The Undesirable (Undesirable Series) (12 page)

“We all live here,” he continues. “And we’re on the back twenty of a farm. We’re outside of Amherstburg, Ontario.” He pauses for a beat. “Ontario, Canada.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Tell me more about what’s going on,” I demand of Thompson after breakfast when he joins me in the section of the barn someone had converted into a sparse living room. He sits down on the overstuffed couch next to the wall of the room. I take a seat in a small leather chair across from him. I fix my eyes on his, small brown ones framed by his short dreadlocks.

“Four days? Canada? How the hell did we get to Canada?”

“I won’t tell you that.” Thompson’s laugh matches his deep voice. “We keep some secrets. But I will tell you this: the border’s not as secure as Maxwell Cooper’s people and The Party like to tell everyone it is.”

At that second, I hear the whiz of a jet over the house and it dawns on me that it’s the first plane I heard all morning.

“Do we own those planes?” I ask as the muscles in my neck tense. “Don’t we spend all our time bombing Canada in oblivion?”

“You’ve got a lot to learn.” Thompson laughs again. “But it’s not your fault. So does everyone who makes it across the border.”

I cross my arms.

Thompson leans forward and puts his hands on his knees. He fiddles with his watch for a second. “Has it ever occurred to you there might be other things going on in the world besides The War between the U S and Canada? That the world is a big place? That life outside of the borders of the U S is way more complex than you think it is?”

“What?” I never stopped to think of it. “Well… they didn’t really teach us much about other places in school.”

“Of course they didn’t,” he says and keeps his voice even. “Knowledge is control. If the government keeps all the knowledge, then they get all the control. Think about it. We have been at War at least ten years and in an oil crisis for five or six before that. People, who remember the old times, the peace times, are getting old. And now the government makes sure certain people die.” He swallows hard. “That’s what some of The Counts are also about — not just in Harrison Corners, but in other parts of the country. It is Cooper’s systematic elimination of society as a way to control the future. “

“No way. That’s a lie.” I fall back against the rounded back of the leather chair. The breath flies out of my chest.

“Oh, God, how I wish I could say I lied.” Thompson crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. After a few seconds, a rueful smile crosses his dark face.

My whole body stiffens and stays tense.

“Okay,” I say to fill the space and not to accept what he has revealed. “You told me you worked for the government, too. Why aren’t you there right now? And what the hell is this place? How do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know this isn’t a trap?” My blood pressure rises with every unanswered question.

“You are way too valuable to us for this all to be a trap, Charlotte. You’re proof of Cooper’s lies, not ours.” He pauses for a second and then shrugs as he leans back on the couch. “Since I stumbled on what I know about you, I won’t dare go back to my job,” he admits. “I know too much, and what’s worse is I’ve acted on the information.” He shrugs. “Won’t be long. Soon The Party will figure out I’m the one that tipped you off about this whole mess.”

I hold my lips in a thin line and the action forces Thompson to continue.

“This place is a safe house,” he says. “The farmer is one of Glenn’s relatives, and his name’s William Morris. His family picked up this place generations ago, and now it’s a cover for the SSR. We stay here on the back 20 acres, and Morris leaves us alone for the most part.”

I lean forward a little.

Continue.

“We own a couple of safe houses, but this one is the closest to the border.”

“How close to Michigan?”

“It’s over there.” Thompson stands up and motions for me to join him at the large picture window on the far end of the room. The lush green hills and tall trees of Canada greet us right along with the sun. He points towards a large body of water. “That’s how you get to Michigan. And then from there…” he shrugs.

“Why can’t I remember any of this?” I study him for a second.

Thompson reaches down and grabs my left arm. He rotates it and we both regard the bandage on my wrist. He pulls the bandage off my skin. I see a small scab and a bruise.

“We drugged you,” he says and keeps his voice simple. “We knocked you out a few minutes after you said goodbye to Fostino.”

“Is he okay?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Thompson does not answer right away. “No way of knowing,” he admits after a long pause. “But we’re sure he’s safer now with you not around. Like I told you before, I think we have some time.”

Of course. My departure made everyone safer.

“I still can’t understand this,” I say and my voice hardens. “You must want something from me. I’m not stupid. I know help never comes for free.”

Outside the bedroom window, Willa and Glenn walk over to the small garden planted forty feet or so from the barn. They carry tools and baskets with them. 

“We do chores here,” Thompson says when he sees where my eyes strayed. “Everyone works together. We work to the same goal.”

“What is that?”

“Right now, that goal is protecting you.” Thompson’s eyes narrow. “You’re very valuable to the SSR. Very valuable.”

“So what do you want me to do for the SSR, since you’ve saved my life?” I snort.

Jesus. Could I be any blunter? 

“We have a few ideas.” Thompson laughs. “The SSR would love to showcase you safe and sound.” A mischievous smile spreads across his lips.

I think about Patricia Cooper again with her perfect brown bob and her red suits with the black stripes. I remember all the times I saw her on state television at ribbon cuttings and factory opening days. She has three brown haired sons with Maxwell Cooper. How much do they know? I shudder. They are not only government princes any more. They are my half-brothers — and all under 12. 

“So what—you—um… what?” I reply. “You want to trot me out, put me on some news show or something?”

“Well, we haven’t decided for sure. We do know we want to blow Maxwell Cooper’s world apart and show everyone his long lost daughter. You’ll help us prove he’s a fraud.” Thompson cups my chin before he continues. “With that face, Charlotte, it’s going to be very exciting to watch what he does when he realizes the SSR and Drew Morgan have you on their side. A secret weapon. An unexpected one. You’ll wake up the people. I know it.”

“But how will you prove I’m his daughter?” I stammer. “What about the evidence? Any proof?” My mind swims.

“Oh ye of little faith,” he chides with a grin. His chin-length dreadlocks frame his pearly-white teeth. “The SSR is a vast network. But we do have the proof. We collected and copied it for weeks. We don’t do anything without thinking long and hard about it first.”

I am not sure if I am ready for a role as the face of the resistance. My thoughts flicker to what I left behind and right away settle on Fostino.

“It’s almost 11:00 AM.” He takes a few steps towards the hallway. Then he looks at his Hologram Watch and frowns. “We’ve got to go. Target practice.”

“Target practice?” I blink and then follow him out the door.

He laughs again. “Ever done a maneuver called the ‘rush and roll’?”

“No.” I have no idea what he means.

“Well, come on. You’ve got some things to learn.”

*

We walk across the back 20 acres and closer to a small clearing near the creek bed on the farm. As we walk, I smell the crisp sweetness of the deep green grass and the breeze lifts up strands of my hair. I keep a few steps behind Thompson and he walks without acknowledging me or speaking to me.

When we get to the creek bed, Willa stands about 40 feet from two haystacks with targets on them. She stands next to a gun range and an annoyed sneer covers her face. Thompson breaks the silence with a quick greeting. The annoyance in her face flips to disdain.

“Hello,” I try.

“Princess.” She rolls her eyes. Again.

“Willa’s the best shooter I know.” Thompson does not correct her. He opens a metal box and I see a cache of weapons inside. They glint in the Canadian sun. “Have you ever shot a gun?

“No.” I regard both of them.

Willa lets out a sardonic giggle. “Helpless. A helpless little mess.”

“We’ll teach you,” says Thompson. He hands me a heavy silver Harrington 22 caliber pistol. “Today.”

The cool metal slides into my hands. I’ve never held a gun before this moment, but I like it. “Is this all you’re going to teach me?” I ask.

“Of course not,” Thompson snorts. “Rule number one: always keep some form of protection on you. Always.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The next three weeks become an immersion course in guns, survival skills, and information about the “real” world — life outside the walled off life I’d led for 18 years. Willa and the others teach me how to shoot to kill, how to find medicine in the woods, how to make shelter when there is none. My body and my mind change as I learn every day.

At first, it’s tough. I am not very good at the new routine. I can’t run, I can’t shoot, and I can’t handle a knife during self-defense training. My muscles ache and deep bruises pop out of my skin as my body takes a beating during the exercises. Thompson calls me Butterfingers after I drop the knife a few times, and Willa turns up her nose at my 10:30 pace for a one-mile run. Even so, I am determined to get better and stronger. I must know the truth about the life I left behind.

Cooper, it turns out, does not hold on to his power very well. They show me articles, video, and photos of the struggle inside The Party. He may be the Supreme Leader, but he has supreme challengers. Thompson and Trina point out the freedoms of Canada, the way they can walk to the store or the gas station without fear of questions or intimidation. Every evening we eat fresh fruit and vegetables from the garden next to the barn. At night, it is quiet outside the room I share with Willa.

We start every morning with a five-to-eight mile run through the fields of the farm and then up the shoreline to the small town of Amherstburg. There, they tell me how the town played a part in the Underground Railroad of the antebellum era, and how the town has a rich history as a safe haven for freedom.

“The people here, they understand.” Willa says one morning about two weeks later as I struggle to keep up with her run. “So we chose this place.”

Along the shoreline, I make out Grosse Isle, MI, some of the homes, and businesses. The ones closest to the water look burned, abandoned, and vacant. None of the boat launches keeps boats anymore. A huge fence with spiral barbed wire lines the west side of that road — a sign to me that The Party has been there, too.

“So strange,” I say between huffs and steps. “It’s weird to see home from the outside: so constricted, so damaged.”

“It is.” Willa nods in between the slaps of her silver running shoes on the pavement. “I thought too, when I first saw it. But the people here, they’ve told us how different things used to be. Even 20 years ago, they used to go back and forth between the borders. They would drive from Detroit over to Windsor, Canada and back again. Only needed a passport. Took five minutes, Wilson said once. I can’t imagine.”

“How did you get me over here if the border is closed?” My lungs change as we hit mile six of this run. My breaths turn deeper and even. I am getting better at this.

Willa gives me a sideways look. “You know, The Party’s a little…” She breaks off for a few seconds and thinks of the word. “The Party’s a little distracted.”

“And?”

“Well, it means we found holes in the system. And then we found you.” I realize we’re in Northern Amherstburg. “We should turn around,” she orders. A few blocks into the return route, she picks the conversation back up. It is the most she has talked to me on these workouts; it is the least disdainful her tone with me has ever been. “We’ve spent a lot of time figuring out the ways we can infiltrate. The lake helps, and so does the fact that this is a small town.” A conspiratorial smile passes over her lips.

“I’m sorry about your family.” I decide this is my chance to connect with Willa. “I am. It must have been awful to watch them die like that, to see them murdered right in front of you.”

“Yes,” Willa says and frowns. We have just one mile left until we reach the farmhouse. “My mother and I were best friends. Sounds like a cliché, but it is true. I hate Maxwell Cooper. I hate what he stands for and what he wants to do.” 

“He killed my mom, too, you know,” I choke out between labored steps. “Well, at least, The Party killed her. They shot her during one of the selections, during The Count, before they made us work at the factory.”

She stares at me instead of the road. Even though we run fast, her face grows pale.

“They didn’t tell you that about me?”

“No,” she says, and I notice her pace slows down with the weight of my news. “They didn’t say that at all. I didn’t know.”

“Yep.” I add. “I don’t know if he knows she’s dead, or if he even cares. But she is. And it hurts. Well, it hurts
me
.” I peek behind me, still afraid someone, somehow, has followed me to Canada. No one is there. We round the corner and her voice gets quieter as the run nears its end.