“Hurry up,” Twenty-two snaps. “They’re coming.”
The crash. The Secret Service chasing us. We need to keep moving. I push up from the seat and take the hand that Wes offers me. Both of my shoes are on again; he must have slipped the other one back on my foot while I was unconscious. He pulls me out of the car. My leg is not as bad as I first thought; it only throbs a little when I put my weight on it.
“The woods,” Wes says. “We can lose them there.”
There’s a car flipped over across from us, dark and silent, and from somewhere behind the semitruck, orange flames throw black, tar-like smoke up in the air. I can’t find any agents, but a small group of civilians stands near the side of the road. Their hands are pressed to their mouths, their bodies turned toward each other. They have seen everything with their I-units, which means the rest of the Secret Service won’t be far behind.
“We need to move quickly.” Twenty-two walks away, her strides long for her small body, her ragged dress hanging from her shoulders. The three of us follow. Wes easily matches her quick steps, and soon they are almost running, their heads tucked low as they cross the dirt-packed breakdown lane—a remnant of the old highway—and enter a short patch of grass that separates the road from the forest up ahead.
Tim and I run too, but we are slower, and I limp stiffly while he never lets go of his elbow. The pale skin of his arm has turned dark with blood and I wonder how badly he’s injured, if maybe we should stop. But behind us I can still hear the crackling of the fire. It is only a matter of minutes before backup arrives.
The grass around us is high, brushing against the shreds of my gown. It smells like turned-over earth and new leaves, almost erasing the heavy metallic smoke that coats my nose, my throat.
“There’s another car coming,” Tim whispers, panting around the words. My ears ache from the crash, the gunshots, the screaming wind, and I barely hear him. “It’s getting closer. Can’t you hear the engine?”
“Not yet.” I jog a little faster. “They won’t stop looking for us. Wes is right; the only way we’ll have a shot is if we can disappear into the woods.”
“The Project will find us first.” Tim moves until he’s running next to me, until we’re pushing through the long grass side by side. “They’ll track us using our chips. We won’t be out here for long.”
I bite my lip, not answering, not wanting him to hear the doubt in my voice. Walker may have gone on and on about my destiny, but if Sardosky is dead, that means I’ve already fulfilled it. I don’t trust the Project not to leave us out here, four more casualties of the mission.
In front of us, Wes and Twenty-two are two hunched figures, their heads tucked low. Despite the moonlight overhead, the fire at our backs, I cannot make out the details of their bodies, and when the forest claims their shadows, I force myself to move faster, to fight my way to the hollow safety of the woods.
The trees around us are top-heavy pines that stretch six feet before their branches start. I walk the way the Project taught me: on the balls of my feet, bringing my weight forward and putting almost no pressure on the ground. It is easy to be silent here, with this carpet of pine needles beneath us and almost no underbrush to crush or snap.
We walk and walk, not talking, not slowing. We are pacing ourselves, moving quickly but not running, always aware of who is hunting us. Sometimes we can hear them—the faraway bark of a dog, a shout carried on the wind.
The thick boughs of green create a canopy overhead, blocking any moonlight that might slip down through the leaves. Wes leads our way, ducking under low-hanging branches, moving us north and east, toward the ocean. Twenty-two follows directly behind, her back straight, her shorter legs quickly scrambling over a fallen branch, around a large boulder. They never seem to tire, never seem to fade. Tim and I keep up, but barely. I hear him stumble behind me, know that he is still clutching his arm to his chest, face white as the blood continues to seep. I push myself forward, refusing to think about water or food or rest. The fire in my leg has turned to lava, hot and boiling under my skin.
When the light is starting to streak gray and watery through the pines, Wes finally slows. It has been hours since we heard any noise from behind us, and there are only the sounds of the forest—birds singing to each other from across the treetops, the rustling of the needles in the wind. A while back we found a small stream and crossed it several times, my sandaled feet sinking into the cold water. The fragile satin of my shoes is still not dry, but it was enough to fool the dogs, to put a few miles between us and them.
“Up ahead,” Wes says. “Through the trees.”
I look where he’s pointing and see a barn, one side caved partway in, the roof slanted down, the red color faded and worn. A house once stood nearby, but there is only the foundation left, a slab of concrete already crumbling at the corners.
“We can rest,” I whisper.
“No.” Twenty-two sounds almost angry, so different from her usual blankness. “We’ll be too exposed. We need to keep moving.”
“We can’t keep going on like this. You and I are in gowns. Someone needs to bandage Ti—Thirty-one’s wound. And we need food.”
“Someone owns this.” She puts her hands on her hips. Her skin is flecked with dried blood, and I see tiny cuts where the glass bit into her. “What if they come back?”
“Anyone who used to live
