was wearing a white paper surgical mask.
The line moved forward. My gaze was drawn to a woman who’d moved in front of the board. Her green collared shirt made her skin appear ashen, and the long denim skirt was black where the seams dragged through the dirt. Though probably only in her early thirties, her hair had gone almost completely gray. Two soldiers, both younger than she, flanked her on either side.
“Listen up!” one of them shouted. I bumped into someone as I stepped back. For the moment I still blended with the crowd, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. I stared at Chase’s back, willing him to return.
The woman stepped aside and revealed a boy maybe five years old. He had red dashes on his cheeks, not just from a recent tantrum but a long season of crying. The fingers of one hand twisted his mangy, shoulder-length hair. The other hand was missing.
The woman approached the boy and opened his shirt. His skin was scarred and warped by past burns, red with infection. She lifted him up for everyone to see.
“Oh God,” I said before I caught myself. Chase approached, eyes betraying no shock.
“Here.” He was holding a surgical mask like the Sisters were wearing. Hurriedly, I looped the elastic bands around my ears and felt my breath warm the covered space over my nose and mouth. This shield would hide my identity at least for a little while.
“There are…” The woman’s voice trembled. Her eyes darted around the crowd of onlookers.
“Louder,” prompted the soldier.
“There are worse ways to live!” she cried. “You think it’s bad now, but you have no idea. If you have information on the sniper, if you’ve seen the criminals from the wanted posters, tell a soldier right away!”
Rampant whispers flew around the circle.
The soldier unhooked the strap locking the gun in his belt. He toyed with the boy’s hair, like a father might, but for the threat so obviously posed by his weapon. From his blank expression, I knew he’d have no trouble hurting this boy to get what he wanted. I shoved back, but those behind me held solid.
“Do you think the soldiers did that?” I whispered to Chase.
His expression remained flat; only his eyes showed his rage. He didn’t answer.
“Now, who has information for me?” the soldier asked.
“Someone’s got to stop it,” whispered a man beside me. He was right. My blood was boiling again.
“I heard that Miller girl was in Tent City yesterday after the attack,” a woman to my right confessed.
I went absolutely rigid. I didn’t dare breathe. Chase’s shoulders rose. He shook his head as if to say
“Come with us. We need to ask you a few questions,” said the second soldier. The mother was now grasping her child against her chest, though she seemed too petrified to move.
“That’s all I know,” said the confessor, her voice faltering. “I swear, that’s all I know.”
“Come with us,” he repeated. “Or you’ll be charged with withholding information.”
“I told you all I know!” she screamed as one of the soldiers hauled her away.
My mouth fell open in horror. There were hundreds of people within earshot. Hundreds who could take down these two soldiers, but no one moved. I wanted to stop them myself, to say,
“The sniper did this to us!” The mother finally set her child down, close to where we stood in the arc surrounding her. She wept bitterly. “We were fine before he got here!” People murmured their agreement.
I wanted to shake her. I told myself she was scared, that’s why she was saying this. Things were just as dangerous before. But the woman in Tent City had told me not everyone would see the good of the resistance, and she was right.
The second soldier lifted his baton, and a path cleared back into the medical station. I followed Chase’s gaze to the little boy, who was now bawling quietly and trying to close his shirt with his single hand while his mother ushered him away.
“What was that?” I whispered. I felt exposed; every sideways glance prickled my skin.
He swore, obviously agitated. “Advertising. Nothing puts people in their place like the threat of pain. I saw it in Chicago. It’s sick.”
It was not so unlike Wallace’s plan to let the people see me in Tent City, I thought. Only that message was meant to inspire hope, not fear.
The world was coming unhinged. I could feel it, like a great crushing weight on my chest, pushing me into the ground beneath my feet. I’d been linked to a serial murderer, my name slandered across the country. My mother’s killer had infiltrated the resistance. Girls like Sarah were being beaten by their MM boyfriends and left for dead. Moms were using their kids to spread the MM’s tyrannical message. I’d lost Rebecca all over again, I didn’t know what was happening at home with Beth, and poor Rosa was probably still a zombie up at the reformatory. If there was ever a time to push back, it was now, but how?
“Name?”
My eyes refocused on a woman in front of me. A Sister. The light blue knot in her handkerchief was tied perfectly. She wore a paper mask over her mouth and nose, like mine.
I felt a surge of panic and blurted, “Lori Whittman.”
“Lori Whittman,” she read down the list on her clipboard. “Have you been here in the past two days, Ms. Whittman?” She didn’t look too closely at my face.
“
I coughed for effect, adjusting the mask to cover as much of my face as possible.
“If they’re married…” began the one who had asked my name. She was halted by the other’s dubious expression.
“We’re married,” I said defensively. I held up my left hand, thankful for my stolen wedding band.
“Fine,” huffed the one, still unconvinced. “Remember you’ll be issued a citation if the FBR finds out otherwise.”
I felt myself stiffen, wondering if the MM was going to be dropping by to question us, but I didn’t see anyone in a blue uniform within the tent.
The cranky Sister led us inside the flimsy chain-link barrier to the right, where we passed a bin for contraband items and cot after cot of sleeping individuals. There were three empty bunks in the back, these bigger.
The pungency of human sweat was nearly dizzying. Someone hacked up a lung to my right. We picked a cot beside a family of four, all sharing a space smaller than a twin bed. I thought of the woman outside with her son and wished they would come rest here instead of continuing their campaign.
I sat on the filthy canvas cot, avoiding a black spot near the edge that still looked damp. We’d had it good at the Wayland Inn.
I sighed, unwilling to pull the mask down on my chin. They hadn’t recognized me, but I wasn’t feeling particularly relieved. Chase sat next to me and placed the backpack down beside his feet, avoiding a puddle of stagnant rainwater that had blown in. He took a slow, deep breath.
“Tubman should be back in town tonight. We’ll stay with him until the roads are clear.” He kept his voice low so as not to wake those around us.
He wanted to go to the safe house, to abandon Rebecca and everything we’d come here to do, and though I wasn’t proud of it, part of me did want to run away and hide.
Who was I kidding? The chances of me making it that far were slim. Any one of these people might turn me in. Any one of the soldiers prowling around the city might shoot me without question. I knew this; it scared me to death. But not as much as Tucker handing over the entire Knoxville resistance to the MM.
“We can’t leave,” I said resolutely. “Tucker’s planning something.”
He flinched at the name. “We have to leave. It’s not safe here for you.”
“It’s not safe here for anyone.”
“Wallace made his decision.” Chase’s hand swiped along his temple, and he held it there in pain. The earlier fight must have triggered his injuries from the arrest. When he saw my concern, he dropped his arm, as if embarrassed.
“It’s a bad decision and you know it,” I said, wondering how much of his distance had to do with his new knowledge of me kissing Tucker.
