Among the Brave

to run back at Hendricks.

Of course, how much of an accomplishment is it to outrun people who are starving to death? he reminded himself.

On shaking legs, he stood up. He was lost now. Except — this was the river, wasn’t it? Could he just continue along the shore? In which direction?

He looked from side to side, up and down the river. In the distance, he could see a dimly lit bridge. Was that the bridge near where he and Mark had hidden the truck? Or had he already run past that bridge, past the truck? What if he took too long finding it?

He took off toward the bridge, rushing through the weeds and brush. A branch lashed across his face, and brambles tore at his uniform, but he kept going. It was much harder walking along the river without Mark ahead of him, clearing the way.

He was so intent on just moving forward and dodging branches that he practically ran into the concrete side of the bridge.

“Uff,” he grunted.

He looked up. Two lanterns stood on posts on either side of the bridge, casting feeble light into the wisps of fog rising from the river. He heard footsteps, but it was only a sentry pacing from one side of the bridge to the other. Trey could see the Population Police insignia on the sentry’s sleeve, and he relaxed.

How can I be relieved to see the Population Police? he wondered.

He just didn’t want to face another mob.

Backing blindly away from the bridge, he felt around in all directions, desperately hoping that his hand would brush a hubcap or a fender. But there was no truck hidden here.

“No,” Trey moaned. The muscles in his legs began to tremble, exhaustion and panic catching up with him. If he didn’t find the truck soon, he had no hope of rescuing Mark. Why had he agreed to such an impossible plan? How could he possibly find the truck now?

He peered up and down the river once again, looking for another bridge. Why hadn’t he paid closer attention when he and Mark were hiding the truck? Why hadn’t he memorized every detail of their surroundings? Why wasn’t it daylight so he could see better?

No, he didn’t want it to be daylight When it was daylight, Mark would die.

In desperation, Trey looked around yet again. This time, when he was swinging his head back and forth, he caught a glimpse of something shiny on the opposite shore — metal, or maybe glass, catching the dim reflection of the lanterns on the bridge.

Trey locked his head in place and stared. Maybe, maybe…

What if this was the right bridge, but the truck was on the opposite side?

Trey squinted, trying to turn the small gleam into an entire truck, tucked away under leaves and branches.

Did I cross a bridge over the river? Could I have done that without noticing?

Of course he could have — when he was running away from the mob, or even before, when he was trying to stay in the shadows. He remembered the way Mark had taunted him, “I think if I’d never seen the outdoors, I’d keep my eyes open once I was in it” Trey’s not paying attention had almost cost Mark his life.

And it still might turn out to.

Trey stepped tentatively back into the water, but it was cold and the current rushed at him. The riverbed sloped so severely that he could tell: Only a few more steps and the water would be over his head.

Why hadn’t Lee included swimming in the roster of athletics he pushed at us back at Hendricks? Trey thought ruefully.

But he hadn’t, and there was no time to waste regretting that now.

Trey was going to have to cross the bridge.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Trey had barely begun climbing up toward the bridge before the sentry began yelling at him. He had practically forgotten about the sentry. He’d been more worried about the lights.

“No one’s allowed to cross this bridge!” the sentry screamed. “Turn back or be shot!”

“Relax,” Trey said, remembering how well bluffing had worked before. “I’m a Population Police guard come to, uh, requisition a contraband vehicle parked over there.” He pointed at the opposite shore and then, for good measure, lifted his arm to show the insignia on his sleeve. But now that he was in the light, he saw that the insignia was hanging by two threads from a ripped place in his sleeve. His pants were ripped too, he noticed, and mud stains covered the uniform from his waist down.

The sentry regarded him suspiciously.

“A mob attacked me,” Trey said. “They thought I had food.”

“No mob would dare lay a finger on a Population Police official,” the sentry sniffed.

“This one did,” Trey muttered.

“Where’s your travel pass?” the sentry asked.

“Look, I’ve got authorizations,” Trey said, reaching into his shirt pocket. But the authorizations only concerned transporting prisoners. The guard back at the Grants’ house hadn’t known that Trey would need authorization to cross this particular bridge.

The guard was reaching for Trey’s papers. Any minute now he’d discover that Trey was a fraud.

“See? Now out of my way. I’m in a hurry,” Trey said, shoving the papers back into his pocket

“Wait! I couldn’t—”

Trey took off in a dead run past the sentry.

“Stop! I have to sign the authorization!” the sentry was shouting behind him.

Trey reached the edge of the bridge and took a flying leap over the railing as soon as he saw firm ground on the other side. Except that it wasn’t so firm — he began slipping and sliding down the mound of dirt, crashing through branches and leaves.

He stopped only when he slammed into the truck’s tire.

Trey resisted the urge to hug the tire in relief and just lie there for a while. Instead, he scrambled up immediately, jerked open the door of the truck, and jumped inside, jamming the keys into the ignition. He’d planned to spend a few minutes studying all the dials on the dashboard, maybe reading the owner’s manual from the glove compartment. But there wasn’t time for that now. He turned the key.

Nothing happened.

Oops. What was that pedal I was supposed to push— the clutch?

He tried the key again, this time stabbing his feet at the pedals on the floor. The engine roared to life, but died while Trey was reaching for the gearshift.

Behind him, the sentry was leaning over the edge of the bridge, screaming at him.

“Sir! I insist—”

Trey ignored him, and concentrated on coordinating his feet and the gearshift. The truck lurched forward, toward the river.

No! No! Reverse! his mind screamed, and he shifted, grinding the gears horribly The engine started to die again, and he panicked, hitting the gas pedal as hard as he could. The truck raced backward up the hill, toward the road. Branches scraped at the side of the truck and saplings broke off beneath the tires, but Trey didn’t care as long as none of the obstacles stopped him.

The truck died again at the top of the hill, as Trey was trying to shift gears into forward.

“Sir! You are forcing me to conclude that you are not on a legitimate Population Police mission!” the sentry yelled at him. “Get out of that truck or—”

Trey started up the truck’s engine yet again, and zoomed past the sentry, going as fast as he could in first gear. The engine made a terrible noise, but Trey couldn’t take the chance of trying to shift into second.

“I warned you!” the sentry screamed.