Strikers (7 page)

I’ve never been one of those people who somehow stay all calm and collected under stress. If I’m stressed for too long or too severely, I get snippy with people and eventually, angry and plain short-tempered. It’s a flaw.

“Sorry. Well, it depends…” At my loud sigh he gives me a pleading look and I grit my teeth. I close my eyes and take a breath. When I open them again, he says, “If anyone calls for a soldier, like if a crime happens or something like that, then they’ll notice if no one answers. But if nothing happens, then we should be good until five. That’s when my patrol is supposed to end and I go home.”

That’s good and bad. There’s nothing I can do to prevent anyone calling for soldiers so I can’t waste precious time worrying about that. Since it’s the weekend, cadets will do the morning patrol, which is just a nice way of saying they’ll do gopher duty, fetching things and answering easy calls. With cadets, I can be reasonably sure the morning shift will not be showing up early. All in all, it’s as good as it can get.

Except for the people in the cells. That’s the bad.

“Jovan, I can put you in a cell with the other two, but that won’t stop anyone from finding out you were involved as it stands now.”

My pointed glance at the cells tells the rest of the story and he seems to sag a little. All these prisoners are going to race over each other to barter their freedom for information about what went on in here tonight. I think Jovan had begun to hope he might be able to get away with his ill-advised impulse to help us. Alas, no good deed goes unpunished.

“But,” I say and then stop. I can’t believe I’m about to suggest what I’m going to, but it
is
an option. My mouth is dry so I swallow. There’s not a drop of moisture in my mouth or throat so all that happens is that it hurts and my throat clicks. It’s so horrible I can barely work up the spit to speak the words. “We can either let them go or we can kill them.”

The options lay between us like a bad smell. Those in the cells aren’t going to sit idly by while I discuss ending their very short lives. Most of them will get final adjudication tomorrow and be dead by nightfall, but every hour of life a person can get is all the more precious when they know there are only a few such hours left. They start working themselves up for a loud round of making their preferences known.

I can’t simply hush them so I raise the gun instead and say, “The first one to raise their voice will make my decision for me. I’ll be left with only one option.”

It’s like a soundproof door closes on them it gets quiet so fast. The only sounds are Jovan’s hard breaths and those of the young man with four strikes. And young he is. Cleaned up and without a layer of fine Texas dust marring his features, he’s not much older than I am.

“We…you can’t do that,” Jovan says. His face is flushed. He’s scared and he wants to distance himself from this decision.

“Which one?” I ask.

“Either!” he hisses back at me. “You don’t know
what
any of these guys did, Karas. We don’t even have them identified yet.”

I nod, giving in on that point. He’s right that I don’t know what all they did to earn their strikes and go Striker. For all I know they could be really bad criminals, the dangerous kind. I start walking down the line of cells, looking at the occupants to either side.

They are mostly young, but not all. The woman—and I’m still not completely sure she is one—and the grinning man are the only ones aside from my father who seem to have any real age behind them. What I do see is strikes. Three and four strikes on every single neck. Except the grinning man. He doesn’t have even one.

I stop at his cell and ask, “Where are you from?”

He grins at me, making his creepy scar even creepier, but he answers. “North.”

“Wild lands?”

He nods but doesn’t specify where. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway since all I know of the north is that it is wild and that very bad people live there.

“Smuggler?” I ask.

He nods again but this time he adds, “Mostly medical supplies. I also do regulated trade of some of the electronics overflow for the Tribes.”

This does surprise me. The Tribes inhabit the vast desert west of Texas, over the border, and are the primary conduit for any official trade we have. Not many places outside of Texas will trade with us, but those who do have only one decent path to get it to us—through the Tribe lands. They work those routes for us and extract a pretty percentage for themselves in the bargain. That would mean this ugly man has an official trade business as well as a smuggling route. It seems ludicrous to risk a good living by smuggling when you can do it officially with an assurance of safety.

“Then why smuggle?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you kidding? How much trade do you think you’ve been getting here lately? What do you think you have left to trade with? I’ll tell you in case you don’t know. Not much,” he says, emphasizing the last bit with a shake of his head.

I’m not sure what he means about not having much. We have lots that people want here in Texas. Or, at least I think we do. He seems surprised that I don’t know this for myself when he notes my admittedly blank look. I turn away and shrug. There’s no time to waste. It does explain a lot, though, about the lack of necessary things in the market during the last few years.

“What do you say, Jovan?”

He shakes his head at me, pushing back any attempt I might make to force him to share in this decision.

“Okay, let’s try this,” I say and turn to the other cells. “Is there anyone in this group who thinks there is any other person in this group that they wouldn’t want with them if I let them out.”

The cells are silent and that says volumes. If they’re willing to go out into the dark with each other, with no possibility of help and a long way to travel, then none of them can really be that bad.

“Well, Jovan. This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to let these fine people out and they are going to leave without letting on that you’re in on this.” I turn to the cells and ask them, “Am I right about none of you making a peep?”

Murmurs of assent and nods all around are no less than I expected. Their other choices aren’t grand: death now or death in a day or less. Jovan doesn’t say a word either, so I decide to take that as assent to this very quick plan.

“After that, I’m going to make a big fuss dragging you out there and use you to get those other two in these cells. Then I’m going to make an even bigger fuss by hitting you in the head and locking you in the cell. After that, you will lay there like you are out for the count until the next watch comes in. You can do the rest, can’t you?”

He nods, but tentatively, so I ask him again,” You can do that, right?”

“Yeah, I can figure it out,” he says, sullenly. “Do you really have to hit me? Can’t you just lock me up?”

“It will give you a good reason not to talk. Since we’re good, let’s get started.”

There’s no clock in the cell block so that’s the first thing I look at when I go back out into the reception area. I can hardly believe that less than thirty minutes have passed since the midnight meet-up behind the Justice building. That’s good, but the truth is that even if we get till five in the morning before the alarm is raised, it’s not enough time.

I shove Jovan ahead of me and put him on his knees again, my gun very elaborately on his neck so the soldiers see me do it. Now that he’s playing along, I have to fight the urge to laugh at how badly Jovan plays prisoner. The taller of the two soldiers blanches, his eyes round, so his acting can’t be as bad as it looks to me. The shorter one glares at me like he wouldn’t object to knocking me around a little. I don’t blame him.

I jerk my head to bring my father over and he sidesteps over to me, a steady eye on the two soldiers looking miserable and defiant on the floor. They’re probably wondering how many strikes they’ll get for getting into this mess. I hope they’ll get none.

When he leans in I tell him what I’ve got planned and ask if he thinks all those brought in with him are safe to let go. He considers a second or two and I can see he’s really weighing everything.

“Maybe,” he says but his frown and furrowed brow tell me his answer isn’t as certain as I would like it to be.

He must see my uncertainty because he takes one hand from his gun, shoots a look at the two soldiers to let them know he hasn’t forgotten them, and then squeezes me on the shoulder. It’s a quick gesture, finished almost before I can enjoy it, but no less warm for having been so brief in duration. There’s no way he can know what that simple touch means to me.

“Let’s do it. It’s the best option we have,” he says quietly, and looks back at the soldiers, making ready for the next part of our increasingly elaborate act.

We both know that the danger of being outnumbered by all those in the cells once they’re free is probably the most significant we’ll face in this building at this point. My father moves to the other side of the room, where he can keep the soldiers and the entire path from the cell block to the door in view.

Connor clearly has no idea what’s going on and he still has the keys. I wave him over once I know my Dad is in position and ready, Maddix at his side. I give him the short version and I can feel the arguments welling up inside him, ready to come out. Connor is a thinker and he’s probably found about a million reasons why this won’t work. I’m pretty sure he’s about to list them all for me.

We don’t have time to argue and I tell him so before he has a chance to launch into anything that will give us away. Connor doesn’t feel good about it, I can tell that, but he trusts me. He jingles the keys and then goes, his feet light on the tile floor in typical Connor fashion.

The first to come out are the maybe-woman and the young four-striker I spoke with first.

“Where’s our stuff?” asks the person I’m now positive is a woman. Her voice was rough and harsh in the cell block when she spoke in whispers. Now that she’s speaking in a regular tone it’s clear and low, but very feminine. She has the voice of a singer.

Her question throws me and I look at my father.

“We need it,” she urges. She’s right. It’s cold at night and there’s a whole lot of dry, nearly barren, land between them and freedom.

My father waves the barrel of his gun at the two soldiers and demands, “Well? Where is it?”

The taller soldier, the one who’s been most compliant, answers. “It’s in the property vault.” He looks at us, realizing what we’ll ask next and adds, “We can’t get in there and unless you’ve got a whole slew of keys for the doors between here and there, you won’t get in either. Only supervisors have access.”

We can’t set them loose to steal or bring attention to themselves, but I’m not sure anyone can actually survive out there without a coat and some water at the very least. Then I see the two coats on the hooks by the door and jerk my chin that direction, “Take those and go. Fast. There aren’t enough for everyone.”

They don’t waste time after that. One quick grim smile of thanks from the boy and they’re out the door.

The next two are mad they can’t get their stuff, but leave quickly enough. I go in and make the announcement before the next round, hoping we can get a move on if they don’t waste time deciding if they’re going to strip the soldiers naked for their clothes. Before the minute hand on the clock has moved from one number to the next, the last six prisoners are gone and the room is chilly from the constantly opening door.

Connor comes out, keys in hand, and says, “We’re ready for them.”

The soldiers get marched into two opposing cells and I step back while my father and Maddix strip the soldiers of their boots and trousers. Even their socks come off and fly out of the cells like little bats.

When it comes time for the shirts, they are careful, unlocking one handcuff, ripping off the shirt, and then cuffing the soldier to the bars of his cell. It takes mere moments before they are finished and the cell doors locked. While I have no real need of their clothes, at least not that I know of, Maddix made the excellent point that we don’t have a lot extra and it’s cold outside. So, down to the underclothes they go. Except Jovan. I just can’t go there.

Now comes the hard part. Jovan is the last person I’d want to hit but if I don’t, his life is going to change for the worse. Depending on how things go, it might even end. I have no choice in the matter. It’s one of the most unlikely things I could ever have imagined doing.

But I have to. Just the way his eyes search mine, full of encouragement, is making me hate myself just a little. I wish he’d close those eyes and just let me get to it.

I push him into a cell well away from the others and tell him to get back to his knees. He obliges, turning his back to me. Even the little hairs near the top of his neck, where his closely cropped hair fades into his tan skin, seem to want to stay my hand and invite me instead to brush my hand along them instead of hit him.

Just as I raise my arm, my father says, “Karas, try this instead.” He slides a nightstick he’s taken from the soldiers my way and it rattles across the floor toward my feet.

“Less chance of breaking the gun,” he adds and it takes me a moment to decide if he’s actually joking with me at a time like this. I want to ask him to do it for me. But this is Jovan, and I don’t think I could bear watching anyone else do him harm. Plus, I’ve got to pull the blow so as not to hurt him too badly.

I shake my head at the bad joke and grab the stick. It’s more comfortable to me, less alien than the gun. I know better how to heft and control the simple piece of hard wood. When I look at my father, he quirks one of his eyebrows up as if to tell me he understands, but wants me to get on with it.

One of the soldiers pipes up and says, “Don’t do it. You’ll kill him. Please.”

His plea is more for himself because he’s just a regular soldier and worth less than nothing if Jovan dies. They can’t see us well in the dim light, but their imaginations are probably more than making up for that.

I pull back the stick exactly as I do when I’m going after a raccoon running loose in the garden. When I let the stick come down, I realize I’m not holding back enough a fraction of a second after it’s too late to fix it. I meant for it to be a tap, something he could point to and show a nice lump but not really hurt him. Him pretending to be out—maybe taking an actual nap—was the goal. The sound of the impact, dull but wrong, is loud in the room and the soldier who spoke lets out a groan.