Enemy Inside (Defectors Trilogy) (20 page)

“Tell me.”

“It was stuff about you . . . locker room talk.” He grimaced. “I don’t want to repeat it.”

I smirked. “Were you
jealous?
”

Amory looked bemused and then flustered. “Of course I was jealous! I don’t want you to be with him. I want you to be with me.”

My heart swelled. I looked up at him. “I am with you.”

Amory grinned and brushed the hair off my face. I looked up at him, trying to memorize the warm, soft look in his eyes. These days, he so seldom let his guard down that this side of Amory was rare to see.
 

He pulled me closer, and I laid my head against his chest, drifting off into the first peaceful sleep I’d had at camp.

The next morning, when I finally emerged from the tent, the entire camp was blanketed in snow. It covered the patches of blood, and all the dead had been dragged away to the mass grave. I wondered who had been responsible for moving the bodies — carrying them the half mile to the ravine. Probably the few rebels who had been vaccinated. That sent a ripple of guilt down my spine.
 

Those who had survived and were not confined to the medical tent milled around in silence. Though the snow concealed the evidence of death, it hung very present over by the mess tent. A couple people were crying silently around the blazing fire, huddled together on a log. I realized I didn’t even know who had died in the battle or at the hands of the carriers.

But all these people weren’t only grieving for their friends who had died. Most of them were facing the strong possibility that they would become infected and die a slow, awful death as a carrier. What was worse, they wouldn’t even know if they were infected for days.

Moving through the mess line in silence, I took my bowl and glanced absently at the rough chalkboard denoting everyone’s duties for the week. I needed a job to do.
 

I was startled when I realized it was the same schedule as last week; none of the dead rebels’ names had been removed.
 

Amory took a bowl for Logan, and I sank down on a log near the fire. I looked down at my breakfast, and my stomach turned. It was a bowl of slop: a mixture of runny gravy, potatoes, corn, and specs of sausage. It made sense. In happy times, the food always seemed to reflect the good fortune of the camp. In bad times, the food was terrible.

I looked around for Greyson, but he wasn’t even in the mess line yet. Even though I knew he couldn’t contract the virus from the rebels who were infected, I felt a sense of urgency to get him away from the area. Death hung like a dark cloud over the entire camp, and I was determined to escape with everyone I loved.

Once I finished, I limped back to the med tent to see if Shriver needed help with anything. My body was battered and broken, but I was still more able-bodied than a lot of the rebels.
 

As I rounded the corner of the tent block, I heard a terrible retching sound. The snow was sullied with the spilled bowl of morning slop, and its contents were running together with another sickly substance.
 

Amory was bent double around the side of the tent. He jumped when he saw me out of the corner of his eye, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and going red in the face.

“You should see Shriver,” I said, instantly worried. Under ordinary circumstances, the flu wouldn’t have been an issue, but roughing it in the wilderness, a simple illness could get out of hand and take a person’s life.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely.
 

“You’re sick.” My eyes raked his pale complexion and his shaky, clammy hands.

“I’m not. I’m . . . I think I’m going through withdrawal.”

“Withdrawal from what?”

“The drug they had me on in Isador. I don’t know what it was . . . something that messed with my brain . . . made me more receptive to the sessions.” He said the last word quietly, eyes flickering downward, as though the memories still sent a wave of terror through him.

“How long has this been going on?”

He shrugged. “Since we left Sector X.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. Besides, with the effects wearing off, I’m feeling more like myself again. The fighting is more or less under control now.”

I raised an eyebrow at his hedged language but didn’t push it. I was happy to be getting closer to the old Amory again, even if the process was making him lose his breakfast.

Once he had recovered, I began fetching food for the injured who were well enough to eat and helped Amory bandage the simpler wounds. Shriver kept me busy running for more bandages, tools, food, and kerosene oil, but the number of injured rebels just seemed to be growing.

All the while, I kept one eye on Logan. She still wasn’t well enough to get out of bed, and she slept for most of the day. Greyson hardly left her side, except to bring her food. Hovering over her, it was as if he thought he could personally ensure his blood would help her recover.
 

By dinnertime, I’d had enough of the stench of alcohol and blood. I limped out to the fire where the rest of the camp was gathered. The mood had not lifted at all. Warming my hands with my bowl of stew, I looked around for somewhere to sit. Amory and Greyson weren’t there, and every other cluster of people sat in a cloud of despair. Death hung all around them, and sitting down would have felt like an intrusion on their very personal grief.
 

Finally, I saw Kinsley sitting off on a log by himself. Hunched over his stew, he looked very small, and I was reminded once again how young he was.

“Hey,” I said.

His large ears perked up when he saw me. “Hey!”

“Can I sit?”

“Yeah.”

I sat down awkwardly, watching him watch me out of the corner of his eye.

“Is your friend doing okay?”

“Logan? Yeah, I think she’s going to be all right.”

“Good. I like her.” His face flushed a little, and I grinned.

“Yeah, I think it would take more than one carrier to get the best of Logan. She’s pretty tough.”

“And your other friends? They made it back, so that’s good . . .”

I felt a pang of insensitivity. Everyone I loved had survived, but I was in the minority.

“What about you?” I asked quietly. “Did you lose anyone?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really have anyone to lose. I’m just kind of hanging out.”

Hanging out.
That was a strange way to describe what we were doing. Then again, all of us were just “hanging out,” hoping we didn’t get killed. Somehow, not having anyone to lose seemed sadder. I tried to change the subject.

“Hey. What do you think of Rulon?” I asked. I tried to sound casual, but the question was loaded. As young as he was, Kinsley worked more closely with Rulon than anyone else.

“He’s all right.”

I nodded, wondering how far I should push him. “Ever hear anything interesting? I know you help him with a lot of stuff.”

He shrugged again. I wondered if I had shrugged so much when I was a teenager. “It’s mostly just PMC movements. We track them and try to listen in on their frequency, but a lot of their intel is in code. Sometimes I work on breaking it.”

“You break their codes?”

“I’ve broken some of them. My dad had this old book on cryptography. I read it over and over again when I was a kid.”

“That’s cool.”

“It’s not that hard.”

We sat in silence for several minutes, but it didn’t feel awkward. I liked Kinsley, and I wished he wasn’t Rulon’s errand boy. He was a good kid, and I had the bad feeling that Rulon was leading the rebels into disaster. He wouldn’t even listen to Ida, which made me think he was scared — scared of the PMC’s power and scared of what we didn’t know.

The next day, Logan was still confined to her bed on Shriver’s orders, but she was sitting up and talking animatedly to Greyson. By the look of the warmth returning to her cheeks, we would be able to travel soon.

I had Shriver reset my ankle. It was healing, but I needed to be able to walk on it properly — run if I had to. She tsked when she saw how much it had swollen after the carrier fight, but she put it in a brace anyway. It fit into my boot and eased the pain I felt when it bore weight.

I wasn’t the only one who was anxious to leave. When Greyson wasn’t at Logan’s bedside, I caught him throwing wary glances at all the rebels milling around. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was: In a few days’ time, the camp would have some hard decisions to make.
 

Amory shuffled on and off guard duty, sleeping intermittently in his tent for a few hours at a time. With so few uninjured men left, he was pulling double duty and helping Shriver between shifts.

That lack of sleep combined with his withdrawal symptoms and the fact that he, Greyson, and Kinsley shared a tent with Jared had put him on edge. According to Greyson, the mood in the tent had not improved since Amory started the fight with Jared. Now, whenever the four of them were in there at the same time, there was just a strained, awkward silence.

Kinsley was the only one who seemed to be taking the carrier attack and imminent PMC invasion in stride. He had more responsibilities than ever, especially as Rulon’s lackey, and he seemed to mature overnight into a much older boy. He relieved the older men of guard duties without being asked, brought food to some of the other rebels who were grieving in their tents, and took it upon himself to restore the awkward harmony that had existed between our group and Jared.

One night, after Logan had begun to regain her health, there was an odd rustle at the flap of the med tent. Most of the rebels who remained under Shriver’s care bore more serious injuries, so they had been moved to the auxiliary tent to be cared for en masse. The four of us nearly had Logan’s tent to ourselves, and we all looked up in surprise when Jared stuck his head in the tent.
 

It was strange seeing him without his PMC whites on. He was wearing black cargo pants and boots like everyone else and a half-zip black sweater. His messy blond hair stood out starkly against all the black.

Jared cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Hi. Good to see you’re looking better,” he said with a nod in Logan’s direction.

Logan’s mouth twitched, and I could tell she was suppressing a laugh. “Thanks. I’m almost . . . good as new.”

“Right. Well, that’s good.” Jared’s eyes wandered around to us. He gave a general nod of acknowledgment and then ducked out without another word.

“He’s got some nerve,” said Amory under his breath.

“I think it’s nice,” said Logan.

“Why?” snapped Greyson.

I looked over in surprise. Greyson had never expressed dislike for Jared since he had extracted Amory and me from Sector X. He was sitting on the floor against Logan’s cot — her own personal watchdog.

“I mean —” he stammered. “After fighting with Amory and all . . .”

“Amory started it,” I pointed out.

“You wouldn’t say that if you heard what he said about you,” Greyson muttered.

I let the topic drop. I didn’t want to know what Jared had said about me because it was awkward enough being around him and knowing he’d said anything at all. Plus, seeing Amory bristle at the very sight of him made me even more anxious to leave camp.

Four nights after the attack, Ida found me at dinner. I could tell it was her approaching by the way her skirts swished through the snow. She sighed and sat down on the log next to me, holding two cups of hot tea. It was a motherly gesture, but I knew something serious was on her mind.
 

“It’s time for us to leave,” she said. By her tone, I could tell the decision weighed on her heavily.
 

For the first time since I’d known Ida, she was really showing her age. She had deep crevices around her mouth that ran together and split off to form shallower tributaries. The eyes behind those huge glasses were deep set and tired. Her long hair now looked less platinum blond and more white and raggedy — like Father Time’s beard.

“I know.”

“You don’t seem very upset.”

I smiled bitterly. “I shouldn’t even be here now. Rulon hates me. He thinks I’m a traitor.”

“If he really thought you were a traitor, you’d be dead. You just make him nervous.”

“So do you.”

“No. He thinks I’m a crazy old woman who spent too many years ‘cowering on my farm.’ And maybe I am, but I’ve moved on. You don’t get to be
my
age without a little self-preservational instinct.”
 

“He still won’t listen to you?”

She shook her head. “He’s leading these people without any real strategy or direction. When he was with Mariah, he was
too
reckless. She pushed him — goaded him — into doing things against his better judgment.”

“Like bombing the base.”

Ida nodded gravely. “If I had known what they were up to, I never would have sent you with them.” She hung her head, and I knew she was thinking of Max. “Now with Mariah gone, he’s paralyzed. He doesn’t know what to do. He was never cut out to lead all these people. She was. Rulon just brought the charisma . . . the people skills. Mariah was the one with a brain for strategy.”

“She manipulated him.”

“Of course she manipulated him. Behind every great leader is the real brains of the operation, Haven. Remember that.”

We sat in silence for several minutes, blowing on the hot tea.

“When did it get like this, Haven? It’s something I never thought I would do.” She continued, not expecting me to chime in. “Turning my back on people who need my help. But I’m not wanted here. And frankly, I won’t let my people risk their lives under Rulon’s leadership any longer.”

“How did you end up with the rebels?”

She sighed, looking tired. “What else am I supposed to do? The PMC confiscated my farm. They took my deed and handed me my migration papers. That farm has been in my family for over a hundred years, and they took it in a second. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. We’re a dying breed, we ‘independent resistors.’ Most of my old friends have gone deep underground. My husband died years ago, and we never had any children. I don’t have any other family.”