Breathe (16 page)

“We’re going to get hypothermia.”

“Dry off your hair and you’ll be fine,” he says, climbing back into his clothes as I pull on my pants. When I’m fully dressed, he says, “Come and look.” We walk along the corridor into an office with a window. In the distance two fat aircraft with long overhead rotor blades pummel through the sky.

“What are they?” I ask.

“Ministry zips. Classified. Those things are serious. They don’t get those babies out unless something big is going down. Their thermo-detectors are more advanced than ever. They can see right into most buildings. We had to be cold and at the center of the biggest structure possible or our body heat would have drawn them right to us.” He moves away from the window and I follow him back out of the building. Inger is on the street getting into his coat and looking into the sky. He too has wet hair. “You all right?” Silas asks him. Inger nods.

“What about the others?” I ask, thinking about Bea.

“Alina’s trained,” Silas says.

“But what if they can’t make it to a building in time? What if—”

“Let’s get going,” he says. “I’m not sharing air with you. And by the looks of it, you’re almost out.”

My eyelids feel heavy, but I am determined to stay awake for Alina. She took over the driving from Maude an hour ago, and even though she must be exhausted, she’s managing to keep her eyes wide and unblinking and fixed firmly on the road ahead.

“Where are we going to park this thing so no one sees it?” I ask.

“I have a place in mind,” she says, smiling without showing her teeth. Occasionally she mumbles an assurance to herself about stealing the tank, though no one is doubting her, at least not out loud.

How has my life gone from being simple and sensible to completely anarchic? I’m rumbling along in a stolen tank and on the run from the Ministry with two people I don’t really know, and Quinn is missing. I focus on Maude, whose breathing has slowed as she slinks into sleep. Alina notices and gently kicks her. Maude swears, swipes the air with her fingers, and jiggles herself awake.

“When did you learn to drive one of these things? When you worked for the Ministry?” Alina asks Maude.

“I was naval. Boats and hovercrafts,” she says, puffing up a little.

“Were there trackers?” Alina asks.

“Trackers …” Maude murmurs, remembering. “Trackers. Yes. In case we got lost. Not that they cared a jot about us—the boats are worth a fortune. They couldn’t afford to lose a boat.”

“Or a tank,” I suggest. The penny drops and Maude’s eyes widen.

“They’ll find us if we stay in this thing,” she says. “We’ve gotta dump this galumphing tin can and get away as fast as possible. They’ll send zips. We ain’t got long.”

“Can you find the tracker, Maude?” I ask calmly.

“Can I find it?” Maude wonders aloud. “The tracker … the tracker.”

“Was it hidden in the boats?”

“In the boats it were under the driver’s seat. But that were in the boats.”

Alina stands up, still driving, and I twist the seat until I feel it come loose. It unscrews easier than I imagined it would and after a couple of seconds I’ve got the seat in my hands. There’s nothing on the underside, so I pass it to Maude and look into the wide cylinder the seat was attached to. Inside is a tiny black box. I reach in and remove it.

“Did it look like this?” I ask Maude.

“That’s it!” she says.

“Well, I thought it would be harder than that to find. Maybe our luck is turning,” Alina says, but as soon as she’s spoken, I wish she hadn’t; it gives me a feeling that something awful is about to happen.

“What do you want me to do with it?” I ask Alina.

“Swallow it,” she says, and laughs.

“Seriously, Alina. We need to get rid of it,” I say.

“Open the hatch and chuck the damn thing out,” she says. So I climb the ladder, push open the heavy hatch, and throw the tracker as far as I can.

Alina and Maude are quiet. They haven’t much to say to each other when they aren’t arguing. I screw the seat back in place so Alina can sit down. She doesn’t thank me—she doesn’t even look at me—and I don’t think she’d even consider thanking Maude for knowing where to find the tracker.

We power on for another half hour before Alina says, “We’re here.” She slows the tank and parks it. Then she jumps from her seat and scurries up the ladder. We follow, climbing out and into a wide building with a high tin roof. The tank fits without any problem, but the structure looks flimsy and unsafe. “It’s an old bus station,” Alina says.

She grabs my arm. “Did your stomach just rumble?” she asks, squeezing. I put my free hand to my stomach, wondering whether it did or not.

“It were probably me. I’m so hungry I could eat a fat teenager,” Maude announces.

“Shhh,” Alina says, putting her fingers to her lips.

“Don’t you shush me,” Maude warns, raising her fists as though she’s about to get into a boxing match.

“I think it’s zips,” Alina gasps. Maude listens. We all do.

“You’re right. Mercy me,” Maude says.

“Oh God, I’ve led them right to Petra.” Alina’s voice is a whisper. “They’ll see everything from up there. I’m going to get everyone killed.” She is paralyzed, staring up at the roof as though expecting fire to rain on top of her. I turn to Maude.

“What do we do?” I ask.

“We need to be cold,” Maude says. She grabs what looks like an old traffic cone, runs out into the open, and fills it with snow. As she’s hobbling back toward us she shouts, “Now we hide. They’ll be over us in a minute. The tank should be safe. Get that hatch open.” Alina comes to her senses and we all crawl back down into the belly of the tank. I have no idea why we have to do this until Maude explains that the zips have body-heat sensors. Within seconds we are all in our underwear and rubbing ourselves with snow.

We sit shivering in the tank, listening to the drone of the zips overhead and our own teeth chattering. “Are tanks thermo-detector-proof?” Alina asks.

“’Course not,” Maude snaps. “But it’s the best we’ve got.” Maude reaches into the cone, scoops out another handful of snow, and launches it at Alina. And rather than leaping for Maude’s neck, Alina rubs the snow into her skin.

“Thank God for the weather,” she says.

Once the roaring has subsided, Maude says, “We’re clear, ladies,” and, smiling, pulls her gnawed sweater over her head. “Now, Alina, what is it they say in the movies?
Take me to your leader?
” Alina doesn’t laugh; she scrambles into her clothes and clambers back up the ladder, mumbling something under her breath.

When we emerge from the hatch, we straighten our clothes and airtanks and stand looking at one another for what feels like a very long time. Alina is scowling and shifting from one foot to another. Maude is humming.

“Do you think Quinn’s dead?” I ask. Silence is the only possible response. “Do you?” I repeat quietly, so they know I’m not about to collapse into a fit of hysteria. Maude stops humming and touches my face. Her scrawny fingers rest on my cheek for a moment and then she pulls her hand away.

“I’m about to take you into the hub of the Resistance,” Alina says, without answering me: she is brave, but even she hasn’t the courage to pronounce Quinn dead. “You are never,
ever
to reveal this location to anyone. You need to know that if you betray the Resistance, Petra
will
have you killed. In fact, I will probably kill you myself. Now let’s move.” She buttons up her coat and marches out of the garage.

“She’s so mean,” Maude says, rattling along after Alina, a thick thread of mockery in her tone.

“You better watch your smart mouth from now on,” I warn Maude. “I’m worried about Petra.”

“Pah!” she snorts.

“Seriously,” I say.

We turn right at the first road, left at the next, and eventually come face-to-face with a colossal, frosted glass building: the RATS headquarters. My legs feel shaky as we approach the steps. I can’t help wondering whether or not I should have turned back and gone home a long time ago. I lean on Maude to steady myself.

Alina turns, sees me, and stops. “Everything good?”

“It’s icy,” I say. Alina nods and continues walking.

“Don’t let anyone see you’re afraid,” Maude whispers.

I release her and reach for the balustrade at the bottom of the steps. Then I swallow hard and start climbing.

I don’t want to be paranoid or anything, but Inger and Silas have been hunched together in serious debate for the last mile or so, and now, even though they saved my life, I’m wondering whether they’re planning to murder me. “We don’t really have a choice,” Inger says, nodding in my direction. Inger stops, takes out a tattered paper map peppered with small green crosses, and points to one of them. “Here,” he says.

Silas stops, too. “Where did you get that?” he asks, taking the map from Inger and examining it. I peer over Silas’s shoulder to see if I can work out where we are, but I can’t.

“I made it. Petra’s orders. Almost finished,” Inger says.

“You made this? And all these crosses are solar respirators?” he asks.

“Yep,” Inger says. He glances at me and then away.

“But what about the …” Silas begins.

“Most of them were dead already,” Inger says.

“And the ones who weren’t?” Silas asks. “You didn’t, did you?” Silas suddenly steps away from Inger.

“Of course I didn’t. It’s a map. Petra wanted a list of locations for emergencies. When I found one alive, I didn’t mark it down because we can’t be sure they won’t relocate.” He looks at me. “His canister’s parched. Tighten his valve,” Inger commands. Silas steps toward me and twists the valve of my airtank. For a moment I’m sure he’s going to twist it three hundred and sixty degrees and leave me a puddle of choking bones on the road, but he doesn’t.

“I’m reducing the density. Breathe normally,” he says. I feel the air start to thin, and I try to do as he says, but the drop in oxygen makes me panic and I begin to hyperventilate. “Calm down, will you?” Silas shakes me, making me feel even dizzier. I stagger backward and he has to catch me. He readjusts the valve on my tank, and once I can breathe again, I nod.

Silas and Inger give each other a look, then Inger grunts. “We don’t have a choice,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I try to sound nonchalant. “How much farther?”

Silas and Inger exchange a whisper and abruptly change direction. “Guys?” My voice is a croak. Suddenly Silas stops and stares up at a tall, red-brick building and rubs his forehead.

“We haven’t seen zips for years, which means trouble. They’re on the hunt and Petra will need us,” Inger says. “If we try to share our air with you it will slow us down and we could be leaving The Grove in peril. Plus, we can’t even be sure we have enough in our tanks to get us all there no matter what speed we travel at. You need a lot more oxygen than we do.” Inger has taken on a military manner. He is even standing rigidly.

“In other words, if you come with us, you’ll die,” Silas says.

“We’ve reached an impasse.” Inger is solemn. I think that means he plans to put me out of my misery. And maybe he’d be right to do it: I’ve heard that suffocation is the worst kind of death. I push my shoulders back. Silas is still staring at the red-brick building. “Maybe ‘impasse’ is too strong a word,” Inger goes on, peering into the sky. “Come on,” he says, leading me into the building Silas has been gawking at.

Inside the building is a steep set of stairs. “Get on my back,” Silas says. “You’re not going to make it to the top if you don’t.” I swallow my pride and do as he says. We climb up the stairs, passing the doors that declare
FIRST FLOOR
,
SECOND FLOOR
, all the way up to the
TWELFTH FLOOR
where Silas, now gasping himself, shrugs me off. It is only one more flight until we reach a door that says
ROOFTOP
. Inger pushes open the heavy fire door and we step into the sunlight again, onto a roof overlooking endless rows of tumbledown houses, apartment blocks, and twisting roads.

On the horizon are the outlines of huge buildings with domes and spires. I’ve seen them in pictures though I can’t remember their names now. If only I could spot Bea or Alina, or even Maude, but the city and the snow obscure almost everything. Inger leads us to a far corner of the rooftop where we come upon a thick, clear tarpaulin covering a solar respirator. Inger yanks it off, turns a button, and shakes the respirator until it rattles to life. He removes his own facemask and presses the filthy one attached to the respirator to his face. He stays there for a few seconds, breathing in and out deeply, then hands the facemask to me.

“This is your lifeline. Take it.” I pull off my mask and replace it with the one Inger is holding out. I breathe in. The air coming from the respirator is humid and the smell is enough to make me want to vomit.

“There’s about three months’ charge in this thing,” Inger tells me. “But it isn’t portable. It’s an early model.”

“How will I ever get back?” I ask. Silas looks pleased that I’ve figured out what’s going on.