him.
Mark hadn’t had a seat belt His cage hadn’t even been anchored down.
The mob had flowed around to the front of the truck, but nobody seemed to notice Trey escaping.
'An apple core!” somebody screamed. Trey’s must have fallen out onto the dirt by the side of the road. The whole crowd gathered around and seemed to be fighting over what little flesh still remained around the seeds.
Trey slipped around toward the back, and, in the darkness, practically tripped over Mark’s overturned cage. He felt around inside the bars, even though he was terrified that he might find only a dead body.
'Mark?” he called. “Mark?”
“Over here,” a voice called behind him.
Trey rushed over to a huge rock beside the road. Mark was crouched there.
“How—?” Trey couldn’t make himself understand. “What happened? Why aren’t you in the cage?”
“Cage busted open when it hit the ground,” Mark whispered.
“Really? That’s great!” Trey said, not even fazed by the wacky grammar of “busted open.” It seemed downright miraculous that the mob had actually helped them.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “But my leg busted open too.”
Trey reached down, his fingers brushing sticky blood.
“Don’t,” Mark said. “I think the bone’s poking out a little. You probably shouldn’t touch it.”
“People with open fractures aren’t supposed to be moved,” Trey remembered from a phase when his dad had had him memorize all sorts of first aid information.
“What was I supposed to do — lie there and let those people trample me?” Mark hissed. He winced, and for the first time Trey realized that Mark was in intense pain.
“We should wrap it until we can get you to a doctor,” Trey said.
“Uh-huh,” Mark said, grimacing. They eased Mark’s arms out of his flannel shirt, and wrapped the shirt around Mark’s leg. But this was crazy — how would they ever get him to a doctor?
“You go on,” Mark said through gritted teeth. “Go get Luke before it’s too late.”
“But—,” They started to argue.
“You’ll have to walk from here,” Mark said. “I don’t think it’s much farther.”
They stared out at the mob, still swarming around the truck. They’d discovered the knapsack now, and were fighting over it like a bunch of wild animals. How long before they decided to come looking for Mark and Trey?
Trey looked down again at his injured friend. The choice before him now was not between cowardice and bravery. Whether he stayed to take care of Mark or left to rescue Lee and his other friends — as well as the guard’s mysterious prisoner — Trey would need immense courage. How was he supposed to choose?
“Go,” Mark moaned.
“No,” Trey said. He looked back and forth between Mark and the mob again. “Just a minute.”
He took his Population Police shirt off and dropped it beside Mark. Then he stepped out from behind the rock and joined the mob.
“Gimme some! Gimme some!” he snarled, just like the others were doing. He pushed and shoved, reaching toward the backpack.
A boy beside him — also shirtless — glanced toward Trey but said nothing, only elbowed him out of the way.
“Wait! Wait! It rolled under the truck!” Trey screamed.
He rushed over to the truck and began pushing uselessly against the cab top.
“Lots of food rolled under the truck!” he screamed again.
A few members of the crowd joined him, shoving against the truck as well, trying to set it back up on its tires.
“Oranges! Bananas! All under the truck!” Trey yelled. Then he worried that someone might ask him how a banana might roll — or how anything could roll under a truck lying flat on its side. But nobody said anything, except to grunt in exertion. The mob was too hungry for logic. Even more people joined him, pushing and pushing on the truck. With one great shove, they had it upright again.
A cheer burst forth, and everyone instantly fell to the ground, feeling around for the promised oranges and bananas. Everyone, that is, except Trey. He backed away, then took off running down the road, toward one of the curves he’d navigated right before being attacked by the mob.
“Truck alert!” he yelled once he was sure he was out of sight. “It’s — ooh, it looks like a whole truckful of bread. It’s loaded! Come and help stop it! Come and eat!”
For a second, Trey was afraid his trick wouldn’t work Even though the sun was beginning to rise, it was still too dark to see what a truck down the road might be loaded with. But then he heard the trample of feet behind him. He circled around, hiding behind rocks and trees as the mob passed him. Then he took off sprinting toward Mark.
“What?” Mark murmured. “What are you doing?”
Trey grabbed his Population Police shirt back and stuffed his arms into the sleeves, then grabbed Mark under the armpits and dragged him toward the now-upright truck.
“Ooooh,” Mark moaned, the most agonizing sound Trey had ever heard. Then Mark’s body went limp. Had he passed out from the pain? Trey didn’t take the time to check He jerked open the truck door and hoisted Mark into the cab, then slid in beside him.
The keys were still in the ignition. Trey reached for them.
“It may not start,” Mark moaned beside him. So he was conscious, after all. ‘After being flipped like that, some of the wires might have been scrambled, the engine case cracked or something…
Trey turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life.
“Good old Bessie,” Mark muttered. “I’ll never talk bad about this truck again.”
Trey eased off the clutch as gently as possible. He shifted through the gears like a pro.
When he got to fourth gear, he floored the gas pedal, and the truck zoomed toward the dawn, air streaming into the cab from every direction.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They arrived at the Nezeree prison fifteen minutes later. Trey slowed down approaching the gates.
“We’ll pick up the guard’s friend first,” he told Mark. “I think we have to play by his rules even if. . even if it might be a trick.”
Trey was kind of hoping that Mark would challenge him, offer some other brilliant plan. But Mark just moaned in response. It was light enough now that Trey could see the pallor of Mark’s face, the bloodstains on the shirt wrapped around his leg.
“Maybe the guard’s friend will be a doctor who can set your leg for you,” Trey joked halfheartedly.
“Chains,” Mark muttered.
“Huh?”
“Chains. . under the seat,” Mark said. “Put them around my wrists to make it look like…”
“Oh. So you’ll look like a prisoner,” Trey finished, to spare Mark the effort of talking. After an anxious glance in his rearview mirror to make sure there was no mob ready to pounce again, he pulled over to the side of the road, dug around under the seat, and pulled out a length of chain, which he draped across Mark’s body. Mark held his right hand off to the side.
“What’s this?” Trey said, staring at a painful-looking wound on the palm of Mark’s hand.
“Burns,” Mark said through gritted teeth. “From the electric fence. Got some on my back, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“No time,” Mark groaned. “Hurry up.”
They was careful not to place any of the links directly on Mark’s leg or burns, but Mark still groaned in pain.
“Heavy,” Mark muttered. Beads of sweat glistened along his hairline, but he was shivering. Trey struggled to remember: Could somebody die from a broken leg? And was Mark still in danger from touching the electric fence the
