Rise (11 page)

The girl with freckles grabbed her friend's arm, rooting her in place. “Why would we leave the City? They said they're taking us back to the Schools soon. They said it's safe now.”

“Because they've lied to you,” I said. The girl behind her shifted on her feet. “There are no trade schools. After graduation, the girls in the Schools—girls like you, like my friends—are impregnated and spend years giving birth in that building. They're held there against their will. The King is trying to raise the population numbers any way he can.”

“You're lying,” the girl with the long braid said. But the others looked less certain.

“Have you ever seen the girls who graduated before you? Have they ever come back to say what they're doing inside the City?” I paused. “What if I'm not lying? What will you do once you're back at the School and you realize I was right? What will you do then?”

A girl with tiny black braids got up and slowly started picking through a box below her cot. “Come on, Bette,” she said. “What if she is right? Why would the Princess lie to us?”

I didn't have time to convince them. I went into the hall as a few of the others started packing, whispering to one another. Four of the girls from the room beside us were in there, clutching the knapsacks they'd brought from School. They looked uncertain, some on the verge of tears, others laughing, as if I were accompanying them on some sort of excursion. Beatrice had locked her arm around Sarah's and was standing at the front of the door, watching the corridor behind me. “Take them across the road, to the empty grocery store on the other side,” I told her. “Clara will be there.”

Beatrice peered out the door, watching the narrow street that ran beside us. The water pooled by the cracked curbs, spreading out in vast, murky puddles. The only sound was the rain as it hit the side of the stone building. “Then what?” she asked.

“I'll bring the rest of them as soon as they're ready.” I turned down the hall, toward the stairs, as Beatrice left. I looked up the first long flight. The girls from my School were several floors above, waiting to be brought back to that building across the lake. I had to at least
try
. Didn't I owe them that?

“Quickly,” I said, turning to the girls in the hall. A few more trailed out of the room, thick sweaters pulled over their jumpers. Others filed out behind Beatrice. When I turned back to the stairs I heard it: the quick, constant clomp of boots descending the steps. Two flights up, a female soldier peered over the railing, spotting me, her face tense as she drew her gun.

I started down the hall, pulling the stairwell door shut and rolling a rusted metal cart in front of it to slow her. “Go,” I yelled, gesturing for the girls to follow Beatrice out the side exit. “Now!”

Five of them stood by the door. “You have to trust me,” I yelled, running up behind them. Slowly, the girls started outside and into the rain, holding their bags above their heads as they ran. I followed behind them, urging them to move faster, to weave through the alleyway to the abandoned store, where Beatrice and the others waited, their figures barely visible beneath the ripped awning.

I splashed through the ankle-deep puddles, letting the rain soak me again. When I looked back the soldier was emerging from the side of the building, two more men in tow as they started after us. As soon as I reached the store I sprinted out front, ignoring the sound of the Jeeps as they sped south on the road, toward us, their headlights illuminating the dark.

THERE WAS NO RELIEF FROM THE RAIN. IT CAME FAST AND
hard, pelting my hands, my neck, my face. Streams flooded the Outlands, burrowing into the sand, turning the ground to a thick, heavy sludge. When I glanced back, Clara had pulled off her shoes and was wading, knee-deep, through a puddle. Behind her, the rest of the girls trudged on, nine in all, their jumpers soaked through.

“Hurry now,” Beatrice called out, ushering them along. Her short, gray coat hung heavy on her shoulders, the rain dripping off the hem.

Sarah was yelling to a girl toward the rear of the group who'd stalled. I turned, noticing it was the girl with freckles—Bette. “We can't go to the Schools,” Sarah kept repeating, as she pulled Bette toward the wall. “Beatrice said it, too. It's not safe anymore. You have to just trust them.”

The Jeeps had stopped on the road. As the soldiers climbed out, they were deliberate in their movements, thinking they had time, that we had nowhere to go, the wall just a quarter mile off. I sped up and the girls followed, weaving down one last street until the motel came into view up ahead, the pool filled with a murky gray liquid, the rain rippling its surface.

“We're not going to make it,” Clara said as she ran beside me, her bare feet sinking into the sand. “There's too many of them and there's too many of us.” She swiped the wet hair out of her face.

“Just hurry,” I said as I pulled open the chain gate, the girls filing past me. A few held their bags over their heads, their shoes knotted together, the laces slung over their shoulder. They kept looking to me, then back at the soldiers, as they started toward the front of the motel. “Bring them into the one marked eleven.”

I ducked through the gate, watching as the soldiers started down the road toward us. There were ten of them, maybe more. We only had a few minutes.

When the last girl passed into the room I followed behind her, weaving around a rack of clothes that had been covered with a clear plastic tarp. The room smelled of mildew, the carpet peeling up at the baseboards. Boxes of clothes covered a large chest against the wall, the shirts draped over the sides, arranged by color. The lock was a loose, pathetic thing, but I pulled the chain over the door anyway, sealing it shut.

“It's not here,” Clara yelled, as she opened the closet in the back. Her voice startled the rest of the girls. They pressed against the walls, watching me. “It's the wrong room.”

A mattress was propped against the window, half blocking the view. I pulled back a small sliver of curtain, watching as the soldiers started into the motel's entranceway, working their way down the row of rooms. I moved quickly, dragging the wood chest against the door.

There were wet, muddy footprints all over the carpet, but it was impossible to say if they were ours or not. Another mattress sat at an angle on the floor, one corner of it bent against the wall. I checked the bathroom, the closets, the small space between the dressers. I wondered if I could've read the map incorrectly, or if this wasn't the motel Moss had described.

“They're coming,” Beatrice said, her voice frayed by nerves. She let the curtain drop and began pulling at the mattress, maneuvering it so it covered more of the exposed window.

I stared at the mattress on the floor. Bette was standing on it, her feet sinking down in the center. I watched as she shifted her weight, the thick padding giving beneath her. “Help me move this,” I said. “Quickly. And stack the dresser against the door.”

I signaled to the girls beside me, and they grabbed the musty corners of the pad, sliding it back into the center of the room. A hole appeared in the floor, no more than three feet wide, the carpet cut away around the edges. Clara pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks, a momentary relief, until the first soldier banged on the door. “Go,” I told her, nodding toward it. “I'll meet you out on the other side.”

The room was dark. The sound of rain filled the silence. We could see the soldiers outside, their shadows moving past the thin strip of window that wasn't blocked. Clara lowered herself into the tunnel, her breath sucking in as she let go. “There's water down here,” she said. She turned back, her hands gripping the rim. “It's up to my knees.”

I closed my eyes, wanting a minute to think, but the soldier pounded on the door again. Moss had never told me the exact distance of the tunnel, but I imagined it was the same length as the one in the hangar—no more than a mile. Many of the flood channels had been filled in with concrete after the plague because they were seen as a security threat. The rebels had followed their basic routes, extending them where necessary, but most were much narrower than the originals—no more than five feet across in places, with low ceilings. It was impossible to know how quickly this one would fill, but we'd be in more danger staying here, waiting for the soldiers to come through. “Go quickly,” I said, helping the next girl in. “Just keep moving until you reach the other side.”

“I can't swim,” the girl said, her face tensing as she splashed down into the murky water below. She pulled the hem of her jumper above her knees.

“You don't have to—just move quickly.” I peered into the tunnel, my eyes meeting Clara's before she took off, trudging through the water and into the darkness ahead. One by one the girls lowered themselves into the earth. The soldiers outside worked at the knob, trying to free it. Sarah had moved the second mattress to the door, wedging it behind the wood chest, so it was flush against the wall.

As she worked, pushing the dresser tightly behind it, I saw a flash of what Beatrice must have been like when she was younger. Her short, strong build, the straw-colored hair curled at the nape of her neck. “You should go,” Sarah said, pointing into the tunnel. The last girl lowered herself down, leaving only the three of us. “I'll follow behind you.”

“You will not,” Beatrice said. She put her hand on the girl's arm, pulling her toward me. As she said it, the lock broke. The door pressed against the mattress. The soldier pushed into the room, straining against the stack of furniture. Within seconds the window gave, the shattered glass falling below the curtains.

I leaned over the edge of the tunnel's entrance, watching the last girl move forward, into the dark. I helped Beatrice into the water below. Her skirt bloomed around her, the thin gray fabric floating on the glassy surface. The water had risen—an inch, maybe two.

Sarah lowered herself in behind her mother, gasping as she sank into the cold. “Just keep moving,” I said, calling over Sarah's shoulder as I started inside. I hit the ground, the water nearly up to my hips. When I spread my arms out, both hands grazed the sides of the cavern, the walls pitted and rough where the rebels had chipped away at the concrete. My pants clung to my legs, and the edge of my sweater was heavy with water. My boots filled, anchoring me to the floor.

I could see very little beyond Sarah's back, just hear the sloshing of the water against the walls as the girls pushed through. Somewhere in front of me a girl was crying. “My shoe is stuck,” she yelled. All movement stopped. I could hear her labored breathing as I unzipped my boots, clutching them against my chest. There was whispering, quiet coaxing, and then we began moving again, farther into the blackness.

I glanced behind me, watching the dim light that filtered down from the motel room. Shadows came over the surface of the water. “It's another passageway,” I heard a soldier call out. One jumped in, the water hitting him just below the hips. He waited there, squinting into the dark, trying to figure out just how far away we were.

“Hurry,” I whispered. They were no more than ten yards back. I struggled to pick up my feet, my legs burning from the effort. Each step was strained, the current pushing against us.

We continued on. The group would start, then stop, and I followed along, listening to Sarah somewhere ahead of me, the water splashing up around her as she tried to get traction in it. Occasionally Beatrice asked for her, making sure she was still right there. I let out long, slow breaths, but nothing could keep off the chill or the sick, panicked feeling as the water rose to my ribs.

The soldier wasn't behind us anymore. As far as I could tell he'd stalled at the edge of the tunnel and then turned back, disappearing into the room.
Keep going
, I told myself, feeling my energy draining, my legs numb and tired from the cold.
Just keep moving.
But the water was rising faster, the surface coming up to our chests, and the few girls in front of me struggled to stay afloat.

“It's the end,” I heard Clara say, somewhere ahead. “Up here—just a little farther.” The tunnel widened, the passageway nearly six feet across in places. The rough concrete wall scratched at my skin. I pressed my palm against it, trying to steady myself.

I couldn't tell exactly where Clara was, just that she was a few yards off, past a bend in the corridor. When the water reached our shoulders I struggled to keep hold of my bag and the boots. My clothes, soaked through, were too heavy to move faster than a crawl.

“We have to swim,” I said, trying to keep my chin above water. I could sense that Sarah had fallen behind me. Her legs kicked frantically below the surface. I reached out my hand, pulling her forward, toward the end of the tunnel. “Take the biggest breath you can,” I explained. “Then we'll go under. Use your arms—like this.” I held on to her wrist, pulling it down beneath the water, miming the simple stroke Caleb had shown me months before. In front of us, light filtered in from above. I could just barely see Beatrice floating, pushed forward by the sudden swell. She reached the edge of the tunnel, a set of legs disappearing above her as another girl was pulled out.

I took a deep breath, waiting until Sarah did the same, and we both went under, her fingers squeezed around mine. I kicked furiously, pulling her along in my wake, swimming toward the tunnel's end. My shoulder grazed the tunnel's rough walls, the skin rubbed raw. The rush of water surrounded me.

When I opened my eyes the water was murky. A few bubbles rose up in front of my face. Dim light spread out in a circle above us, just a few feet away, signaling the tunnel's end. When I reached it I stood, but the water had gone above my head, the room somewhere above me. I struggled underwater, hoisting Sarah up with my hands. Voices called out from somewhere beyond the surface, muted and low, like a distant song.