The Capture (20 page)

“It's crooked.”

She refuses to look down at it. “So they tell me.”

“Then you better get it fixed.”

“If you say so.”

When the man with the horse face realizes he's not going to get any more information, he gives a grunt to his two comrades. The three men wheel away. Hope waits until they've completely disappeared before allowing herself a breath.

There are nods of congratulations all around, but Hope knows they're not out of the woods. Not by a long shot. Based on everything she saw earlier this evening, she suspects they're in more danger than ever.

M
ANDY AND
I
SAT
on our ledge and shared a picnic dinner. When an enormous thunderhead exploded on the far horizon, we inhaled the dust-scented perfume of a coming storm, then hurried back inside, dodging the first fat pellets of rain.

After a long good-bye and a short kiss, a goofy smile plastered my face as I made my way back to the cell. When I rounded the bend and saw the sober faces of the other seven prisoners, the smile died on my face.

“What's going on?” I asked. “Is there a problem?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” Diana said. “You.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You're the problem.”

I laughed uneasily and shifted my gaze to the others.
“What's she talking about?”

Flush looked embarrassed and dropped his eyes. Twitch angled his head in another direction. It was left to Cat to ask, “What've you told her?”

“Told
who
?”

“Your girlfriend.”

My body tensed. “Mandy is not my girlfriend, and I didn't tell her anything.”

“You didn't tell
Mandy
anything?”

I gritted my teeth. “No more than any two people tell each other.”

No one said anything. The silence lengthened.

“So how'd the guards know we were stashing silverware?” Diana asked.

“Got me. I didn't tell her that.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Nothing about our tunnel?”

My mind raced. “Okay, once, I might've mentioned that if we ever hoped to survive, we'd have to dig our way clear . . .”

“Book!”

“. . . but I said it as a joke. And I never mentioned
how
. Or
where
. And it's not like it's any big deal—”

“The guards went through our stuff today,” Diana said. “They found the silverware and cemented up the tunnel.”

I looked across to the other cell, and sure enough, a moist layer of fresh cement painted the back wall. I felt like throwing up.

“You don't know that was related to her,” I said.

“Seems awfully coincidental.”

“So what're you saying? Miranda's a spy?” I laughed at the absurdity of it.

“Do you know who her father is?” Hope asked. She'd been silent up until now. Her expression was rigid.

“Yeah, he's a clerk. He keeps ledgers or something.” Even as I said it, the pit in my stomach expanded.

“What if I said he's not?”

“Sure he is. That's what Mandy told—”

“What if I said he's the Chief Justice of the Council of Ten?”

It felt like she'd slapped me in the face. “That's not true,” I managed. “He's a clerk. “

The others shook their heads as one.

“How do you know this?” I could hear the desperation in my voice.

“I followed her. After she left you.”

“Wait a minute. You've been spying on me?”

“And it's a good thing. I trailed her back to the residences.”

“Okay, so you saw Mandy with the Chief Justice. Big deal. I met with him too, but that doesn't make me his son.”

“They live in the same house.”

I was suddenly flustered. “Well, I mean, there could be reasons—”

“We asked around. They're father and daughter.”

I remembered how people deferred to Mandy in the tunnels, how the guards always let her pass. “That still doesn't mean anything,” I said. My words were like feet scrambling on a slope of loose gravel. “Just because she's the daughter of the Chief Justice—”

“Sounds to me like you've been played, pardner,” Cat said, picking at his stump. “That's why you got assigned to the library. So you two could meet.”

“There's no way you know that!” I wanted to yell, but I didn't dare raise my voice. “She's not a spy. And even if she is—
which she's not
—I didn't tell her anything.”

Although the others weren't convinced, I believed in Miranda. We were friends. We liked spending time together. She brought me dinner and we watched sunsets and she kissed me on the cheek. If it'd been a setup, I could've seen through that, right?

Right?

I opened my mouth to speak, but at that very moment a blur of movement wheeled me around. It was Argos—running right for us.

“Argos!” I cried. “How'd you get out?” I knelt down and buried my face in his fur. I'd never been so happy to see him.

“Don't try to change the subject, Book,” Flush said.

“I'm serious. How'd he get away?”

Before anyone could answer, we heard the muffled blast of an explosion. We waited for the sound to fade away and the bell signaling the all-clear, but instead there was another muffled blast that followed. And another after that.

We looked at one another. Something wasn't right.

When the next explosion came, it was followed by horrible, bloodcurdling screams.

T
HEY TEAR OUT OF
the cells and race down the tunnel. In no time they smell the pungent scent of a fire. Thick coils of black smoke waft past like tumbleweeds.

“Why would there be a bonfire?” Flush asks.

No one answers, but Hope knows: this is no bonfire.

The screams are everywhere now, interspersed with the
pop pop pop
of gunfire. Other sounds, too. Shrill alarm bells. Blaring klaxons. It's deafening and frightening, and no one knows what's going on.

When they peek around a tunnel's edge, they see for themselves.

Crazies.

Their shaggy beards and grease-stained clothes are as foul as ever. But there's a difference now: they sport
gleaming pistols and spotless rifles, 9mm handguns and M16 assault rifles. Their primitive weapons are nowhere to be seen.

They round up the Skull People like livestock, shooting them at will. It doesn't matter their age or condition. Many litter the chamber floor, their blood coloring the limestone in swirls of red.

Off to the far side, Crazies feed a growing fire. Furniture, books, clothing—all tossed into the flames. The smoke that billows forth is black and acrid. The only things they appear to be saving are food, tools, and weapons.

“How'd this happen?” Flush demands.

But Hope knows. She and Book saw Goodman Nellitch conferring with the Man in Orange back in Bedford. The Skull People are being massacred by one of their own. What she doesn't know is why.

Hope gestures across the chamber. Two Crazies brandishing torches are coming their way. There is no good place for the Sisters and Less Thans to hide, and they have no weapons to defend themselves with.

“Back to the jail,” Book says.

Everyone looks at him like he's crazy.

“Back to the jail!” he says again.

They turn and run. Slipping inside the boys' cell, Book pulls the door shut behind him. He motions for the Sisters to do the same.

“They don't lock without a key,” Diana says.

“The Crazies don't know that.”

They grip the bars and rattle them, giving the impression they're trying to flee.

“Let us out of here!” Book yells, just as the two Crazies round the corner.

The first one pauses when he lays eyes on them. When he sees the three Sisters, he actually licks his lips and shuffles forward. His gaze falls to their black squares with the eye in the middle.

“I got
eyes
for you all,” he says with a smirk. “Who's looking for a husband?”

“Why're you bothering asking?” the second one says. He is round and covered in hair like a Neanderthal. “It's not like they have any say in the matter.”

As if to prove his point, he reaches between the bars, wraps his filthy fingers around Hope's chin, and squeezes. He yanks her forward until her face is inches from his. Hope has no choice but to stand and take it. If she steps back, the door will swing open, and the Crazies will know they've been tricked.

“See?” the Neanderthal says to Crazy #1. “All you gotta do is tell 'em. Don't give 'em a choice.”

His dirt-smudged fingers imprint themselves into Hope's cheeks, distorting her lips into an exaggerated pucker. For a long moment the two face off. Then he brings his mouth forward and presses it against Hope's.
She squirms, but the best she can do is keep her teeth clenched.

“That's it, Hank!” Crazy #1 guffaws. “Go get her!”

Book takes a step forward, but Cat puts a restraining hand on his arm.

The Neanderthal pulls away from Hope and gives her a big grin. His teeth—what few he has—are like black kernels on a dead ear of corn. “She's a fighter, I'll say that for her.”

He releases his hold on her chin, then shoots his hand forward until his fingers rest on her breast. He gives it a firm squeeze. “And I
like
fighters.”

Book flings off Cat's hand and pushes the cell door open. Crazy #1 can't quite believe what he's seeing, and he's slow to draw his sidearm.

“Hey, you can't—”

A swift kick to the groin cuts short his sentence. He tumbles to the floor, the 9mm clattering off to one side. Book reaches for the man's torch—just as the Neanderthal is turning to see what the commotion is all about.

“You little—”

He doesn't finish his sentence. Hope pushes the cell door forward—thick rebar smashing against his cheek. Book follows with a massive swing of the torch; the Crazy does a face-plant on the ground. Even though the man's lying there, nearly unconscious, Book tosses
the torch to the side and keeps punching him, over and over and over again. Finally, Flush pulls him back.

“It's okay, Book. You got him. He's down.”

Book is breathing heavily. The others tie up the two Crazies with their belts. Meanwhile, Hope is bent over, running the back of her hand across her mouth, trying to rid herself of the taste of the Crazy's mouth. When she finally lifts her head, her brown eyes are on fire. “Let's get the hell out of here,” she says.

They race through the tunnels. Everywhere they look, the corpses of Skull People lie scattered on the floor, their bodies riddled with bullets. The Sisters and Less Thans tiptoe around the lifeless bodies.

Fifty yards from the entrance, they round a bend and freeze. Positioned in the very middle of one of the cave's openings, facing their direction, is a man nestled behind a wall of sandbags . . . and a .50-caliber machine gun. If anyone is foolish enough to race for the exit, they'll be gunned down long before they near it. They scramble to other entrances and it's the same: machine guns just waiting to mow down anyone trying to escape.

“Now what?” Flush asks in a fit of panic.

They look at one another dumbly. Echoing through the tunnels is a muffled mix of screams and gunshots. Black smoke drifts in the air. If they don't act fast—act
now
—they're dead for sure.

“We've gotta get outside, right?” Book asks.

“Sure,” Flush says, “but there's no way we'll make it past the Crazies.”

“If we stay in the tunnels, you're right. But we're not going to.”

Diana grabs his sleeve. “How do we know we can trust you?” she asks, and Hope wonders the same thing.

Book looks from Diana to Hope. “I guess that's up to you.” He turns and takes off at a jog.

The others look at Hope. Although she doesn't know what to make of Book and his relationship with Mandy, she has no real reason to suspect he's a traitor. She gives a nod, and they take off after him.

They stick to side passageways, cloaking themselves in shadows. After a while, Hope's sure they're all alone.

She's wrong.

“Don't move,” a voice hisses from the shadows. “Hands up where we can see them.”

They have no choice but to obey. Hope's heart slams hard against her chest. The body belonging to the voice emerges from darkness, the features backlit by a guttering candle. Slowly, gradually, the form takes shape. The body is a woman's.

“Goodwoman Marciniak?” Book asks, obviously shocked.

The woman cranes her head forward and squints through the gloom. “Book?”

“Yes, it's me . . . and the other prisoners.”

The librarian is suddenly joined by two dozen other middle-aged women, all armed with bows and arrows. War paint, not makeup, adorns their faces.

“What're you doing here?” Goodwoman Marciniak asks.

“Trying to get out. Killing a few Crazies in the process.”

Her face is set, her mouth rigid. She wears a toga ornamented with a series of belts—resting places for knives and arrows.

“You're prisoners,” Marciniak says. “You shouldn't be out of jail.”

“Wouldn't you rather have us fighting with you than not fighting at all?”

Suddenly they hear the thud of footsteps. Crazies. Hope's gaze falls to Goodwoman Marciniak's bow and arrow.

“We know how to use those,” she says, stepping forward.

Marciniak's eyes flicker once, twice . . . but she says nothing. Then she releases her hold and extends the bow. Hope takes it before the older woman changes her mind.

W
E FORMED A HURRIED
line—some kneeling, others standing—with just enough time to nock our arrows.

“Draw and hold,” I commanded. We waited, bowstrings taut. The sound of the approaching Crazies grew louder and louder until our heartbeats and their footfalls merged into one awful drumbeat.

“Fire!” I cried when they rounded the corner, and the arrows found their targets. Crazies fell to the ground, some firing their weapons into the ceiling, others tugging hopelessly at the shafts that protruded from their bodies.

“Again at will!” I shouted.

We released our bowstrings, and the remaining Crazies tumbled to the rock floor. It was a victory, but a temporary one.

“We need to hide the bodies,” I said, “so their friends won't know something's up.”

Goodwoman Marciniak led us to a secluded back corner, and we'd just managed to drag the corpses there when there were more footsteps.

“Book!” Flush yelled.

“I hear 'em.”

We hurried back and reloaded. Although the next band of Crazies was smaller, they were better equipped. One fired a rocket launcher, the grenade's explosion hurling shards of rock on top of us. When the boiling smoke cleared, we were able to pick off the Crazies, but I wondered how many more attacks we could withstand.

We raced to hide the corpses. After reaching the back corner, I glanced off to an adjoining chamber. There were several women there, huddled by the side of a bed.

“What's that?” I asked Goodwoman Marciniak.

“A hospital.”

My gaze swept the interior. White iron beds, clean sheets, gleaming silver trays. Only one bed was occupied.

“Our founder,” Goodwoman Marciniak explained. “Not long for this world, I'm afraid.” Her concern was obvious.

“May I?” I asked. I had a sudden impulse to see the originator of the Skull People. Goodwoman Marciniak nodded her assent.

When I reached the foot of the bed, I lost my breath.
Lost any ability to breathe at all. For there, lying on her back, with a thin blanket pulled up to her chin, was a woman. But not just any woman. The woman from my dreams.

The one with the long black hair.

She appeared to be sleeping, her chest rising and falling as gently as lapping waves. As soon as I came to a stop, her eyes snapped open—so suddenly I nearly lost my footing and stumbled backward.

Her eyes locked on mine. She was older than the way she appeared in my dreams, and the crow's-feet seemed to pull at the corners of her eyes. Still, there was a liveliness in those eyes, and the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth was utterly youthful.

“There you are,” she said. “You're alive.”

“Yes,” I managed to say.

She forced a smile. “I knew you'd come.” She closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. I stood there, numb.

“You know this woman?” Goodwoman Marciniak asked.

I nodded dumbly. “I dream of her,” I stammered. “No, that's not right. It's that I
remember
her.” In stumbling sentences I told her how this woman had appeared to me for years. How the setting was always the same—the smoke-filled battlefield—but the words were different.

You will lead the way.

There you will go.

You will do what's right.

Now.

“So it's you,” Goodwoman Marciniak said aloud—more to herself than me.

“So it's me what?” I asked.

Before the white-haired librarian could respond, Flush charged in. “We got all the bodies dragged back!”

“Good. Line up for the next attack.” I turned back to Goodwoman Marciniak. “So it's me
what
?” I repeated.

She looked me in the eye, her face serious. “She thought you might be able to save us, to save the country.”

She had to be kidding. How was that even remotely possible? I was a Less Than—a prisoner in the Compound. I wasn't even seventeen. Even if I wanted to, how could I possibly save the Republic of the True America?

And how did this woman—this
stranger
—even know about me?

Goodwoman Marciniak read my thoughts. “She's not a stranger, Book. She's your grandmother.”

My knees went wobbly, and I had to sit. It felt like the walls were closing in.

“Goodwoman Olvera did her best to keep you hidden,” Marciniak said. “But the Republic has ways of finding people.”

Olvera. So that was her last name. But I wondered . . .

“Was she my mom's mom or my dad's?”

“Your mother's.” She went on to explain. “Your mother died in childbirth. From what I understand, it was a miracle she was able to bring you to term.”

I pointed to the still body of Goodwoman Olvera—my grandmother. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and jagged. “She raised me?”

“Until the ambush at Chimney Creek. That's when the Brown Shirts captured you. You must've been about four.”

Her words meshed with my own fuzzy memory: the smoke, the soldiers, the whistling bullets. All this time I'd thought that was a dream.

“How'd she escape?”

“She let you get captured—that way they wouldn't kill you.” Goodwoman Marciniak paused briefly. “She always said it was the hardest thing she ever did.”

Just as I'd done with Cat.

“And she founded the Skull People?”

“Not long after that day. A way of rebelling against the new government.”

There was more I wanted to ask—more I
needed to know
—but Flush came dashing in.

“We gotta get out of here,” he said.

I nodded, but all of a sudden I had no desire to leave. I'd just met my grandmother—
my lone family member
—and I was in no hurry to go.

“Book!”

I gave my head a shake. “I can't leave,” I whispered.

“Book!”

“I mean it, Flush. I've got to stay.”

Things were happening too fast. I'd waited a lifetime to find out I wasn't an orphan—that I had
family
—and there was no way I was going to leave my grandmother now.

“Your friend is right,” Goodwoman Marciniak said. “You need to go. You won't survive if you stay.”

“But my grandmother—”

“Is too ill to even get out of bed.”

“Then we could carry her. We've done it before. We know how to do it. I can't leave without her—without all of you.” I was desperate, and the words came rattling out.

Goodwoman Marciniak pursed her lips. “Go, Book. We'll look after her.”

“But I can't—”

“Go.”

My shoulders slumped. “Okay. But we'll come back for her—for all of you.” I looked up and met her eyes. “So how do we all get out of here?”

“The Crazies have sealed off all the entrances, but there's a rumor that we've been building an escape tunnel off the Wheel. The problem is it's way on the other side of the Compound.”

“I might have an idea about that,” I said.

Perching on the edge of my grandmother's bed, I took her hand and felt the coolness of her bony fingers. Her eyelids fluttered open.

“You're still here,” she said, her voice frail and tired.

“Of course.”

“Look at you. Your mother would be proud.”

“Tell me about her. And my dad.”

A smile creased her face. “He was a good man, treated Maria well.”

“That was my mom's name? Maria?”

She nodded. “They were a hundred miles downwind from a blast site. They couldn't escape the radiation. He lived about three and a half years after, then died right before you were born.”

“So he never saw me?”

She shook her head.

“And my mom?”

My grandmother's face brightened. “She was a beauty. The boys were crazy about her. Me too, of course. And then . . . Omega.” She paused and took a painful swallow. “The spark went out of her, as it did for many of us. Only when she was pregnant with you did it come back. She knew that giving birth would probably kill her, but she didn't care. You were the one thing she could pass on.”

I realized I was barely breathing. To hear all this—to learn about my parents for the first time and how my
mother gave up her life for me—was like plunging into a pool of icy water.

“Did she?” I managed to ask. “Live long enough to see me?”

“Just barely. She was weak and only half conscious, but she insisted on holding you. She died that way. The last thing she saw on earth was you.”

“Then what happened?”

“I took you. I knew once the Republic found out about you, how you had one leg shorter than the other, they would brand you a Less Than and lock you up. So I smuggled you out of the hospital and went into hiding. Just the two of us.”

As she spoke, flashes of memory popped in my brain, illuminating for the briefest moment images from a dozen years earlier: tossing a ball beneath an apple tree, chasing chickens in a yard, being read to. How had I ever forgotten?

Then she extended her hand. “Let me touch your face.”

“What? I . . .”

“To remember you.”

I leaned forward, and she ran her fingers along my cheeks. It was like she was memorizing my face, one square inch at a time. “My beloved,” she whispered, “in whom I am well pleased.”

My breathing was short and rapid, my heart fluttering.

Then she said, “You have to leave.”

“Okay, but we're coming back for you.”

“Don't.”

I recoiled in surprise. “But I have to.”

“This is our home, Book. These are our friends. We can't abandon either it or them.”

I looked at Goodwoman Marciniak. She was nodding her head in agreement.

“But we have to take you with us,” I pleaded.

She smiled weakly and shook her head.

Flush popped back in. “Book!” he called out.

“Coming.”

“They call you Book?” she asked.

“That's right.”

She smiled. “It's a good name.”

I don't think I was breathing. Tears were pressing against my eyes. My throat was tight and throbbing.

“And you're fighting the Brown Shirts, aren't you?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good for you.” Then she said, “You need to keep fighting them.”

While a part of me understood why she didn't think she could go, why she insisted on staying, it didn't make it any easier to accept. I couldn't bear to think of these poor women taking on the Crazies.

“Book!” Flush cried from the hallway.

“Thank you,” I somehow managed to say to my grandmother. “For raising me. For guiding me all these years.”

She gave her head one last gentle shake. “I haven't been guiding you, Book. You must be listening to your heart.”

She shut her eyes, then lapsed into a series of slow, steady breaths. She was sound asleep. I leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. I gave her hand a final squeeze, then rushed to join my comrades. As I ran into the hallway, ignoring the hot tears that scalded my cheeks, I realized I had neglected to ask my name. What was it my mom had called me? In the excitement of meeting my grandmother, I had forgotten to find out.

But then again, maybe it didn't matter. I was Book now, a Less Than—and would be until the day I died.