Resist

“We want to join you. Help you,” Silas says.

She puts her hand on his chest. “That sounds lovely,” she says. Maks snickers. Silas blushes. He looks everywhere but at Vanya. “But once you join, I won’t let you leave,” Vanya says. Her hand rests on his chest, but she looks at each of us in turn to make sure we understand that she is addressing all of us. She might be teasing Silas, but beneath the flirting is serious distrust. And I hadn’t expected anything less. Petra would never have welcomed newcomers without first threatening to kill them. When you live in fear of your world being destroyed, you have to be merciless.

“We’re happy to stay,” Dorian says.

Vanya smiles and steps away from Silas. “I’ll have Maks escort you to one of our cabins as a temporary measure. Tomorrow we’ll get to know each other a bit better.”

“Of course,” Dorian says. Silas squints at him. His bootlicking is beyond irritating—it’s dangerously close to disloyalty.

“But tell me: Did anyone else survive at The Grove?”

My stomach hardens. The room is silent. We shake our heads and look to the floor. Holly survived, but no one will mention her.

“We told ’em to leave,” Maude says. “We warned ’em. No one can say as we didn’t.” This is true, though it doesn’t make us feel any better, and I want to tell Maude to keep quiet.

“You’re sure no one else made it out?” Vanya asks.

“The whole place fell in on itself and was foaming the last time we saw it. We waited as long as we could,” Silas says.

“I’m sure you did,” Vanya says. She turns her back on us.

“This way,” Maks says, and we are led out and along the hallway. Maks marches ahead, leaving a gap between him and us.

“At least they’re letting us stay,” I say.

Within seconds, Song is between Silas and me. “Do you know who that was?” he whispers.

“Shh,” Dorian says. He points at Maks.

“Who?” I whisper.

“Vanya is Petra’s sister.”

“Her sister?” I say. I didn’t know she had one.

“Vanya made wild threats, then disappeared. Walked into The Outlands and never came back. We weren’t even allowed to mention her name.”

“What are you lot whispering about?” Maks asks. He stops and waits for us to catch up.

“I was admiring your tush, sweetheart,” Maude says. She winks at Maks. And we all laugh far too loudly, trying to cover up our doubt and panic. Why didn’t Vanya mention it? And why did she flee The Grove in the first place?

11 QUINN

I stand beneath a rotten awning to get out of the rain for a minute and pull out the map. From the look of it, Sequoia is more than one hundred miles from St. Pancras, and I’ve walked less than half that. It’s only been a handful of days, and I’m already completely knackered. And I’ve used far too much oxygen. Jazz said I should follow the river as far as Henley, then take the old roads, which is easier said than done. In their search for The Grove, the Ministry has had their way with the whole bloody city, and the route along the river is blocked every few miles by fresh mounds of rubble.

What was I thinking? Bea’s got no one except me, and I just up and leave her. Now I’m alone, and Bea’s practically alone, and I’ve no way of knowing when we’ll see each other again.

The awning creaks under the weight of the water collecting in one corner, and I quickly step into the rain to avoid getting dumped on. The road’s narrow, dark, and most of the buildings have been demolished. In the dust are the marks of tank treads. I kick a sneaker lying in the road, pull up the collar on my coat, and move on.

I round a bend and where the road should continue is a massive stack of rotting cars and trucks. I’ve no choice but to climb, using the car windows and wing mirrors as footholds. I slip and slide on the wet vehicles and when I reach the top, I’m relieved to see that the way ahead is clear and the river is in sight.

And then something moves.

Not one thing—two.

Two people.

They stop abruptly and look in my direction. I claw my way down the other side, catching my hand on a piece of jagged metal as I duck out of sight. The gash isn’t wide, but it’s deep. I wipe it on my trousers, and with nothing on me to use to clean it, I lift my facemask and spit onto the wound. It stings like hellfire. I curl my hand into a fist to stop myself from shouting. “Shit,” I say aloud.

I turn left toward the river, then scoot along it. As I get to a break in the embankment, flanked on either side by what must have once been stone lions, I stop. Steps lead to a jetty and tied to the jetty is a rowboat. It isn’t big, and isn’t new, but it’s floating.

I don’t wait around. I sprint down the steps.

The boat is tied up with a frayed piece of rope, the oars are in the hull, and other stuff is scattered on the floor: a flask and an airtank, a sleeping bag, a pair of socks, a gun.

Further along the bankside an identical boat has been tied up. So if they see me, they’ll have a way to follow, and there could be a gun in that boat, too. Either way, I need to protect myself. I jump into the boat, and it rocks and bangs against the jetty, water lapping the sides. I sit down to stop myself from getting tipped into the river, grab the handgun, and stuff it into my coat. I open my backpack and shove the sleeping bag into it.

And I freeze because I hear footsteps. And then I see a girl, her head bobbing above the wall along the embankment.

She darts down the steps, and when she sees me, she turns and shouts, “By my boat!” As she reaches the bottom step, she trips and lands in a heap at the foot of them.

I untie the rope tethering the boat to the dock. “No!” the girl pleads. “Wait!” She’s hunched over holding her belly. She pushes her hair out of her eyes and struggles to stand up. I begin to row. It’s harder than it looks; the current on the river is strong. “I need the airtank,” she says. She’s already wearing one, so I keep rowing. Is she mad? Who wouldn’t need it?

“Please,” she sobs. She yanks open her coat. Her belly is round. She’s no more than sixteen, with large, glassy eyes. Her coat’s soaked through and her hair is stuck to her cheeks. I can’t steal from a pregnant girl. I’m not that low.

“You’re with someone,” I say. She nods and glances over her shoulder. I don’t know whether or not I can trust her, but I stop rowing, and the current drags me back to land. I throw her the rope and, straining, she pulls the boat into dock.

“Thank you,” she says as a tall guy about my age appears at the top of the steps. He’s not wearing an airtank and is panting desperately. I throw the tank in the boat to him as he approaches. He catches it, puts the mask to his face and inhales a few times. His bottom lip is swollen, and he has two black eyes. He looks like the kind of person Silas might team up with.

“Get out of the boat,” he says.

I don’t take any chances: I put my hand inside my coat, resting it on the gun. “Are you Resistance?” I ask.

“Get out of the boat,” he repeats. I reach for a post, keeping one hand on the gun, and pull myself onto the jetty.

“I’m heading west,” I say.

“Where are you going? You don’t look like a drifter. And you don’t look like Resistance either,” the girl says. She probably means I look pampered.

“I’m heading to a place called Sequoia,” I say.