Taken (22 page)

At six months, all groups have now discovered the Wall. Only some have climbed. All deem it unsafe due to the bodies we return, and have been successfully educated to stay within their confines. This is crucial, for if we want our experiments to continue beyond the first generation of test subjects, we cannot have them scaling the Wall freely. . . .

Group A has transitioned from chaos to war. Subjects are split and fighting one another over resources and control of the best living complexes. . . .

Group C has built a surprisingly stable town. In just over a year they now have livestock fields and markets. They have rebuilt all the cabins and their leader has formed a council, where representatives are elected from the group and lead lifestyle decisions for the greater community. Talks of something similar have sprung up in B. . . .

Group D is remarkably ingenious. Freshwater springs have been found and guided into reservoirs. Shelters from sun and wind have been created. Women have a surprising amount of power in this group when compared to other test groups and share in many of the otherwise masculine roles. . . .

Group E is extinct. Research here has been halted. Group A continues to battle. Much blood has been shed and I fear they will eliminate themselves completely. . . .

The first of the extractions are approaching. It has been agreed that removing test subjects from Group A would be foolish. The children have gone mad, and any technologies created from them will likely be unstable and volatile. For Group A, the Laicos Project is over. I am cutting the electricity to everything but the cameras. They will remain on so that we can confirm what we hope for: that the savages die out completely. Extractions will instead be performed in Groups B, C, and D.

Eighteen seems to be a fitting year for boys. They are well matured and physically in their prime. In Group D, however, many of the girls are as strong and tough as the males, partaking in very similar roles and careers. Given this revelation, I believe it may be beneficial to have several test subjects of the female gender and Group D will be the provider. We will pull girls at sixteen and we will do so selectively, ensuring we remove only the best candidates to undergo experimentation.

All extracted subjects will be shipped to Taem, where continued research will take place. They will be kept in separate wings and labs. There will be no crossover between test subjects from different locations. . . .

I move on to the next set of books, which are full of notes regarding the Heists: how they are performed, how each group reacts to them. The shaking earth and general feeling of discomfort during our Claysoot Heists now make sense. The Order flew in by helicopter—a steel bird that sounds similar to the objects I witnessed AmWest manning during their attack on Taem—and dropped odorless drugs to subdue the town while the boy was removed.

There are hundreds of pages covering experimentation in the next several journals, but I skim through them. The scenes Frank’s words depict are too grim, and I don’t want to read about the people who died on his tables. I flip frantically through the documentation, and before I know it, I’ve worked my way to the final journal.

I’ve recruited a new addition for our labs today, a boy by the name of Harvey Maldoon. He is young but brilliant, a genius at the mere age of sixteen. The blessed child is already hard at work, confident that he can create a Forgery as skilled and mature as its source. He promises me it will remain healthy and strong, rather than faltering after a day like the replicas my other lab workers have created.

“Heists” (a term coined in Group C that we have adopted internally) will continue, and I keep my fingers crossed that Harvey will be successful. I
need
him to be successful. Only then can I set up a production compound closer to the borderlines. AmWest continues to attempt infiltration. They are persistent, and while I must protect our people from their wrath and our freshwater from their greed, I cannot keep losing the lives of Order members at their hands. These Forgeries, these lives without family or history or homes, will be an invaluable resource.

The journal ends here, but I know where the story is headed. Experimentation would carry on for many years, and while Harvey would eventually create a successful Forgery, he would never manage to create the limitless variety that Frank still craves today. All along, things would steadily fall apart in Taem. Laws would become overbearing and people would begin to flee, Elijah among the first. The Rebels would become another nuisance in Frank’s efforts, and when Harvey finally ran, Frank would do everything in his power to get him back.

I flip the final journal closed and push it toward the others. It’s hard to take in so much so quickly, and yet it’s oddly relieving to see the truth so plainly before my eyes. Reading it like that makes it feel so definite, concrete.

“So you were Group D then. Saltwater,” I say to Bree. She looks up from her book and nods. “And Fallyn, as well?”

“You got it. There’s a representative from each test group in Crevice Valley, serving as a captain under Ryder’s command.”

I do the math quickly. It’s wrong. “But there’s four captains, and only three groups faced Heists.”

“Raid’s from Group B, Dextern; Fallyn’s Saltwater; your father’s Claysoot. And then there’s Elijah. He represents the citizens of Taem. And there’s a lot of them. In fact, they make up the majority of the Rebels.”

So maybe Frank’s records were right after all. “Did Elijah start the Rebellion?”

“Yes and no. He
was
one of the first to go in search of people sharing his viewpoint outside the city, but I think his act of running meant nothing until he met Ryder. They crossed paths somewhere past the Hairpin and started gathering supporters. That was when the Rebellion
really
began.”

“What about Ryder? I mean, I know he was from Claysoot, but how’d he end up here?”

“I only know so much. You and I were lucky, Gray. When we got to Taem, Harvey had already run and, because of that, Frank’s experiments were on hold. But Ryder didn’t have that luxury. He was fed the lie that Frank was trying to free Claysoot and then underwent constant operations, thinking the lab workers would find something within his blood that could save his people from the Wall.

“From what I’ve pieced together, Ryder struck up a strong friendship with one of the other boys from Claysoot. They discussed how Frank never got any closer to solving things and agreed that their only chance of leading a somewhat normal life existed far away from Taem. They started talking about running for it, and eventually Ryder did.”

“And the other boy?”

“The two of them broke into Frank’s office during their escape instead of running straight for the hills. Stupid move, if you ask me, but at least Ryder managed to grab the journals you just read. They were caught on camera, though, which alerted the Order. Only Ryder made it out.”

“And then he hid in the woods until Elijah found him years later?”

“Yup. And by then, Ryder didn’t want to fight Frank anymore. He was old and more or less happy. But after Elijah told him everything Frank had done to the city and its people, Ryder was convinced it was never too late to fight back.”

All the pieces are joining: the records in Union Central merging with the journals in this library, which are further stitched together by Bree’s stories. My brain hurts, but in the best way possible. The truth is addictive.

“And you?” I ask her. “What’s your story?”

“I got Heisted, although we called it being Snatched back on the island. I watched a video where Frank told me Harvey was behind it all, that he needed my patience and assistance until he could free Saltwater. I was out on a scouting mission when I realized I didn’t want to go back. I trusted Frank at the time but didn’t want to spend my whole life searching for Harvey. I guess this makes me sound pretty selfish, actually, not wanting to save the rest of my people, but I was alone and scared. So while everyone was sleeping, before I even contemplated if it was a smart idea, I took off. A few days later, I stumbled into a rough Rebel camp.”

“So you’re, what, sixteen, seventeen?”

“Almost seventeen,” she answers.

“You don’t seem that old.”

“Why’s that? Because I’m so mature and levelheaded?” She grins proudly.

“More the opposite. Because you’re so wild and impulsive.”

“Oh screw you.” Her tone is half-serious, half-playful. “You’re as impulsive as me—maybe even more so.”

“I think we are both more alike than we’d care to admit.”

Her face morphs into a scowl. “I’ve served more responsibly for the Rebels’ cause than you can say. I’ve delivered on missions and promises and then some. That alone makes us very different.”

“I just need the chance, Bree. I can shine under pressure, too.” I flash her a smile and she rolls her eyes.

“Yeah? Well, I need a drink.”

She stuffs Frank’s journals back on the shelf and we leave the library in search of some alcohol.

TWENTY-EIGHT

IN THE BASIN, SQUISHED BETWEEN
the Eatery and some storage warehouses, is a damp, dusty building that the Rebels refer to as the Tap Room. When we enter, Clipper is weaving between the men at the bar, snatching near-empty mugs when drinkers aren’t looking. I tell him he’s too young to be drinking, but when he asks me how old I was when I had my first, I admit I was around his age and am forced to let it go.

The place is a combination of soldiers and civilians. Women cling to the shoulders of various men, dancing to the banjo and guitar being strummed in a corner. I look for my father among the faces, but he’s nowhere to be found. Bree and I fight our way through the crowded space and up to a waist-high bar.

“Hey, Saul!” Bree shouts, leaning over the counter so far that her feet leave the ground. It causes her shirt to rise and a sliver of bare skin becomes visible above her pants. “We’ll take two shots down here,” she says. The bartender, an older, portly man, slides the drinks our way and Bree shouts her thanks.

“On getting through a full day without wanting to kill each other,” I say, holding my drink before her.

“Speak for yourself.” She smirks but clinks her drink against mine and we throw back the shot.

“Another round?” she asks.

“They don’t ration this stuff?”

“Nah, but it’s okay for alcohol to run out. Can’t say the same about food.”

We share another few rounds before moving to the far end of the bar where we watch a group of young men playing an odd game with miniature spears. They take turns throwing them at a small target that hangs from the wall.

“We’ve got the next game,” Bree announces to them. The better of the men in the group, who has hit the bull’s-eye several times over, turns to face us.

He has hair the color of mud that curls behind his ears and a square head, too angular and sharp for me to miss it. This is Xavier Piltess—taller, wider, and far more filled out than the fifteen-year-old who taught me to hunt in the forests of Claysoot—but it is him. “Oh, you’re going down, Bree,” he says. “No way can you take me and Sammy.”

“Xavier?” I venture.

He pauses for a second and stares at me. I watch as his gaze halts on my eyes, noting their color: gray, not blue. Recognition breaks across his face.

“Gray!” he exclaims. We clasp arms and he slaps me on the back the way an older sibling might. “How the heck are you? Where’s your brother?”

We catch up for a few minutes while he finishes his game, never missing a shot. He was taken hostage by the Rebels over a year ago when an Order mission he was on failed. After hearing Frank’s lies unravel, he switched allegiances.

I tell him my story, a shortened version, which is speckled with white lies, but for him it doesn’t really matter: Blaine and I got Heisted. We’re both here now, me in training and Blaine in the hospital. I feel guilty when I mention Blaine. I should visit him again.

Xavier then introduces me to Sammy, a twenty-year-old from Taem who joined the Rebels when his father was executed for counterfeiting ration cards. He’d been using them to acquire extra water that he often brought to struggling villages beyond the dome. Apparently Frank didn’t consider this type of charity work acceptable.

Bree and I play the two of them in a game called darts. We lose spectacularly. I can’t seem to throw the darts with the right force or angle. They are like toothpick spears and my hands are clumsy with them. Xavier tries to correct my form and give me pointers, but I only improve by the smallest margin. I blame it on the alcohol.

We end up abandoning the game and taking a tall table hostage. Hal and Polly find the four of us, and we all sit on rickety stools, throwing back drinks too quickly and playing Bullshit. The game turns out to be identical to Claysoot’s Little Lie, only with a fouler name. Bree is the best bullshitter of us all. She fools us again and again, her lie always blending in with the rest. Even when she starts slurring her words and leaning more on me than the table for support, she’s still stumping us.

I learn that she found herself utterly alone when she was shipped to Taem after her Heist. She has no siblings; her mother died young; and, after being unable to locate her father in Crevice Valley, she assumes he’s dead. I learn a few other things, trivial really, but for some reason, they fascinate me more than her historical details. Bree’s elbows are double jointed. She has a birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon on her hip. Her favorite color is deep, rugged purple, the shade of silhouetted clouds against an evening sky. She hasn’t yet adjusted to sleeping without the sound of waves crashing on the shore.

As the game continues, the laughter in the Tap Room becomes an infectious disease. Everyone is doing it. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so freely.

Sometime much, much later, when we are all thoroughly giddy and a bit too gone, Bree attempts to visit the bar in search of another drink and instead falls off her stool. Polly shrieks with delight, as if this is the funniest thing, and the rest of us chuckle along in amusement.