Resist (2 page)

“Holly, what are you doing? Get your ass back on the deck,” I tell her.

The boat dips forward, and she begins to cry. “Let me
go
.”

My feet slip. “Help!” I scream.

Within moments, most of the others are on us and Song is helping me drag her back over the railing. Once she’s safely lying flat on the deck, he shakes her. “What the hell’s wrong with you? How dare you do that? How dare you!” He rests his head on Holly’s stomach and sobs. Holly strokes Song’s tight curls and gazes at the clouds.

“We’ll carry her inside,” Dorian says. He glares at me through the driving rain.

“How was I to know what she was planning?” I say.

Dorian shakes his head and puts his hand under Holly’s shoulders.

Although the rain is still drubbing the boat, the wind has settled, making sailing smoother. Dorian, Holly, and Song doze in their corner. Bruce and Maude are whispering and caressing each other’s wrinkly hands. Silas is at the wheel. I go to him and stare out at the river through the cracked window of the cabin. Dilapidated buildings along the embankment have spilled into the river after decades of neglect. “You should have let her jump.” His voice is low.

“Are you serious?” A lump swells in my throat. Are our chances of survival that slim?

“Dorian claims to know where Sequoia is, but when I showed him the map, he was pretty vague. As far as I can work out, we’ve a search radius of around ten miles.”

“We’ll find it. We’ve done harder things, Silas.”

“I’m not sure we have. How long do you think our oxygen’s going to last?” he asks. I glance across at the stack of air tanks and then at Maude and Bruce wheezing in their face masks. Maude looks up at me and, for no particular reason, scowls. Despite what we’ve been through together, we still aren’t friends.

“We have a few days,” I say.

“If that,” Silas says, keeping his eyes on the burnt sun.

“Do you have a better idea?” I ask. I’m not being argumentative; I really hope he’s thought of something.

He shakes his head. “Sequoia’s our only shot at not being drifters. If we find it, we can resume planting and make contact with the pod, with my mom and dad.” He stops and looks at me. His eyes are red-rimmed, though whether it’s from the foam the Ministry’s army used to destroy The Grove, tiredness, or despair, I can’t tell.

I take Silas’s arm. “Harriet and Gideon are fine,” I say. Even if a civil war
has
broken out in the pod, my aunt and uncle are too smart to be dead.

A blast of wind pitches the boat toward the bank and Silas pulls the wheel sharply to the left. I’m thrown off balance and fall onto my face. A thick, metallic taste fills my mouth.

“Sorry,” Silas says. “You alright?”

“Fine,” I say. I lift my face mask and wipe away the blood with my sleeve. Under the circumstances, it would be childish to complain about a split lip.

Maude starts up. “Stop!”

I am about to snarl at the old woman, tell her Silas is doing the best he can to keep the boat steady, and turn just in time to see Holly sneaking out the cabin door. I dash after her. “Holly, no!”

She is already at the bow, climbing over the railing. By the time I reach her, she’s hanging over the water, jostling from side to side with the current. And she is smiling. Silas’s words rebound in my head—
You should have let her jump
. But I can’t. She isn’t in her right mind.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow, Holly.” I hold tight to one of her arms. Ice chips from the freezing river nick my face.

“Nothing will be different tomorrow,” she says. She turns briefly and catches my eye. “Everything’s gone.”

“We have to hope,” I say.

Holly laughs mirthlessly. “I’m all out of hope,” she says, and lets go. The railing bites into my chest as I’m wrenched forward. I hang over the railing, gripping Holly’s arm, but she’s heavy and my hands slide to her wrist. A violent spray from the keel drenches her. She gazes up at me with a look of perfect serenity. My fingers burn. “You’re hurting me,” she says. And then it happens: her wet skin slips from my grasp.

Holly hits the water and is devoured. And all I can do is watch.

Heavy footsteps pound the deck. “Holly!” Song cries. He leans over the railing and searches the waves breaking against the hull.

But Holly is gone.

I turn away.

Everyone but Bruce is on deck, staring at me.

“I couldn’t hold her,” I say.

“Holly?!” Song howls.

Dorian puts an arm around him, and pulls him back from the railing.

“We’ll dock for the night,” Silas says. “Now everyone, back inside.”

Silently, we file into the cabin. I slide onto the floor. One of Holly’s brown boots is lying next to the pile of air tanks, the laces loose and frayed.

I will not feel guilty. I couldn’t hold her. It was her decision to die. I close my eyes and press my knuckles against my eyelids.

I no longer feel cold. I feel nothing.

“Poor girl lost the fight,” Bruce says to no one in particular.

And I am left to wonder: What are we fighting for, anyway?

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

2

BEA

Sometimes I wished I believed in God, like people did before The Switch. Knowing there was a grand plan and that someone you loved wasn’t gone forever must have given them a lot of comfort. But even if my parents are in a better place, God couldn’t reverse time and bring them back and that’s what I want: the chance to hug my parents, to smell my mother and father again.

When I pined for Quinn, I thought I knew what people meant when they talked about having broken hearts. I didn’t know a thing. Now, my insides are all eaten up. My heart pumps what little oxygen I have around my body, but the breath doesn’t make me whole.

Even though it’s covered in slush and lumps of ice, Quinn, Jazz, and I are following an old railway line from The Grove into the center of the city. From there we’ll track the river west. I have the old map Gideon gave me before I slid out of the pod, and Jazz has fingered a place on it she thinks is Sequoia. We have to trust she’s right because we don’t have another choice.

Quinn puts an arm around my waist and squeezes me. “Maybe we should rest,” he says. He must hear me wheezing through my face mask, but this isn’t a safe place to stop. The temperature is dropping with the sun, so we need shelter, but the graffiti-covered buildings around us look like they’re about to topple. I shake my head and without asking me, he turns the valve on my air tank to allow more oxygen into my mask.

But there’s no knowing how long it’ll take to get to Sequoia. When he looks away, I turn it back to fifteen percent.

“A tunnel!” Jazz chirrups, pointing at an underpass a few hundred feet ahead. She bounces away, kicking up the slush with her feet as she goes.

“Be careful!” I call out. I pull the map from my coat pocket and unfold it for what must be the hundredth time. “There should be a train station after the tunnel. Saint Pancras,” I tell Quinn. He takes our moment alone together to hold me. Without meaning to, I stiffen.

He steps back. “You alright?”

“I wish we’d found more people alive,” I say, diverting his question. I don’t want him to worry, and there’s nothing he can do to sweep away the cinders of grief anyway.

“We’re going to get through this,” he says. I nod, pull the beret Old Watson gave me over my forehead, and smile weakly.

“Stop smooching and
hurry up
!” Jazz insists. She’s already way ahead. She pulls her face mask down over her chin—having grown up at The Grove and spent her life training her body to subsist on low levels of oxygen, she doesn’t need to wear it all the time. She spins in circles, opening her mouth to the sky. Her spirally red hair, singed at the ends, blazes like fire against the snowy backdrop. You’d never know she was the one survivor we found in the rubble that was once her home.

Quinn takes my wrist and forces me to look at him. “Against the odds, we got out alive and found each other.”

“I just wish . . .” I think of my parents’ motionless bodies, their blood spreading across the stage as the fighting broke out. I was all they ever had and they worked every day of their lives just to pay the air tax, so I could breathe. Thank goodness I have Quinn . . . but I want them, too.

“Do you think Maude made it?” I ask.

“That scrappy lunatic?
Of course
. Jazz said as much, didn’t she?”

I am about to say that Jazz can’t know for sure that anyone made it when there’s a shrill scream followed by a thud. We spin toward the sound. “Jazz?”

She’s gone.

In a second, Quinn is off. I trail after him, unable to keep up. He halts on the tracks and desperately glances around. “Jazz!” he calls. “She was
right here
,” he says, as I catch up. We stand and listen.

Silence.

We zigzag back and forth over the track, stopping when we reach a barbed wire fence on one side with old bits of plastic bags caught in it, and a procession of rusting train carriages on the other. Then we inch toward the tunnel, calling Jazz’s name into the dusk. After everything awful that’s happened, I brace myself for the worst.

I pick a red hair from my coat, and it floats to the ground. “Let’s split up. We’ll find her quicker,” I say.

“And lose each other? No way.” He takes my hand and we peer into the tunnel without going inside. The light at the end is a semicircle of gray.

“Do you have a flashlight?” I whisper, so my words won’t rebound.

“I don’t have anything.” He sighs, and I touch his hair with my gloved hand.

“You have me,” I tell him. “And we’re going to find Jazz.” I peer into the tunnel. “But there’s no way she’s in here. She wasn’t that far from us. Let’s go back.”

He puts a finger to his ear. “What was that?” he says. I stay as still as I can, but all I can hear is my own breath and the faint ticking of the air tanks.

Quinn turns and charges along the tracks.

“Careful!” I tell him, following and almost tripping. Quinn stumbles and circles his arms wide at his sides to steady himself. As I get to him, I see what he almost fell into: an opening.

The manhole is protected by a heavy, circular metal plate, which is tilted slightly. Quinn clutches one side of it, while I take the other. On the count of three, we haul the leaden covering away from the hole and it lands with a clang. And there she is, several feet below. “I’ve been calling and calling,” Jazz groans.

“We didn’t hear you. But we’re here now,” I say. I swing my legs over the manhole.

“Are you kidding?” Quinn says, grabbing me.

“It isn’t far to jump,” I say. He snorts. I shrug him off and feel my eyes harden, but I don’t know why; he’s just trying to protect me.

“
I’ll
go,” he says. He sits, then uses his arms to lower himself slowly into the hole, careful to avoid landing on Jazz. He adjusts her face mask, so she can breathe easier. “I’ll lift her and you pull her.”

Jazz’s bruised face appears through the opening. I sit in the snow, take her under the arms, and lean back, using my full weight to drag her out. She whimpers the whole time.

“Now me!” Quinn calls. I stroke Jazz’s forehead, leave her lying on the frosty ground, and bend over the hole. Quinn raises his arms toward me. I strain against his weight, but he’s so much heavier than Jazz he doesn’t budge when I try to lift him.

My temples throb. “I’m not strong enough,” I mutter, crumpling at the edge of the hole. I hate having to admit this, even to Quinn. “I’m going to find something for you to stand on.” I might be weak, but I’m not stupid.

I rush toward the decomposing train to my right. When I step aboard, the floor buckles under me. I hold on to a rusting fire extinguisher attached to the wall, then creep inside. Most of the seats have been ripped out of place or knifed open, their frothy green innards spilling onto the floor. Only two seats are intact. I shut my eyes, but it’s too late; I’ve already seen the parched bones, one set significantly larger than the other. And on the floor next to them are two skulls: a large one and a small one. And a knife.

They probably took their own lives: one slice to the throat is all it would have taken, and I learned in history class that people resorted to worse during The Switch, when they were gasping for air and starving to boot. But who were they? A parent and child, perhaps? No one will ever know. Two lives wiped from the face of history as though they meant nothing—like so many before and after them.

Quinn calls my name. I need to focus.

I reach for a seat, mildewed and broken, and tow it from the train, my arms burning.

I force the seat down the manhole, and it lands with a
whump
. Quinn puts it on its side and, wobbling, uses it as a stool. After two attempts he pulls his chin and elbows aboveground before finally crawling out. He lies on the ground and breathes heavily. “I need to start doing more push-ups,” he says, and I can’t help smiling.

But beside us, Jazz’s whimpers have turned into sobs.

Her corduroys are ripped open below the knee. “You have to be quiet, Jazz,” I say. We can’t know who’s lurking. The whole area could be crawling with drifters. Or the army could be out hunting for me already.

I pull at the flap of Jazz’s pants, then turn away so I won’t be sick. She isn’t just bleeding: a deep, jagged gash runs all the way up her leg to the knee and a piece of bone is sticking out.

Quinn appears at my side. He stares at the wound, his jaw slack. I untie my scarf and tightly bind Jazz’s leg. She bites on her fist. “It hurts . . . so . . . much,” she says.

“What are we going to do?” I ask.

“We’ll get her to the station and then . . .” he trails off. “Do you have the strength to carry her?”

“I have to.”

“And we can’t stop, even if she screams,” he says.

“I won’t scream,” Jazz says through tears. But she does scream. And scream and scream and scream.