scattered among the debris; animal or human, it’s hard to tell. In the distance are folds of hoary, barren fields.
I used to think that if I traveled far enough and walked quickly enough, I’d find a cluster of untouched trees. It was a fantasy, and a childish one; beyond the city’s devastation is more devastation. It just happens to be of the rural variety.
“What if they won’t let us in?” Bruce wonders aloud.
“Do you have a better idea?” Silas snaps. His mood has been increasingly prickly.
“Take it easy.” I place a hand on Silas’s arm. He flinches and kicks the wheel of a rotten baby stroller, which spins and squeaks. Then he storms ahead, carrying a bag of guns, a full backpack of supplies, and several airtanks. Part of me wishes we could talk about what’s happened. Everything we’ve seen. But it’s too soon, and Silas isn’t one for talking anyway.
“People who go to Sequoia never come back,” Song says, turning to me, his voice as gentle as ash.
“Petra didn’t want defectors. If you went to Sequoia, you had to go for good. You had to choose a team,” Dorian reminds him.
Song bites his bottom lip and I stop to look at the sky. The sun is up, but thick, white clouds make it impossible to locate. I sigh and try to wiggle my toes. I still can’t feel them.
“Hurry up,” Maude says, pushing me from behind. “I’m freezing my berries off ’ere!” Bruce smiles and links her arm through his.
“They’ll let us in because we’re all on the same team,” I say loudly, so Silas can hear. “We all want the trees back. We all want to breathe again.” He doesn’t turn around or stop walking. Maybe he doesn’t hear me, but I don’t think that’s it.
“You’re a drifter now. No better than me,” Maude says. She laughs. No one else does. And a thread of fear trickles through me.
We rest only once, at dusk, when we find a stranded bus along a stretch of open road, frozen scrub poking through the cracks in the tarmac. We climb aboard, the vehicle creaking under our weight, and I choose a spot at the back where I throw off my backpack. Then I check the gauge on my airtank. A little over a quarter tank of oxygen remaining. Maybe I should ask Silas for the particulars on our air supply as he’s the one carrying the spare tanks, but if we don’t have enough air, I’d rather not know.
I’m too tired to care that the bus seat is stippled black with mold. If it kills me, it kills me. I lie down and curl up, my airtank between my legs.
Maude has chosen a row behind me and hacks until she spits up.
I close my eyes and wait for sleep to creep toward me. Maude is restless. She bangs the back of my seat. “Oi, you,” she croaks. I sit up. Everyone else is already lying down, only their feet poking off the edges of their seats visible. “You reckon Bea’s okay?” she asks, frowning.
“I know as much as you do.” General Caffrey only retreated from The Grove because fighting broke out in the pod. I wish I could be certain Bea was nowhere near it. Or Quinn. Is it possible that their return and the civil war were completely unrelated?
“You lied,” Maude grumbles. “I only rounded up all them drifters to help yous fight ’cuz I thought Bea would be in trouble if I didn’t. That were a dirty trick.” She points a finger at me, the nail broken and black.
“Technically, Petra lied to you,” I say. Then I add, “Bea’s tougher than she looks.”
“She’s ain’t the sort you meet everyday, tha’s for certain. A real doll.” She studies the cracked window.
This is the closest we’ve ever come to a real conversation. “Get some sleep, Maude,” I say, using what I think is a kind voice.
Maude glares at me anyway. “You ain’t my boss, missy. I’ll do what I bloody well like.”
“Well, I’m going to rest.” I turn away and curl up into the seat again. After a minute I hear Maude lie down, too.
I listen to the others snoring and try to picture something calming to help me sleep, but all I can see is Holly’s face as she let go of the railings. And then Abel’s face is next to her in the water. They are both being swallowed by waves. This wasn’t how it happened for him, of course; the Ministry murdered him. Probably turned him out of the pod without an airtank.
It’s been days since I thought about Abel, but now all the guilt and shame about his death steal back in: how he was only on that mission in the pod because I wanted to spend time with him; how I was too stubborn to abandon it even though he begged me to. He probably lied to me about who he was, but it doesn’t change the fact that I cared about him. And because I did, he’s dead.
I tuck my knees up under my chin. I feel so cold. Colder than ever before.
8
RONAN
I’m leaving the pod in less than an hour and I haven’t even packed. Instead, I’m in my studio smearing thick black and white swaths of paint across a board. It doesn’t look like much—just a choked monochromatic muddle.
I thought that coming up here would help me figure out how I was going to get out of this bullshit mission, but all I have to show for the mulling it over are the paintings—no solution at all.
I’m not scared of The Outlands: We’re all being kitted out with enough food, air, and medical supplies to last a month, and no half-starved drifter would be a match for me. But to hell with gathering information on so- called terrorists for the Ministry and Jude Caffrey, just so they can cut down innocent people. And I’d refuse to go if it wasn’t putting Niamh at risk—I’m all she has left.
I go to the sink and wash the brushes. Then I take one last look at the painting, what will probably turn into a devastated soccer stadium, and lock the studio door.
Once I’m ready to go, I meet Niamh by the front door. “When will you be back? I’m worried,” she says. I can’t remember the last time she’s said anything remotely affectionate, and it makes me gulp.
“When I kill the bad guys, I suppose,” I lie. I’m not killing anyone.
Anyone else.
I’m going to get out there and find somewhere to hunker down long enough that it seems like I tried, even though I’ll return empty-handed. If I do happen to find anyone, I’ll warn them.
“You will be back though,” Niamh says.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, and heave my bulging backpack up over my shoulders.
“Be careful, you big asshole,” Niamh says. She leans in and kisses me awkwardly on the cheek. Her lips are dry.
I laugh. “You be careful,” I reply, and without doing anything else that might trigger more emotion in either of us, head for the waiting buggy.
Jude Caffrey is standing next to the press secretary at the border. He raises his hand. I pretend I don’t see him and make my way to the gates where the rest of my unit is waiting. I have no intention of buddying up with him when he’s spent his life lying and embroiling his soldiers in the Ministry’s lies.
Robyn, the youngest member of the Special Forces, smiles as I approach. “Sorry about your dad,” she says.
“Thanks.” I pause. “We’ve all been rounded up, huh?”
“Everyone.” She stands back, so I can see the others. Mary, Rick, Nina, and Johnny all turn my way and wave. I raise a hand in greeting. “First time a junior unit’s been sent out alone. We heard you offered us up,” Robyn says. She pulls her thick ponytail tight.
“What? No.” I sound more defensive than I mean to.
“Are we even ready to go out again?” Robyn asks. She looks at me askance, and I think what she means is,
Rick comes forward. He’s eighteen but looks thirty. “Nice one, dude. I was bored to death at home. Kept
