Rebel Nation (16 page)

“This car has most of a tank,” James said through his window. “Gets better gas mileage, too.”

Goddamn it.
West opened the van door and got into the passenger seat of the car. He wasn't going to waste fuel for pride.

James started the engine. “Which way?”

West told his father where they met Frank. It would be at least a fifteen-mile drive and he was anticipating a good hour in the car, but his father drove so fast. Far faster than West had ever dared. He gripped the edge of his seat and tried not to let his face show his fear as the mountain flew by outside his window.

“I know you're angry with me,” James said. He drove with one hand on the wheel, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His ease threw West off balance. “And I know I probably deserve it.”

“How often did you see Clover after she came back?”

James had the decency to flush. He put his other hand on the steering wheel, which gave West an unreasonable surge of satisfaction. “Work keeps me—”

“No. Jesus, just don't.” Work kept him busy? There was a time when all West wanted was to follow in his father's footsteps. His own erroneous brush with the justice system turned that on its head. How many innocent people had his father killed?

All of them were innocent. None of them had committed any crime before their execution. How did James sleep at night, knowing? Unless his father still believed that it was some fluke that West hadn't killed Bridget.

“I'm here now,” James said, quietly. “And I can help. We need to organize. Those kids running at my car was a disaster. That can't happen again.”

“I know that.”

“I'm serious, West. A training session about what to do when that bell rings is absolutely necessary. And we need to secure the—”

“Stop.”

“I'm trying to help,” James said.

“We're already aware of what needs to be done. And we're getting it done. We don't need you to come in here and take over.”

James stopped the car. He didn't bother to pull over, although he was driving in one lane instead of straddling the narrow road like West usually did. “I have experience. And I've worked for the Company for more than fifteen years. Goddamn it, I feel like I'm interviewing for a job here. You need me, West. Don't get stubborn.”

“You might have experience,” West said, fighting to keep his voice low. “And you may know the Company. We'll be happy for whatever information you can give us. But we can't afford to depend on you.”

West expected James to ask what he was talking about. He was actually trying to put his thoughts into words when James put the car back into gear and started driving again.

“These kids need someone who sticks around,” West said, even though James hadn't said a word.

“They have you. You're the most dependable person I know.”

This wasn't fair. He was supposed to be angry at his father. He deserved to be angry! He didn't want the sympathy that was sneaking in. “Don't do this.”

“Do what?”

“Make me feel sorry for you! You left me and Clover. You abandoned us. You weren't even there for Clover when she was alone the last couple months.”

“I know,” James said, almost under his breath.

West had never asked his father why. Not in all these years. He assumed at first that he'd been promoted to the execution squad and that his work kept him from being the kind of father he and Clover needed. He asked now. “Why?”

James gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He didn't vary the speed of the car and it didn't swerve, but the change in his demeanor was palpable. He shook his head, once, and then his shoulders sagged, like he'd lost the argument with himself.

“I killed your mom,” he said.

Only four words, one syllable each, but West struggled to understand them. He had to take each on its own, decipher it. Even then, it didn't make sense. His mother died of the virus. No one killed her. “What are you talking about?”

“She was so sick, West. In so much pain. And I thought we were all going to die in a matter of days. They gave me the syringes to do it. I think—I think it was a humanitarian thing. You can't imagine the pain your mother was in.”

West brought his fingers to his own virus scars. He couldn't remember the pain. He was only three when he was sick. “You killed her.”

“I would have killed you, too. And Clover. And myself. The doctor came with the suppressant before it went that far. It was too late for Jane.”

James went away. West watched his face close off. He hadn't even realized how open it had been until it closed again. His father had lived with a terrible secret for so long. West didn't want to understand. He didn't want to forgive, but he couldn't stop the softening in his heart.

James loved his wife. Really loved her. West remembered looking at a picture of his parents the last time he was in the house he grew up in, and being envious of the way they looked at each other. He'd hoped, so hard, that he'd have that with Bridget.

He was already mostly over the loss of Bridget, though, as difficult as that was to admit. There had never been a chance for him to have with her what his father had with his mother. He knew that now.

West had always thought of his father as steel hard, unbendable. In fact, he was broken and had been for most of West's life and all of Clover's. How different would James be if the suppressant had come just a day sooner?

West could see that he had a chance to allow his father to start healing. James needed to do something big to help him. But a stubborn knot of reluctance tied up in the center of his chest. He sat with that for a few minutes.

“We can use your help,” West finally said. “You can't take over. These kids don't trust you. They barely trust me. But we need your help.”

James just nodded. His hands relaxed a little on the wheel.

—

The train was already there, huge and imposing,
rumbling the ground under the car, when they pulled up. West expected to introduce his father to Frank and Melissa, to get some news about the first legs of Clover and Jude's trip.

When Mango jumped with some effort from the passenger car, an unexpected lump of emotion caught in his throat. “She's home. Jesus, they came back.”

He opened his car door without waiting for a response from James. Jude came out of the train next and reached back in to lift Clover down. She saw West when she was halfway down and ran for him as soon as her feet were on the ground.

She skidded to a stop, nearly falling backward when her gaze shifted to James. Jude was at her side at the same time West was, and she reached for her friend. West filed that away. He was going to have to process the relationship between the two of them sometime soon, but not right now. Not yet.

“What happened?” Clover's voice was an octave too high. Even though she didn't look away from James, she said, “What happened, West?”

“He saved Leanne,” West said. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he didn't begrudge his father that victory. “He got her out of the city.”

“Leanne's in Virginia City?” Clover asked, finally looking up at West. “She's okay?”

West nodded, and Clover finally left Jude's side to hug him. “I knew it. I knew you'd help her.”

He thought about correcting her, reminding her that it was James who'd saved Leanne. But he didn't want her to figure out that he'd gone back into the city. Not when he was about to be stuck in the car with her.

James knelt to hug Mango, who came to him easily. Maybe the gesture was meant to mask the awkwardness of his daughter not greeting him. “Been taking good care of my girl, boy?”

“West?”

West looked up at Frank. Melissa stood next to him. “Frank. Thank you. Thank you for bringing them back.”

“It was their decision,” he said. “I think it was a good one.”

There was something in his voice that pulled West's attention completely away from where James stood talking to Jude and Clover. “What is it?”

“Travis, the Denver-to-St.-Louis driver. He told me that there is some unrest outside of Nashville. People are getting impatient. And protestors stopped a train outside of Topeka, took three convicts off it.”

“Protestors?”

“We've been waiting for you kids a long time,” Frank said, his voice taking on a defensive edge. “For years, Waverly has built you up, promised us a rebellion as soon as you came. And you're here. It's happening, just not fast enough for some.”

Frank's eyes cut to James. When West followed his gaze, he saw that Clover had relaxed, once her initial shock was past. She stood close to Jude, holding his hand.

“Our dad.” West turned back to Frank and Melissa. “He got Leanne out of the city.”

Melissa made a noise that sounded somewhere between relief and taking a deep breath after being under water too long. “Thank God,” she said.

Frank put a hand on his daughter's arm. “She wasn't arrested, then.”

“She was,” West said. He'd been impressed by what his father did, but seeing Frank's reaction reminded him all over again of how extraordinary it was that James had managed to remove Leanne from a jail cell.

“Incredible,” Frank said, still looking at James.

West noticed that Melissa was staring at James, too.

“Melissa,” Frank said. “This is Clover and West's father, James Donovan.”

Melissa didn't hesitate. She was tall enough to be eye-to-eye to James. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Thank you.”

We will not learn how to live together in peace by killing each other's children.

—JIMMY CARTER, NOBEL LECTURE, DECEMBER 10, 2002

West's hope that he could at least wait to get back
to Virginia City before he caught an earful from Clover about his visit to his father in the barracks was dashed as soon as they were all in the Company car. James had told Clover and Jude all about it while West talked to Frank.

“How did you get in?” Clover asked. He turned in the front passenger seat enough to see Clover sitting behind James in the driver's seat. “I just walked in.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I waited until the guards were distracted and I just slipped in. It wasn't that big a deal.” West waited, hearing his own words and realizing it actually was that easy. “Really.”

“How did you get back out?”

“We came through the river.”

“We?”

James hadn't told her about Isaiah, then. West sighed. He felt a hundred years old and like he hadn't slept in at least that long. “Me and Isaiah.”

“Isaiah.”

“Yes.”

“Isaiah's in Virginia City?”

“What about Bridget?” Jude asked.

West shook his head. James drove along the narrow mountain highway so fast that it took West's breath away every time he looked out at the scenery flying by. “No, not Bridget.”

Clover didn't say anything else.

And mercifully, no one spoke during the rest of the drive home—which took significantly less time than it would have if West had been driving.

What looked like most of the group stood in the Fourth Ward School parking lot when they pulled in. West made a mental note to talk to the kids, as soon as possible, about not running out to meet every car that arrived in town.

As soon as he opened the door, Emmy threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He patted her head and tried to untangle her, even though her honest joy at seeing him eased some of his tension.

“Phire shot a deer!” Her face was almost as red as her hair. Excitement shivered off her.

West looked up and found Christopher standing not too far away. “He did what?”

“A big old buck. I've never seen anything so big. Lucky little bastard. It's a miracle the thing didn't run him through.”

When they all trooped to the place, a mile or so away from the school, where Phire stood watch over his kill, James inhaled sharply. “Jesus, that's not a deer.”

It was an elk. And it was big enough to feed them for a week, if they could figure out how to preserve the meat. Phire was proud of himself. He sat on the back of the beast, his feet dangling off its side. The elk was as big as the van.

The Foster City kids danced around Phire and the elk, yelling and whooping. Most of them hadn't eaten well in weeks, West was sure. They were all underfed. They'd be able to eat their fill of meat tonight. “We need to get it butchered.”

“I'll get the book,” Clover said. Jude had one of her hands, and instead of letting her go, turned to go with her.

“Book?” James asked.

“Waverly had one about cleaning and butchering—”

“I can do it.”

West looked at his father. Of course he could. “You're sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

No one else, except for Clover, seemed to pick up on the tension between West and James. Clover went silent, looking from one to the other.

“Okay then.” West looked around at the kids, who were raising even more of a ruckus. They were starting to remind him, uncomfortably, of a scene from
Lord of the Flies
. “Phire and Tim can help you. The rest of us will get a bonfire going.”

“A bonfire?” Clover asked.

“Might as well.” West caught Leanne's eye. She stood away from the rest. She looked haunted, her arms around her waist, her eyes not really focusing anywhere. “We have a lot to celebrate.”

Clover made her way through the crowd to Leanne. He couldn't hear what she said, but he saw Leanne's face crumble when Clover pulled an envelope out of her pack and handed it to her. Clover stood, awkward for a minute, then wrapped her arms around Leanne and hugged her.

—

The feel of the girl's slender neck snapping brought
Langston Bennett one bright, intense moment of absolute satisfaction. It was replaced, almost as quickly, with an anger so deep it felt rooted in his gut. He was angry at himself, but that didn't stop him from pulling back one foot and kicking her in the head. If she hadn't already been dead, the blow would have killed her.

Bennett didn't lose control often. It wasn't a feeling he enjoyed. He'd lost control when he stood behind the girl in her chair and wrenched her head until he felt that pop. He'd let her fall out of the chair and then he kicked her body again—and then again and again—grunting and sweating and screaming as he did. And he was still angry. Maybe even angrier, now that he didn't have anyone to transfer the blame to.

Adam Kingston was going to be a problem. He'd brought the girl to be questioned every day, but he doted on his only daughter. Bennett would tell him that his daughter had run away looking for her boyfriend, but he wouldn't stop looking for her. Bennett was going to have to take care of him. He was going to have to find a new headmaster.

God. Why did everything have to be so frustrating?

Why hadn't the girl just told him where Clover Donovan was? Bennett kicked her body one more time. This was all her fault. If she hadn't eavesdropped in her father's house, if she hadn't been involved with the Donovan boy—none of this would have happened.

His phone rang and he went still, suddenly coming back into himself. He was disheveled and gasping for air. The telephone rang again. He let it go one more time before taking a breath and answering.

“Langston Bennett.” His own voice sounded foreign to him.

“Langston.”

Bennett put a hand over his mouth. His fingers shook against his face. His brother couldn't know that the Kingston girl was dead and broken on the floor. That wasn't what he'd called about. Bennett willed his heart to settle.

“Jon,” he said. “I was about—”

“I expected to hear from you an hour ago.”

Another breath. Slow. Steady. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking. “I was about to call.”

“And what were you about to tell me?”

Bennett's mind spun—he could tell his brother about the dead girl. Jon wouldn't be happy, but he would help him figure out what to do about her now. And about her father. He couldn't make the words come out though, so instead he said, “We picked up one of the Iowa rebels.”

“Rebels. Is that what we're calling them now? I don't think so, Langston. That's a dangerous word.”

Jon's voice was tight with anger and frustration. He was worried, Bennett suddenly realized. Really worried.

“Is there something else?” Langston asked. “Has something else happened?”

“You've lost a guard, an executioner, a trainer, and two dozen children—including one that you believe is important to the Mariner program. Does there have to be anything else?”

There was something more. Bennett could feel it. He waited, even though it made his skin crawl.

“Four people were arrested in Pittsburgh,” Jon finally said.

“Are they on their way here?”

“No.” There was a finality to the word that made Bennett look back down at the Kingston girl.

“Why were they arrested?”

“They staged a protest in front of a suppressant bar. They were passing out booklets full of articles. Some of them were written by your dead boy.”

“West Donovan?”

“I'm sending over scans.”

Bennett turned on his computer and waited for the modem to boot up. What a goddamned nightmare. Jon was still talking in his ear, but he had a hard time focusing. The first page loaded up. It looked like some kind of cover.
Freaks for Freedom.

“Don't they know we've given them true freedom?” Langston didn't realize he'd said that out loud until Jon answered.

“It's that girl. Whatever skills you think she possesses, she's not worth the trouble she's causing.”

Langston shook his head, then realized his brother couldn't see him and said, “It can't be her. There's no way she's gotten as far as Pittsburgh.”

Jon let out a low, frustrated noise. “She doesn't need to be in Pittsburgh, can't you see that?”

“Jon.”

“Your only focus has to be finding her. We need to make an example of her. We need to reassert ourselves, Langston. Do you understand me?”

He wanted her back, worse than Jon could even imagine. And no matter what Jon thought, there was no way Bennett was going to make that kind of example of her.

—

By unspoken agreement, no one tried to take furniture
as fuel for the bonfire from the houses that still held the bones of people who had died inside them. West was grateful for that—glad for some concrete proof that these kids he was only now starting to get to know were basically good people.

He couldn't stop looking at his sister. She looked happy. Really happy.

She worked with Leanne, breaking the furniture from the empty houses into pieces and putting it on the pile. Maybe a bonfire wasn't a great idea. Would the smoke from it be visible from the city? Would it matter if it was? West was pretty sure the answer was no on both counts. They weren't going to start a forest fire, after all. And no one would see the smoke from the city in the dark.

And if they did, West was pretty sure they'd just let Virginia City burn. Unless a wildfire came close to Reno, it was always just allowed to burn out.

“You okay?”

Isaiah stood close enough that West was startled he'd gotten there without him realizing. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm fine.”

“Tomorrow we're going to have to start to work.” Isaiah covered his mouth with his hand and looked around. “I really think we can make this place secure. I've been talking to your dad and—”

“Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“We'll talk about it tomorrow. Okay? Let's just let tonight happen.”

“Yeah,” Isaiah said. “Yeah, okay.”

They put the bonfire in the middle of the road. West was worried about the wooden buildings catching and insisted on keeping the pile smaller than some of the kids would have liked. If a building did catch fire, they'd have no way to contain it.

A boy that West was pretty proud to remember was named Wally came toward him struggling with a bucket that sloshed liquid all over his pants legs.

West left Isaiah and went to him. “Good idea! Let's put some buckets of water around, just in case.”

The boy shook his head. “This isn't water.”

West realized that was true just as Wally said it. The smell of fuel hit his nose and made him step back. “What did you do?”

“Siphoned a car,” Wally said. “You know, to get the fire going.”

“Jesus Christ.” West took the bucket and called out, “Isaiah? Get rid of this. I don't know where, just . . . far from here.”

Isaiah took the bucket and walked away. Wally looked like someone had stuck him with a pin and deflated him.

“You,” West said. “You go down to the water pump and wash. Really wash well. And get some clean clothes. Bury those or something. I don't want you lighting up tonight.”

The boy started to say something, but West cut him off with a look. Wally finally walked back down the hill toward the bar that had the working water pump in it. The Bucket of Blood, it was called. The
Original
Bucket of Blood Saloon. West shivered. Every time his mind wandered, something yanked it right back to wondering how he was going to keep all of these kids alive.

At least they had food, for now. The elk had been taken to a restaurant just a few yards up the street from the school building. If it had had electricity, it would have been perfect. Its huge freezer would have stored the leftover meat for as long as they needed.

But the freezer was nothing more than a big, warm cupboard now. And it was filled with petrified food. James had overseen preparing the kitchen to be used—taking some of the kids and organizing an effort to get rid of sixteen years' worth of rot and animal droppings and dirt.

When West walked into it again, it sparkled. The elk was lying on tarps spread over the floor. It was far too big for the prep table in the center of the room and too heavy to lift. James had decapitated and gutted the animal where Phire had shot it, to reduce its size and weight, but it still took a massive group effort to pull all four hundred or so pounds that were left into the back of the van. They'd had to draw straws to figure out who would get the unenviable job of staying behind to bury the guts and head. James cut off the massive antlers with a saw, and as far as West knew, they were still marking the kill.