you.”
I stared at Chase’s back, a sharp ache tearing through me.
The truck came to a stop.
Tucker and Chase had positioned themselves side by side at the exit. They seemed to be having some unspoken conversation that hadn’t yet evolved to manslaughter.
Chase chambered the cartridge on the 9mm. Tucker lifted a bottle over his shoulder.
“Nine to twelve,” said Chase.
“Check. Twelve to three,” answered Tucker grimly. “Just like the good old days.”
“What are they talking about?” I whispered. The adrenaline pounded in my ears.
The bottle Billy was holding scraped against the metal floor as he shifted closer.
“Chase’ll take out anyone on the left side, Tucker anyone on the right,” he said. “Wallace taught me that. It’s like numbers on a clock.”
So they were partners again. I closed my eyes and listened, praying that Tucker would keep his word.
A knock on the side of the truck nearly made me scream. Billy grabbed my arm and pulled me back down, but my muscles quivered. We couldn’t run. We were trapped.
Male voices outside the truck. I strained my ears, but the words were muffled, like we were underwater.
Someone knocked on the sliding metal door at the rear of the compartment, where Chase aimed the gun down on whoever waited outside. Tucker angled his body so that his back was to his partner.
“I’m opening the back,” came an intentional call from Sean outside. “If one of you shoots me I’m not going to be happy.”
I sobbed with relief, but covered my mouth. We weren’t in the clear yet.
The back latch of the door squealed as it was unlocked. As Sean opened the gate, a slice of florescent light highlighted the bottom of the cab. He stumbled back.
“What a way to greet a guy,” he said, coughing to hide the hitch in his voice.
Neither Chase nor Tucker lowered their weapons. There, behind Sean, waited two uniformed soldiers; one African American with buggy eyes, the other pale with a hooked nose, balding prematurely. Both were in their late twenties and in good shape, and neither reached for the firearms holstered in their belts.
“Look.” Billy pointed to the neatly painted sign on the back wall of what appeared to be a printing factory of some kind. One Whole Family.
Resistance.
CHAPTER
11
“THEY’RE the good guys,” assured Sean.
Slowly, Chase brought the gun down. He and Tucker jumped to the concrete floor and did a quick search before the rest of us followed.
“Welcome to Greeneville,” said the man with dark skin. “Or what’s left of it anyway. I’m Marco, and this is my esteemed colleague, Polo.”
I scoffed, noticing that their name badges had been removed.
Some of the boys at the Wayland Inn had talked about Greeneville. As with most of the smaller U.S. cities, the town’s population had dwindled during the War—no jobs. People had forsaken their homes for the larger cities where they could at least access resources like soup kitchens.
As I looked around I found my earlier assessment had been correct. We’d been brought in through the loading docks to a factory floor, where several monstrous silver machines waited, dormant. A black rubber belt stuck out like a tongue from a gaping hole in the machine on the left, and upon it at even intervals rested neat stacks of paper, waiting to be loaded into various sized boxes near where we’d parked.
“The lovely Sister has informed us that y’all are taking the Tubman express to the safe house,” said Polo. “Feel free to use the amenities, grab a delightful Horizons bottled water, and make yourself at home.”
“Such hosts.” Cara winked at Marco as she slid by them into a small office where the water was located. Polo whistled, an appreciative gaze trailing after her.
“How long until the carrier returns?” asked Chase.
Marco’s shoulders fell. “They’re in such a hurry to leave, Polo.”
Polo nodded somberly. “Is it me? Am I unlikeable, Marco?”
“You do smell a bit…”
“Later today?” Chase pressed.
“Oh no.” Marco shook his head. “He was just through. Tomorrow morning at the earliest. Besides, you can’t make it across the Red Zone border before curfew. Such an attempt would mean certain death.”
“So dramatic,” chided Polo.
Chase and I shared a glance; we’d tried to cross into a Red Zone once, and nearly been arrested. If not for Chase’s smooth talking, we might not have made it through.
I stepped closer to the black belt, leaning over the nearest stack of papers.
“Look,” I whispered to Chase. Statute Circulars. We had come to an MM Statute Printing Plant. I thought of all the times I’d seen them—at school, on the windows of businesses, even on my own front door when my mother and I had been arrested. I wondered if they’d all come from here.
“We’re spending the night?” Tucker asked with a sigh.
“I can try to find you a pillow,” offered Marco.
“I’m not staying the night,” said Sean. “I’m taking the truck to Chicago.”
“
A small grin fought its way through his exhaustion. His face was paler than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot. When he turned to the side, I could see the copper streaks that had soaked through the back of his uniform—he hadn’t yet attended to his burns from the fire. Feeling the weight of Chase’s stare, I climbed back into the truck and searched for the first-aid kit.
“Wrong,” sang Polo. “You won’t make Chicago before nightfall and Horizons drivers have to obey the curfew. Only soldiers can go out after dark.” He popped his collar importantly.
Sean blinked, obviously having forgotten this information. He sighed in frustration. I found the first-aid kit behind one of the boxes and sat on the bumper, motioning for him to sit beside me.
“Since we’re all sharing,” said Cara, returning from the office with several plastic bottles cradled in her arms, “I’m cutting out. I’ve got family in town. My cousin lives here.”
My brows knitted together. I’d never heard she had family here, but then, I didn’t know she had family
She passed me a bottle of water, which I guzzled, spilling streams of it down my chin. I wasn’t sure anything had ever tasted so good. The others followed Marco and Polo, who announced that there was food in their office.
Sean had a hard time removing his arms from the Horizons uniform, so I helped, cringing when the fabric stuck to his back. He sat bolt upright, the heat wafting off his skin.
“I can clean it, but we don’t have a big enough bandage,” I said, fighting the nausea. An angry red welt spanned from his shoulder to the opposite side of his waist, surrounded by smaller cuts and burns. Some of the skin had already been sloughed away when he’d removed his shirt.
“It looks like something fell on you.” I could still feel the burst of flames when the ceiling had nearly toppled on my head.
