The Capture (11 page)

“Don't make a sound,” a voice hissed, “or I guarantee it will be your last.”

S
HE CAN
'
T WAKE UP.
Her head lolls from one side of the pillow to the other, and it's as if she has no neck muscles—no muscles of any kind.

When her eyes do flutter open, flapping like the wings of a wounded moth, the world is blurry and out of focus. Only gradually does she make out the water-stained ceiling, bars crisscrossing the windows, rust-covered trays bearing syringes and scalpels. The mere sight of it all causes her to strain against the leather straps.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” a man's voice says, whiny and high-pitched.

Hope's eyes land on the heavy man in the dark suit. Dr. Gallingham.

“And here I thought we'd never see you again,” he
says cheerfully, his fingers intertwined across the enormous paunch of his belly.

“Wuh um uh huh?” she asks.
Why am I here?
Her tongue is as thick and heavy as an old boot.

“Because we're not done with you. Because you still haven't told us where your father is. Because you can run, but you can . . . not . . . hide.” Dr. Gallingham emits a schoolboy giggle, then dabs a moist eye with his soiled hanky.

Her head is still fuzzy. She can't recall how she ended up back here.

“It was a lucky thing you were on that gravel road,” the doctor says, as if reading her mind. “We might not've rescued you otherwise.”

Although her memories are foggy,
rescue
is not the word she would use.

“You might be wondering what it is you're feeling, and I'm happy to tell you, because I believe in an open dialogue between doctor and patient.”

He gestures to a tube that juts from a hanging vial and snakes into her arm. “A form of narcosynthesis. Looked down upon by some in pre-Omega times, but frankly, what's not to like about releasing one's inhibitions?”

He watches as a drip leaves the hanging bag and makes its slow journey down the long plastic pipeline. “Ah, sweet elixir, how do I love thee?” His round face turns toward Hope. “Sodium amytal as a base, but
with a few special touches of my own. Scopolamine. Flunitrazepam. And the pièce de résistance: a touch of C
₂
H
₆
O—commonly known as ethanol. A kind of truth serum that I like to call ‘Gallingham's Potion.' Kind of a fairy-tale ring, wouldn't you say?”

His words roll through her head like pebbles skittering down a hill. She is barely able to make sense of them. Her muscles have gone slack, and she feels herself sinking into the bed, like the snow angels she and Faith made as kids.

“Can you hear me?” Dr. Gallingham asks.

She has just enough strength to nod her head.

“Good. Then let's get started. Do you know who I am?”

Nod.

“Am I Colonel Thorason?”

Shake.

“Chancellor Maddox?”

Shake.

“Dr. Gallingham?”

Nod.

“Excellent. And your name is Faith, right?”

Shake.

“Oh, that's right, it's Hope.”

Nod.

With each answer Dr. Gallingham makes a small notation on his clipboard.

“And you were a resident of Camp Freedom, were you not?”

Nod.

“But somehow you got out, didn't you?”

Nod.

“You escaped.”

Nod.

“You and nineteen others.”

Nod.

“Would you care to tell me how?”

Nod.

“Go ahead.”

Hope's mouth falls open, but when she tries to speak, her lips feel clumsy, her tongue heavy and unwieldy.

The doctor bends over her to better hear. “I'm sorry, what was that?”

Again, nothing more than jumbled sounds.

With sausage fingers, Gallingham pries her eyes open and peers into them. “Can you say words?”

She gives her head a shake, and he sighs noisily, as if it's her fault she's too drugged up to speak. “I'll give you a few minutes, no more. After that, we'll get down to business.”

He pats her on the leg and walks out of the room.

T
HE MAN
'
S FINGERS WERE
rough and calloused and smelled of metal.

“Don't make a sound, whatever you do,” he said. “Understand?”

I nodded, and he whipped me around so fast my neck nearly snapped. My eyes grew wide when I saw who it was. Major Karsten. Cat's source. Cat's
dad
.

“Why'd you do it?” he asked. His eyes were blazing, his jaw jutting forward.

“Why'd I do what?”

“Take that Brown Shirt's weapon and shoot Cat?”

My mouth hung open. “
Me
shoot Cat?”

“And then left him to die in the middle of nowhere.”

“That's not it at all. . . .”

“Not to mention abandoning those others on the train.”

I tried to speak, but the words got strangled in my throat.

“Well?” Karsten asked, his scar bulging purple.

Tears pressed against my eyes, but there was no way I was going to let Major Karsten see me cry. “It's not the truth,” I managed. “And I certainly didn't shoot Cat.”

“So Dozer's making that up?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

Major Karsten's eyes narrowed. “Why don't you set me straight then,” he said.

I laid it all out: the ambush, the shrapnel from the mortar, leaving Cat, Dozer taking over, jumping from the train. Major Karsten listened intently.

When I finished, he studied me long and hard. “So why are you going back to Camp Liberty?”

“To free the remaining Less Thans.”

“Because you couldn't reach the other territory?”

“We
did
reach the other territory. We just decided to come back and free the others.”

A long silence followed. “So she was right,” he said, but it seemed like he was talking more to himself than to me.

Dr. Gallingham emerged from the infirmary, and the major pulled me into the shadows. We waited for him to waddle across the infield and into the Admin Building.

“What's going on here?” I asked. “Who're all these bigwigs?”

“A conference. The less you know about it, the better.”

“And the Final Solution? What's that?”

Karsten's eyebrows arched in surprise. “Proof,” he finally said.

“Of what?”

“Mankind's capacity for evil.” His eyes darkened as he spoke, and he seemed to momentarily forget that I was there. “Why are you here?”

“I need to free those Sisters—get them out of here and to the next territory.”

He nodded in understanding, then asked, “Just the Sisters?”

At first I didn't understand what he was getting at. But when I did, it was like a tidal wave sweeping me off my feet.

“Wait. Is Cat here?” I asked.

He nodded grimly.

“He survived?”

Again he nodded.

I couldn't believe it, and the words came gushing out. “Where is he? How's he doing? Is his wound healing? Can I see him?”

Karsten raised his hands. “The only reason he's alive is because the colonel needs to find out who else knows what he knows. Once he talks—or refuses to—they'll sell him off to the Hunters.”

“Does Westbrook know you're Cat's father?”

The major peered into my face. “You know that?”

I nodded, and it seemed that Major Karsten regarded me in a new light.

“Westbrook knows Cat's a YO,” he said, “and I have a feeling he suspects more. But I don't know for sure.”

“So where is he?”

“That's just it—they won't tell me. I know they've brought him here because they hope to interrogate him more, but I haven't been able to find out where he is exactly.” He paused and lowered his voice. “But you should know something, Book. Cat's different now. He's not the same as before. Even if you were to find him, the two of you would never get out of here alive. The best thing you can do is escape while you have the chance. Get out of this territory—and as far away from Chancellor Maddox as you can.”

He gave a glance to the Admin Building. “I need to get back inside,” he said.

He met my eyes. It was the first time I'd looked into his chiseled face and not feared for my life.

“Good luck, Book,” he said, and disappeared into the building.

I watched him go and then took off in a mad sprint toward the infirmary. As I ran, I replayed the conversation in my head, and I kept getting stuck on one thing. When I'd told him about going back to Liberty, he'd
said something under his breath.
So she was right.

Who—and what—was he talking about?

I slipped inside the infirmary, raced up the stairs, and made my way down the dark hallway until I reached a room where three of the Sisters lay on beds. Diana, Scylla, and Helen. They were alive, but leather straps held them down. Scylla's head was wrapped in a white bandage, splotched with red. So three of them were here . . . but where was Hope?

I hurried to the next room and there she was, a bedside light casting a warm glow on her body. An IV poked into her arm, and her chest rose and fell with the drowsy rhythm of sleep. I lowered my hand to her shoulder and let it rest there.

“Hope,” I whispered. “It's me: Book.”

She didn't stir. I nudged her harder.

“Hope, we've got to get out of here. You need to wake up—”

Her eyes snapped open—so abruptly I stumbled backward, knocking the metal tree that held a vial that fed into her veins. My hands fumbled to silence it.

“Daddy?” she said, her voice barely audible.

“No, it's Book.”

She went on as though I hadn't spoken. Her eyes were glassy and vacant. “I did my best,” she mumbled. Her words were slurred and difficult to understand. “I
looked after Faith the best I could.”

I felt compelled to respond. “I'm sure you did.”

“I saw that she ate and didn't work too hard. . . .”

“You did the right thing.”

“. . . but I failed, Daddy. I failed.” Tears slid down the far corners of her eyes. “They killed her, and I couldn't stop them.”

Because her hands and arms were strapped to her sides, I sponged the tears away for her, dabbing at the moisture with my fingertips. For the first time, she seemed to notice me.

“Book,” she said.

I smiled weakly. “That's right.”

“Booooooook.” She elongated my name like a child first learning to speak. “You came.”

“I did.”

“So you're my shining prince.”

“I don't know about that. . . .”

“You came to slay the dragon.”

“If you say so.”

Her eyes locked with mine. “Kiss me.”

I could feel my own eyes widen. “What?”

“Kiss me.”

“Maybe now isn't exactly the best time. . . .”

“Kiss me—like you kissed me after the fire.”

The truth was, I wanted nothing more than to kiss her again—had dreamed of little else. And here she was,
asking me to.
Demanding
it, even. But I didn't want it to be tainted by the fact that she was higher than a kite.

“Another time,” I murmured, and covered her with a blanket.

“Oh, don't be so . . . bookish.” She giggled at her little joke.

I could have stood there longer, listening to her laugh, enjoying her smile, watching the light glimmer on her lips. But a voice from outside broke the spell. It was Dozer down on the parade ground, shouting to a nearby Brown Shirt.

“He's in there!” he cried, pointing in my general direction. “There's a Less Than in the infirmary!”

I ran back to the other room and fumbled with Diana's buckles. She sat up and unstrapped her ankles while I turned my attention to Helen. Then we untied Scylla together, even as we heard shouts and barked commands from outside. The four of us hurried to the next room.

“Hope, can you hear me?” Diana asked. “Do you know where you are?”

Hope's eyes were as blank and glassy as before. “The castle?”

The three Sisters looked at each other, confused.

“I'll explain later,” I mumbled.

A door banged, and I knew Dozer had just gotten in
downstairs. Without a word, Scylla exited the room and took off down the corridor. Diana and I unbuckled Hope's straps while Helen removed the needle from her arm.

Things were spinning out of control. Scylla was gone. Dozer and his soldiers were making their way up the stairs. And when we sat Hope up, her body had the muscle control of a rag doll. Her back was slumped, her mouth hanging open.

“Kiss me,” she murmured.

Diana gave me a sideways glance.

We slung Hope's arms across our shoulders and maneuvered her through the door, just barely missing Scylla, who was running full speed with a broom in her hand.

We hobbled to the rear of the building, even as Scylla came running back. Behind her, the broom jutted through the door handles, and someone was slamming against the doors. The broomstick nearly bent in half, but it held. For now, at least.

We stumbled down the back stairs. From outside, we heard sirens and barked commands. “Take my place,” I said to Scylla, when we reached a reception area.

“Back to the tunnel?” Diana asked.

I shook my head. “There're troops there. We've got to find another way.”

“But where? How?”

I had an idea, but I didn't dare say it out loud. It was too far-fetched. Too outlandish. Still, it was the only solution I could come up with.

A large
snap
made us jump—it was the broomstick splintering in two. Racing footsteps and raised voices followed.

“What's the tallest building in camp?” I asked.

Diana gave me a confused look. “The storehouse. . . .”

“Good. We'll meet up there.”

They were just about to leave when Hope said, “Cat, why don't you kiss me?”

For a second, it felt as though someone had kicked me in the gut. So that was it. It was Cat she'd been thinking about, not me. Served me right for getting my hopes up.

I turned to the Sisters, who seemed to be waiting for me to say something more.

“Go!” I snapped.

And off they went, stealing out the back door and into the night.

In one corner of the waiting room was an old, ratty armchair. I raced to it and fell to my knees.

I sure hope this works,
I thought.

With my knife, I drew a long slit in the upholstery. Big handfuls of stuffing popped out, and I fished the flint from my pocket and began making sparks. They
arced in the air, landing harmlessly in the bed of white fiber like so many falling stars.

Come on,
I prayed.
Catch. Catch!

The voices from upstairs grew louder. Footsteps thundered.

A spark caught, igniting a tendril of white padding. I blew on the small flame until it became a ball of fire. I slid the burning chair across the floor so that it rested against the door. That in itself wouldn't prevent the door from opening.

But a raging fire might.

I set two more chairs on fire. Black smoke engulfed the tiny room. From the other side of the door I heard footsteps racing down the stairs and a hand turning the doorknob. A loud curse followed. The flames had turned the knob into a branding iron; someone had just tattooed their hand.

The smoke was making me dizzy and I began to cough, scrambling on hands and knees toward the door. But instead of finding the exit, I ran straight into a wall.

I began to panic, breathing deeper . . . which made me cough harder . . . which made me panic more. I hugged the floor, but there was precious little air. If I didn't get out—
fast
—I'd be a smoking ember. A piece of charcoal.

The room was ablaze. Red and orange flames raced
up the walls. Black smoke billowed, pressing against the ceiling.

I reached the far wall, hands groping for an opening . . . and there was the door! Flames followed me as I hurled myself outside and collapsed on the back stoop, coughing up half a lung.

In the near distance I heard the shouts of soldiers, sirens, vehicles whipping through the parade ground. The infirmary was in flames but I had made it out, and no one knew I was there.

I pushed myself to a standing position and was just beginning to run away when a tremendous
thwack
landed on my forehead. I hit the ground hard, pain exploding from above my eye. Blood rushed down my face.

When I managed to pry my eyes open, I saw Dozer standing over me, wielding an M16 like a baseball bat.

“Good thing for you my weapon jammed,” he snarled. “Otherwise, you'd be a dead man by now.” He swung again, the butt of the rifle smashing into my right side. I fell backward, grabbing my chest as though it was that easy to repair a broken rib.

“What's the matter?” Dozer asked. “Not so high and mighty without your little dog? Without your
girlfriends
?” His hyena laugh, the flames dancing behind his head—at that moment he was more devil than human being.

There was no point trying to talk Dozer out of killing me. He wouldn't listen to reason. He never had. But there was one thing I could do.

“Don't you want to know where those Sisters are?” I asked.

“I don't give a squat about them. It's you I want.”

“Why? Because you sold us out?”

“I didn't sell you out. But you know what? There's more than one way to skin a cat.” He smiled maliciously. “Pun intended.”

“Don't you get it, Dozer? They're going to kill you when this is done.”

He gave his head a shake. “Nuh-uh. I'm too valuable.”

“You're not valuable. You're the village idiot.”

I could see his face turning brilliant red. I kept going.

“That's why you put people down—because you know it's the only way you can pretend to be smart. The only reason you want to be a leader is so people will like you. Because let's face it: you're not terribly bright, you're not especially good with a bow and arrow, you're certainly not good-looking. In fact, there's nothing special about you at all—you're just a big, dumb, clumsy douchebag who misses his mama's tit.”