Three (Article 5) (37 page)

The other two soldiers opened the doors and assisted half a dozen girls outside. They were dressed like the girls I’d only seen in my mother’s magazines from before the War. Short, tight skirts clung to every curve. One of the girls’ tops was see-through; the others looked as though they’d been scavenged from donation bins, and ripped and tied to create a new style all their own.

Cara’s last words came alive in my mind:
“If you’re breaking into a base, make sure you dress the part.”

The girls were patted down, giggling at the wandering hands of the guards, and permitted entry through the gate that buzzed open. Overhead, the light was fading. Night would soon arrive.

No time left,
my thoughts echoed.
No time left.

A clicking sound came from overhead, and without another thought I hit the ground, covering my head. Behind closed eyes I saw the ruins of the safe house. The burned bodies.

No time left.

The parking lot lights flickered on.

Shaking, I rose, damp with sweat. I laughed to myself—a crazy sound, even to me. Maybe I had a little more time after all.

The girls were approaching the entrance to the base. There were more now—maybe fifteen or eighteen—moving together as a group. Smart, I thought, when the sharks were already beginning to circle.

Without another thought I ducked behind one of the cruisers and ran to the second row of cars, situating myself between two vans. I could hear the girls laughing now, shouting their taunts to the soldiers, who whistled and catcalled back.

I needed to break into that group; if I made it to the middle, I might be able to get into the building without anyone noticing my shredded, muddy, bloodstained outfit. Just as I was about to chance joining them, I caught my reflection in one of the vans’ side mirrors. My cheek was still an angry red, like my neck where the Lost Boys’ rope had rubbed. But my gaze drew lower, and my knees weakened, because on my shoulder where I’d been marked a member of Three were now two more slashes, these ones ugly, gaping, condemning. Five hash marks, forever branding me an Article violator.

The MM found a way to twist everything.

I covered it quickly with my torn collar, knowing the red stain on the fabric would do little to hide what lay beneath. The group drew closer, moving through the rows of cars toward the entrance. I stood, still unseen, but before I could join them one of the girls—a redhead with a shiny blue skintight gown—dropped something that rolled across the ground in my direction. Her heels clacked against the asphalt as she chased it.

“Hey!” I called softly. She looked up, rose, and tucked the tube of lipstick back into her purse.

“Someone there?” she asked tentatively, fluffing her hair. She glanced back to the group, continuing on without her.

“Over here!” I said. She appeared around the backside of the van, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Girl.” She whistled. “They already worked you over good, didn’t they?”

I covered the wound on my shoulder with one hand and tried to look meek. It worked—she moved closer, until we were both out of sight from the front gate.

“I need to get into that party,” I said.

She crinkled her nose, stretching the dark freckles across her cheeks. “Haven’t you already had enough? I mean, the pay is good, but it ain’t
that
good.”

No time left.

“I’m sorry.” I withdrew the knife from my pocket. The blade was still stained with my blood. “I’m going to need your dress.”

*   *   *

TWO
minutes later I was jogging toward the entrance of the building, unsteady in the girl’s high heels and trying in vain to stretch the fabric to cover both my bra and my thighs. I’d left her my clothes beneath a car two rows away. If she wanted them she’d have to crawl out half-naked and get them. I got the impression she wasn’t stupid enough to call a soldier’s attention to help—she’d have to wait until everyone was inside.

Under other circumstances I would have felt bad about that.

As I neared the entrance I opened her clutch and searched through the contents. Lipstick, eyeliner—things my mom had kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard underneath her bed. Contraband items, apparently deemed acceptable by the MM when it came to their parties. I thought of Sarah the first time I’d seen her in Tent City. A pretty girl in a pretty dress, pregnant and naïve, and in desperate need of safety. I hoped she would find it now in Tampa.

The last of the girls was being checked before going inside. I watched her remove her shoes at the door guard’s request, and hold her arms out to the side as he patted her down. He checked her purse, but left her shoes alone.

As subtly as possible, I bent down and slipped off the high heels. I dropped the knife into the toe of one, and carried them by the strappy heels toward the door.

At the door, a soldier with pudgy cheeks and an extra chin smirked at me, running his thick tongue over his bottom lip. I kept my head lowered, trying to look coy as I cocked one hip out to the side, but was tense beneath his wandering stare. I might as well have been naked, so much of me was exposed. The dress was barely long enough to hide the puncture wound in my thigh where I’d gotten stuck in the fence at the printing plant. At least it covered my shoulder.

Behind him on the wall was a clock. The time was 10:37
P.M.
Less than an hour and a half until midnight.

A bead of sweat dripped down the side of my face. I didn’t have enough time. We weren’t going to make it.

I had to try.

He stood and slid his heavy hands over my shoulders, back, stomach, lingering in places that made my muscles twitch and my stomach turn. I tried not to stare at the shoes, which I’d set on the ground beside me, even when he separated my toes.

“Good. No needles,” he grunted. “No razor blades up top, I hope.” He thrust a hand through my hair, eyes pausing only a moment on the welt on my cheek.

When he was satisfied, he opened a metal box on a podium beside him, and I forced myself to apply a layer of lipstick in the way I’d seen my mother do when I was young. My hands were trembling. I hoped I was hitting the right spots.

“Two now, two at the end of the night. Pending your work is satisfactory.” He handed me two slips of paper—rations vouchers—which I stuffed into the handbag.

“It will be,” I guaranteed. I slipped on the shoes, waiting until he looked away to slide the knife back into my purse.

I followed the crowd until I caught sight of the group of girls who had come in from outside. They ignored the men in the hallway, seeming to have their minds set on something else. I watched the way they walked and tried to swing my hips as they did. I placed one hand on my waist and stuck my chest out. Despite my best efforts to look confident, my ankles would not stop wobbling in the stupid high heel shoes. I hurried to the back of the group and clung close to the others while the soldiers called for me to give them a chance.

“Are we going to the party?” I whispered to a skinny girl with short, black hair. Her eyes darted around the hall, never landing on mine.

“First timer?” she guessed.

I tried to smile.

“Piece of advice.” She lowered her voice. “Officers give good tips, but they think they can do whatever they want for it.”

I checked to make sure the knife was still in my purse.

A girl in the front gave a giddy yell and clapped her hands, and soon the others had joined her. My heart beat faster, keeping time with the cadence of their applause. We were ushered through two double doors, which gave way to a large courtyard, brightly lit by fluorescent overhead lights.

I was bumped and jostled on my way toward the center, and held onto the girl beside me so I didn’t fall. Around us swarmed more soldiers than I had ever seen in one place—more people than even in the Square in Knoxville. The closer we got to the center of the courtyard, the denser they were packed and the louder they became. I lifted my eyes overhead as a roar took the crowd. Surrounding us on all sides, and stretching up at least ten stories high, was the rest of the Charlotte base.

Each floor had an inner track that allowed viewers to look down into the courtyard. Soldiers lined the railing, gawking, raining their cheers down into the courtyard. I couldn’t help but be awed by their numbers—thousands, maybe more. All the soldiers each region could spare, here to celebrate the FBR’s victory.

This was where Three would attack.

Finally, we reached the center of the courtyard, where several rows of chairs surrounded a square chain-link cage. Two soldiers dragged a man’s limp body out of the gate while those nearest called for the girls to join them. On a high platform to the right was a table, and seated in the center was the Chief of Reformation. He was flanked by two soldiers on each side, men like him—older, with stars on their jackets. Surrounding them was a blockade of guards standing shoulder to shoulder, leaving a distance of ten feet between the crowd and the table.

A few of the officers pointed in my direction and I immediately lowered my head, fearing I’d been caught.

“Send the girls up,” called the chief. “And refill these drinks!” He slammed a glass down on the wooden table while those nearest to him laughed. The party had already begun.

A few of the bravest pushed to the front of the line, and after being patted down climbed the steps up to the platform. Most of the other girls hung back, making their way through the three rows of seated soldiers that surrounded the cage.

On the opposite side the prisoners, their identities hidden by the black canvas bags over their heads, were dragged to a stand. Still latched together, they stumbled across the cement paddock in front of the cage gate. The soldiers on the floors above booed and shouted their insults, a hateful melody that made my ears ring.

Two men from the line, beige prison uniforms already clinging to their backs with sweat, were thrown into the center of the arena. I tried to get a closer look as those in the seated rows stood to watch the spectacle.

“Traitors!” called a man nearby.

“Dogs!” shouted another.

The hiss of a microphone cut through the noise, and then the chief’s sinister voice, amplified from the speakers positioned at the corners of the courtyard, filled the night air.

“My fellow soldiers, a week ago, these two men wore the same uniform as the rest of us.”

The crowd hurled their insults.

“They claimed allegiance to the Reformation. To the president. To everything we work so diligently to protect.”

My chest rumbled with the deafening roar of the soldiers.

“They betrayed us. All of us. Without reformation they are nothing but animals, with no structure, no higher purpose, ready to bite the hand that feeds them. Without order they turn on each other, and tear each other apart.”

Two soldiers ripped the bags off of the prisoners’ heads at the same time. They blinked at the harsh overhead lights and tried to gain their bearings as their cuffs were removed.

One had dark skin, the other, light. I froze.

“Fight!” chanted the crowd. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

The few stories I’d heard of Chase fighting in Chicago refreshed in my memory. The thought of him being forced to do battle for the entertainment of others disgusted me all over again. As I looked around, a new pity slashed through me, this one bright and sour. Violence and brutality to teach compliance, to enforce morality—that was the MM’s way.

At first Marco and Polo drew together, back to back, as if they might fight whatever came their way.
I’m sorry,
I thought. Sorry they were here, that they’d been caught, that I’d even thought of the Statute hijacking. They had made their decisions long before me, but I couldn’t help but feel responsible for this.

“Only one of you is coming out,” said the Chief of Reformation.

Marco glanced over his shoulder at Polo. His partner’s lips were moving fast, saying something I couldn’t make out over the shouting. And then Marco, already injured, hobbled away, turning so that they were facing each other. Polo tried once, twice, and then one more time to get close to him, his arms open and pleading, but each time Marco jerked back.

“Fight!” demanded the crowd.

The men began to circle, Polo’s steps quick, Marco’s strained and awkward. Polo was still trying to reason. Even from where I was standing I could see that he still didn’t understand.

“Fight!”

I shoved through, getting closer to the fence. Close enough to hear Marco say, “I’m sorry, brother.”

He attacked Polo as though he felt no pain, and as they fell to the ground the courtyard erupted in cheers.

I watched, frozen, unable to look away. It was a trick. They had a plan. Marco would no more hurt Polo than I would hurt Chase. I told myself this even as Polo’s nose broke, as his blood soaked the floor of the arena.

Marco fought like a man possessed. He punched, screamed, and even cried, and as Polo’s body went still under him a moan, filled with despair, tore from him.

The soldiers had to drag him off of his friend. And even as they did, he refused to let him go.

“Brutal!” clapped the chief, no longer magnified by the microphone. “Absolutely brutal!”

At a nod of the chief’s head, one of the soldiers removed his weapon, and shot Marco in the back of the head.

My knees gave way and I fell back into the first row of soldiers. A man caught me around the waist and latched me in place on his lap. I could barely struggle; the horror had rendered my muscles useless.

“Likes a close view, does she?” came a voice beside me.

“Guess so,” grumbled the man I had fallen into. I turned my face to see Tucker’s green eyes blazing back into mine. His lips brushed my ear. “You must have some kind of death wish.”

I tried to get up but he held me in place.

“What do you think is going to happen here?” he demanded. “You’re outnumbered two thousand to one.”

“To two,” I said, but he only scoffed. “You can’t just sit here and watch our friends die.”

He tightened his grip. “You think I have a choice?”