The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) (30 page)

 
Thinking the others made it safely back to the mainland was my only consolation. I would never be able to forgive myself if I thought they had been captured or killed trying to help me find Greyson.

Inexplicably, Greyson knew the approximate location of Uprising Pub. Word had spread among the rebels in prison that a rally would take place there after the day’s events.
 

Uprising Pub was actually an Irish bar operating within the parameters of PMC law in Sector X. Although almost every restaurant and grocer had been abandoned or shut down for illegal activity, several bars in the area surrounding the base remained open and thriving from officers’ business.

According to Greyson, even rebels who had never been there would be able to find the location of the rally. The rebels had developed a system for marking their meeting places. The seeker merely had to find the city block with a burnt-out streetlamp on every corner. On one street, there would be a door with a silver bell. The meeting place would be across the street, exactly three doors down.
 

I listened to him explain in awe. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “I mean, how did they pass information to you on the inside?”

“How does word ever get to prisoners?”

I shrugged, and Amory looked equally confused.

“There are moles inside the PMC.” He said this as though it were obvious.

“But who?”

“No one knows. It would be dangerous if anyone knew who was helping the cause from the inside. It’s the smartest thing, really. Infiltrate the PMC, and suddenly we know all their plans. We know when raids are going to happen before they do.

“But if they do have an agent on the inside, why did they get you to start the uprising?”

“They’ve been planning this for months: the bombing of the base, the carrier release, the bridge — there are way too many moving parts. It had to be highly coordinated, but no one could know about every aspect of the plan. They needed someone on the inside to start the riot today to overwhelm the PMC. I didn’t know what for. But they needed someone who was disposable that the PMC had already pegged as an illegal.”

“But why you?” I asked. “You’ve only been here for a few weeks.”

“I dunno. Most of the prisoners don’t want anything to do with it. They’re scared the PMC will lash out against their families on the outside. Some of them made it north. Others are still in hiding.

“They got wind of me, I suppose. I made some serious trouble for those guards.”

“But why?”

“You don’t know what it’s like, day after day. It’s enough to drive you insane: the routine, the hopelessness, no prospects of ever escaping. The only way to survive is to find some purpose — some driving factor that keeps you alive.”

“You should have known I would come find you.”

“I didn’t want that for you. I didn’t want you to be a part of this place.” He gestured to the window and the desolation of the abandoned street, looking at me with a sad expression. Then he caught a glimpse of my left arm. I had pulled up my sleeves to cool off from our run, and the scar where Amory had removed my CID was visible.
 

“Whoa,” he said, grabbing my wrist. “You defected?”

I yanked my arm away. I wasn’t sure I liked that label.

“You did that for me?” He sounded amazed. “I mean, it’s not like you wanted any part of this . . . revolution.”

I didn’t say anything. I’d just gotten him to agree to leave. If we argued, he could change his mind.

“So how did you get in here? There are rovers everywhere.”

I showed him our rebel-issued wristbands, and he looked fascinated.
 

“I’m going to need one of those. As soon as all the commotion dies down and the other undocumented prisoners scatter, I won’t be such a needle in a haystack for the rovers.”
 

I had almost forgotten about the rovers. My stomach pinched with dread as I remembered the last time Greyson and I had tried to fool them.

“It’s going to spread,” he said, looking from me to Amory. “Taking down Sector X was only the first phase. They’re going to rally the troops — all the illegals still in hiding — and reclaim the country.” He smiled at me with such hope it made my heart ache. “My mom could come back, Haven. If the PMC is dismantled, she’ll come back.”

I forced a smile. I wanted to think things could turn around like that, but it was difficult to believe the rebel army could thwart the PMC. And anyway, even if an overthrow were possible, things would never
really
be the same. Too much had changed.

“Hey! I think it’s over,” said Amory.
 

We crowded near the door, listening intently. Sounds of the riot had died down.
 

Cautiously, we opened the door and crept around the side of the building. The sky was growing dark, and the streets were eerily quiet. All that could be heard were muffled shouts in the distance and the occasional mournful sob.

A thin veil of smoke still hovered over the street like fog. We inched down the block, muscles tensed and preparing to run at the slightest sign of commotion.

Through the clearing dust and fumes, we could see dark shapes lying motionless on the ground. As we drew closer, more and more dead bodies came into view — dark, shapeless heaps like bags of dirty laundry.

Most of them were PMC officers, easily discernible in their reflective white pants and jackets. But scattered here and there were rebels — men and women in dark clothing with “XX” painted on their faces. They wore the PMC’s brand for them as an act of defiance, proudly declaring their threat level. My chest ached for them. Many looked about our age, maybe a few years older. Officers or rebels, it didn’t matter; all of them were supremely human, and they were dead.

Greyson wore a grim expression as he surveyed the scene. “This way.”

He led us away from the twisted metal remains of the bridge and down a street that looked more desolate and sinister than any of the others. In another city, the conspicuous lack of activity would have signaled trouble, but there we had no way of knowing what he might be leading us into.

We passed old neon signs that shouted “GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!” even though no patrons had visited the place in months. Dozens of restaurants, shops, and convenient stores sat abandoned, some marked by the PMC during a raid. The big ugly black Xs pricked the hairs on the back of my neck, and I felt nauseated.

Finally, Greyson stopped at a corner next to an upended hot dog cart and a tattoo parlor with blacked-out windows. He pointed up at the streetlight, which was dark.

Amory’s face assumed an expression of grim resolve as we followed Greyson down the block. Sure enough, the light at the next corner was out, too.

“Keep an eye out,” Greyson murmured under his breath.

I squinted into every threshold we passed, scanning the doorknobs for a silver bell. The streets were now pitch black, and without the glow of a streetlight to guide us, it was impossible to see even five feet in front of me.

As I passed two golden lions with eerie emerald eyes outside a Chinese restaurant, I caught a glimpse of silver. There, hanging from the ornate golden door handle, was a tiny bell.
 

“It’s here,” I whispered, stopping under the awning.

“No,” said Greyson, staring off across the street. “It’s there.” He pointed down to a doorway hidden in the shadows.

If we hadn’t been looking for it, we would have walked right past without even noticing the crumbling brick entryway with a weathered wooden sign protruding from the overhang. “Uprising Pub” was burned into the wood in cramped calligraphy with the insignia of a lion just below the text.

“Maybe that’s a coincidence, but I feel like they could be into lions,” Amory said to me as we crossed the street through the light snow.

Greyson grinned. Even though he had agreed to give up the cause and come with us, I could still feel the excitement coming off him.

I took a deep breath. “Let’s hope Rulon and Mariah don’t turn up.”

Greyson moved toward the door.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Do they really just walk in the front door?”

He gave me a blank look.

Amory nodded. “You said the PMC come here. It would make sense if there was a hidden entrance that took you down below the main floor.”

“Right,” said Greyson, backing away and poking his head around the corner. He looked embarrassed.

There was a narrow gravel alleyway between the two buildings. I crowded close to Amory and Greyson as we shuffled along blindly. Amory ran his fingers down the brick, feeling for a door.

“Here,” he breathed.

I looked at him for a moment, but it was too dark to see his full expression. Only his gray eyes reflecting the scant beams of moonlight could communicate his determination, and I felt a surge of strength radiating from him.

“Let’s go,” said Greyson. He pulled the heavy metal door, and it swung open.

I couldn’t see anything except a dark passageway and a few chinks of light from the main pub on the other side of another door. Amory pressed a warm hand into the small of my back, urging me inside. He held the door and closed it carefully. Now it was completely dark, but I could hear the murmur of voices rising up through the floorboards.

Greyson was breathing heavily in my ear. I looked up just in time to see a rare quiver of fear flit across his face before he looked down at me and motioned us to inch forward. He clasped my elbow suddenly, stopping me. I squinted through the inky blackness and could make out the descent of stairs. We were on a landing, and I could hear several snippets of conversation as clearly as if I were standing next to the speakers.

Greyson led the way, with Amory and me walking so close together that his shoulder frequently brushed mine. The voices grew louder, but not loud enough to mask the sound of my own labored breathing.

Running out of stairs, I bumped into Greyson’s shoulder and heard a loud screech as he pushed open another door at the foot of the stairs.

I squinted against the rush of ambient light into the small space. We were in a large basement room packed with rebels. Lanterns hung at intervals from the low ceiling, casting dark shadows on hundreds of faces with the “XX” of rebellion painted in tar.

Those nearest the door turned their heads in our direction and fell silent. This arrest spread through the crowd, and the voices quieted. Several rebels turned and pointed their rifles at us. In unison, we raised our arms above our heads, and my heart pounded against my ribcage.

“State your name,” said a wild-looking man with heavy sideburns. He was addressing Greyson.

“My name is Greyson Frey,” he said, speaking loudly and clearly. “I was imprisoned in Chaddock for being undocumented.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows shot into his wild hair. “Frey? Greyson Frey?”

Greyson’s name blew through the crowd in whispers like a cold wind.

He nodded slowly.

“He’s the one who started the riot,” said another man with fiery-red dreadlocks.

The other man lowered his weapon incrementally. “And the other two?”

“These are my friends,” said Greyson. “They came into the city to free me from prison. They’re defectors, and they sympathize with our cause.”

Another murmur ran through the crowd, but the men nearest us did not lower their rifles.
 

“Sympathy,” the man snarled. “That’s pretty spineless. You’re either with us, or you’re with them.”

“Please,” I said, lowering my arms. My throat was so dry with fear it should have been a scratchy gasp, but my voice rang out strong. “My name is Haven Allis. Both my parents were killed by the PMC. I think you knew my father. He was a rebel.” Even as I said the words for the first time, I knew they were true. I continued. “My mother was on her deathbed when the PMC murdered her. We know where we stand.”

The wild-looking man finally put down his gun but would not tear his eyes away from mine. If anything, I thought I could see a renewed challenge dancing there, just beneath the surface.

“Allis,” he said. “Yeah, I knew him.”

He took two lazy strides toward me, head cocked to the side. Without warning, he grabbed my arm and wrenched it up to his face. A spasm of pain rippled down my forearm, but I didn’t make a sound. Amory stiffened beside me, preparing to launch himself at the man, but I sent a mental plea for him not to do anything to turn the crowd against us.

The rebel man examined the inside of my arm carefully, and I felt a triumphant swell of satisfaction deep inside my chest. Seeing the incision, he thrust my arm aside and stepped in front of Amory. He gripped his arm next and pulled even harder, twisting his wrist around and yanking up his sleeve.

I felt a surge of hatred. My father could never be friends with someone like him.

I saw a dark flicker of shame and fury rip over Amory’s features as the man drank in the sight of the long, jagged scar. He laughed coldly and dropped Amory’s arm.

“Two defectors,” the man snarled.

“They are no threat to us,” said the man with dreadlocks. “Lower your weapons. They are not the enemy.”

The wild-looking man sneered, disappointment etched all over his face. “Fine. Join the party, then. Somebody get a beer for the hero and his friends.”

I let my shoulders relax as relief washed over me.

“I wouldn’t,” said a woman’s voice from across the room.
 

To my horror, Mariah stepped into the open. Though she was dwarfed in size next to the behemoth rebel men, she looked just as cunning and dangerous as ever. My stomach dropped, and I felt a molten hatred seep into my gut.

“They’re friends of the three deserters who left their posts at the base this morning,” she said.

“They were only trying to help us find Greyson,” I said, glaring at her. “We had no idea what was going to happen —”

She cut me off. “I think we’ve heard enough. They’re obviously traitors to the cause.”

“What happened to the others?” I pressed.
 

Greyson squirmed next to me, but I didn’t care. We were already exposed, so asking the whereabouts of our friends would make no difference.