There was still a chance to run for it.
But I couldn’t run. Any doubt that Rebecca was here had been erased. Anyway, I wouldn’t make it ten feet before Sprewell had shot me in the back.
I followed the boys through the locked entry. There was no turning back now.
ON the opposite side of the door was a long counter, where a Sister sat beside a young soldier doing paperwork. He had a strained look on his face, and averted his eyes from Sprewell, out of fear or aversion, I didn’t know.
“ID checks,” said Tucker, trying to sound casual. “That’s new since I trained here.”
“Is it?” asked Sprewell, but he wasn’t particularly interested.
“Name?” asked the soldier behind the desk. He pushed nervously at his dirty blond hair as though he was used to it being longer than the short soldier’s clip. It was a move that reminded me of Billy. It made him seem younger, and elicited a pang of worry for my friend.
Sean hesitated.
“Randolph. James,” he lied. I shot him a quick glance and then looked away. Randolph had been another guard at the reformatory. One I didn’t regard fondly.
“Where are your name badges?” asked Sprewell skeptically. “That’s a disciplinary action if your CO finds out.”
My hands fisted.
“Not today,” lied Tucker. “Cleaning Services lost them.”
Sprewell snorted. “Women.”
“Come on,” said Tucker. “You know me, that’s ID check enough. Let me get this girl so we can get back on the road.”
The soldier was still searching the mainframe for Sean’s alias.
“Yeah, fine. Having a tough time, New Guy?” chided Sprewell, then snorted. “Harper couldn’t count to ten with his shoes off.”
The soldier’s—Harper’s—face reddened. He glanced at me quickly, but I looked away.
“It’s the whole class of new recruits,” said Tucker conversationally, as though Harper wasn’t sitting right there. “We got two in Knoxville—neither one can read.”
Sprewell smirked. “Digging up the bottom feeders, that’s what it’s come to. Pathetic, but I guess we need the manpower. I’m sure you’ve heard all that talk about evacuating the rat nests. Now that we’ve got those heat- seeking missiles it’s cake; fifty warm bodies within fifty yards of one another, that’s all it takes to burn the house down. Those things just need a point in the right direction and BOOM!”
My throat grew too dry to swallow.
“LDEDs,” said Tucker. “Yeah, I’ve heard about those.”
“Too bad you weren’t here yesterday. Got a tip that a whole load of violators were hiding out in the sewers. Right under our feet.” Sprewell stomped one boot. “We sent the roof down on ’em. Whole damn compound shook when they blew the place.” He snickered as he retrieved a clipboard from behind the desk. “Let’s see. Just a rental, right? You’re bringing her back sometime next week?”
My teeth had clenched so hard I thought they might break.
“Sure,” said Tucker thinly. “If that’s all you can part with her.”
Sprewell laughed and looked up a patient chart while Tucker signed the paperwork.
“Lansing, let’s see… Fourth floor. Room 408,” he said.
I was already walking to the elevator.
“Peace be with you,” called the Sister.
“And also with you,” I responded over my shoulder with a smile.
“YOU’RE welcome,” said Tucker as soon as the three of us were alone in the elevator.
“Don’t jinx it,” I told him. He laughed. Sean wiped the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his stolen uniform jacket.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he said as each floor lit up on the board.
I bounced on my heels, willing the elevator to go faster. How long had we been in this building? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Chase was going to follow soon if we didn’t hurry up.
LDEDs. Long Distance Explosive Devices. I’d heard of these once before; one of the other four who’d been wanted for the sniper shootings had been protesting a demonstration of the bombs. Sprewell and Tucker had said the heat-seeking missiles just needed to be aimed in the right direction, toward fifty warm bodies. Who had told them that the resistance would gather at that time beneath the city?
The elevator opened, revealing a cream-colored hallway and a nurse’s station, manned by Sisters and a middle-aged doctor in a white medical coat who didn’t seem affected one way or another by our presence. A quick survey revealed that Sean and Tucker were the only soldiers on the floor. Truck had been right about the security here, but my relief dissolved as quickly as it had arrived.
A man sat in a wheelchair against the wall wearing only his underwear. His legs had been amputated just above the knees, capped by bandages that were soaking through with blood. Branching up his bare white thighs were the red fingers of infection. His torso and face were flushed with fever. His eyes stared through us with no registration.
I wondered if he were a soldier who tried to escape or disobeyed an order, or a civilian who’d crossed the wrong officer. I couldn’t let myself think of it. We only had time for Rebecca. The tension in the air ratcheted up a notch.
Our shoes squeaked over the newly waxed floors.
As we returned to the attendants’ station the elevators dinged and opened again. Sprewell appeared, a look of consternation on his face. He was holding a paper in his hand. A computer printout. Was it my photo? Had the soldier downstairs remembered my face from the Missing Persons report? Involuntarily, I glanced at the gun on his belt, thinking of the code one.
“Morris, I need to speak with you.”
Tucker stiffened and walked slowly back toward his old friend.
My brain was reeling. What did they have to talk about? An instant filter through the possibilities left me with two options: either Sprewell had scanned Tucker’s name anyway and figured out he’d been dishonorably discharged, or Tucker had set us up.
I tilted my head, trying not to eavesdrop too obviously. The chalky music grated down my spine.
“You’re kidding,” I heard Tucker say in a shocked tone. He called to Sean: “Get the girl. I have to take care of something.”
Tucker was going somewhere with Sprewell alone. He was going to rat us out. I opened my mouth to say something,
I met Tucker’s eyes once as he entered the elevator. The concern in them was evident enough to spray me with doubt. Maybe he wasn’t turning me in. Maybe he really was the one in trouble.
Either way we were running out of time.
Sean sped back to the nurse’s station and harshly stated Rebecca’s name. The Sister looked frightened.
“Yes, sir. She’s either in physical therapy at the end of the hall”—she pointed to the right—“or in the rec room, that way.” She pointed the opposite direction.
Sean took off toward physical therapy, and I went the other way.
I passed several patient rooms. Most of the doors were closed. All but Room 408, and its neighbor, 409. Inside, a withered man laid on the plastic covered mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling, his mouth open and crusting white. He was crying softly.
I shoved through the door at the end of the hall.
The room was empty but for a table in the center holding a ceramic pot and a plastic tray of pansies. There
