Unwind (22 page)

A long silence from Hayden, and then he says quietly, uneasily, “I don't know.”

Emby razzes him. “That's not an answer.”

But Connor reaches out and grabs Emby's arm, to shut
him up—because Emby's wrong. Even though Connor can't see Hayden's face, he can hear the truth of it in his voice. There was no hint of evasion in Hayden's words. This was raw honesty, void of Hayden's usual flip attitude. It was perhaps the first truly honest thing Connor had ever heard him say. “Yes, it is an answer,” Connor says. “Maybe it's the best answer of all. If more people could admit they really don't know, maybe there never would have been a Heartland War.”

There's a mechanical jolt beneath them. Emby gasps.

“Landing gear,” says Connor.

“Oh, right.”

In a few minutes they'll be there, wherever “there” is. Connor tries to guess how long they've been in the air. Ninety minutes? Two hours? There's no telling what direction they've been flying. They could be touching down anywhere. Or maybe Emby was right. Maybe it's piloted by remote control and they're just ditching the whole plane in the ocean to get rid of the evidence. Or what if it's worse than that? What if . . . what if . . .

“What if it's a harvest camp after all?” says Emby. Connor doesn't tell him to shut up this time, because he's thinking the same thing.

It's Diego who answers him. “If it is, then I want my fingers to go to a sculptor. So he can use them to craft something that will last forever.”

They all think about that. Hayden is the next to speak.

“If I'm unwound,” says Hayden, “I want my eyes to go to a photographer—one who shoots supermodels. That's what I want these eyes to see.”

“My lips'll go to a rock star,” says Connor.

“These legs are definitely going to the Olympics.”

“My ears to an orchestra conductor.”

“My stomach to a food critic.”

“My biceps to a body builder.”

“I wouldn't wish my sinuses on anybody.”

And they're all laughing as the plane touches down.

Risa doesn't know what went on in Connor's crate. She assumes guys talk about guy things, whatever those things are. She has no way of knowing that what occurred in his crate was a reenactment of what happened in her own, and in almost every other container on the plane. Fear, misgivings, questions rarely asked, and stories rarely told. The details are different, of course, as are the players, but the gist is the same. No one will discuss these things again, or even acknowledge having ever discussed them at all, but because of it, invisible bonds have been forged. Risa has gotten to know an overweight girl prone to tears, a girl wound up from a week of nicotine withdrawal, and a girl who was a ward of the state, just like her—and also just like Risa, an unwitting victim of budget cuts. Her name is Tina. The others told their names, but Tina's is the only one she remembers.

“We're exactly the same,” Tina had said sometime during the flight. “We could be twins.” Even though Tina is umber, Risa has to admit that it's true. It's comforting to know there are others in the same situation, but troubling to think her own life is just one of a thousand pirate copies. Sure, the Unwinds from state homes all have different faces, but otherwise, their stories are the same. They even all have the same last name, and she silently curses whoever it was who determined that they should all be named Ward—as if being one weren't enough of a stigma.

The plane touches down, and they wait.

“What's taking so long?” asks the nicotine girl, impatiently. “I can't stand this!”

“Maybe they're moving us to a truck, or another plane,” suggests the pudgy girl.

“They'd better not be,” says Risa. “There's not enough air in here for another trip.”

There's noise—someone's outside the crate. “Shhh!” says Risa. “Listen.” Footsteps. Banging. She hears voices, although she can't make out what the voices say. Then someone unlatches a side of the crate and pulls it open a crack. Hot, dry air spills in. The sliver of light from the plane's hold seems bright as sunlight after the hours of darkness.

“Is everyone all right in there?” It's not a Fatigue—Risa can tell right away. The voice is younger.

“We're okay,” Risa says. “Can we get out of here?”

“Not yet. We gotta open all the other crates first and get everyone some fresh air.” From what Risa can see, this is just a kid her age, maybe even younger. He wears a beige tank top and khaki pants. He's sweaty, and his cheeks are tan. No, not just tan: sunburned.

“Where are we?” Tina asks.

“The graveyard,” says the kid, and moves on to the next crate.

*   *   *

In a few minutes the crate is opened all the way, and they're free. Risa takes a moment to look at her travel companions. The three girls look remarkably different from her memory of them when they first got in. Getting to know someone in blind darkness changes your impression of them. The large girl isn't as overweight as Risa had thought. Tina isn't as tall. The nicotine girl isn't nearly as ugly.

A ramp leads down from the hold, and Risa must wait her turn in a long line of kids leaving their crates. Rumors are already buzzing. Risa tries to listen, and sort the fact from fiction.

“A buncha kids died.”

“No way.”

“I heard half the kids died.”

“No way!”

“Look around you, moron! Does it look like half of us died?”

“Well, I just heard.”

“It was just one crateful that died.”

“Yeah! Someone says they freaked out and ate each other—you know, like the Donner party.”

“No, they just suffocated.”

“How do you know?”

“'Cause I saw them, man. Right in the crate next to mine. There were five guys in there instead of four, and they all suffocated.”

Risa turns to the kid who said that. “Is that really true, or are you just making it up?”

Risa can tell by the unsettled look on his face that he's sincere. “I wouldn't joke about something like that.”

Risa looks for Connor, but her view is limited to the few kids around her in line. She quickly does the math. There were about sixty kids. Five kids suffocated. One-in-twelve chance it was Connor. No, because the boy who saw into the dead crate said there were
guys
in there. There were only thirty guys in all. One-in-six chance it was Connor. Had he been one of the last ones in? Had he been shoved into an overpacked crate? She didn't know. She had been so flustered when they were rousted that morning, it was hard enough to keep track of herself, much less anyone else.
Please, God, let it not be Connor. Let it
not be Connor.
Her last words to him had been angry ones. Even though he had saved her from Roland, she was furious at him. “Get out of here!” she had screamed. She couldn't bear the thought of his dying with those being her last words. She couldn't bear the thought of his dying, period.

She bangs her head on the low opening of the cargo hold on her way out.

“Watch your head,” says one of the kids in charge.

“Yeah, thanks,” says Risa. He smirks at her. This kid is also dressed in Army clothes, but he's too scrawny to be a military boeuf. “What's with the clothes?”

“Army surplus,” he says. “Stolen clothes for stolen souls.”

Outside the hold, the light of day is blinding, and the heat hits Risa like a furnace. The ramp beneath her slopes to the ground, and she has to stare at her feet, squinting to keep from stumbling. By the time she reaches the ground, her eyes have adjusted enough to take in their surroundings. All around them,
everywhere,
are airplanes, but there's no sign of an airport—just the planes, row after row, for as far as the eye can see. Many are from airlines that no longer exist. She turns to look at the jet they just arrived on. It carries the logo of FedEx, but this craft is a sorry specimen. It seems about ready for the junkyard.
Or,
thinks Risa,
the graveyard . . .

“This is nuts,” one kid beside Risa grumbles. “It's not like this plane is invisible. They're going to know exactly where the plane has gone. We're going to be tracked here!”

“Don't you get it?” says Risa. “That jet was just decommissioned. That's how they do it. They wait for a decommissioned plane, then load us in as cargo. The plane was coming here anyway, so no one's going to miss it.”

The jets rest on a barren hardpan of maroon earth. Distant red mountains poke up from the ground. They are somewhere in the Southwest.

There's a row of port-o-potties that already have anxious lines. The kids shepherding them count heads and try to maintain order in the disoriented group. One of them has a megaphone.

“Please remain under the wing if you're not using the latrine,” he announces. “You made it this far, we don't want you to die of sunstroke.”

Now that everyone's out of the plane, Risa desperately searches the crowd until she finally finds Connor. Thank God! She wants to go to him, but remembers that they've officially ended their fake romance. With two dozen kids between them, they briefly make eye contact, and exchange a secret nod. That nod says everything. It says that what happened between them yesterday is history; today, everything starts fresh.

Then she sees Roland there as well. He meets her eye and gives her a grin. That grin says things too. She looks away, wishing he had been in the suffocation crate. She considers feeling guilty for such a nasty wish, then realizes that she doesn't feel guilty for wishing it at all.

A golf cart comes rolling down the rows of airliners, kicking up a plume of red dust in its wake. The driver is a kid. The passenger is clearly military. Not military surplus, either—he's the real thing. Instead of green or khaki, he's in navy blue. He seems accustomed to the heat—even in his hot uniform, he doesn't appear to sweat. The cart stops before the gathered hoard of juvenile refugees. The driver steps out first, and joins the four kids who had been leading them. The loud kid raises his megaphone. “May I have your attention! The Admiral is about to address you. If you know what's good for you, you'll listen.”

The man steps out of the golf cart. The kid offers him the megaphone, but he waves it away. His voice needs no amplification. “I'd like to be the first to welcome you to the graveyard.”

The Admiral is well into his sixties, and his face is full of scars. Only now does Risa realize that his uniform is one from the war. She can't recall whether these were the colors of the pro-life or pro-choice forces, but then, it doesn't really matter. Both sides lost.

“This will be your home until you turn eighteen or we procure a permanent sponsor willing to falsify your identification. Make no mistake about it: What we do here is highly illegal, but that does not mean we don't follow the rule of law.
My
law.”

He pauses, making eye contact with as many kids as he can. Perhaps it's his goal to memorize each and every face before his speech is done. His eyes are sharp, his focus intense. Risa believes he can know each of them just by a single sustained glance. It's intimidating and reassuring at the same time. No one will fall between the cracks in the Admiral's world.

“All of you were marked for unwinding yet managed to escape, and, through the help of my many associates, you have found your way here. I don't care who you were. I don't care who you'll be when you leave here. All I care about is who you are while you're here—and while you're here, you will do what is expected of you.”

A hand goes up in the crowd. It's Connor. Risa wishes it wasn't. The Admiral takes time to study Connor's face before saying, “Yes?”

“So . . . who are you, exactly?”

“My name is my business. Suffice it to say that I am a former admiral of the United States Navy.” And then he grinned. “But now you could say I'm a fish out of water. The current political climate led to my resignation. The law said it was my job to look the other way, but I did not. I will not.” Then he turns to the crowd and says loudly, “No one gets unwound on my watch.”

Cheers from all those assembled, including the khaki kids that were already a part of his little army. The Admiral gives a wide grin. His smile shows a set of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. It's a strange disconnect, because, while his teeth are sparkling, the rest of him seems worn down to the nub.

“We are a community here. You will learn the rules and you will follow them, or you will face the consequences, as in any society. This is not a democracy; it is a dictatorship. I am your dictator. This is a matter of necessity. It is the most effective way to keep you hidden, healthy, and whole.” Then he gives that smile again. “I like to believe I am a benevolent dictator, but you can make that judgment for yourselves.”

By now, his gaze has traveled over the entire crowd. All of them feel as though they have been scanned like groceries at a checkout counter. Scanned and processed.

“Tonight you will all sleep in the newcomers' quarters. Tomorrow your skills will be assessed, and you'll be assigned to your permanent squads. Congratulations. You've arrived!”

He takes a moment to let that last thought sink in, then he returns to his golf cart and is spirited off, with the same cloud of red dust billowing behind him.

“Is there still time to get back into the crate?” some wiseguy says. A bunch of kids laugh.

“All right, listen up,” yells the megaphone kid. “We're going to walk you to the supply jet, where you'll get clothes, rations, and everything else you'll need.” They are quick to find out that the megaphone kid has earned the nickname “Amp.” As for the Admiral's driver, he's been stuck with “Jeeves.”