Deviants (19 page)

“Either of you got skills?” The one in charge asks, completely ignoring the man behind him.

“Skills?” Burn asks so convincingly I’m not sure whether he understands the question. I don’t.

“Can you take in the dust?” He narrows his bloodshot eyes. “Can you do anything,
special
?” He sizes us up and grips his gun tightly like he expects an attack.

Are you Deviant?
That’s what he wants to know.

“No.” Burn lifts his mask in demonstration, and all three men tighten their grips on their guns.

“Let’s test them,” says the man who asked to execute Burn. “Let’s cram their faces into the dust and see if they choke.”

Burn backs away. “Don’t kill us, please. We’ve come so far. My wife and I just want to find a safe place to settle.”

If I didn’t know Burn better I’d think he was actually scared, actually pleading for his life. But I sense that this is an act—he’s pretending to be frightened and definitely wants to hide that we’re Deviant.

The man who wants to kill us picks up a handful of dust
and shoves his glove into Burn’s face. Burn spits and chokes, bending over at the waist then twisting, trying to get his face away. He’s doing an amazing acting job. I
think
it’s acting.

“Don’t hurt him,” I cry out. Even though Burn told me not to talk, it seems like the natural thing to say. I put my hand on Burn’s heaving back. “Please.” I look up to the boss. “He’ll drown.”

He narrows his eyes, and then says, “Corporal, that’s enough.”

Burn’s released but continues to cough and spit.

“Please,” I say to the sergeant, realizing it’s a title, not his name. “There’s so much dust here. May we put our masks back on?”

“You won’t need them where we’re going,” the sergeant says, and the other two men point their guns straight at us, the dark metal as ugly and ominous as the unpainted panels of the sky above Haven’s Pents. “March.”

“Search them,” the sergeant yells after we’ve marched at gunpoint to the tank. The corporal grabs the small pack off my back, finds my remaining stash of now rancid rat meat, and tosses it to the ground. He pulls out my knife, laughs, straps it to his belt, then throws me my pack.

“Take it off.” The sergeant points to Burn’s coat. Once it’s off, he grabs it.

“Give it back,” Burn says in a deep, booming voice and a vein pulses at his temple. “I need my coat.”

The sergeant laughs, tosses it to the ground, steps on it, and grinds the fabric into the dust.

My insides lurch, knowing the coat’s lining and hidden pockets are loaded with weapons, but the men seem more interested in searching Burn’s body. The corporal puts his gun directly under Burn’s chin as the other man binds his hands behind his back. Burn stares at his coat as the corporal pats his hands over Burn’s chest and back, searching for weapons. Discovering the bandages, the man purposefully pushes on the wounds underneath.

Burn’s jaw hardens and muscles on his cheek twitch as he pulls in a long, slow breath. The man checks Burn’s legs and when he reaches his calf, grunts and tugs up his pant leg.

“What have we here?” He pulls out a long knife. Grinning, the corporal narrows his eyes and puts the knife into a sheath on his own back.

“We need our knives to skin rats,” I say.

“Not anymore.” The corporal turns to the sergeant. “They’re clean. I confiscated their weapons.”

The third man picks up Burn’s coat and checks the obvious pockets, finding only empty water bladders and various objects he deems harmless, then he dons the coat. The other two laugh as it engulfs him and drags on the ground. Face reddening, the man takes it off and tosses it aside.

Burn stares at the coat.

The corporal pulls a dark fabric hood over my head. I can only assume someone puts one over Burn’s head, too. After binding my hands behind my back with rope, someone roughly grabs my shoulders and pushes me forward.

My instincts scream, “Run. Find Drake,” but terror overrides instinct. Terror is smart. Obeying these men is the only
way to survive for the moment, especially with my eyes covered by a hood that’s tied around my throat.

Burn grunts beside me. I’m afraid that the men have hurt him and hope that his still-healing wounds don’t open. The men force us into the metal monster. It roars to life. When it moves, I fall over, striking my head on something hard. The tank bounces and lurches and I slam from side to side, until I find something to grip behind me, a rail of some kind.

The noise inside the moving tank is deafening, but with my hands bound I can’t raise them as a buffer. It’s all I can do to keep a grip on the rail. The tank bounces. I lift from my seat then land hard. Through the roar and clanks of the tank, I hear laughter. These men are lucky my eyes are covered, or one of them would end up dead.

Feeling lost and alone, I’m not sure where Burn’s sitting, and suddenly I’m not even certain he got into the tank. I try to calm myself. My fear must be nothing compared to what Drake is feeling, alone with our father, not knowing where I am. In spite of my father’s claim that he wants to help us, how do I know he won’t suddenly snap like before?

Tears threaten, but refusing to let them rise, I blink them back. I will not give these men the satisfaction of seeing tear tracks streaked though the dust on my cheeks. My teeth ache from the constant bouncing, my ears hurt from the deafening roar and clanks, my hands cramp, and my shoulders are so tight they feel like they might tear each time I’m tossed to the side.

I need to relax, to stop fighting against the movements, but I dare not release the rail long enough to feel for Mom’s
ring. I try to imagine I’m up on a rooftop in Haven, talking to Jayma, laughing about the way Sean Cowen makes faces behind Mrs. Cona’s back in GT. For a moment it works, but thinking about Jayma makes me think about Scout, then Cal. I was so stupid. Never again.

What feels like an hour later, I’m tossed hard to the right as the tank stops. My ears buzz with the comparative silence.

“Get them out of here.” The sergeant’s voice fills the small space. “They can walk the rest of the way.”

At least Burn’s still here. I hear shuffling, then hands grab my arm and force me to my feet.

“Up you go, girlie.” The corporal’s voice sounds drenched in slime close to my ear. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone so instantly.

He pushes me and I step forward. My entire body aches.

Burn grunts, the sound muffled, and I hope he’s not hurt. I’m pushed onto a metal ladder, start to climb, and hands press up on my bottom and squeeze. I jerk my hips to the side and resist the urge to kick the corporal below me. I know it’s him.

Back outside we march, the sun heating the air under the black hood, making it difficult to breathe. My mask’s still over my shoulder and I hope the fabric filters the dust. Walking over an uneven and unseen surface, my legs scream. Each time I fall, I’m punished by the sting and burn of new scrapes and bruises.

It’s all I can do not to ask where we’re going, but Burn made it clear I shouldn’t talk to these people. I lose count of how many times I stumble in a hole or knock my leg, but
each time I hit the ground, I’m prodded by what I assume is the gun, or sometimes one of the men’s boots. Based on what I hear, Burn has fallen a few times, too.

I’m about to drop from fatigue and thirst, when someone yanks my arm to stop me and I hear the jangle of metal against metal and then a creaking hinge. I’m pulled forward, then metal clangs behind me.

The surface below my feet becomes harder, more even, and other voices and sounds penetrate the cloth bag. I struggle to make sense of the noise but I can’t. The smell of cooking meat strikes my nostrils. I inhale deeply but suck the cloth into my mouth and nostrils. Choking, I cough, repelling the dry cloth from my tongue and lips, then draw shallow breaths.

Someone grabs my shoulders, yanks me back, and loosens the rope around my neck. As the heavy fabric lifts from my face, I squint against bright light. The sergeant grabs my arm and starts walking, pulling me along. Ahead of us, the corporal pushes Burn, who stumbles, his hands bound behind his back. At least he gave Burn his coat back—in a fashion. It’s covering his head like a blanket, but doesn’t fully hide a deep red stain spreading out from his shoulder blade. Even with the dust he’s taken, that wound hasn’t healed.

Best I can tell we’re in a small city, but not one like Haven. I was right to suspect that others survived Outside, and if there’s a place like this so close to Haven, I wonder how many other people are alive. Are there parts of the earth that weren’t destroyed? There couldn’t be, or surely they’d
have come to help us.

We turn onto a wider road. A smell twists and growls my belly. Someone’s cooking meat over coals. The buildings are smaller than those in Haven. They’re made of concrete bricks, and the top of the city is open to the sky—the real sky. A few people are carrying masks, but not all, and I wonder how they keep the dust out of this town without a dome. Many of the men are dressed in the same faded gray-green uniforms of the men who brought us here, and I still can’t decide whether we’ve been saved or captured. Both, I suppose.

This street must be nearly twelve feet across. Even the roads leading into the Hub aren’t this wide. The tank could fit down this street. Burn and the corporal fall in step next to me, but I’m not sure if Burn knows where I am. His head’s still covered.

Directly in front of me, a boy of about ten walks backward—a slight skip in his step and swinging a short stick, he scrapes on the road with each pass. His hair’s cropped short and he’s missing one of his front teeth. My throat tightens. He’s about the same age Drake was the last time he walked. But Drake was never this hard, this scrawny, this dirty.

“Do they got skills?” the boy asks the sergeant, and I wonder if they’ve got General Training centers for the employees of this town. The boy hasn’t learned proper grammar.

“Don’t think so.” The sergeant’s grip on my arm tightens. “But we aim to find out.”

The kid prods me in the belly with his stick, stopping me in my tracks.

“Hey.” I wish I had my hands free to grab the kid’s weapon.

The sergeant tugs me forward and laughs. Burn struggles against his captors and the boy whacks me in the shin with his stick.

I jump back at the sharp pain. “Ow.”

Laughing, the men stop, and one of them takes hold of the kid by his collar and lifts him onto the toes of his scuffed boots.

“Just testing her,” the kid says. “Don’t seem like she’s got skills, though.” He strikes me in the arm. My skin burns.

“Please.” I keep my eyes cast down. “Why are you hitting me?” I turn to the sergeant. “Why are you holding us captive? What is this place?”

Muffled noises flow from under Burn’s coat and hood. They gagged him. He probably doesn’t want me to ask these questions—any questions—but I refuse to stay in the dark.

The sergeant turns toward me. “Where did you say you came from?”

“South.”

His eyes narrow. “And how long have you been living off the dust?”

“I am not a Shredder.” I assume this is the response that will keep me alive. They must expunge Deviants here too. “Dust kills humans.”

“Not some it don’t.” The kid pokes me, again. “Some got special skills and protects us from the Shredders.”

His words freeze in my chest but I hide my reaction. “These people with skills must be very brave.”

The sergeant narrows his eyes. “Dangerous, more like it. Their handlers are brave.” He gestures ahead. Three men are
pulling a wheeled cart that’s carrying an iron cage. Inside is a man, clearly Deviant, with huge claws where he should have hands. His skin’s the same color that Drake’s turns when he’s threatened.

Nausea builds and I stop, but the sergeant jerks me forward, his grip hard on my arm.

“That one has skills,” Sergeant says, studying my face. I’m careful not to make eye contact. “They’re part human, part Shredder,” he continues. “When they’re in danger, or angry, their monster nature takes over. Some are strong enough to kill Shredders.” He squeezes my arm. “If not, their screams provide us with an early warning system outside the fort.”

As the cage is wheeled past, the men pull Burn and me to the edge of the road and I look into the Deviant man’s eyes. He’s scared. Terrified.

Who wouldn’t be?

I understand why Burn lied. If our captors discover what we are, what either of us can do, we too will be caged.

Used as Shredder bait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

^W
E
’
RE LED INTO
a building, then dragged down a narrow corridor until we reach a steel door. From a hook on the wall, a broad man grabs a metal ring holding a series of strangely shaped metal sticks. The sticks jangle, sliding together on the ring, and he pushes one into a hole in the door. He turns it and the door opens. Some doors in Haven have holes like that, but they’re never used, and I assume it must be some kind of primitive locking device.

We’re pushed down a narrow, dark corridor and then stopped in front of a wall of iron bars. The man with the ring uses another metal stick, and part of the barred wall swings open on screeching hinges.

The corporal shoves Burn, whose shoulder strikes the edge of the door, making him spin and stagger into the stone-walled room. The sergeant cuts the rope from my wrists and I’m shoved in after Burn—his hands still tied,
coat still draped over his hooded head. The door of bars clanks closed.

The only light in the room comes from a small window, high on the back wall, and a low bench stretches across the left side. On the other side of the bars, the sergeant crosses his arms over his chest, his two lackeys at his flanks.

“Can I untie him?” I nod toward Burn and the sergeant shrugs, which I take as a yes.

Burn’s arm muscles flex when I touch him, and I carefully remove his coat first, the weapons well buried under layers of thick cloth and padding. Then I reach up to loosen the knot that holds the black hood over his head. Clearly sensing I’m having trouble reaching, Burn goes down on one knee so I can get a better angle for the knots. I remove his hood. He squints against the window’s light as I untie his gag.