The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2) (9 page)

“It’s my day off, remember?”

“That’s not what I asked. Try again.”

“I, um--” Nine fumbled for words and had trouble looking his master in the eye. “I’m off for a training run.”

“In this?” a skeptical Kentbridge asked, looking around at the blizzard that seemed to be intensifying by the minute.

“I wanna make sure I can endure the cold. Who knows,” Nine added a little more confidently, “one day you may give me an assignment in Arctic regions.”

Kentbridge eventually stepped aside to allow Nine past and watched with admiration as the determined orphan jogged off, slipping and sliding on the icy footpath. Shaking his head, he brushed the snow from his cashmere and hurried inside. Had Kentbridge looked back again, he wouldn’t have seen Nine even though the boy had not yet gone thirty yards beyond the orphanage, such was the visibility.

The blizzard was so strong, Nine was forced to slow to a walk, doubled over against the wind. He had to keep an eye out to guard against bumping into lampposts and other obstacles.

It had been no coincidence Nine had chosen this day to attempt his against-all-odds escape from the Omega Agency. The forecasters had predicted Greater Chicago and most of Illinois would be paralyzed for at least twenty four hours by severe blizzard conditions.

Nine prayed the blizzard would last longer than that. He knew it would hamper Omega’s efforts to recapture him.
They’ll soon realize I ain’t coming back.
He estimated he had two hours, three at most, before they’d deduce he’d either had an accident or done a runner.
Either way, they’ll come lookin’ for me
.

It was a calculated risk, though, for Nine knew travel would be much slower during a blizzard. On the other hand, he was also aware he’d be harder to find in these conditions.

The thought of Omega hunting him down forced him to resume running despite the dangers presented by the ice underfoot and the near-zero visibility. Rounding a corner, the sheer force of the wind bowled him over. Nine landed heavily on his back on the pavement and lay there, dazed, for a moment. He didn’t want to get up. There was a sharp ache near his tailbone, a result of his fall.
C’mon, move it or you’ll be their slave forever.
He pushed himself to his feet and forced himself to resume jogging, ignoring the risk of another fall.

The wind eased slightly. Nine immediately picked up the pace, first breaking into a run and then sprinting. He knew he had to put as much distance as possible between himself and the orphanage, but first he had something more pressing to attend to.

Running along 137
^th
Street, a derelict church loomed up in front of him. Saint Catherine, an abandoned Roman Catholic church, was a remnant of a bygone era when Riverdale was a once a community of European immigrants. These days, the suburb’s populace was comprised mostly of African-Americans, few of whom were Catholics. The church had been in a state of disrepair for as long as Nine could remember. He had no idea why it hadn’t been torn down, but its deserted state suited him on this occasion.

Quickly looking behind him to make sure he wasn’t being followed, he sprinted around behind the church. En route, he passed through an old cemetery, which was also in a state of disrepair. Most of the headstones were covered in graffiti – the calling cards of gangs that operated in Chicago’s far South Side. 

Nine entered the rear of the church via a broken door that swung drunkenly on its hinges. He walked into a rectangular, windowless room he assumed was once a hall, or perhaps a theater. Sleet and snow entered through holes in its partially caved-in roof. These same holes allowed faint light to intrude on the room’s almost total darkness.

It took Nine’s eyes several seconds to adjust. Acclimatized, he scanned his surroundings just as he’d been trained to do. Black and white portrait photos hanging on the walls alluded to ghosts of the past. Paint peeled off those same walls, and furnishings were either cobwebbed or rusted. Graffiti had also been sprayed on the walls and floorboards. Nine estimated some of the graffiti tags had been done quite recently.

Vestiges of former congregation members lay strewn about. These included a moldy bible and a painting of the Virgin Mary. The painting had been desecrated: Mary now sported a moustache reminiscent of Adolf Hitler’s. An organ stood forlornly in one corner of the room, its foot pedals and many of its keys missing.

Satisfied he had the place to himself, Nine approached the mangled organ and sat down on what he assumed was once the organist’s stool. He removed his windbreaker to reveal he was wearing a small backpack beneath it.

The orphan knew time was of the essence. While it was important to put distance between himself and the orphanage, it was even more important to kill the signal that was being transmitted night and day from the microchip in his forearm. For no matter how far he traveled from the orphanage that damned microchip forever linked him to his Omega masters.

Nine tore open his backpack and lifted out a sweatband and the bag of White Gold Powder he’d brought with him. He pulled the sweatband up over his forearm so it stopped about two inches below his elbow. It now covered the area of skin beneath which he knew the microchip was embedded. Nine then inserted the bag of White Gold beneath the sweatband so it ended up pressed tight against his skin and wrapped around the entire circumference of his arm. He checked the sweatband to make sure it would hold the bag in place.

Invisible at last!

Nine expected his location would no longer be visible on Omega’s satellite network. That was if the military experiments with White Gold had been accurate. If they had been, one thing was for sure: when Kentbridge, or any Omegan, next checked the computer monitor whose flashing red dots revealed the orphans’ whereabouts, they’d see twenty two dots instead of the usual twenty three. The alarm would be raised immediately and the agency’s best operatives would be on the rogue orphan’s trail.

Struggling to contain the fear that was welling up inside him, Nine hastily donned his backpack, threw his windbreaker on and prepared to leave. He stopped dead when he heard a floorboard creak behind him. Then he heard the familiar click of a pistol’s safety being flicked off. He even thought he recognized the sound of Kentbridge’s breathing pattern.

How did you find me so quickly, Tommy?

15

Surprised, Nine realized the game was up.
Damn!
He raised his hands in surrender and slowly turned around, not knowing an even bigger surprise awaited him.

That ain’t Tommy!

Whoever it was, it wasn’t Kentbridge. In the near darkness, Nine could just make out a shadowy figure in the far corner of the room. It was that of a thin, wiry male, shorter than Kentbridge. His breathing, louder now, came in short asthma-like rasps.

Hands still raised, Nine noticed the faint outline of an open doorway behind the male figure. The man had obviously been hiding in an adjoining room. Nine cursed himself for neglecting to make doubly sure he had the old church to himself.

The man shuffled forward, gun in hand, to reveal a gaunt, disheveled looking Latino of about twenty five. Distinctive tattoos on the hand that held the gun told Nine he was a gang member. The initials ALKN flagged that he belonged to the Latin Kings street gang, or the
Almighty Latin King Nation
as its members called themselves. Nine immediately bestowed the name
Alkn
on the mystery man.

Judging by Alkn’s wretched condition – hollow cheeks, missing teeth, wild eyes and all – Nine adjudged he was a junkie. The man was shaking violently, and clearly wasn’t enjoying the bitter cold. Although his gun hand trembled, the weapon he held remained trained on Nine. The boy recognized it as a Glock 17, a semi-automatic pistol popular with military and law enforcement agencies and, it seemed, with Chicago street gangs.

Alkn stepped forward and waved the pistol under Nine’s nose. “Give me the gear, kid.” There was a trace of desperation in his voice. “Now!”

Not familiar with the lingo of drug-users, Nine had no idea what the junkie wanted. He looked into Alkn’s eyes and sensed he was more than capable of pulling the Glock’s trigger. Nine fought to control the panic he felt inside. He acted like any frightened twelve-year-old would in these circumstances. Except it wasn’t entirely an act.

The junkie was becoming more desperate by the second. “Give it to me!” He placed the barrel of his pistol against Nine’s forehead. “I know you have it on you, kid. I saw you wrap it around your arm.”

Nine clicked. He realized the junkie had mistaken the White Gold Powder for heroin. Now that he understood what Alkn was after, Nine felt more in control of his fear. At least he knew what he was dealing with. He immediately acted even more frightened and submissive. “You can have all the junk. Just please don’t kill me.”

Satisfied, the junkie motioned to Nine to hand over the powder. The orphan removed his windbreaker and slid the sweatband from his forearm to reveal the bag of White Gold wrapped around his arm. Alkn snatched the bag from him and looked inside it. His eyes opened wide when he saw its contents.

Seeing the junkie was momentarily distracted, Nine acted almost without thinking.

A split second later, Alkn was lying face down on the floor, unconscious. Nine had knocked him out cold with a lightning-fast karate punch to the head, having first jarred the pistol from his hand with a ju-jitsu style roundhouse kick. The blows – the first Nine had ever delivered to a stranger – had carried all the force and precision that Kentbridge had instilled in him during exhaustive Teleiotes martial arts sessions back in the gym.

Remembering he no longer had the protection of the White Gold, he quickly retrieved the bag, wrapped it around his forearm and pulled his sweatband back over it to hold it in place.

“Yo, Felix. You okay in there?”

The man’s voice from outside told Nine the junkie’s name was Felix, and it told him Felix wasn’t alone. Nine picked up Alkn’s pistol – he still thought of him as Alkn – and checked its chamber, only to find it was empty. Disappointed, he discarded it. Donning his windbreaker, he hurried off, leaving the still unconscious junkie where he’d fallen.

Nine made his way through to the front of the church. He was anxious to avoid Alkn’s pal whom he hoped was still keeping watch out back.

Cautiously opening the front door, he was relieved to find it was snowing even heavier than before. Visibility was reduced to a few yards. He stepped outside.

Nine soon sensed he was not alone. The orphan threw himself to one side as the second gang member suddenly rushed at him. This assailant, also Latino, bore no resemblance to his junkie friend. Tall and heavily muscled, he moved like an athlete. However, he wasn’t as fast as Nine. The orphan ducked under a clubbing punch that would have taken his head off had it landed, and ran off down 137
^th
street.

“I’ll eat you alive, kid!” the Latino shouted as he chased after the boy.

Nine ran for his life. In the foot-deep snow, he felt he was running in slow motion. He looked behind and was alarmed to see the Latino was coming after him and he was holding a knife. The irate gang member was still hurling abuse, this time in Spanish.

After a hundred yards, Nine’s could feel his heart hammering inside his chest. He risked another glance over his shoulder and was relieved to see he’d left his pursuer behind. Even so, he kept sprinting until he could run no more, so frightened was he.

16

The ongoing blizzard ensured all of the Pedemont orphans, like most Chicagoans, were housebound for the day. They lay about in their sleeping quarters reading while others sat in the adjoining common room playing snooker and watching television.

Seventeen lay on her bed listening to Soviet-era electronic music, her favorite, on her Walkman. She enjoyed its trance-like beat. The girl looked absentmindedly across at Nine’s unoccupied bed opposite. Something struck her as out of place. Curious, she removed her headphones, rolled off her bed and strolled over to Nine’s.

It took her a minute to work out what it was that had caught her attention.
His bed hasn’t been made
. Seventeen knew, of all the orphans, Nine was one of the tidiest – certainly among the boys. Kentbridge insisted the children made their beds and kept their quarters tidy, but a few were tardy and needed constant reminding. Not Nine, though. He was always neat.

Suspicious, Seventeen checked under Nine’s bed. She was looking for his backpack. Every orphan had a backpack. It was always kept under the bed or in the lock-up cabinet that was beside every bed. Finding nothing under the bed, Seventeen turned her attention to Nine’s bedside cabinet. As she had slept in the bed opposite Nine’s for the past six months, she knew exactly where he kept the key to the cabinet – inside his pillow slip.

Seventeen looked around to ensure no-one was observing her. The half dozen orphans in view paid her no attention. She unlocked Nine’s cabinet. At a glance, she realized his backpack wasn’t there. She looked at a wall clock. It was 2pm.

The blonde, blue-eyed orphan suspected Nine was trying to escape. Weighing up the evidence, her suspicions turned to certainty.
He’s been jogging over an hour.
She knew that because she’d seen him depart the orphanage just before 1pm. Seventeen had been practicing martial arts and had looked out the gym window just as Nine had ventured outside in his wet weather jogging gear.

While a one-hour jog wasn’t unusual in normal conditions, Seventeen knew it was an exorbitantly long time in these blizzard conditions. She turned her thoughts to the missing backpack. The orphans’ special issue backpacks were only ever used for excursions into the wilderness. They stocked survival items such as a compass, water bottle, first aid kit, hunting knife, pen torch and emergency rations.

Seventeen became aware she wasn’t alone. She’d been joined by One, the oldest orphan, who had just noticed her nosing through Nine’s belongings.