Resist

Without another word, Maks smacks Jo hard across the face. She crumples into a heavy heap. “You’re carrying something that belongs to Vanya and that means you belong to Sequoia and to me. You think I don’t know why you ran away?” She looks up at him and before I can duck, sees me. But she doesn’t give me away; she holds out her hands and lets Maks help her to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She puts her free hand to his chest and then, standing on her tiptoes, kisses his lips. “I’ve been so scared. Are the trials working? Are the babies okay?”

“He doesn’t want you, you know,” he says, pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s me or no one, Jo.”

He takes her arm and leads her away, but not before Jo manages to flash me a warning look. Like she has to.

When I open the back door, I can’t see any guard—just an empty chair with a mug next to it on the ground. I creep into the night and scamper back to the cabin.

“Where the hell were you?” Silas asks as I climb back into bed in my clothes. Maude and Bruce are still snoring. Song is lying like a corpse, his mouth open. Dorian has his back to me.

“Quinn says Bea and Jazz are in trouble,” I say.

“Jazz is alive?” Silas asks.

“She was—days ago,” I say.

21 BEA

Ronan and I are sitting in cracked green leather chairs under layers of blankets, scarves, and coats on the balcony of what was once a restaurant in the station. The sunrise is obstructed by decrepit buildings. Ronan shows me a blurred photograph on his pad. “Don’t you want a clear image?” I say. I fiddle with the gauge on my airtank. It would be wiser to keep myself plugged into the solar respirator and save the air, but it was too big to fit through the narrow balcony doors.

“I just want the color. I’ll mix it when I get back.” He pauses. “Can I have one of you?”

“What for?”

“So I can ping it through to the Ministry and pick up my reward. Your capture is very valuable.” He laughs, but that there could be a fraction of truth in what he’s said makes me turn away. Not before he’s managed to take a picture of me.

“Delete it!” I try to snatch the pad.

“No,” he says.

“What if someone sees it and recognizes me?”

“It’s as smudged as the other one. And anyway, no one’s interested in the photos artists take.” He studies the picture and then looks at the real me. “Why are you out here, Bea?” he asks.

“Because your father wanted my head on a plate,” I remind him.

“But why did you join the Resistance in the first place? Are things really so bad in the pod for auxiliaries?” he asks. Can Premiums be so self-involved they completely fail to notice how ninety-five percent of us live?

“Have you ever even been to Zone Three?”

“A couple of times,” he says sheepishly.

“If I could have changed things from inside, I would have,” I tell him.

He is silent for a long time, looking through the few pictures he’s just taken. “There has to be a way to make things fair. Nothing’s impossible,” he says finally.

“You can try working on things in the pod. I’m never going back. Anyway, I’m waiting for someone.” I still haven’t mentioned Quinn. As far as the Ministry knows, he’s dead, and no one should think otherwise.

Ronan gazes into the distance, then closes his eyes. His eyelids twitch and the lashes flicker as sleep comes for him. And then he opens one eye and peers at me. “Are you going to get some rest or just watch me?”

My cheeks get hot. “Out here? It’s below zero.”

He reaches down and pulls a lightweight blanket from his backpack, which he throws at me. “Try that,” he says. I pull it over my chin and tuck my feet under my butt. “Better?” he asks. I nod and close my eyes.

I wake to find Ronan shaking me. “Bea, wake up,” he whispers. “Bea.” I yawn.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Never mind that. Move!” he says.

“What’s happening?” I try to stand and stretch but he takes hold of my thighs, so I can’t.

“They’ll see you!” he says.

I slide off the chair and onto the balcony floor. “Is it the Ministry?”

Ronan shakes his head. “I have no idea who they are. They must have spotted us.”

I suddenly feel less cold. My aching limbs lighten. It must be Quinn and Alina and Sequoia come to save me. “At last, they’re here!” I say, trying to get a glimpse of the road.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t know these people,” he says. “This way.” Reluctantly I slither through the balcony doors behind him and into the restaurant, which is strewn with dozens of chairs like the ones outside. “Stay low,” he says, remaining hunched. We go to a window.

“Do you know them?” he asks. It isn’t easy to see through the grimy window. I rub the glass with my sleeve and put my face to it. Three bearded men dressed in rags are inspecting the station. Each is armed: one with a broken pitchfork, one with a baseball bat, and another with a thick metal pole. And they have bulky solar respirators on their backs. “Drifters,” Ronan says. He pulls out his gun and loads it with a handful of bullets.

“What are you doing? They aren’t monsters.” Certainly not Maude, and not those who Jazz said helped defend The Grove. I grab for Ronan’s gun, but he pushes me away so hard I fall, landing on my arm and twisting it. I groan, but he doesn’t apologize or try to help me up.

“Shh,” he says, finding a broken windowpane and taking aim.

“Give them a chance,” I say. I crawl to the window. The men skirt the station, all the time peering up.

“They look like they’re on their way to a lynching. Don’t be naive, Bea.” The condescension in his voice makes me well up with anger.

“You’ve been out of the pod two seconds and think you know everything. Watch and learn.”

“Where are you going? Come back. Come back.”

I march out of the restaurant, down the staircase, and outside, where I stand by the exit.

I’m about to speak to the men when the one carrying the baseball bat turns his back on the station and shouts. “Oi, Brent, you sure it was this building? I can’t hear nothing.” He shuffles away and leans against a van on the other side of the road.

“Chill your boots, Earl. There’s definitely meat in there. I heard it squalling last night,” Brent says, using his metal pole as a kind of walking stick.

“Yeah, well if there ain’t, maybe I’ll just eat you.”

Brent jabs Earl in the stomach with his pole and cackles. Even from a distance I can see his black teeth.

Earl quickly recovers, and when he does, he bashes Brent’s knees with his baseball bat. “Watch it, or next time I’ll use your head for batting practice.” This doesn’t seem like bravado; I’m sure they’d happily kill one another.

I’ve made a mistake.

I back away from the road and through the station doors, but when I spin around the third man, the one with the pitchfork, is standing staring at me. “Well, well, well. Look at the treat we’ve got here,” he says, and rubs his belly.

I dip to the side as the man swings for me. Luckily he’s half-starved and carrying a solar respirator and isn’t fast enough. I hurtle up the stairs and into the restaurant. “Ronan! Ronan?” I call.

But he’s disappeared.