A carrier was murdered at the Harrisonburg checkpoint a couple days back. They found evidence that points to a female.”

“What kind of evidence?” I said quickly. Chase had gone very still beside me.

“Footprints, I think.”

I had to remind myself to keep breathing.

I’d slipped on the floor when Chase had dragged me outside. Slipped on something wet. Blood. My bootprints were all the way out the door. It took everything I had not to rip them off right there.

“I think Riggins thinks it was you.” Sean didn’t try to keep our conversation a secret.

“Well, it wasn’t!” I said, aghast, turning to Can-Head.

Riggins looked unabashed and unconvinced.

I clasped my hands together to keep them from fidgeting. The danger was stacking up. People recognized our names. I was being pinned to a murder. We were now hiding out with a large body of resistance. It was going to take a hope and a prayer to reach the safe house alive at this point.

My eyes darted to Chase. He looked like a wolf ready to attack. I felt the energy radiating off of him and knew to be prepared for anything.

The door cracked open and then pulled inward as Sean was recognized.

We entered a narrow room that smelled stale. The walls were bare and yellowing. In the back were a few crates of food and nearly thirty cardboard boxes marked by sizes: M, L, XL. Uniforms. The missing uniforms.

A gray wool sofa, the only piece of furniture present, sagged against the side wall. Above it hung a blueprint of the building. The exits were marked by bright red circles. A man in his mid-thirties stood from his seat on the couch. He had long greasy hair, too gray for his youthful face, and a mustache.

The guy holding the door was younger. Fourteen or fifteen maybe. A mousy mop of hair hung over bright green eyes. He held a rifle, lowered but still lethal.

“Who are they?” interrogated the man with the graying hair.

“A girl I knew on duty. She came here to find me,” Sean lied. “They need shelter.”

“They need—”

“Before you blow a gasket, Wallace, remember I’m only here because of—”

“You’re risking the entire operation for a girl?” he exploded. “This isn’t a damn game, Banks!”

I was already on edge, tired, hungry, and hedging on desperation. On some level I understood the need for caution, but the rest of me was furious that this man was treating us like children who had run away from the babysitter.

“Does it look like we’re playing?” I said hotly. I felt Chase’s hand on my arm. The boy still held the gun. The tension in the room was palpable.

Wallace turned on me.

“There are induction procedures in place.”

I felt a flash of anger, and without thinking, displayed the discolored welts running across the backs of my hands.

“I know about induction procedures,” I spat. “So we can go ahead and skip the initiation.”

A cynical smirk lifted Wallace’s face but faded away into understanding.

“I can see that. This is merely a safety precaution, I assure you,” he said, calmer.

Sean cleared his throat. “Wallace tries to make sure recruits aren’t followed or working for the FBR.”

“You cleared me,” I said stubbornly. “Sean can vouch for me. We weren’t followed, and we sure as hell don’t work for the MM.”

“Sean hasn’t been with me long enough for that responsibility,” answered Wallace flatly.

Sean’s jaw was set. “So what are you going to do, discharge me?”

Wallace groaned. “Maybe it would sink in the second time.”

He stared at both Chase and I for several seconds. Seeming to have made up his mind about our threat, he motioned for the boy at the door to put down the shotgun. I sighed audibly. Chase did not.

“I’d apologize for the reception, but I’m sure you understand why we can’t send out open-house invitations.” He dipped his head toward me. “I’m Wallace. That over there is Billy. And you are?”

When I introduced us, recognition dawned on Wallace’s face.

“Jennings. Interesting. Been a while since we’ve had celebrities.” His curiosity was quickly snuffed. “I don’t suppose Sean stressed the importance of discretion?”

“We won’t say anything,” I promised.

“Certainly he won’t,” said Wallace, eyeing Chase.

He was right. Chase was uncharacteristically silent. He was rarely loquacious, but neither was he usually so deadpan. Something was weighing heavily on him. I could feel it.

“I suppose you’re here for work,” Wallace said. I felt Chase stiffen beside me, and wondered what he was thinking. It would make sense for him to want to join the resistance. That way he could strike back at the MM for everything they’d taken away.

I felt the same pull inside my own self but stuffed it down. I couldn’t allow myself to project past finding my mother. One step at a time.

“We’re looking for Mr. Tubman,” I said, when Chase hadn’t answered. His silence was starting to make me uncomfortable. It appeared he was more tempted by the resistance than I had thought. If he joined here and now, he might not even come with me for the rest of the journey. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, faced with the sudden reality of his upcoming good-bye.

“A safe house.” Wallace clicked his tongue inside his cheek. “Waste of your talents.” He was talking to both of us, not just Chase, when he said this. I didn’t know what talents of mine he could possibly mean, but then I realized that the radio reports had probably insinuated that I was far craftier than I was. That I had escaped reform school and the MM. That we’d accosted thieves in Hagerstown and stolen vehicles. All of this was true of course, but much less impressive in reality than it was when relayed secondhand.