Resist

19 RONAN

I take slow steps through the station toward the girl wielding the knife and the hissing child, and try to examine their faces in the waning light.

I recognize Bea Whitcraft right away, even with her mask on. I don’t know her personally, but I’ve seen her picture, and the word WANTED, flash up on the screen about a hundred times a day since the press conference.

They didn’t show any video footage, of course. I had to ask the press secretary to send me that as a favor. I had to know how it happened, and what I saw was my father shoot Bea’s parents in cold blood. So now they’re saying she’s a terrorist, though she looks more like a drifter.

On the floor are empty bottles and bloodstained rags.

“Can I help you?”

Bea swings the knife. “What do you want?”

“Who cares? Stab him,” the child mutters. Her pallor is frightening, and she doesn’t seem able to move from the floor. One leg of her pants is torn open, and blood has dried on the tiles around her. She’s crying, and there are tear tracks down Bea’s face, too.

“I won’t hurt you,” I tell them. “I heard noises, that’s all. I came to look.” Niamh complained about what she called Quinn’s stupid attachment to Bea, which could mean that if I’ve found her, he’s close by.

I stash the gun in my pocket and inch closer. Bea winces at each step, and when I’m near enough to touch her, she stiffens. “Get back,” she says. She holds the knife inches from my face. Her eyes are wide with fear, exhaustion, or madness—maybe all three.

“The girl is very sick,” I say. Gently, I push Bea’s hand and the knife away from my face. But she swings it back toward me and presses the tip so hard against my neck, she nicks the skin. I’m not expecting it and jump back, wiping the blood. She holds her arm out farther and straighter. “I told you to stay away,” she says.

I could easily wrench the knife from her, but if there’s a chance she knows where Quinn is, I have to gain her trust. So instead, I step way back and pull a flashlight from my backpack, which I shine at the child’s leg. It’s red and swollen, the skin taut, and a long gash is yellow. My stomach lurches. Bea looks at me steadily.

“How long has she been like this?”

“I don’t know. A week?” she says, her chin trembling. The child hasn’t long left, not without real medical attention.

“I see,” I say. I consider lying, but I have no reason to. “I can get her help. I’m Ronan Knavery.”

She looks at my earlobe, then holds the knife up again. Her expression is hard. “Your father killed my parents,” she spits. I can’t deny this because I watched it again and again on the video footage, so I nod. But if she hates me just because of what my father did, there’s no knowing how she’d react if she knew I was personally responsible for so much destruction at The Grove. The number of people and trees I cut down doesn’t bear thinking about.

We watch each other, neither of us speaking, until she sniffs. “You look like your father,” she says. People have told me this before, as a compliment, but she’s insulting me. She clenches her jaw.

“I know,” I say. “But I’m not him. And I’m really sorry for what happened to you.” I speak quietly, gently, hoping she’ll trust the sincerity in my tone.

“So I suppose you’re here to bring me back and see me hanged.”

“No. I’m looking for someone else.”

Her features give nothing away. “We’re all that’s left.”

I hold my breath. “From what?” I ask, when I know what she’s going to say.

“From The Grove. A safe place that your father razed to the ground.”

When we left The Grove, it was collapsing, but I’m sure I saw survivors fleeing. Did I imagine it to make myself feel better? Did we kill them all? The people and the trees?

And Quinn? Where is he?

Bea is studying me.

“Actually, Quinn’s father was in charge of that mission,” I say, watching for a reaction.

“Quinn?” the child murmurs through semiconsciousness, and Bea quickly hushes her.

So the child knows him, which could mean he’s been here. And maybe he’ll be back, although I can’t be sure Jazz didn’t meet him at The Grove when the Resistance supposedly captured them.

I root in my backpack and pull out a strip of penicillin, pressing one through the foil and holding out my hand. “Antibiotics.” She looks at the pill in my palm, suspicious. “If I wanted to hurt her, I’d have used the gun,” I say. “Now put away the knife . . . Please.”

Still holding the knife, Bea reaches out with her other hand for the pill. I consider wrestling the knife off her. I don’t. I drop the pill into the pit of her palm and step away. She eases the girl into a sitting position and presses it between the child’s lips, forcing her to sip some water from a flask. The child manages to take the pill before her eyes roll back in her head—she can’t fight her fatigue.

We were warned about terrorists in training, and back then my mind filled with images of stocky, square- jawed youths wielding guns and throwing grenades. I didn’t picture anything as pitiable as this: a child being eased into death by a hollow-cheeked girl fighting for her own breath on a dirty, solar-powered respirator.

“I can radio the pod,” I say. I doubt Jude would help, but she’s a child, and I should try. It’s the least I can do after what I did to her home. Were her parents at The Grove? Were they killed?

“Touch any kind of radio and I’ll cut you,” Bea says.

I hold my hands in the air. “I understand,” I say.

She erupts, jumping up and pushing me. “How dare you? You don’t understand a thing!”

I stare at her and lean away. “My father died in the riots, too,” I say.

“It’s not the same thing. My parents were good. Your father was . . . he was . . .”

“He was an asshole,” I say, and she blinks. I pause. I don’t want to say something untrue. “But I wish I loved him more.”

Her eyes well with tears. “When people leave, you always wish you’d loved them more.” She wipes her eyes and sniffs. And then she is sobbing and pressing her face against her arm to stifle the noise.

I’ve never been able to cry like this. My mother spent long days in bed, coughing and moaning, until one morning she was gone and the noise was replaced by silence. I cried only once—quietly and alone in my room. Why didn’t I honor her by mourning?

I delve back into my pack and pull out the radio. Bea looks up. “No,” she says, starting toward me again.

“If she doesn’t get to a hospital, you’ll be digging a grave.”

“They’ll kill her.”

“She’s dying anyway.”

Bea chews on her lips.

I stand up and walk away.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“She could wake up and cry out while I’m making contact. I want them to think I’ve found the person I’m meant to be hunting.”

Bea doesn’t argue or ask any questions. “Her name is Jazz,” she says.

The rumble of the buggy’s engine can be heard when it’s still miles away. Bea pries each finger on Jazz’s hand from its grip on her arm. “You’ll be okay,” she says, almost like she believes it. She kisses Jazz lightly on the forehead, and stands up to gather her things. “What will you tell them?” she asks me.

“I found her alone and scared.” Jazz nods to show she’ll corroborate the lie. “Now find somewhere to hide and only come out when you hear the buggy leave,” I say.