The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) (15 page)

There I was shooting guns and making friends while he was locked up in some prison, or maybe worse.
 

Amory sensed my change in mood.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I muttered.

His eyes narrowed. “You look different now.”

“I was just thinking about my friend Greyson — the one who was captured.”

Amory nodded. “You’ll get to him. The rebels will come soon.”

“That’s too long,” I said. “Who knows what they’re doing to him in that place!”

I expected Amory to counter with some words of comfort, but he didn’t. “What’s your plan?” he asked. “I mean, let’s say you find him and somehow get him out of prison. Where will you go?”

“West. That’s always been our plan.”

He looked at me hard. “You really think there’s something out there.”
 

Once again, he had posed a question that wasn’t really a question. He seemed intrigued by my optimism — my unfaltering belief in a place I’d never seen.

“What would
you
do?” I asked. “Where else is there to go?”

Amory looked surprised. “I don’t know. Most of the time, I just feel paralyzed,” he said, a flash of anger in his eyes. “Everything’s so fucked up. This place is kind of like limbo. We stay here, and we hide out from the PMC, but sometimes it just feels like we’re waiting here, hoping somebody will do something and it will all be over.”

“I wish it were over,” I said. “I wish things would just go back to the way they were.”
 

He shook his head. “There’s no going back.”

I let his words sink in. He was right. Nothing would ever be the same as it was before the Collapse. Even if the PMC lifted the mandatory ID bill, ended mandatory migration, and cured all the carriers, it had left a trail of destruction in its wake. My parents would still be dead. There was no going back. I could only go forward.

Max had outdone himself with dinner. Walking in the front door, my senses were assaulted by the delicious aroma of garlic, oregano, and basil wafting from a simmering pot of Max’s homemade tomato sauce. Eggplant parmesan was frying on the stove, and my mouth watered as he pulled a fresh loaf of garlic bread out of the oven.

“Something smells good,” called Logan from the back porch. She came inside and shrugged off her jacket.

“It’s your favorite,” said Max.

I grinned at Logan, but she pretended not to see.

“Where’s Roman?” he asked.

Logan rolled her eyes. “Hauling the dead carrier as far off into the woods as he can carry it. Honestly, if he let me help him, we could be done by now. But he’s probably just going to sit out there all night waiting for the rest of them to show up.”

“We’ll have to,” said Amory. “Especially now that they’re getting bold enough to attack during daylight. We can’t leave the post unattended, or we’ll all be vulnerable.”

Logan fell silent. I knew she was thinking what I was thinking: What if she hadn’t seen that carrier?
 

Despite the high level of trust and camaraderie required for life on the farm, I could tell that the constant threat of carrier invasions, the risk of PMC discovery, and the day-to-day struggle of survival made it difficult to maintain a cheerful atmosphere. Gentle ribbing could escalate into a full-blown screaming match, so Max’s sense of humor seemed just as valuable as Logan’s precision with a shotgun.

After dinner, Amory left to join Roman for the overnight watch. He seemed on edge, and I knew it couldn’t be easy for him to fall asleep while Roman stood guard. Even though he didn’t like him, he had no choice but to trust him.

Max flipped on the radio, and the three of us crowded around the table to listen.

“. . . Several antigovernment rebel cells have been apprehended, but the Private Military Company believes some individuals may flee toward the northern border and attempt to cross without identification. The federal government urges American citizens: if you see something, say something. In other news, World Corp International —”

“They’re not fleeing north!” said Max. “How stupid would you have to be?”

“They’re scrambling,” murmured Logan. “The rebels must be out of control. It’s taken them a year to even acknowledge rebel cells working against the government.”

“Is Ida a rebel?” I asked.
 

“Oh, god no,” said Max. “Rebels don’t mess with things like circulating illegal newspapers. Acts of violence against the government are more their style.”

“And they’re coming here?”

“Just passing through. Ida doesn’t get involved in whatever they’re planning.”

The news bulletin ended, and I felt myself relax. Whenever the radio was on, I had this strange worry that I would hear the world was coming to an end. That was the way things were headed.

As tired as I felt, the news had put me on edge. I didn’t think I would be able to sleep, even though I knew I should. I followed Logan upstairs to her room and flopped down on her unmade bed. I couldn’t see anything in the pitch-blackness, and I sat down on something hard. When Logan lit the lamp, I could see I was crushing a beat-up romance novel.
 

For such a beautiful girl, Logan sure was a slob. Clothes were strewn everywhere, and old Diet Coke cans littered her bedside table. Upon closer inspection, I realized she was using them to style her long blond waves — true off-the-grid beauty ingenuity. Logan reached under the bed and pulled out a small cedar box.

“My very last ones,” she said solemnly, holding the box open for me to see. Inside were half a dozen bottles of nail polish — a rare luxury out on the farm, I imagined. She cracked the window for ventilation, sat up on her desk, and shook one of the bottles of bright red polish with relish.

“I only do my toes,” she confessed. “My fingernails chip too easily with all the work around the farm, plus the boys would never let me live it down if they knew.”

I smiled. It was strangely comforting to watch Logan do something as normal as paint her nails — even if it was by the light of a kerosene lamp. I hadn’t had a girlfriend whom I could talk to in a really long time, and I missed it. Thinking I would leave to go east in less than two weeks made me a little sad.

A gunshot rang out in the distance, and we both jumped.
 

Logan froze, dripping a trail of red nail polish all over her big toe.

“Where are Amory and —” I didn’t get a chance to finish.

Another shot shattered the cool night air, and I felt the vibration inside my chest.
 

I jumped up to the window, bracing myself for the sound of another gunshot. Peering through the glass and into the darkness, it was impossible to see anything going on around the field.

Logan edged around me without saying a word and cranked the window open all the way. She stuck her head out, squinting through the darkness and craning to hear.

 
We waited several long minutes, silently debating whether we should go out and look for them. The gunshots had to have come from Roman or Amory, didn’t they? If they hadn’t — if it was PMC fire — we would all be in danger.
 

Then we both saw Amory and Roman appear around the bend, and I sighed aloud in relief. I could hear yelling, but they were too far away to discern anything specific.

 
“Ooh, we don’t want to get into this,” said Logan. I could hear the relief in her voice mixed with an unmistakable note of curiosity. “If Roman shot a carrier, we won’t hear the end of this tonight.”

I found I didn’t care if more carriers were spotted near the perimeter. I just felt relieved that Amory and Roman were alive.
 

“Hang on. Why are they coming inside?” Logan wondered aloud. “If they think I’m going to take over their shift, they’ve got another thing —”
 

She stopped.

Head hanging out the window, Logan was frowning at whatever she could see happening on the lane down below. It was a funny picture: blond hair blowing gracefully in the breeze, her face screwed up in concentration.
 

Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Oh no.” Pulling her head in and slamming the window in one swift motion, Logan was at the top of the steps by the time I’d gotten off the bed.

Halfway down the stairs, I heard footsteps crunching gravel and Amory’s voice.
 

“You’re . . . trying to get us all killed!” Amory stammered in a strained voice. Something was wrong.

The door swung open and banged against the wall. Roman was half supporting, half dragging Amory, who was hunched over and clutching his side.

“Hey!” Max yelled. “No weapons in the kitchen while I’m — shit!” He dropped the pan he was holding when he saw Amory.

“Oh my god.” The color left Logan’s face, and she sank down onto the bottom step.

Amory was covered in blood, and a large, dark patch was spreading slowly down the side of his shirt. His gun and a long knife clattered down on the kitchen table, and he winced as Roman lowered him into a chair.

I stood frozen by the banister, wanting to help but not knowing what to do.

Logan pulled herself up and walked slowly toward the table, hands shaking. “What the hell did you do?”
 

Amory shook his head, pushing his knife angrily across the table. “Just — don’t, Logan.”

“There’s so much blood,” she stammered, looking sick. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

He looked up at her with unfocused eyes: pain mixed with defeat. “Logan, just get out.”

She made a sound like a sob caught in her throat and then walked swiftly outside.

Max looked as though he wanted to tell Amory off, but all the blood made him think better of it.
 

Amory raised his shirt with shaky hands. The fabric stuck to the wound, and he stopped, teeth gritted. Max watched in horror. Roman’s face had turned to stone.

I moved toward Amory, watching his eyes carefully for any sign he might lash out. “Let me.”

He didn’t say anything, so I knelt down and carefully peeled the torn cotton away from the ripped skin, releasing a fresh deluge of blood. Panicking, I grabbed the damp dishtowel from Max’s hand and held it to the wound to apply pressure.

“Get more towels,” I snapped. “Clean ones.”

Max nearly tripped over his own feet on his way to the linen closet.

When he left, Roman stalked out, too — probably to go hunt down the carriers.
 

A dark cloud seemed to lift off my chest when Roman left. I looked up at Amory. “How bad does it hurt?”

He attempted a chuckle, but it was stifled with a small choke of pain. “Worse than my last carrier fight,” he breathed.

“You fought them before?”

“Yeah,” he managed with a grimace. “Won that time, too. That’s the worst part. We didn’t even get them.”

“At least the cut doesn’t look that deep,” I lied. I couldn’t actually tell how deep the cut was because there was so much blood.

“Oh, yeah. It’s just a scratch.” He broke off, squeezing his eyes shut as I dabbed at the bloody slash.

I blinked back tears that were threatening to spill over. There was so much blood.
 

“Well, suck it up,” I said. My voice was too high. “It’s not that bad.” I opened my eyes — so did he — and we each managed a small smile.

Holding the towel with one hand, I lifted his shirt enough for him to slip one arm out at a time. The wound didn’t look as bad when it wasn’t covered by his blood-soaked shirt, but I could tell it was serious; there was a jagged cut about two inches long below his ribs.
 

“Tell me what to do,” I said.

“Apply pressure to — stop the bleeding,” he gasped between breaths.

I wasn’t trying to look at his chest as I pressed the towel against him, but it was hard not to notice how toned he was. They were not the kind of muscles built in a gym, but the lean ones made by fighting and climbing and doing farm work. I chided myself for admiring his physique at a time like this.

Max returned with fresh towels and Amory’s medical bag. He muttered something about going to find more gauze to bandage the wound and disappeared as quickly as he came.
 

The blood began to coagulate, and it seemed to be soaking in the towel at a slower rate. I wet a corner of a fresh towel with antiseptic and gently patted the ripped flesh. Amory’s jaw tightened, and his muscles tensed from the burning sensation.

“You don’t have to be all macho, you know,” I said. “You did just get stabbed. You can cry if you want to.” I sneaked a peek at his face. “I would.”

He looked at me hard. “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad.” My voice was an octave too high to sound convincing. I didn’t know how the knife
couldn’t
have punctured any vital organs.

Amory raised his eyebrows. As I suspected, he was unconvinced. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his face looked ashen.

“Do you feel any sharp pains?” I asked.

“Besides the sharp pain where the knife went in?”

“No. I mean . . . inside,” I added quietly. I didn’t really know how to diagnose a punctured organ. My knowledge of first aid was rudimentary at best.

He shook his head. “It’s hard to tell, but I don’t think I’m dying or anything.”

“Well, you would know. You’re the doctor.”

“Med student,” he corrected, sucking in air through his teeth.

I spread an antiseptic cream with a clean cotton swab, and it turned a dull red with blood.
 

Max reappeared with some gauze folded in a large square to soak up the remaining blood.

“Hold this,” I said to Amory.

His hand looked shaky when it pressed down on the bandage.

Kneeling beside him, I put my arm around his lower back and helped him sit up so I could wrap the remaining gauze around his torso to hold it in place. His face drained of any remaining color, and my chest tightened in alarm.

When I had bandaged the wound the best I could, I helped Amory lie back in the chair and got up to wash my hands.
 

“How do you do that?” he asked suddenly. His forehead glistened with beads of sweat, but he seemed to have recovered from changing positions.