The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) (28 page)

Greyson recovered first. He slowly lowered the gun as men fanned out around him to break down the heavy cell doors. His hair was much shorter than I had ever seen it, almost a crew cut, and his features looked darker.

He made a gesture of surrender with his hands, and I put my gun down, too, feeling embarrassed.

“What — what are you doing here?” he asked incredulously, reaching me in a few long strides.

His question confused me.
 

“W-We’re here to get you out,” I stammered, gesturing to Amory.

“Oh,” said Greyson, looking genuinely surprised. “I mean, great.”
 

He stepped in, closing the distance between us. “I can’t believe you’re here.” His eyes were just as warm as I remembered, and they had an electric spark of excitement that was vaguely disconcerting. “I thought you would have gone and got your dad . . . headed west, like we planned.”

“No, I . . . I mean, they’re —” I broke off. Saying it out loud to Greyson would make it somehow more real. “They’re gone.”

His face fell. “They left?”

I shook my head, words catching in my throat. “They’re dead. The PMC killed them.”

He looked shocked. “I’m so sorry.”

We fell silent.

“Well, that’s all the more reason, really.”

“What do you mean?”

Greyson’s eyes lit up. “The revolution is just starting. We have to stay and fight.”

The commotion around us was becoming deafening. The sound of lead pipes banging against the steel-plated cell doors echoed down the cellblock like sudden bursts of thunder.

“What are you talking about?” broke in Amory.

Greyson met his eyes for the first time as if only just seeing him. “Haven’t you heard?” His voice was quick, excitement bubbling just beneath the surface.

“They just took out the main PMC base and who knows how many officials.” Greyson turned back to me. “It’s starting.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Never mind that now. It’s time.”

“Yeah, it’s time to get out of here,” said Amory impatiently.

“Out of the city?” Greyson looked between the two of us, reluctance etched in his dark features. “And who are you?” he asked, looking Amory up and down.

“Amory.”

He nodded, irritation apparent on his face.

“Greyson, we need to leave,” I said.
 

He looked at me, and something seemed to click into place. “I guess you did come all this way to bust me out, yeah?”

I nodded, relieved that he seemed to be coming around. “All right. If you really want to go.”

Amory relaxed visibly and jerked his head toward the stairs. Some newly freed prisoners were already leaving, while others stayed to free the others and prepare for the fight. It seemed that word of the revolution was already spreading.

We flew down the stairs to the first floor. The door we had come from still hung open, but we could hear shouting and shots being fired in the prison yard. Clinging tight to the cement wall leading out to the yard, we looked out on the chaos ensuing outside.

A swarm of PMC officers in riot gear were attempting to subdue the mob of inmates. They were throwing canisters of tear gas into the crowd and using huge plastic shields to push the wall of prisoners back toward the yard.

Fighting back, some prisoners wrenched guns out of the hands of the PMC officers. Others were using whatever they could find to batter the men: pipes, car bumpers, and trash cans.
 

The gunshots we heard came mostly from the officers, but the prisoners weren’t falling fast enough. They overwhelmed the PMC with their sheer numbers.

Watching Greyson, I saw that fire flare up in his eyes once again, but he didn’t press us to join the fight. Instead, he nodded toward the opposite end of the cellblock.

“Come on. We’ll go out the front.”

We had to blast our way through three locked doors to reach the street entrance to the prison. By the time we emerged on the other side, my ears were ringing and my clothes were covered in a layer of rubble dust.

The lone guard who buzzed in visitors and prisoners for booking from the glass box near the front door lay with his face flat against the desk, a pool of blood blooming like a halo around his balding head.

As we emerged onto the street, the sunlight reflecting off the silvery buildings blinded us. It was quiet on this side of the prison. We could just make out the sounds of sirens in the distance, an alarm from an adjacent government building, and the lonely call of a single robin.

Tracking through the light dusting of snow on the ground, we hugged parked cars and dumpsters, trying to stay out of sight. My heart was pumping blood loudly in my ears, and I was out of breath from all the excitement.
 

Amory kept close to my elbow the entire time, but we were both throwing nervous glances at Greyson, who looked as if he could bolt any minute to join the rebels fighting back at the prison.

As we came closer to the base the rebels bombed, we could see the commotion around the block. A cloud of dust and acrid smoke hung thick in the air, and it was snowing. No. Bits of ash were floating down, sticking to our hair and clothes. I could hear shouting and the frantic cadence of boots on the asphalt. The blinding red lights of fire trucks emerged like beacons in the smog, and the urgent rattle of stretchers told me the rebels’ bomb had been successful. My stomach tightened.
What had we done?

A column of officers jogged across the street mere yards away, and we flattened ourselves behind a row of empty newspaper racks. Our breathing was heavy and rhythmic, even as we tried to stay silent. Despite the freezing cold, I felt myself sweating with nerves.

“What’s the plan?” Greyson whispered between breaths.

“We need to get to the river,” I repeated automatically, thinking of Logan and Max and Roman. They would be worried about us.

“What do you want to do? Swim across?” Greyson looked from me to Amory incredulously. “The water will be freezing.”

“We have to cross the bridge,” said Amory.

“Are you out of your mind? What about the guards? I’m sure they’ll have a blockade up by now to keep the prisoners contained to the city.”

“We’ll have to take our chances,” Amory said.

Greyson opened his mouth as though he wanted to argue, but after looking at me, he seemed to decide against it.

The line of officers disappeared behind a building, and we breathed a collective sigh. We were running again, and I was glad to see that a month in prison hadn’t diminished Greyson’s fitness. If anything, he was faster — more ferocious. Determined to survive, to fight.

 
Amory and Greyson seemed to thrive under the pressure. I felt myself straining to keep up with both of them. Although I was a distance runner, I was unaccustomed to the strain of imminent danger — running for my life.

Fire trucks and PMC cruisers barreled down the surrounding streets. The ear-splitting scream of sirens was overwhelming. Officers all in white stormed around the building, probably searching for the gang of rebels who had infiltrated the base and lodged the attack.
 

We skirted the perimeter of the commotion, sticking a block over as we made our way to the Hudson River. A loud rumble shook the street, but we kept running.

I expected the swarms of PMC officers to diminish once we were well past the base, but if anything, there seemed to be
more
sirens and a louder scuff of PMC boots on the pavement.

Glancing at Amory, I could see he was breathing heavily. He looked concerned.

“They should be dropping off,” he said, shaking his head. “Something else must have happened.”

Just as he spoke, the cloud of smoke and ash engulfing a towering steel fortress came into view. The building had been bombed, but it didn’t look as if the attacker had any intention of killing whoever was inside. Just one sector of the tower was consumed by flames.

A piercing alarm rang out from the building, and Greyson stopped in his tracks.

“They’ve done it,” he said.

“What?” I had both hands clamped over my ears against the piercing sound of the alarm.

“They’ve set them free.” His face drained of color. “Oh, that isn’t good.”

“What is that place?”
 

Greyson swallowed, eyes wide, but I already knew. Near the top of the tower, gleaming in the sunshine, were the letters
XX
. The line through the center was unmistakable. Something was clearly wrong.
 

“That’s Saint Drogo’s. It’s where they keep the infected.”

“Carriers?”

Greyson tilted his head. “If they find a full-blown carrier on the streets, they just shoot it on the spot. They’re . . . beyond rehabilitation,” he said grimly.
 

“There’s no cure!” I said. “They’re all ‘beyond rehabilitation.’”

“But when someone just starts showing symptoms, they bring them here until they’re stage five.”

“Stage five?” asked Amory.

“It’s a PMC euphemism for brain-dead and lethal — not quite human, not quite dead. Once they’re stage five, by law they can be euthanized.”

We slowed to a walk as we drew nearer. As we passed under the shadow of a skyscraper and the full scene unfolded, I stopped, paralyzed with fear, blood pounding in my ears.

Amory’s warm fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling me into the shadow of an abandoned building and out of sight.

I’d never seen so many carriers — not even on the news. They spilled out of the building and onto the street. Dozens of PMC officers were firing canisters of tear gas and a torrent of bullets into the swarm. Carriers collapsed here and there, agony frozen on their emaciated faces.

Despite being in the early stages of the virus, these carriers were worse than any I’d ever encountered. Withered away with yellowish skin, months spent confined to a cell seemed to have made them even more deranged and inhuman.
 

Their skulls were completely bare, and their eyes were sunken black caverns. Saliva dripped from their gaping, bloodied mouths, and they looked around wildly like feral creatures being released from a cage. They clawed at anyone and anything in their path — even other carriers — thrusting PMC officers against cars, upending trash cans, and nearly trampling one another to escape.

“The locks must have automatically been disabled when the fire alarm was triggered,” said Amory.

“They’ve probably released the XX prisoners, too.” Of course. All the known rebels were being held there.

“How do we . . .” I began, unable to finish.

Greyson looked utterly bewildered, but Amory wore an expression of grim resolve.

 
“The only way out is through,” he said.

I took a deep breath and followed Amory and Greyson into the chaos. There were officers surrounding the building’s perimeter, trying to contain the mob of carriers to a one-block radius, but it immediately became clear that was not a realistic possibility.

We ran as fast as we could, cutting across the street to avoid a column of PMC officers. They were advancing on a horde of escaped carriers with riot shields in an attempt to force them back toward Saint Drogo’s.

The carriers overwhelmed the lines of officers with brute force and crazed bursts of violence. One grabbed an officer by the hair and crushed his head against a light post. Carriers were weak, but these appeared to be driven mad by starvation and fear.

The PMC officers paid us no mind, but my breath caught in my chest as one particularly strong carrier broke through the line of them. Another one was slamming an officer against a parked PMC cruiser ten feet in front of us.
 

The carrier turned to the only moving target in his vision, and I saw his gaze snap to Amory.

Amory didn’t hesitate. He raised his rifle and landed a bullet cleanly in the carrier’s skull. He dropped to his knees.

The sound of gunfire caught the attention of the PMC officers.

“Rebels!” one yelled to his companions. “It’s the rebels from the bombing!”

I pushed my legs harder, focusing on the cadence of my breath as my feet pounded against the pavement. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two officers break rank to pursue us, but that breakdown cost the PMC.

Another carrier — a woman — pushed through the PMC and latched her rotten teeth into the neck of a portly officer whose hands were shaking so badly he’d dropped his shield. The man let out a pitiful scream, and the carrier woman tore a ligament from his neck.

We kept running. The two officers were still pursuing us, but they were so busy looking over their shoulders for approaching carriers that they had fallen far behind.

“Haven!” Greyson shouted. “Your gun!”

I felt the weight of the heavy, oppressive thing digging into my shoulder. I should have turned around and shot them both. I should have, but I didn’t. What if I didn’t have time to bring them both down? What if they opened fire on me?

“Haven!” he yelled again.

I fumbled with my gun, hands slippery with sweat and fingers uncooperative.

“I’ll do it,” said Amory. I could hear the sympathy in his voice competing with a grating anger at Greyson and a note of fear.

It happened so quickly I didn’t have time to object.
 

Amory stopped in his tracks, spun around, and trained his gun on the officers. I looked around as his shots rang in my ears, and I saw the life leave one officer’s face and then the other’s. They were down.

Guilt bubbled in my throat like acid, but I bit down hard to stop it from boiling over. Amory had taken two lives to protect us.
He
had taken them so I didn’t have to, but it still felt doubly wrong.
 

I could feel Greyson’s eyes on me. He was wondering why I had failed. He was wondering why I couldn’t end the lives of two men who represented his oppressors.
He
had no problem killing the enemy; maybe I shouldn’t either.

There was a crash and the screech of metal that sounded like a car accident. I glanced around in time to see five carriers upending a fire truck, rolling it onto its side as though they were building a barricade.