The Capture (15 page)

Woe to the vanquished.

—
T
ITUS
L
IVIUS
(
L
IVY
)

T
HERE
'
S NO POINT FIGHTING
back. Slowly, they raise their arms in surrender. The Skull People take their weapons and lash their wrists together. No one says a word.

It's early evening when their captors lead them single file along the edge of the bluff—no doubt looking for a spot where they can toss the Sisters and Less Thans over the edge, their corpses to be swept away by the swelling current.

But then the leader of the hunting party—the man who raised his arm at the edge of the cornfield—reaches a notch in the cliff . . . and disappears. The Skull Person behind him does too. And the one after that. Hope can't understand it.

Only when they stand at the very edge of the precipice do they see the steep trail that cuts into the cliff, the rocks forming a crude stairway. They creep down the incline, rocks skittering beneath their feet and sailing into the airy abyss.

It's another fifteen minutes before they reach a small ledge, obscured by scraggly pines.
This is it,
Hope thinks.
Time to be thrown to our deaths.

Suddenly, with a mechanical
whir
, a portion of the rock face recedes, revealing a dark opening into a cave. The leader ducks his head and steps inside. As soon as the rest of them follow, the door shuts with an irrevocable
clunk
.

Hope expects to see scattered bones and rotting carcasses, but it's not like that at all. The path is paved, well tended to, with a series of torches and sconces built into the rock.

Before Hope knows it, they step into an enormous cavern, the ceiling a good thirty feet above them. And there are people everywhere! Men and women, pushing carts and pulling wagons, trading goods and carrying baskets. All this directly beneath the cornfield!

“Welcome to the Compound,” the leader says flatly.

He removes his animal skull and hangs it on a peg. He is an older man, balding, with wrinkles etching his face. Despite his age, his body is taut and sinewy—not an ounce of fat on him. Without his head covering, he seems less a devil and more just a middle-aged man.
Not so different from her own father.

The prisoners are ushered into one of the side tunnels, and then another tunnel after that. People stop and stare as they trudge past.

Hope is equally curious about them. Unlike the Brown Shirts, they span a range of skin colors and body types. Their clothing, too, runs the spectrum: everything from ragged pants and shirts to animal hides to undyed wool garments with rope belts.

A bell sounds, twice—a harsh, high-pitched clang that nearly makes her jump. The Skull People come to a stop and wait, and a moment later she hears a faraway explosion. The bell clangs a final time, and the Skull People resume their activities as if there's been no interruption whatsoever.

What's going on here?
Hope wonders.

Her ears are still ringing when they round a bend. There before them, at the tunnel's end, are two jail cells constructed of rebar and scrap metal. They're at right angles to each other, and the five Less Thans and Argos are put in one cell; the three Sisters in the other.

The hunting-party leader twists the key in the boys' lock until it clicks shut. He does the same with the Sisters' cell.

“I'd get some sleep if I were you,” he says. “Tomorrow's your trial before the Council of Ten.”

“Our
trial
?” Hope asks. “It was just a few ears of
corn. We can pay you back.”

The leader shakes his head. “We don't really care about the corn.”

Hope shares a confused glance with her friends. “Then I don't get it. Why're we on trial?”

“Spying for the enemy.” He turns, and the Skull People walk away.

There are piles of blankets in each cell, and the prisoners go about creating beds, everyone too stunned to speak. Even after the others have gone to sleep, Hope lies there, her mind racing. If she'd just stayed back at Dodge's Log Lodges, she wouldn't be in this mess. She'd be safe and sound.

She absently fingers the locket around her neck—the so-called good-luck charm. Little good it's done her. The only luck it's brought her is bad.

Hope pushes up from the cold, damp floor and shuffles to the front of the cell. She leans against the bars. The metal is cool to the touch.

To her surprise, Book is awake as well, leaning against the bars of his cell.

“You think they'll find us guilty?” he asks, his voice a whisper.

She shrugs. The fact is, nothing much surprises her anymore.

“It's ludicrous, isn't it?” Book goes on. “I mean, who would we be spying for? Not the Brown Shirts. Or the
Crazies. Or the
Hunters
.”

With each name, Hope remembers all they've gone through. They've already faced so much adversity—so much
tragedy
. So it's a wonder when a smile tickles the corner of her mouth. She tries to conceal it, but Book notices.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.” Even as she turns away, the smile grows.

“No, what?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

She finally gives in. “I was just thinking . . . of what you said when we found you in the cornfield. ‘You're here.'”

A flush of red creeps up Book's neck. “You're not supposed to remember that.”

“Why not? It was cute.”

“It was stupid. I couldn't think of anything else to say.” He grins in embarrassment.

“Well, I thought it was cute.” A short silence follows. The only sound is the candle's guttering flame. Then Hope says, “‘You're here'?”

They share a smile—for maybe only the second time, as far as Hope can remember—and to her, there's something about the exchange as intimate as a kiss. She feels her cheeks warm. “Do
you
think they'll find us guilty?” she asks.

“All I know about the Skull People is they're the sworn enemies of the Republic. If the government's for something, they're against it.”

“So maybe the Skull People will be on our side.” Even as she says it, she knows that's unlikely. Why would
anyone
be on their side?

Dr. Gallingham and Chancellor Maddox certainly aren't. Her mind flashes back to their secret meeting on the country road. All Hope knows for sure is that if those two are working together, it can't be good.

Standing there, Hope contemplates their future. Their
bleak
future. Book's voice breaks her reverie.

“I just want you to know I'm sorry about our argument,” he says. “I'm sorry I broke your promise and went into the infirmary. And most of all, I'm sorry about your sister. I can't even imagine . . .”

Hope has to turn her face away to hide the tears welling up. She gives a hasty nod as a fat tear rolls down her cheek.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

Neither speaks. The flame sputters in its sconce.

“You said you needed to go back to your childhood home,” Book says, breaking the silence. “Why?”

“Wouldn't anyone want to visit the place where they grew up?”

“Sure. But something tells me there's more to it than that.”

He's right, of course. Book always sees through her. She lets out a deep breath and tells him what happened: how when she was six years old, the soldiers came and killed her mother. How Hope and Faith survived only because they hid inside a log for two days straight. How she's never been back since.

“So you never got a chance to bury her,” Book says.

“We couldn't—not then. My dad did, later on. He went back on his own.” She pauses. “He never talked about it.”

“So . . . you were going to visit her grave.”

She nods as the tears roll down her face.

“I'm sorry,” Book says. “And I'm sorry I didn't trust you.”

She wants to respond, but the lump in her throat won't let her. She can't define what it is that gets to her—thinking of her mother or Book's apology or the fact that he
understands
what she's going through—so instead of talking, she pokes her hand through the grid of rebar, fingers extended. Book does the same. Because they're not standing in the very corners of their cells, their hands fall short of each other. But by pressing themselves against the bars and reaching forward, they are able to get their fingertips to brush against each other. No kiss, no squeeze of a hand, just the simple touch of fingertips. Skin against skin.

“Can I ask you something?” Book says.

“Of course.”

“Based on where you and Cat were looking, I'm guessing your home was somewhere near the eastern edge of the territory, is that right?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“So why didn't your family ever cross into the Heartland? You were so close.”

Hope hesitates before answering. Book's question is something she's thought about before, many times, but she has no definitive answer.

“I think he didn't want to give up on this territory,” she says at last. “Even though we were being chased, as long as we were here, he thought he could maybe do some good.” At least, that's what she hopes the answer is. She still can't shake Dr. Gallingham's referring to her father as the Butcher of the West.

Standing there, relishing the touch of Book's fingers against her own, sensing his genuine concern, Hope has a sudden urge to express herself—to let Book know what she feels for him. She knows it would be the most courageous thing she's ever done. Far braver than fighting soldiers or digging tunnels.
She needs to tell him.

Flush appears before she gets the chance.

“What's going on?” he asks, stepping to Book's side.

Hope jerks her hand away.

“Um, couldn't sleep,” Book says.

“Me either,” Hope blurts out, feeling a sudden blush creeping up her face.

Before they know it, nearly all of the Less Thans and Sisters are at the front of each cell, talking in hushed voices. Although their conversation focuses on the next day's trial, Hope can think of little else than the touch of Book's outstretched hand. The feel of it warms her still.

But whether she'll ever get the courage to actually tell him how she feels is something she doesn't yet know.

Breakfast is a feast: bread, hard-boiled eggs, slices of ham, plump strawberries, cold milk. Hope is savoring every delicious bite of it when she suddenly recalls something her father once told her, that convicts about to be executed were always given a big final meal. She pushes her plate away.

When the Skull People arrive, Hope barely recognizes them. They wear no animal skulls atop their heads. No streaks of color adorn their faces. Their clothes are less shredded and torn. More like togas and jeans and wrinkled khakis. They appear almost . . . normal. Whatever normal is in this post-Omega world.

As Hope and the others are exiting the cells, the leader—the same one who did the talking the day before—points a bony finger at Argos. “He stays.”

Argos looks at his friends with pleading eyes and whimpers softly. “Sorry, boy,” Book says. “We'll be back.”

But whether that is true or not, Hope honestly doesn't know.

The guards slip bandannas around the prisoners' eyes and escort them through a maze of tunnels. When they come to a stop and the blindfolds are removed, they find themselves in an enormous chamber, far more massive than the one they passed through the day before. At one end, a shelf of limestone creates a natural dais. On it sit ten elderly Skull People—the Council of Ten, Hope assumes. They're a mix of men and women, each wearing a sheepskin pelt across their shoulders.

The guards guide the eight prisoners to the middle of a chalk circle. All around them stand a throng of spectators, several hundred in number. They whisper behind their hands and shoot the prisoners darting glances.

A man who appears to be the oldest of the Council rises and shuffles forward. His skin is like rice paper, his hair silver, his face gaunt from age. When he reaches a rock podium, the crowd quiets.

“Are you ready to proceed, Goodman Nellitch?” he says.

“I am, Mr. Chief Justice,” a voice answers. Hope turns to see an older man in a radiantly white toga. What he lacks in height, he makes up for with a full beard, black and silver in color. There is something about him that is oddly familiar.

The Chief Justice of the Council shifts his gaze to the prisoners. “Is there a spokesperson for the defendants?”

The prisoners look at one another, and Hope gives Book a nod. “I guess I am,” he says, stepping forward.

“What's your name, young man?” the Chief Justice asks.

“Book, sir.”

“And your last name?”

“No last name. Just Book.”

The crowd titters. The Chief Justice's mouth tightens. “And the charges, Goodman Nellitch, for . . . Book . . . and his friends?”

“Stealing from the state, resisting arrest”—here he pauses dramatically—“and spying for the Republic.”

An excited buzz tears through the crowd.

The Chief Justice bangs a hammer against the rock, and the buzz dies down. He turns to Book. “And how do you plead?”

“We didn't do any spying, if that's what you're asking,” Book says.

His Honor stares at them a long moment. Then he turns his focus to Goodman Nellitch. “And the evidence?”

Goodman Nellitch details the events in the cornfield and how the prisoners ran from the Skull People, despite being ordered to stop.

The Chief Justice narrows his eyes. “You understand,
Goodman Nellitch, that while this is certainly a transgression of the laws, it is hardly grounds for a charge of spying.”

“I understand that, Your Honor.”

“Well then?”

“There's more.”

Hope and Book share a confused glance. What is he talking about?

Goodman Nellitch reaches into the folds of his toga and produces a flimsy piece of paper. He unfolds it twice and holds it aloft for all to see.