Infraction (4 page)

I hear water up ahead. If we're lucky, it'll be a
river and we'll be able to swim across—maybe even float
downstream—before the soldiers can even take off all the gear they
can't get wet. I pray it's a river. With the way we've run up
against trouble the past few days, we could use a break.

Just as the pebbly, mossy bank comes into view,
another soldier jumps out from the brush and we turn to the left.
It feels all wrong, the soldiers jumping at us, driving us away.
Part of me has already figured this out and knows something's not
right, but I'm an animal now, all instinct to get away from the
enemy that would have me as its prey. There's nowhere else to go.
The soldiers press in on all sides, and Jack and I are herded back
toward the road.

The darkness fades as more light shines through the
trees ahead of us. My lungs burn as I run toward the light wavering
through the trees. I'm not going to like what the light leads me
to, but running is all I can do.

When I burst through the trees and out of the
darkness, two trucks with tall sides and lots of wheels wait for
us. There are also a dozen soldiers all with their guns pointed at
our heads. I immediately throw my hands to the air, my legs
wobbling underneath me. We walked right into their trap.

“It should have been broken up,” Jack whispers. I
look at him and raise my eyebrows.

“Silence!” One of the soldiers turns toward us.

“If it had been an abandoned road, it wouldn't have
been so well maintained.”

That explains the alarms that had gone off in my
head, why I knew immediately that something wasn't right. I keep
telling myself I'll figure these things out the longer I'm on the
Burn, that these obvious things will make sense. Some consolation
that is right now.

One of the trucks faces away from us, its headlights
shining into the distance, offering faint illumination in the
clearing. All the soldiers are dim silhouettes against the light.
From behind the line of soldiers, a short man in a charcoal suit
and black tie steps out. An agent. They all wear those immaculate
suits. He motions quickly with his right hand, and two soldiers
step forward—one at me and one at Jack. They flick their guns
quickly to the left, and we step that way toward the other
truck.

“Stop!” one of the soldiers barks. The soldier uses
an iron hand to force me to my knees. “Hands behind your head!” he
snaps. I thread my fingers behind my head and he clamps metal
around both my wrists. He trains his gun on me.

I close my eyes, seeing nothing but red nightmares.
Nightmares of firelight flickering over trees, of a circle of us
gathered at mealtime. Of the stranger that steps through that
circle, and brings nothing but terror with him. Of the way the gun
feels in my hand when it discharges. The soldiers' guns bring on
the nightmares. I can't ever look at a gun or even think of one
without the visions of blood coming back. I even think I smell
gunpowder on my hands. It's all too real how much destruction I
alone have caused with one of them. I want the soldier and his gun
as far away from me as possible, but I can't move. I can only kneel
here on the ground like I'm bowing before the agent in reverence.
The bile rises in my throat.

The agent puts something in his mouth. Then his eyes
flash as the other truck's lights turn on, and I'm suddenly
blinded. I turn my head. When I force my eyes open again, the agent
has stepped forward. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he
studies Jack and me. His breath comes out in shallow puffs, hang
there a moment in the cold, and then melt away. I don't want to
look at him—I don't want him studying me, prying into my brain with
his sharp eyes—but I can't turn away.

“Nomads,” he says with a smile. “It's a good night
for nomads.”

I don't know what that means, but the way he says it
sends shivers over me.

“The cities were set up to protect the citizens of
New America. And while most citizens do follow the laws, I'm always
amazed at the number of nomads just wandering through the
wilderness as if you don't want the government's protection. Or
don't trust us.”

I try to keep my face neutral, but I blink. My eyes
are too dry.

His smile widens, baring glistening teeth. “Hmm.
Trust is always an issue. I shouldn't tell you this, of course, but
seeing as you have no future left, I think it's safe. The trust is
what we're working on.” He leans down lower, and I can smell mint
candy on his breath. “You'll be a good girl and help us with that.”
He reaches for me, and I turn my head. He chuckles and pats my
cheek.

I've only seen an agent one other time, at the med
drop, and that woman was a kitten compared to this man.

“Into the trucks with them,” he growls.

The soldiers spring at us. One grabs my arms and
wrenches me to my feet. My shoulders blaze with pain, and I bite
back a whimper. The soldiers and that agent will get no
satisfaction from hearing me cry. My only consolation is that Jack
is still with me, and the soldiers thrust us into the truck
together.

We stumble inside, and I fall to the floor of the
truck, my cheek scraped up against hard metal. Murmurs fill my
ears.

“Get up before you get us all in trouble.”

“Are you okay?”

“Don't look at them.”

“Get up!”

“It's them,” a voice hisses.

My heart stops when I hear that voice. It belongs to
one of the nomads who searched for us last night. I let my black
hair fall between my face and the voice, willing myself to become
invisible. Jack stumbles behind me. I hope he hasn't made eye
contact.

A soldier nudges me with the toe of his boot, and I
get up. He shoves me onto a bench. The heavy back doors of the
truck creak closed, and then the engine roars to life. I'm wedged
between two women—all the men line the other side of the truck—and
my arms are cramped and aching behind my back. In the faint light
from the lamp at the roof of the truck, I see that some of the
women's faces are damp with tears, and everyone's faces are stony.
Maybe they've moved past sorrow on to something else entirely,
something that makes them look not quite human. Maybe it helps them
feel not quite alive. It could help. I suspect we're on our way to
a labor camp, and from what I've heard, I'd rather be numb to it as
well.

The truck lurches as it finds its way back onto the
road Jack and I followed. I bump shoulders with those around me,
but I don't talk. I feel the eyes on me, the vicious stares of the
nomads who hunted us. Fortunately, Jack sits three men down from
them. There is one soldier just behind the cab of the truck and two
soldiers by the doors. If those nomads try anything, I'd like to
think the soldiers could stop them. I close my eyes, though,
because the thought crosses my mind: why would they even care?

I sit that way, with my eyes closed, not wanting to
see the people around me, not wanting to see the soldiers' guns.
Then closing my eyes brings on all kinds of new horrors: what the
soldiers look like when they take their masks off. Do they have
human faces, or are they like the fish that live at the bottom of
the ocean floor—colorless eyes, gaping mouths with long, spiny
teeth? Sometimes seeing the truth is better than what I'm able to
dream up.

When I open my eyes, the nomads are watching me. Who
knows where our packs are, the ones the nomads took. Searched
probably, but then just left wherever the nomads were picked up?
Discarded as common garbage? Jessa's letter is out there somewhere,
my last physical reminder of my sister and my past life. Like a
relic, I guess. I don't think I'll ever find it again. I have the
most important parts memorized, however, and that will never be
taken from me.

I just wish you would have told me so that I could
understand. I want to understand. I love you.

Would Jessa understand
this
? That my dream was
to come here, and now I'm being taken by these men and shipped off
as a slave? No, she wouldn't have and neither do I. Yes, the colony
has flaws, but they treat people humanely. Not everyone saw the
colony as the prison I did. I glance at Jack. His head hangs from
his shoulders and bobs with the motion of the truck. He looks
inconsolable. People like Jack belong in the colony; people who are
too gentle for this world. People like Nell. They deserve to be
taken there and given a chance at a different life. But that will
never happen. As far as I know, I am the only colonist on the Burn,
and if I'm in a labor camp, no one will ever find the colony.
Hopeless as it may be, though, a small fire flares in my heart. If
only I could take a handful of these people to the colony and offer
them a chance at peace and rest.

The first light of dawn filters in through the
windows on the doors of the truck. The woman next to me slumps, and
her head dips down to touch my shoulder. She jerks awake and
refuses to look at me. Even the soldiers look exhausted. I wonder
when they last slept. How long have they been out rounding us up
and shoving us around?

When Jack's eyes meet mine, they are red-rimmed and
wide. Somehow, we both know we're close to our destination, and we
both know we won't like it.

Through the truck's back windows, I see nothing but a
twist of road banked by trees. Then a chain-link fence topped with
coils of barbed wire crops up behind us. Two soldiers flank the
gate we drive through, and they swing it closed, locking it tight.
The paved road gives way to dirt, gravel, and dust curling behind
us. I can't see anything more.

The truck stops, forcing us all toward the soldier at
the front, and we shy away from him, unwilling to get any closer.
The woman next to me flicks her eyes at mine for just a moment as I
back away from the front of the truck, and her look chills me. Her
eyes are nothing more than hollow pools in the dim light. It's like
there's nothing inside her.

Voices start up outside. They're muffled, so I can't
hear everything, but I hear enough.

“How many?”

“Fifteen.”

“Males?”

“Six.”

“Nine females?”

“Correct, sir.”

“Children?”

“None, sir.”

Then the first voice says something that sounds like
“Detox,” and I brace myself against the side of the truck. We're
crammed too close and the smell is awful, but here I feel almost
safe compared to what could be out there.

The truck doors swing open, and I squint into the
morning sunlight. The soldiers prod us out with the ends of their
guns, and I stumble over myself and the others around me. Rough
hands grab my arms and lift me out of the back of the truck and set
me on the ground. Finally I blink my eyes open and look around. I'm
in some kind of compound. Three concrete buildings form a square
with the gate behind me. They surround a large patch of grass, and
the whole compound is riddled with fencing and barbed wire. A line
of fencing runs down the center of the grassy area almost to where
we stand. Guard towers fill each corner of the square, and soldiers
patrol the perimeter of the fence. Besides this small ragtag group
of nomads and the soldiers, I can't see anyone else. The sky is
perfectly blue overhead—not a cloud in sight—and it's too beautiful
a day for where we are.

I look around for Jack. I lost sight of him when the
truck doors opened, and I feel like I've lost my anchor when I
can't see him.

There he is in the small line of six men. He's the
youngest, and the oldest is probably sixty. The older man makes me
think of Red, and I pray that he and Nell are still at the
settlement and safe from the world. Jack keeps his eyes trained on
the ground, but the nomad who was hunting us the night before last
stares hard at him. I will him to look away, to ignore Jack, but he
doesn't.

Then there's an agent in front of me, and she flicks
my face with her thumb and forefinger. It stings fiercely, and I
put a hand to my cheek.

“Hand down.”

I drop my arm to my side.

“Eyes down.”

I study the scraggly grass by her shiny patent
pumps.

“You women will be taken to detox. You will shower
and be treated for any communicable diseases. This is for your own
safety as well as the safety of the others here. If you had been
law-abiding citizens and followed the protocol to live within
sanctioned cities, these measures would not need to be taken.
Follow me.”

As she turns, I look up. A male agent approaches the
men. Where will they go?

The woman next to me nods toward them. “What about
the men?”

The agent leading us stops, and the grass quivers
under her feet. She doesn't even look back as she speaks. “You are
not allowed to speak unless it is requested. Another infraction
like this and you will be punished.”

Then she resumes her pace, and we follow dumbly
behind her. A soldier marches behind us. My cheek burns where the
agent flicked me, and I wonder who is worse—the agent we follow or
the soldier with his gun.

The agent leads us to the concrete building on the
right, and I glance sideways and see the men have gone to the
building on the left. My stomach sinks as Jack disappears into the
doorway. How much of him do I remember, and will memories be all I
have now?

We pass through the doors, and the smell of bleach,
soap, and antiseptic burns my nostrils. The floors and walls are
all tile, and we stop before a window set into the wall. An old
woman stands there, and she looks more tired than anyone else I've
ever seen in my life. Her thin, gray hair is loosely pulled back,
and limp strands hang down around her face.

“This is Worker 143,” the agent says, barely
acknowledging the old woman. “If you show model behavior, you will
be rewarded with positions like this one. Worker 143 is very happy
here, aren't you?”

The old woman's gaze never wavers from the one
discolored tile on the wall. Her eyes are dull, her hair is dull,
and her skin is dull. She could never pass as happy.