Donor 23 (14 page)

At one expensive restaurant, a group of businessmen and women enjoyed martinis, while they viewed Joan gradually scale the side of the cliff. One of the men plunked money onto the center of the table. “Let’s start our own pool. Fifty bucks says she doesn’t make it to the top. She’ll fall.”

“Look at her climb. I say she makes it to the top, but they shoot her there,” said a smartly dressed woman, as she finished her cocktail and called to the waiter for another.

“There’s no way she’ll make it,” a second man predicted, as he threw cash on the table. “Look, she’s got just a sock on one foot.”

The waiter returned with the drink and set it before the woman. His tattoo was visible.

“What do you think?” she asked the waiter. “How far do you think she’ll get?”

The first man added with a laugh, “Want to wager your tip?”

Reck and Kaleb stood in a crowd on the street with hundreds of donors in the ghetto, gaping at the big screen—at Joan struggling up the cliff. They saw the odds—Joan’s odds. The numbers indicated that most citizens were betting Joan would never make it to the top of the rock face.

Gates seemed more relaxed, watching Joan scale up the cliff. When she had leaped the gorge, he thought she’d never make it. Then he worried she might jump from the rock outcropping and end it all, as many donors did. She had a desire to live, which the Governor knew was a good thing for a donor—to a certain extent, only to a certain extent.

Jack squinted at a screen in the Fitness Center, along with other trainers and athletes. He silently coached her, “To your
left, there’s a foothold near your left foot. Move your right hand just an inch farther...”

Jules Chin stood at the nurses’ station in the medical center, peering at the tele-screen over the shoulders of two nurses who were seated before her—one was the pink-haired nurse.

The pink-haired nurse exclaimed, “Oh, my god, that’s the donor that was here before. I was gonna assist at her donation. For Tegan Gates. Damn. She won’t get away, will she? Do you think?”

Chin was mesmerized and unable to turn away. She stared at Joan climbing the cliff and thought of the yellow rose the girl had cherished. For the last six weeks, Jules Chin had been keeping count.

Joan paused a foot below the crest, precariously grasping on to the side of the cliff, resting, catching her breath, knowing that as soon as she reached the summit, she’d be tranquilized. She’d have to move fast.

Twisting her head, she eyed Duncan and Nox. They were both staring at her. Duncan held his gun, aiming it at her, ready to shoot. She waited a minute. Two minutes. Her leg trembled. Three minutes. She shifted her hands and tried to wipe the sweat from them, one at a time. Her shoeless left foot had trouble keeping a foothold. She couldn’t wait much longer. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Duncan lower his gun. This was her chance. Suddenly, she vaulted herself up with such force that she rolled along the ground, with her backpack stopping her as she hit a tree. She looked up. Duncan aimed right at her.

“I have her.”

He pulled the trigger before Joan had a chance to move. The dart hit the loose sleeve of her shirt, striking the tree and pinning her shirtsleeve but leaving Joan unscathed.

Joan yanked her sleeve free, rolled around the tree and into the thick brush, hidden from view. She crawled deeper into the tall grass, stopping to rest for a moment. They wouldn’t follow—couldn’t follow. She tentatively crawled back to the edge of the brush. She could see them through the tall grass, but they could not see her.

Nox’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker function of his wrist phone, “23, don’t think you got away! We’re still coming. An evader can run, but you can’t hide from me, 23.”

Nox turned to Duncan, “I made a rhyme,” he laughed. It was nervous laughter, an attempt to hide his anger and embarrassment about losing her from the drones and his subordinates.

Joan’s stomach tightened, as she spied them talking to each other and laughing.
Laughing
. Her hand brushed against a rock on the ground. She picked it up. It was the size of a lemon but heavy with a sharp edge.

There have been few times in Joan’s life when anger—when rage—got the better of her. All her life she had been taught by the System to be compliant and acquiescent. Something snapped within her now. It was a rage of defeat—not a quiet anger. Fire burned through her body. No tears now.

She fingered the rock, while she stared at Nox and Duncan. Her gaze shifted back and forth, between the two of them. Choosing her target, she regulated her breath, slowing it—nice, and steady, deep breaths from the diaphragm. She took aim, exhaled slowly, and threw the rock with all her strength.

The two men did not glimpse the rock as it shot like a missile from the thick grass. Duncan had raised his hand to his head to shift his cap, when the rock hit him.

His head jerked backward, and he collapsed in a heap. Nox immediately crouched down and began shouting orders to find cover and to help with Duncan. The other officers came over to assist Nox in dragging Duncan away. Joan parted some grass for a better view. The officers heaved Duncan’s limp body up by his arms and legs and carried him away. His lifeless head dangled, swinging back and forth. She heard one say, “I think he’s dead.”

Joan turned and headed west, away from the gorge, to the Outside, deeper into the wilderness, wasteland, or whatever it was that awaited her.

13

B
ranches slapped at her face and body as she raced through the dense, thick forest. She paused every minute or two, listening for drones. Perhaps the greenery would hide her. She needn’t worry; the drones didn’t follow. They had reached the limit of their range at the gorge. People weren’t expected to escape that far. After running a few hundred yards, she had to stop. Her foot, her shoeless left foot, hurt.

She sat and listened peacefully for a minute.
The Outside. She made it!
There was only silence, except for birds. Bird song was a rarity in the ghetto, for there were not many trees. The music relaxed her, and she pulled out the water bottle to drink again. Still no sound of a drone. No dogs. She took another swig and leaned her head back.

She decided to inventory the contents of the pack: rope, two water bottles, an emergency blanket, a pocket knife, a
flashlight, binoculars, matches, and—to her dismay—a huge supply of energy bars.
How could I ever eat so many?
she thought. Then it struck her. Jack must have told her dad what to pack.
How long was this trip supposed to take?

She leaned back against a tree. It wasn’t possible for her to travel any distance without a shoe. She looked at her left sock—torn in a couple of places and spotted with blood. She thought of her closet at home. A day ago she would have laughed at the thought of losing a shoe. But this wasn’t a joke. The Alliance never joked. If it wanted something—or someone—it would take it. It took her mother, her father, and countless donors over the last hundred years. And now it had taken her shoe.

Despair overwhelmed her, misery. She wept for her parents, for her situation…for Duncan—Duncan, who might be dead. She had thrown the rock—the heavy rock—with all her strength. They dragged his lifeless body away. She contemplated how she was responsible for four deaths: her parents, Frank, and Duncan.

But Duncan was different. She experienced immense fury—rage—when she heaved the rock. Acting out in blind anger can be satisfying, but the after effects are less pleasing. She put her head in her hands, wanting to scream. With her good foot, she kicked the supplies on the ground.

In tears, she began putting everything back. From between the folds of the rope, the photograph spilled out—her mother and father. Looking at it, she remembered the day of the photo. They had been picnicking on the roof of their apartment building on a sunny, crisp day. They were laughing—at what, she couldn’t now remember. Joan had snapped the picture: a headshot of her parents, their heads leaned in together. Staffan was looking at Annika, his mouth in mid-laugh. Annika looked directly at the camera—directly at Joan—her eyes smiling.

The photo calmed her. She wished they were alive. But she had no one. She was alone. She had no one to…
to what?
she thought
. To care about me. No one for me to care about
.

Sighing, she turned her thoughts back to her foot. As she drank more water, she fingered the leaves that littered the forest floor. One type was large, soft, and velvet-like. Putting her water bottle away, she gathered the soft leaves and stuffed them into her sock. Through the sock, she gently manipulated them until they were at the bottom, protecting the sole of her foot. It would not be enough.

She examined more of the leaves in the area, disregarding the soft, velvety ones. She collected stronger, thicker leaves and layered them together, fashioning them into an ersatz shoe bottom. She pulled out the rope. It was a good, strong rope, the width of her finger, with multiple strands of thick fibers wound tightly together. She unwrapped the strands of a length and sliced off part. With the fibers of the rope, she tied the stout leaves to the bottom of her foot, wrapping the rope fibers around her foot and up her ankle—a sandal. She stood up and tried it out. The sandal helped tremendously.