The Capture (26 page)

M
Y FIRST STOP WAS
the Quonset hut, and it was a war zone. The rows and rows of bunk beds were gouged and splintered, the walls drilled with a thousand bullet holes, the air swirling with smoke and dust and pillow feathers . . . but there were no bodies. They'd all been pulled to safety.

I bent over, hands trembling as they grabbed my knees.

“Thank you,” I said aloud, and a long sigh of relief left my body.

The sound of vehicles brought me to a standing position. The Brown Shirts were back. Time to get out of there.

The remaining explosives were right where I'd left them, tucked in their canvas knapsack in the back
corner of a storage shed. I raced to the western gate and snuck back through the fence.

I found the seventy-five Less Thans just below the cemetery. Some were sitting, most were lying down. Flush, Four Fingers, Twitch, and Diana went from LT to LT, giving them sips of water and covering them with blankets. When Diana heard me coming, she readied her crossbow, then lowered it quickly when she saw it was me.

“Well?” I asked.

“All here,” she said.

I couldn't believe it.
“Everyone?”

She nodded.

“And just in time,” Flush added. “If Hope hadn't slowed them down, they would've killed a bunch for sure.”

I looked around at the emaciated bodies. They were bent over, coughing, so thin I could see each tiny expansion of their lungs.

“How'd you do it?”

Flush shrugged. There was no hint of bragging as he spoke. “Four carried the ones who couldn't move; Diana and I led the rest. And Argos made sure no one was left behind.”

I looked over at my dog, licking the faces of the sickest of the bunch. The slobbering touch of his tongue seemed to revive them.

“You sure they won't discover us?” Flush asked.

“I'm not sure of anything. But once we start the next phase, they'll have their hands full.”

“And we'll be safe here?”

That was the question I didn't have an answer to. Twitch turned to me. I was relying on guesses, estimates, hunches . . . and what little he had taught me about physics. “You'd be safer farther west,” I said.

“What if we can't move everyone?”

“Do the best you can.” I had no more answer than that. I turned and started to go. As I was walking back up the hill, I caught sight of Major Karsten, his scar visible in the moonlight. He sensed my stare, looked up, and gave me a subtle nod.

Racing around the camp, I headed back up the mountain. My breath was short and rapid. I found the fuses and fumbled for a piece of flint. My fingers were numb from cold, and because time was running out, I was hurrying faster than I should have been—all reasons I failed to see the shadow on the snow beside me.

Dozer.

Blood dribbled down his arm from where Cat's arrow had taken a small chunk out of his shoulder. If he was aware he was bleeding, he didn't show it. Or maybe he didn't care. In his hand was the 9mm pistol.

His face was fixed in a menacing snarl like some rabid dog. When he spoke, it was husky and guttural, more the growl of a beast than the voice of a human being.

“Whatever it is you had going, it's over.”

Staring down the barrel of his gun, I couldn't argue with him.

“Listen,” I pleaded. “I'm just trying to help those Less Thans. We're not here to harm any Brown Shirts.”

His eyes were woozy and out of focus. “I saw how you looked at me. I know you'd like nothing more than to take this little pistol and shoot my brains out.” He waved the gun dangerously, and it occurred to me he was half crazy from loss of blood.

“You know what?” he said, his words slurring. “It doesn't matter what you've got in mind. All that matters . . . is what
I've
got in mind.” He gave a shrill little laugh and jerked the pistol to one side, indicating that I should walk. “Come on.”

“Where to?” I asked.

“Where else?”

The hair rose on the nape of my neck. When I didn't move, Dozer fired a shot that came inches from my face. My ears rang.

“Unless you want me to shoot you right here,” he said.

I had no choice but to ease down the trail, shuffling through the snow to where he intended to finish my life: in the spiraling flames of the fiery pit.

H
OPE AND
S
CYLLA FINISH
arming the crossbows, then attach long strings to the triggers. They scramble down the ladder, race to another building, and arm still more. The more arrows they can throw at the Brown Shirts—and from as many different directions—the better.

Deception. It's all about deception.

As Hope joins the strings together connecting the triggers, all she can think about is Book. Although the plan was for him to get captured so they could sneak the Less Thans from the Quonset hut, everything that's followed is happening way too fast. Things are spinning out of control. Like right now, staring past the southern boundary of camp, she spies a snaking line of headlights in the desert, distant miles away. A convoy of ATVs.

Hunters, no doubt.

There must be hundreds of them.

If they make it up to Liberty before the assault begins, the Sisters and Less Thans won't stand a chance.

That's when she hears the gunshot. There have been other bullets fired tonight—many of them—but this is the first from the north side of camp, where Book is supposed to be. Her heart gives a shudder.

A couple of dozen Brown Shirts return to the camp's infield, exhausted from fighting the fire at the far edge of camp. They throw themselves to the ground, and Hope realizes that most of the camp's soldiers are now in one place.

She turns to Scylla and gives a look. They're supposed to wait for Book's signal, but they can't afford a moment's delay; they've got to start right now. Hope pinches the string, which loops around the triggers of six crossbows. Scylla does the same. On the count of three they pull . . .

. . . and twelve arrows whistle through the air.

Some clatter off the sides of vehicles. One punctures a tire. But a couple hit their marks, striking Brown Shirts in the chest. Two bodies crumple to the ground.

Hope and Scylla race to the other crossbows, tugging at the strings, firing off the arrows as they run past. From the opposite direction, Cat and Diana launch their arrows.

The night is suddenly raining arrows, and the Brown Shirts are in disarray. They form an improvised circle, backs to one another like wild beasts against an enemy, firing randomly toward the outer edges of camp.

Hope and Scylla split up. Hope reaches the back of the storehouse, and with another pull of a string, she's able to fire six more crossbows. Two more Brown Shirts hit the ground, writhing.

Soldiers squeeze the triggers of their M16s and spray the darkness with bullets. But they're shooting blindly; they can't see the enemy.

The four of them—Cat and Diana, Hope and Scylla—alternate their shots so that when two are firing, the other two reload. Just when it seems the arrows are coming from one direction, they come from the opposite way as well, flying from all four compass points. The Brown Shirts think they're surrounded.

In the midst of the chaos, Hope makes out a tall, stooped figure racing frantically across the infield, clutching his pistol and firing wildly. Colonel Thorason.

Hope removes an arrow from her quiver and nocks it to her bow, waiting for soldiers to clear so she'll have a clean shot. Her focus has never been stronger, her sight never clearer. Just before she releases the bowstring, Colonel Thorason looks her way . . . as if he knows what's coming. When the sharpened tip exits out the back of his neck, he sinks to his knees
and falls face-first in the snow.

Leaving only Chancellor Maddox and Dr. Gallingham.

The plan is working—the Brown Shirts are corralled in a single place. But Hope knows there's a catch. They only have so many arrows. If Book isn't able to detonate his explosives, the soldiers will figure things out, the Hunters will arrive, and the four of them will be mowed down in seconds. Then the freed Less Thans will be executed, too.

Please, Book, tell me you're not hurt. Tell me everything's okay.

Meanwhile, the Brown Shirts are returning fire with all they have: M16s, machine guns, even RPGs. One of the grenades shatters a window and blows a small building to smithereens.

Hope gives a glance to the faraway road. The Hunters' headlights are growing closer. Another fifteen minutes and they'll be in camp. But there's still no signal from Book; time is running short.

She fingers the locket around her neck, imagining the photographs of her mother and father. That's when she decides she can wait no longer. She needs to find Book. She emerges from the shadows, fires six crossbows, then turns and runs. Just as she moves away from the building, it explodes in a swirl of flame and splintering wood, catapulting her to the ground. She gets up and darts off quickly.

Even when she rounds a corner near the Soldiers' Quarters, her ears are still ringing, which is why she neither hears nor sees Chancellor Maddox until she runs right into her. Hope fumbles for an arrow.

“Don't bother,” Maddox says. To one side of her stands a Brown Shirt holding an assault rifle.

Hope has no choice but to let the bow and arrow slip through her fingers.

Chancellor Maddox smiles warmly, her rosy cheeks raised. “Going somewhere?” she asks sweetly.

Hope doesn't answer. What can she say? For all these months, she's dreamed of exacting her revenge. Instead, it's the chancellor who will get the final say.

Maddox reaches into the folds of her coat and removes a set of plastic zip ties.

“Tie her to that drainpipe,” she commands.

The Brown Shirt whips Hope around and yanks her hands together. He pushes her back against the building and cuffs her to a rusted pipe that descends from the roof. Hope strains, but it only makes matters worse. She can feel the plastic cutting into her skin.

“It won't work,” Hope blurts out.

“What won't work?” the chancellor asks innocently, and then her eyes glance to the briefcase attached to her wrist. “Are you referring to this? If so, you're too late. What's done is done. As for killing you, well, who'll even know? You'll be no more missed than a dead bug.”
She smiles as though she's said something nice.

Hope has no good response—not in words, anyway—so she spits an enormous ball of phlegm onto the chancellor's cheek. The chancellor recoils as if she's been shot.

“Then consider that a bug splat,” Hope says.

Chancellor Maddox reaches back to strike Hope but stops herself. “No,” she says, regaining her composure and wiping away the spit with a hanky. “Give me your knife.”

The Brown Shirt removes his dagger from its scabbard and presents it to her. Maddox bounces it in her hands a time or two to judge its weight.

She steps forward until a mere six inches separate the two of them. The knife is extended now, its glistening tip reaching for Hope's face. Hope leans back, her head pressing against the drainpipe. When the chancellor speaks, her voice is sugary sweet.

“I know about you and that Less Than. Book, is that his name? Your friend Dozer told us all about it. How you two formed some kind of
special bond
in the wilderness.” The knife tip presses against Hope's cheek; the skin dimples.

Hope tries to turn her face away; the knife won't let her.

“I'll tell you something about boys,” the chancellor whispers, as though confiding secrets to a girlfriend.
“So much depends upon appearance. They're so fickle that way. Girls are able to look past outward appearances. Boys—not so much.”

By now, the blade has punctured skin. A pearl of blood stands poised between the skin and the knife tip, as if deciding which way to roll.

“Nothing turns off a boy more than—how shall I say it?—a
scarred
appearance.”

Hope's muscles have gone slack; it's a miracle she is able to stand at all.

“Which is why I'm going to give you a teeny, weeny reminder of all the kind things you've done for me.” Although her smile is enough to light up a room, her voice is as steely as the blade she holds.

A part of Hope wants to beg forgiveness. Wants to plead for mercy. But a larger part won't let her. She won't give Chancellor Maddox that satisfaction.

The chancellor gives her head a shake. “You're as stubborn as you are dumb.”

She drags the knife slowly across Hope's cheek, first in one direction, then in the other, branding a giant X into her skin. Not content with a single tattoo, the chancellor does the same to the other cheek as well, taking her time, as though carving her initials in a tree. She steps back and admires her handiwork.

“There,” she says. “Two
X
s. Two
strikes
. One more and you're out.” She smiles sweetly, as if the whole thing has
been a pleasant game between friends.

Hope slumps forward, blood dribbling down her face, dripping from her chin as steadily as rain from a roof.

Chancellor Maddox returns the knife to the soldier and walks away, her head tossed back, her shoulders square, like a beauty queen on a runway, strutting her stuff before the judges. A moment later, Hope blacks out.

I
HEARD IT BEFORE
I saw it—the roar of flames, the
pop
and
crack
of burning wood—but when we reached the edge of the fiery pit, there were no soldiers there. Just an enormous bonfire gouging a hole in the cold and black.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Out looking for you. But I thought it might be better if we had some alone time. You know: Brown Shirt to Less Than.”

Dozer motioned me closer to the flames, and I felt the wall of heat. Trickles of sweat edged down my temples. He kicked a pile of wood into the growling pit. Embers exploded upward like a volcano spouting lava.

“They tell me if it's hot enough, a body will burn
completely. If it's not, the skin does, of course, and the organs, but not all the bones. And I'd hate for you to only
partially
disintegrate.” His words were lucid enough, but I got the feeling he was still wildly out of it.

Worse, I had the sickening realization that Dozer had no intention of killing me beforehand. He wanted me to burn alive.

His hyena grin oozed across his face. “So what do you say, Book
Worm
? Not so cocky all of a sudden? Not so sure how to get out of this predicament?”

“Don't you ever feel bad?” I asked.

Dozer laughed harshly. “Why should I feel bad? I got what I wanted. I'm no longer a Less Than.
I'm better than you.
”

His eyes were getting hazier by the second, and he motioned me toward the fiery furnace with his pistol. There was no good way out, and both of us knew it. I was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sorrow—not just at losing my own life, but for all the others, too. Cat and Flush and Red and Diana and Scylla. And Hope. All gone.

I was moving toward the pit when I heard my name. “Booook!” The way the word was elongated could only mean one person.

Four Fingers.

He stepped from the shadows, his face lit in a goofy grin. Dozer swung his pistol back and forth between the
two of us. “What's that moron doing here?” he asked.

He must have followed me.

“It's okay, Four,” I said. “You can go.” I was grateful to see him, but there was no point getting the both of us killed. I had to get him out of there. Besides, maybe he could tell the others where I was.

Four Fingers was looking from me to Dozer and back again, trying to make sense of the situation.

“You heard him,” Dozer said. “Get out.”

Four Fingers didn't move.

“Get out!” Dozer called again. When Four still didn't budge, Dozer lowered his pistol and pulled the trigger. The slug ripped through Four Fingers's pant leg and embedded itself in his thigh.

Four Fingers made no sound. He staggered but didn't fall, staring at the stain of blood. When he looked up, it seemed as though he was regarding Dozer in an entirely new light. Like it was finally dawning on him:
He's the reason. Back in the Brown Forest, he's the one who threw me against the rock.

He walked wooden-legged toward Dozer.

“Stay back, ya big idiot,” Dozer warned, and he fired another round. Four was a big guy, and the bullet only slowed him briefly.

“I'm serious! Don't come any closer!”

Four Fingers limped forward, trailing blood. Even when Dozer fired two more shots into the Less Than's
stomach, it barely slowed him.

Dozer began to panic. He was backed up against the pit, and there was nowhere for him to go. He raised the 9mm, but Four Fingers lunged forward and knocked the gun free. It clattered to the ground. As the two of them grappled, I reached for the pistol. We had Dozer where we wanted him.

“Good job, Four!”

But Four Fingers wasn't done. He spread his fingers around Dozer's thick neck and began to squeeze. Dozer clawed at Four's wrists, trying to pry them free, his face changing from red to purple. It suddenly dawned on me that Four Fingers had no intention of letting go. He was going to strangle Dozer to death.

They stumbled backward, Dozer's heels poking over the edge of the volcanic hole. He shrieked in pain as flames licked his back. Four Fingers kept pressing forward.

“It's okay, Four,” I said.

But Four Fingers didn't—or wouldn't—listen.

Dozer shook his head wildly from side to side, eyes popping from their sockets, pleading for mercy. Four Fingers didn't care.

“No, Four,” I said. “Stop.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away.

Dozer was bent awkwardly at the waist, feet on the
ground, back leaning over the fiery pit. He couldn't hold the position for long. Four Fingers realized it too—but he kept shuffling forward until both of them teetered on the edge of the leaping flames.

“No, Four!” I cried.

Their clothes were on fire now, and right before Four pushed both of them into the raging bonfire, he turned and met my eyes. In that look was gratitude and sorrow both, thanking me for looking after him, sadness that it had to end this way. A moment later the two of them disappeared into the fire, then were consumed by flames.

I made my way back up the mountain, my hands shaking as I found the coiled fuses and laid them out. Four Fingers had sacrificed himself—not only for me but for all of us. Now I had to make sure his efforts weren't in vain.

The first explosive would be the signal. Even though my friends had already started the next phase, I had to let them know what was coming. They would need the warning.

I fished out a bit of flint, managed to light a small bundle of pine needles, then set off the fuse. It sputtered and spat before crawling along the braided thread like a hissing snake. I ducked behind an outcropping of rocks.

When the dynamite went off, it sent a percussive blast rolling through the air, raining snow and dirt and felling a half dozen trees in the process. As I scrambled to the next station, I let some time pass. My friends needed to get far, far away.