Chapter 7
The funny thing is, what I am doing right now is exactly what I wanted to do the minute I saw the camp. In spite of the fact that I’m starving, my legs are strong and swift, stronger than they’ve been since the moment I awoke in my bed.
Reaching the closest fire, I tear a spit of meat out of a stunned militia man’s hands and keep running. At the second fire, I do the same … take the meat and run. Without slowing my pace, I press the hot meat to my mouth, burning my tongue and gums as my teeth tear into it, and swallow without chewing. And then I am passing the third fire. And people are yelling, swarming, aiming guns at me. A siren blares.
Before I reach the fourth fire, something catches my ankle and I crash to the ground in a heap of hot meat and dust. I don’t care. I’ve created the distraction Arrin wanted, and now I can eat. With my eyes staring at the star-freckled sky, I gnaw half-cooked meat, letting the grease and blood coat my fingers, throat, cheeks. Until someone tears it from my hands.
I scramble to my feet and try to run, but a shock of pain freezes my muscles and shatters my world. My legs forget how to work, and I crumple to the ground as spasms rack my body. Someone yanks my hands behind my back and slings cool metal around my forearms. I blink through a haze of pain and find myself staring at the wall and a frenzy of men in brown. They’re running around like headless chickens, yelling, swinging their guns. And then I see Arrin and her little brother, tiny even compared to her, leaping over the fire at the farthest edge of the camp. The smaller shadow stumbles and Arrin grabs his shoulders to steady him. They keep running, are almost to the street. Nearly touching freedom.
“Stop them!” a man bellows. “He’s a Level Three on the verge of turning!”
Silence smothers the camp, like being dunked under water … one minute there’s noise; the next, nothing. Every single militia man has his gun to his shoulder and is taking aim. The night explodes in gunfire. Arrin’s brother just explodes.
My jaw drops and I’m too stunned to breathe—almost forget that my muscles are twitching with the aftermath of pain. The guns are lowered and sound returns to the camp. The militia pat each other on the backs, chuckling, sighing with relief. I press the balls of my hands against my eyes and try to forget the last image I have of Arrin’s brother, silently cursing the meat in my stomach that is about to come up.
Hands grip my biceps and I’m yanked to my feet.
“What’ve we got?” a deep, gravelly voice asks. A gray-haired man steps in front of me and frowns.
“By the smell of it, we’ve got us another Fec, sir.”
“What level?” the man with gray hair asks.
Someone behind me turns over my right hand. My legs tremble, and it has nothing to do with being Tasered a moment before.
“Huh. No level. He’s clean.” I can hear the wonder in his voice. My shoulders sag and my legs stabilize.
Gray Hair’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sure? I thought all Fecs were marked. Why else would they hide down there?”
The man behind me fiddles with my hand again, rubbing the spot where the tattoo is.
“No. No mark. He’s clean, sir.”
I peer at Gray Hair through my thick bangs. He studies me with eyes as mistrusting as Arrin’s, and his lips grow thin. “Bring him to central. I’m going to do a scan.”
A militia man escorts me through a throng of men with wary eyes, to the center of their camp and into a spacious wooden structure—a log cabin—with a row of empty tables and a paper-strewn desk. Overhead, lights hum and buzz. Electrical lights.
“Uncuff him, Rory, so I can get a pure read,” Gray Hair says. There are lines shaved into his hair above his left ear. Six of them. He has a star on his brown coat. Embroidered above the star is the name Micklemoore.
“Yes, sir.” My hands are lifted, along with my cuffs, and then the cuffs snap free of my arms. I let my hands hang casually at my sides and try to appear like I am not searching for an escape. The other man, Rory, steps in front of me and aims a Taser at my chest. There are only three lines shaved into his blond hair.
Micklemoore walks to the desk and opens a drawer, removing a metal box the size of my palm. Rory turns from me, hand out held for the metal box. And I run.
Micklemoore yells. Rory turns and clutches my shirt, but I tear away from him. The outside darkness fills the log cabin’s door, and I know it’s my only hope.
I pass from light into dark and slam into something hard and warm. We topple to the ground, and the unpleasant smell of digesting garlic and onions tickles my nose. Rough hands grapple against my body and latch onto my hips, flinging me aside. The icy barrel of a gun finds my temple, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Instead of feeling my head explode, I hear a low, humorless chuckle.
“Len, you always seem to be in the right place at the right time,” Micklemoore says, still chuckling. He crouches beside me, lifts my right hand, and holds out the metal box. The box lights up, a cool, soothing blue that makes my skin crawl. And when the light touches my hand, my tattoo shines through the layers of dirt and blood and makeup like a bike reflector. The box wails a warning siren.
Micklemoore drops the box and lurches away from me faster than anyone with gray hair should be able to move. And then I can’t see anyone, because a hundred automatic weapons are pointed at every inch of my body, blocking my view.
Like Arrin’s brother, I wait to explode.