Resist

“Get up now.”

I stagger as I stand, using the blanket like a kind of skirt, and lean against the counter, my head between my arms. It’s a peculiar feeling, this weakness, and I don’t like it.

“When did your cycle begin?” She unpeels the rubber gloves from her hands and tosses them in the trash can. I’m tempted to lie, because it’s none of her damn business, but I don’t know what these tests are for, or what the consequences of the results will be. So I tell the truth. “Nine days ago,” I say.

She nods. “And how many days did it last?”

“Six,” I say.

She records the dates on an ancient-looking pad and opens the door. “Go to Room 28. Down the hall, take your first left, and it’s the fourth door on the right.” She yawns, revealing a mouth of missing teeth. “Do you want a napkin for the blood?”

“Get lost,” I say, slamming the lab door, and hurtling down the hall and away.

As I turn left, I almost collide with Maks. He towers over me, his arms crossed over his chest to accentuate the size of his biceps. “Done with your medical?”

My face reddens. “Yes.”

He presses his lips together into a taut smile and tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. I flinch, then hate myself for being so easily discomforted by him.

“Well, that’s the worst test over with. Well done for making it through.” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. He rubs my chin, smiles, and marches away. From behind I can see he has a pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers, and I don’t like it.

We have surrendered our weapons.

I peer through the round window of Room 28. Silas, Dorian, and Song are sitting at desks. I slink inside and they all turn around. “What are we doing in here?” I ask.

“A written exam of some kind,” Silas says.

“Well, it’s better than getting another medical,” Dorian says impassively.

“I’m nervous we’re being recorded,” Silas says.

Song rises and examines the walls, baseboards, and each desk. “Hard to tell,” he says.

“You okay?” Silas asks.

I wring my hands. “I’m fine.”

“Did you do everything they asked?” Silas says.

“Yes. Except swallow the tablets.” I pat my pocket and stare at the floor. “Anyway, what happened to you?”

Silas, Dorian, and Song look at one another. “I don’t know what they do here, but it isn’t what we were doing at The Grove,” Silas says. Song is still checking under each chair and fiddles with the electrical sockets and oxybox. “They wanted samples,” Silas continues. My mouth drops open. He doesn’t have to say any more. After the physical exam I was given, it wouldn’t take a genius to guess what kinds of samples he means.

“How could we do it?” Song says. “Not on demand.”

“I did it,” Dorian admits, unabashed.

“What?” Silas says.

“We said we’d cooperate, so I was cooperating.” He scratches his nose.

“Cooperating?” Silas clenches his jaw, working hard to control his temper. He roughly scratches his head.

“Where are we meant to go if we get chucked out? Petra threw everyone in a cell for a few weeks. Is this that much different?” he says.

“The nurse gave me a pretty thorough exam,” I murmur. I can’t look at any of the boys.

Silas groans. “Oh, Alina,” he says.

“It must be for some sort of genetic testing,” I say.

Song shakes his head. “You can work out genetics using blood samples, and they’ve got plenty of those.”

“Then what is it they want?” I ask.

Song inhales deeply through his nose. “I think”—he pauses—“I think they’re checking to see how fertile we are.”

17 BEA

After going back up to the pharmacy and rummaging on the floor for almost an hour, I find some ancient painkillers, and although I have no idea whether or not they’re working, I shovel them into Jazz every six hours. Even in her sleep, she moans softly.

“Am I going to die?” she mewls, waking at last.

“Of course you aren’t, silly,” I say, which is probably a lie. Even if Quinn finds his way to Sequoia, he has to get back here and by then it’ll have been weeks since Jazz’s fall.

And what scares me most is that as each day passes, my hope wanes a little more, when hope is the only thing I have to hold on to.

There was nothing I could do for my parents just as there’s nothing I can do for Jazz. I try not to remember their bodies lying limp on the makeshift platform, blood blooming beneath them while the crowd stormed the stage. All I could do was watch on Old Watson’s screen, so far away from where I was needed. At least I’m here for Jazz. And I have to be strong for her and wait until the worst happens . . . or a miracle.

I cradle Jazz’s head in my lap and hum a doleful tune; I can’t remember any happy ones. It’s to calm her, but it’s for me, too, because if I don’t hum, I’ll cry, and Jazz shouldn’t have to see that.

“Are you sleepy?” she asks, peering up at me. I pull her head tight into my body—all the pain she’s in and she’s worried about me. “I’ll be quiet so you can rest,” she says, and clenches her jaw.

“I don’t need to sleep,” I tell her, one hand stroking her freckly face, the other hand clutching the knife. But my eyes sting from fatigue. My shoulders droop. My head feels so heavy. “Maybe I’ll try to get a few minutes,” I say.

“Bea!” Jazz’s urgent whisper wakes me from a murky dream, which I forget as soon as I open my eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I tried to move. I shouldn’t have. It still hurts.” She is sitting up and shivering. Her little hands are frozen.

“It’s okay. Relax now,” I tell her. I fumble for the pills. I was foolish to spend my life studying politics and philosophy, thinking that was the way to a better life, when I should have been learning how to survive in the real world. If only Alina were here. She’d know what to do, and Jazz might have a fighting chance.

Jazz nudges me and squeals. A yellow discharge is seeping from her wound. I bend down to get a better look. “No, Bea! Look!” I follow the line of her finger down her leg to her feet, across the tiled floor of the station to the other end, where a pair of boots appears.

A boy.

I rub my eyes in case I’m still in a dream. Then I grab the knife and jump up, slicing the air with it.

How much more am I meant to endure? When am I allowed to surrender? If it weren’t for Jazz, I might drop the knife and do just that. As it is, I swing the knife again. “Get out of here.”

“Let’s talk,” the boy says. “All I want to do is talk to you.” Calmly, he unburdens himself of his backpack and holds his hands in the air. One hand is holding a gun.

Jazz screams in terror.

And so do I.