Among the Brave (9 page)

Hey, Dad?
Trey thought
Why was it more important to learn Latin than this?

But Trey knew. His father had never thought that Trey would ever have to move anything but his eyes as they flicked across lines of print, or his fingertips as they turned the pages of a book.

Why?
Trey thought.
If you knew I wasn’t going to hide forever—
That was too close to dangerous thoughts, thoughts he never wanted to think again. He forced himself to concentrate on keeping up with Mark.

After what seemed like hours—or maybe even days— Mark stopped in the midst of a small clearing. He crouched beside Trey and pointed, whispering, “Is that it?” Trey looked up, even though it was scary to gaze straight toward the sky. The peak of a roof rose just above the tops of the tallest trees. A cupola soared above the roof. Squinting, Trey could just barely make out a stylized “G” in gold on the pinnacle of the cupola. Was it “G” for aGrantn?

“Maybe,” Trey whispered back.

Mark nodded and started crawling again.

“They have a fence, I think,” Trey said, straining to remember. He’d arrived at the Grants~ in a car that had whisked him through.
. .
was it a gate? He hadn’t been paying attention. He’d been too busy worrying.

“I know,” Mark said. “Peter told me everything.”

Trey had to struggle to remember that Mark meant Smits, that Peter was Smits. Then he had to struggle to catch up with Mark before he disappeared behind a tree. When Trey caught up, Mark was still talking.

“The fence goes all around the entire property, but it’s stone, and at the back, closest to the river, there’s a place where a stone comes out, just wide enough for a boy to squeeze through. Peter and his brother used to sneak out that way....

Trey was glad that Mark knew so much. He’d known to
I
hide the truck, he’d known to follow the river to the Grants’ house, and now he knew exactly how to get in. Really, Trey had nothing to worry about as long as he stuck close to Mark.

Then Mark stopped in front of him, so abruptly that Trey’s nose slammed right into the bottom of Mark’s shoe.

“Listen,” Mark hissed over his shoulder.

A booming voice echoed through the woods. At first Trey couldn’t make out any words, but as he crept forward a little, the voice got louder: “There! And there! Faster!” it screamed in the distance.

Trey looked at Mark, but his face was wrinkled up in puzzlement too.

“Should we turn around?” Trey asked, sotto voce.

Mark shook his head.

“Just be very, very quiet,” he said, so softly that Trey practically had to lip-read.

Trey inched forward at an excruciatingly slow pace. The voice was even louder now.

“Come on, men! You think you’re going to get paid for such shoddy work? I’ve never seen such a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing louts! Move it!”

They could hear hammering, too, and grunts of pain or exertion. Trey couldn’t figure out why Mark thought Trey should be so quiet: Nobody would be able to hear a few boys creeping through the forest in the midst of all that racket

Trey saw the stone wall first He was so relieved Trey wouldn’t have to creep past the voice and the hammerers that he couldn’t speak. He tugged at Mark’s sleeve and pointed.

But Mark shook his head warningly. He led Trey along the wall, closer and closer to the noise.

They rounded a curve in the wall, and Mark suddenly jerked Trey behind a big bush.

“There,” he mouthed.

Terrified, Trey peeked through the leaves. All along the stone fence ahead of them, a team of gray-uniformed men—forty? fifty? a hundred?—were driving stakes in the ground and nailing long strands of wire to the stakes.

“Why,” Mark whispered, “would they need a stone fence and a barbed-wire fence too?”

Trey shrugged, totally confused. Why would anyone build a new fence around the Grants’ house after Mr. and Mrs. Grant had died? Who had authorized it? Lee? The chauffeur?

“Let’s just climb through the hole in the stone fence,” Trey begged. “Quick. Before Trey see us.”

“Can’t,” Mark whispered back. “The hole’s over there.” And he pointed straight into the midst of the uniformed men.

Chapter Fourteen

By silent agreement, Trey and Mark crept deeper into the woods to figure out what to do next. Trey was all
for
waiting until the team of workers left—maybe even rethinking the entire mission.

“What if there’s a better way to help Lee than climbing through two fences?” he said. “Let’s both think for a while, talk it out
...
Maybe we’ve been overlooking an obvious solution. Maybe we don’t even need to step foot on the Grants’ property at all.”

The more he thought about it, the more the second fence spooked him. It just didn’t fit.

“You want to sit around thinking and talking?” Mark asked incredulously. “Doing nothing? it could be hours before those men leave. And during those hours, my brother could be—”

Trey didn’t want to hear how Mark finished that sentence.

“So what do
you
want to do?” he challenged.

“Let’s go around that way and see if there’s another way in,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction from the men assembling the barbed-wire fence. “Maybe the front gate’s open.”

Trey couldn’t believe Mark thought Trey might be able to just stroll right in, in broad daylight. But Mark wasn’t waiting for Trey to continue the debate. He was already moving gingerly through the underbrush, away from Trey

Silently fuming, Trey followed.

By the time Trey reached the edge of the woods, every muscle in Trey’s body ached. He just wasn’t used to lifting his feet so carefully, then placing them down again so precisely that no twigs cracked, no leaves rustled. Really, he wasn’t very accustomed to moving his feet at all. And it wasn’t just his feet and legs—his arms ached from shoving away branch after branch. His back ached from crouching. He’d scraped one hand on the rough stone of the wall, and the other on a thorny plant he hadn’t noticed until it scratched him. He was in such a fog of pain and exhaustion that he didn’t even mind seeing the patch of clear sky up ahead. What more could the horrible outdoors do to him?

It was Mark who stopped him from stepping out into the clearing.

“Wait,” he whispered, grabbing Trey’s arm. “Look.”

Once again, Trey peered through leaves. He blinked twice, sure his eyes were fooling him. There, on the driveway leading to the gate of the Grant estate, stood hundreds of men and boys, lined up and waiting patiently for . . . what? And why hadn’t he and Mark heard them? How could so many people be so quiet?

Then Trey noticed that none of them were talking. Or, no—a few were, but whispering, their heads bent close together, their voices low. It was like they were as scared of being overheard as he and Mark were.

“What do you reckon they’re doing here?” Mark asked.

Trey just shook his head. Mark looked disappointed, as if he’d thought this huge crowd was some city phenomenon that Trey would understand and explain instantly.

“I’m going to go ask one of them,” Mark said.

“No!” Trey exploded. “they might—”

“What?” Mark asked. “What’s the worst thing anyone could do to me, just for asking a question?”

“Kill you,” Trey argued quietly Mark rolled his eyes.

“Help me,” he said. “Let’s pick the right person.”

As far as Trey was concerned, one person standing in a line was pretty much the same as any other. But he obediently peered through the leaves again. Everyone in the line was dressed in ragged clothes; everyone was thin, with a gaunt face. But, looking closely, Trey could see some differences. Some of the boys were young—his age, maybe even younger—and they had the most hopeful expressions. Some of them even looked like they thought they might be embarking on an adventure. The oldest men in the crowd, though, had dead-looking eyes and vacant gazes. Some of them looked like they really might kill someone for asking a question. Or maybe they thought they were about to be killed themselves.

“That one,” Mark said suddenly.

He pointed at a boy about his age. Trey knew instantly why Mark had chosen him. He was wearing the same kind of flannel shirt as Mark and Trey.

“You shouldn’t—you can’t—,” Trey sputtered.

But Mark was already stepping out of the brush, walking toward the line.

They peered fearfully after him. He clutched the trunk of the tree beside him so tightly that bark came off in his hands.

Mark’s walk was almost a saunter. At first, no one from the line even glanced at him. Then, as he reached the edge of the blacktop, a few boys raised their eyes in his direction. One was the boy in the flannel shirt.

“Hey,” Mark said. “What’s this line for?”

Flannel-shirt boy looked around desperately, side to side, as if he was hoping that Mark was speaking to someone else—was drawing attention to someone else. But then he answered. Trey could see his mouth moving, even though Trey couldn’t hear a single word he said.

Mark moved in closer to flannel-shirt boy. Mark had his back to Trey now, but Trey could tell by the way he turned his head that he was talking now too, just so softly that Trey couldn’t hear. Mark and flannel-shirt boy were having a regular conversation, back and forth and back and forth. They were both intense. Once, flannel-shirt boy frowned at something Mark said, then cupped his hand over Mark’s ear, whispering so no one else could hear.

After a few minutes, Mark walked back into the woods.

“What?” Trey asked as soon as Mark was close enough. “What are Trey doing?”

“They’re waiting in line to join Population Police forces,” Mark said.

“What?” Trey said. He looked again at the long, long line, and held back a shiver. “At the Grants’ house? What do the Grants have to do with the Population Police?”

Mark was peering out at the line too. But his eyes didn’t seem to be focusing.

“It’s not the Grants’ house anymore,” he said. “It belongs to the Population Police now. In fact—it’s their new headquarters.”

Chapter Fifteen

Trey jerked back, like he actually thought he could get away from this horrible news Mark had just revealed.

“No,” he moaned.

“Maybe that kid’s lying,” Mark said tonelessly. “But I don’t know. Why would he lie?”

Trey realized he was trembling. He tried to stop, to regain control of his muscles, but it was useless. He was mere yards away from the headquarters of the Population Police, the people who had wanted to kill Trey ever since he was born. He had every right to tremble.

Without thinking about it, he plunged his hand into his pants pocket and clutched the false identity card his mother had given him after his father died. He’d carried it with him ever since. It was his only protection against certain death.

“Trey?” Mark said. “Maybe my brother’s not in there. Maybe he and his friends—your friends—maybe they escaped before the Population Police took over.”

Mark thought Trey was trembling on Lee’s behalf. Mark thought Trey was only worried about his friends.

“Maybe the chauffeur who took Lee was working for the Population Police the whole time,” Trey said, and was instantly ashamed. Why was he trying to upset Mark?

“We’ve got to find him,” Mark said.

But he didn’t suggest a plan, just stared dully out at the line of new recruits for the Population Police.

Trey couldn’t help staring at the line too, even though it terrified him. He couldn’t see the line’s beginning or its end. It seemed to go on forever, all those men and boys.

“That many people want to work for the Population Police?” Trey whimpered. “Do they all hate third children so much? Does everyone?”

“No,” Mark said, finally looking away from the line. “They probably don’t know anything about third children. They’re just hungry.”

“So what? Who isn’t?” Trey asked.

Mark sighed.

“Apparently the Population Police announced this morning that nobody can sell food now except the Population Police,” he said. “And nobody can buy food unless at least one person in the family works for the Population Police. So everybody’s joining up. So they don’t starve.”

Trey closed his eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy with hunger himself. Or maybe it was just fear again. He’d been so terrified for so long, he would have thought he’d be numb to the emotion by now. But he wasn’t. Fear seemed to have taken control of every nerve ending in his body He couldn’t quite make sense of what Mark had said. lf the Population Police controlled the food supply... If everybody joined the Population Police

He was doomed. So was every other third child. So was the entire country.

“Listen,” Mark was saying. “I—I told that kid I had food to sell. I told him he didn’t have to join the Population Police. I don’t know, I guess I went a little crazy. I was even telling him how to grow food....”

Mark’s words took a while to sink in.

“What?” Trey asked. “What if he turns you in? What if the Population Police are offering a big reward for turning in people who try to sell food illegally just like they offer rewards for turning in third children?”

Trey didn’t wait for Mark to answer. He grabbed Mark’s arm and began tugging.

“We’ve got to hide!” Trey screamed frantically “Now!”

Blindly he crashed back through the woods, pulling Mark along with him.

“Trey! Shh! You’re—someone’s going to hear us!” Mark hollered.

Trey stopped with a jerk—not because of Mark’s protests, but because eight lines of barbed wire stretched directly in front of him. He’d thought he’d been running deeper and deeper into the woods, but in his panic he must have gone in circles. He was back at the dual fences surrounding the Grant estate.

He and Mark stared in silence at the gleaming silver barbed wire. Then Mark whispered, “They’re gone now.”

“Huh?” Trey said. He was a little mesmerized by the barbed wire. One barb was suspended mere inches from his right eye. What if he hadn’t seen it? What if he hadn’t stopped?

“The workers,” Mark said impatiently “They finished up and left. So...” He took one small step closer to the fence.

Trey snapped out of his trance.

“You still want to crawl through?” he hissed. “You’ve got to be kidding! It’s not safe! Not with the Population Police in there now. Look, Mark, I know you’re brave and all, but—you can’t save Lee!”

“I have to try” Mark said quietly.

“You won’t even make it through the barbed wire,” Trey argued frantically

“Sure I will,” Mark said. “Don’t you know how many barbed-wire fences I’ve crawled through in my life? I’m practically the barbed-wire champion. Ain’t never—I mean, haven’t never—gotten a scratch since I was about three years old!”

Trey didn’t bother telling him his grammar was atrocious, even without the “ain’t” Mark wasn’t waiting for Trey’s approval anyway He took another step forward, past Trey.

“Just watch,” Mark said, a daredevil grin plastered across his face.

He took off his knapsack and tossed it aside. Then he eased his right foot between two of the lowest lines of barbed wire. Neither wire touched his leg. Trey took a step back so he could see better as Mark crouched down and began moving the rest of his body through. With one hand, he reached for the wire above to hold it away from his head.

“Aaahh!” Mark screamed. He dropped the wire, and it bounced against the entire length of his back. He jerked
away,
his voice cut off mid-scream. But he was still caught in the fence. His body sagged against the bottom wire.

Without thinking, Trey grabbed a stick and poked at Mark’s body knocking him off the wire. The stick brushed the fence, and Trey’s wrists and knuckles tingled strangely He dropped the stick and jumped back, totally panicked. He’d been crazy to use a stick damp from the ground. Water conducted electricity. And the barbed-wire fence, he realized, had been electrified with dangerous amounts of voltage. He stared at Mark’s motionless body, sprawled on the other side of the fence. Trey wasn’t even sure that Mark was still alive.

Above them, on the original stone fence, a light suddenly clicked on, flooding the entire area with an intense glow. Frantically Trey scuttled backward, desperately searching for shadows to hide in. Seconds later, he heard the sound of marching feet, coming right toward him. He dove into a bush, breaking branches. Trembling, he reached back to steady the leaves, to hide all signs of his frantic dive.