The Fall of Crazy House, page 10
“Yep,” I said, checking my rifle and slinging extra ammo around my shoulder. “But this is a nice acre or so of winter wheat, perfect to hide and rest in. Just watch out for snakes. Probably too cold for them, anyway,” I added as an afterthought.
“Okay, so we’re resting,” Mills said, “in this nice field of wheat. But why? Just because he’s dead on his feet?” He pointed his gun at Nate and I knocked it down so hard that its barrel tip jammed into the dirt.
“I wasn’t gonna shoot him,” Mills protested.
“Don’t point your weapon at anyone in the squad,” Bunny said, leaving the “idiot” silent.
“We’re resting because Jolie and I have to make a little side trip,” I said, motioning to Jolie to arm up. She nodded, watching my face.
Mills and Nate looked surprised, so I quickly explained about the United outpost we’d seen.
“We should all go!” Nate protested, and I just looked him in the eyes until his cheeks reddened and he sat down, furious.
“Jolie and I are just going to run over and check things out. You three will stay here and protect each other. I have my comm if you need anything, and we’ll be back before dark. Most likely.”
Leaving Mills and Nate both pouting in the field of winter wheat, Jolie and I trekked toward the trees, where there’d be some cover. As we walked, I told her what was going on, just moving my mouth, not making any sound. She nodded her understanding.
When we were within shooting distance of the outpost, I looked through my field glasses and saw that really, it was damn small. Weirdly small. The bunkhouse was barely bigger than an outhouse and could hold no more than six soldiers. Maybe eight. There was a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire, but we could get through that. The most interesting thing was that between the small bunkhouse and the other building that I assumed was an office of some kind, there was an old-fashioned whipping post. No one in our cell ever used one anymore but there was one here and it had a man tied to it.
I turned to Jolie and mouthed, “He’s not in a United uniform.”
She spelled into my hand, R-E-S-C-U-E-?
I grinned and nodded my agreement. We sat very still, hidden by trees, and watched the place for more than an hour. There seemed to be no more than six United soldiers—one in the office, one on guard, one yelling at the tied-up man, and one in the back, peeling potatoes. I assumed two were sleeping in the bunkhouse, waiting for their turn to be on guard.
We timed our attack well, taking out the guard and the cook quietly with a choke hold and rifle butt to the head. I searched the guard, but he didn’t have ID or any useful intelligence. He did have a pistol with a sound suppressor, which I liberated. From there we used wire cutters on the fence, glad it wasn’t electrified, and crept in. My shoulder hurt from where the wolf had bitten me, and in the back of my mind was the knowledge I had to get food and help for my team ASAP.
Right now the only thing keeping me going was adrenaline, and that would wear off soon enough. Jolie and I headed to the bunkhouse, using signals.
The door to the bunkhouse was unlocked, and those two guys never felt a thing. This was starting to feel too easy. We opened a bunkhouse window just a slit and gave each other a “ready” nod. Then I picked off the guy yelling at the man on the whipping post, dropping him mid-rant. The last United soldier ran out of the office, gun raised, but Jolie was ready and shot him before he had time to get a shot off.
From there we went to the office and shot up their communication equipment, screens, computers, etc. Only then did we approach the man.
He wearily looked up, his face lined with pain, and then we were all surprised.
“You’re kids,” he said hoarsely.
“So are you,” I pointed out.
55
HE WAS A BIG KID, the way Tim was, over six feet and with the muscles of a farm boy. We got him out of there as fast as we could, weaving ourselves through the trees and making our way back to the others. A few times we had to catch him before he fell over, but we gave him water and the last of my protein bars, and he stumbled through the woods much like Nate had: almost silently.
So he had some training.
“Please tell me you’re part of the Resistance,” he said at last.
I rolled my eyes at Jolie. “No, we’re just a couple of crazy kids with some TX-97s and a dream,” I said, patting my weapon. “Of course we’re part of the Resistance.”
“So am I,” he said. “My name is Ansel. I’m from B-97-250.”
“How did you get there?” I asked, nodding my head back at the outpost.
His face grew ashen. “We’re—we were advance scouts under our soccer coach, Mr. Tsu. Those guys took my whole team and tried to get us to talk. I was the last one.” His voice choked and he scrubbed a dirty, sweaty hand over his eyes.
Jolie took his hand. I-M-S-O-R-R-Y, she wrote. He looked mystified.
“Concentrate on what letters she’s writing in your palm,” I told him, and she wrote it again.
“Thanks,” he told her.
“Where’s the rest of your team?” I asked.
“At the bottom of a gully about a quarter-mile away,” he said, his voice sounding thick. “Not even burned.”
“Okay, Ansel, we’re about to come up to the rest of our team, who are waiting for us,” I told him.
“There’s a cell, B-24-23, not far from here,” he said. “We were headed to it.”
“That’s where we’re headed, too,” I said. “Gotta patch up one of our team.”
“Do you know about the city?” he asked.
I stopped and looked at him. “Yeah, we know about it. What do you know?”
“I know it’s the capital of the United,” he said, and my stomach turned over. “And they call it Chi-ca-go.”
I schooled my expression, trying not to look shocked.
“And,” he added grimly, “I know how to get in.”
56
WE INTRODUCED ANSEL TO BUNNY, Mills, and Nate, and the six of us agreed to make for Cell B-24-23 as fast as we could.
Its gate was closed, which was unusual. We’d have to take a chance that there was a friendly house here. In one of the deepest shadows of the boundary fence’s perimeter I crouched and took the wire cutters out of my pack. Soon we could bend back enough of the fence to crawl through.
Our field rations were just about gone, and there were now six of us again. Nate and Ansel both looked like they were running on empty, like they might fall over if they stopped plodding forward. The rest of us were hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. I knew if we weren’t, we’d be racing toward the humongous city we’d seen. It was just so hard to believe something like that existed.
Unlike at home, this cell wasn’t ringed by farms, acres of wheat and corn, fenced-in pastures with softly breathing horses or cattle. Instead, right after the traditional thicket of conifers blocking the sight of the boundary fence, we were immediately in a neighborhood.
“Fancy,” Mills said under his breath.
It was fancy, like the nicest part of downtown back home. But this wasn’t the downtown—it should be the boondocks. It was strange for everything to be this nice: houses painted, gardens manicured, no laundry forgotten in the chilly night.
“What’s that?” Bunny whispered, pointing.
Mills scoffed. “It’s a car, duh. Like a Provost’s car.”
“But it’s not,” I said. “Look—this can’t be a whole street of Provosts. Every one of these cars is super fancy.”
“It’s weird,” Nate said. “Keep looking for a sign, guys.”
Back home, our house had needed painting. Lots of people’s had. It all depended on how good your harvest had been. This place was just… really nice. We walked quietly down street after street, looking for a sign. The farther we got from the perimeter fence, the edgier I felt. As tired as I was, a cold drip of adrenaline trickled into my veins, making me alert and jumpy.
We were a good mile in and I was about to suggest we get out of there when Jolie finally spotted it: a small cat’s head made with pebbles in a garden. Silently we headed around to the back of the house and tapped softly on a window. There was no answer. Bunny tapped again a bit louder. Finally the door opened a crack.
“Who’s there?” The woman sounded suspicious, or scared.
“I thought I smelled a pie baking,” Ansel said.
There was a pause. “I’ve got a cherry one just come out of the oven.”
“Cherry’s my favorite,” Ansel said. He knew the code, and that was the final thing that convinced me he was one of us. Now I just had to get him to tell me the secret of getting into the city—the capital.
“Go to the back garage,” the woman whispered. “The door is open. Go upstairs. Pull the drapes before you turn on any lights. I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
Just to be out of the cold seemed amazing. We went upstairs silently despite our weariness and found that the space over the garage had beds and a kitchenette and a shower. I was concerned about Nate—he’d been flagging more and more all day, despite keeping up. Now he looked gray-skinned and clammy.
I hoped rest and food would give him the strength to carry on. I hoped I wouldn’t have to leave him here.
Cassie would kill me.
57
IT WAS MAYBE TEN MINUTES before the woman appeared with food.
We fell on the hot stew like starving pigs, then shoveled in bread and butter and cider and fruit as fast as we could while the woman watched us with equal amounts of amusement and horror. Even Ansel, exhausted as he was, was able to put away a good amount, and he looked much better afterward. The open wounds around his wrists and ankles needed tending, but he was going to be okay.
Only Nate ate slowly, as if each bite took too much effort, as if swallowing was difficult. I could tell the woman noticed it, and she said there was first-aid stuff in the bathroom.
“What kind of cell is this?” I asked when I couldn’t inhale any more anything.
“Manufacturing,” she said. “We make luxury cars. I can give you a tour tomorrow—this cell is big and you won’t stand out.”
“What’s a luxury car?” Mills asked. “Like for a Provost?” He shot a glance at Nate. “Some of them,” said the woman. “Not all of them. Get some sleep.”
My squad of tough, kickass soldiers was soon splayed across bunks like puppies, shoes still on, rifles cradled like stuffed animals. Except for Nate.
“Come on,” I said, gesturing him to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet while I carefully unwound his bandages, wetting them with warm water when they stuck.
“How does it look?” Nate asked.
Like you’re about to go septic, I thought, but said, “Okay.” His wounds were ugly, raw, and red. I cleaned them really well, then slathered them with antibiotic cream and rebandaged them. Tomorrow I would ask the woman if she could get her hands on stronger antibiotics.
“Okay, here,” I said, giving him three generic pain pills. “Go to sleep.”
Nate staggered to an empty bunk and collapsed on it in slow motion.
I climbed into the last empty one, thinking about tomorrow, about Nate, about Ansel, about my sister and how she was doing, and most of all about Tim, who I missed so much that my arms ached.
I closed my eyes for just a second.
58
IT WAS DARK WHEN SOMETHING woke me—I’d been a super light sleeper since the Crazy House. Frowning, I listened again and heard the same sound. Instantly I was out of bed, on my feet, and reaching for my weapon.
Moments later I realized that it was Nate. He was still asleep but moaning in pain. I put my gun down and felt his forehead. He was burning up, hot and dry-skinned, but also shaking with cold. Crap.
I padded to the bathroom, got more pain meds, and managed to help him sit up a bit to get them down with some water. Then he curled up again, his chills wracking his body so hard that his bed shook.
God, what to do? Everything in me just wanted to hit my own bed and sleep for three days. But I was the squad leader. I was responsible for everyone in it. I’d already lost Levi. Was I going to lose Nate, too?
Tiredly I grabbed the blanket off my bed and threw it over him, then climbed into his single bunk. I wrapped my arms around him and pressed against his back, trying to warm him. The shivering was annoying, but his fever was like a little furnace, keeping me warm. I wished he were Tim. Tim was okay, wasn’t he? He and Cassie were keeping each other safe, right? Surely I would be able to tell if something happened to either one of them? I was glad they were back at camp and together, out of harm’s way.
I fought against the growing daylight as long as I could, snuggling deeper into the delicious warmth and the comfort of the not-a-rock mattress. Very gradually I became aware of something odd—the heat was coming from one side… there was a person next to me.
My eyes flew open to see Nate’s pale, concerned face looking down at me.
“Hi?” he said. He still had circles under his eyes, but his fever seemed to have broken, at least for now.
I cleared my throat and sat up abruptly. “You had fever and chills,” I said matter-of-factly, swinging my legs out of bed. “I didn’t know how else to warm you up.”
Ansel and the rest of the team were still sleeping, thank God. What I had done had made sense, was practical, and I would have done it for anyone in my squad. The fact that Nate was Cassie’s boyfriend made it weird.
Nate nodded. “Seems to have worked. I actually feel hungry.”
Ansel’s injuries also needed rebandaging, but they weren’t nearly as bad as Nate’s. I was wondering about the best time to question him about the capital. Now, in front of everyone? Later, when we were alone? Leader-type choices. I hated ’em.
Before I let Nate eat, I checked his injuries again. They were maybe 1 percent better—still swollen, still red, still ugly. Dammit. Nothing to do but wait. I put on more ointment and rebandaged him. It was bizarre, taking care of someone like this. I don’t do stuff like that—Cassie does. She always has. She should be doing this.
The sooner Nate got better, the better. For everyone.
59
CASSIE
THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE up hungry, which I took to be an encouraging sign of health. Still in my sleeping bag, I did a self-check. Everything seemed okay: No sore throat. A headache that would go away when I had coffee. I punched the air quietly. Yay for not-plague-having! At least not yet.
Tim was still sleeping. He’d stayed up later than I had last night, working his way through some of the easier books we’d found. For someone learning to read when he was eighteen years old, he was catching on fast. I almost never had to help him with long words anymore.
By the time he got up and shuffled to the small table we ate at, I’d made coffee and was on my second cup. He sat down, wrapped in a blanket, and I realized his beard was growing out. I tried to remember what he was like in the Crazy House, how he had looked and acted, how scared of him I’d been. We used to call him Bruiser! That seemed like a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes.
“Found this,” Tim said, and pushed a book across the table. “It’s not about the plague, but it’s important.” He flipped through some pages and pointed to the copyright: 2039, by the New World Party.
I picked it up as he poured himself some coffee. It was called The Rights and Responsibilities of Every Citizen. Chapter one was an old-fashioned map of the United States, showing all the little lines dividing up the fifty named territories. On the next page was the same map, wiped clean except for several big lines that cut the land in half, and then into sixths.
“Oh, my God,” I said slowly, staring at it. “This is the beginning of the United. This is when they were creating cells. See the six chunks labeled A through F? My cell was B-97-4275. So we were in the B section.” This was amazing to me, actually. I knew other people came from other cells, but I’d never been able to… like, place them. I’d never known whether our B stood for Beef or Building or Best or whatever. Now I knew that it meant its location on a map.
“Those years must have been a total nightmare,” he said. “Like, first you have a zillion people dying. Your family. Almost everyone you know. Then the New World party comes in, carves up the land, and tells you where you’re going to live and what you’re going to do. I bet people were freaked out. Like, way freaked the hell out.”
I nodded, going through the book.
“Have you checked for breakfast?” he asked, looking around.
“Not yet,” I said, reading.
Tim opened the trapdoor and felt for the rope where our food basket was hung.
“Dammit, nothing,” he said. “Someone’s late.”
“It’ll be here soon,” I said. “This book is amazing—it’s propaganda, like what Ms. Strepp told us about.”
“But it’s just—life, now,” he said. “I mean, all those rules—that’s just how we live. Used to live. Nothing weird about it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We didn’t know any different. But how did they get everyone to agree to do it? To move into cells? How did they decide who went where?”
“Maybe we’ll find more info in that same stack. But this is stupid,” he said, picking up our phone. “I’m starving.” A minute later he put down the phone. “Strepp’s not answering.”
“That’s weird,” I said, looking up. “Give it a couple minutes and try again.”
He did. And a few minutes after that. Then every five minutes for an hour. We even tried calling Havers. No one answered, no one brought breakfast. No one brought lunch, either. When we looked through our windows, the grounds outside were empty. No marching recruits, no shouts, no vehicles rumbling by.
By evening, we weren’t even pretending to work, just kept looking at each other with wide eyes.
Finally I said what we were both thinking.
“Something’s wrong. Something’s really, really wrong.”
60
