The Capture (25 page)

I
FIGURED THE EXPLOSION
would rouse some Brown Shirts; I didn't think it would wake all of Camp Liberty.

The cold had made the C-4 firm, and it took far longer to mold it to the Quonset hut's back door than I had hoped. When I finished, I let out a birdcall. Three times.

The explosives popped open the door and sent up an angry cloud of black smoke. By the time the soldiers appeared, I was still in the process of ripping the door from its hinges. I had yet to sneak out a single Less Than. The soldiers bound my hands behind my back and marched me across the infield.

Colonel Westbrook sat behind his desk, his eyes as coal black as ever. Sergeant Dekker was also there.
“Slice Slice,” he said, presenting an oily smile that seemed to drip grease. I couldn't turn away fast enough.

There were three others in the room as well, hunkered in shadows. Chancellor Maddox. Dr. Gallingham. Colonel Thorason. I wondered why they were all there. Was it to witness the mass burial in the open pit? The completion of the Final Solution?

“Ah, 183,” Colonel Westbrook said, calling me by my old camp number. “I was hoping we'd run into each other again.”

I grunted. I was in no mood to talk.

“Frankly, I'm surprised you came back. Did you really think you could free seventy-five Less Thans?”

It was hard not to agree with him—it suddenly seemed like the most ridiculous plan of all time.

“You're killing them,” I said.

“They're killing themselves. We can't help it if they don't eat.”

“Maybe you should try feeding them.”

“I see you've been listening to the rumor mill. Let me guess. Red? Or maybe your friend's father: Major Karsten?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “You're the one who likes to read, aren't you? How's that working out for you?”

More than anything in the world, I wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face. “You have no right to treat human beings like that.”

“You're right. I don't. But since Less Thans aren't really human, it's not really an issue, is it?”

From the corner, Dr. Gallingham burst into schoolboy giggles.

“All part of your ‘Final Solution'?” I asked through gritted teeth.

Westbrook's eyebrows arched in surprise, and Chancellor Maddox stepped from the shadows, the briefcase handcuffed to her left wrist. “What have you heard?” she asked.

“Just that you don't trust anyone who doesn't look like you.”

“You're too young to understand. You don't know what it's like to watch your country change.”

“You mean since Omega?”

“I mean
before
Omega.” There was a smugness in her tone, an I-know-something-that-you-don't kind of tone. An attitude that drove me crazy, especially from adults.

“Too bad you're only chancellor of the territory and not president of the whole country,” I said.

A smile lifted her cheeks. “That may change after the Conclave.” She shot a look to the doctor.

It was the second time I'd heard the word—the first was from Goodman Nellitch before he fell to his death. “What's the Conclave?” I asked.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

When I realized she wasn't going to tell me any more,
my eyes fell on Colonel Westbrook, sitting slumped in his chair. His comb-over was damp with perspiration, and it struck me that there was something supremely pathetic about him. Funny I hadn't seen it before.

“And let me guess,” I said. “No place for Less Thans in this
changing
America?”

The chancellor gave me a look that was supposed to be apologetic. To me, it just looked smug. “We can't very well have a perfect civilization with the
deformed
.” She said it like it was a swear word. “But we do make exceptions.” She pulled open the door and gave a nod. A Brown Shirt shuffled in.

Dozer. Something about seeing him wearing the uniform of the enemy was more than I could stomach. Even though my wrists were bound behind my back, I lowered my shoulder and threw myself into his barrel chest.

“
Oomph
,” he cried, and went staggering backward. His head collided with the wall, and a picture went crashing to the floor. Glass shattered.

He shook his head and came at me. His strong hand wrapped around my neck and I felt my face go purple.

Only reluctantly did Sergeant Dekker separate us. “Enough,” he said to Dozer. “You'll get your time.”

I was bent over at the waist, trying to catch my breath. “How could you?” I gasped. “You're a Less Than.”

“
Was
a Less Than. I'm a Brown Shirt now.”

Chancellor Maddox smiled all angelic-like. “You see, Book? Your friend here might be imperfect, but we accepted him into the fold.”

“
Bought
him into the fold, more like it. And he's not my friend.”

From outside I heard two birdcalls.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“Now we find out who else accompanied you here,” the chancellor said.

“You really want to know?”

“We do.”

“An army.”

Dozer laughed. “You wish,” he said.

“I don't need to wish; it's true.”

He laughed again. Harsher, more mocking.

At just that moment a loud explosion rocked the camp, rattling the windowpanes. The electricity went out a moment later.

“What the hell was that?” Colonel Westbrook asked.

“An army,” I said, “taking out your generators.”

Chancellor Maddox didn't buy it. “Nothing more than parlor tricks,” she said.

She fumbled for a match, lighting a candle. Another explosion followed, louder than the first. This one shook the walls. She turned to me as if studying me for the first time. Sergeant Dekker whipped out a knife and held it to my throat. A third explosion came. It was the loudest of all, followed by an enormous fireball that lit up the sky.

“The vehicle compound,” Westbrook said breathlessly.

The chancellor, the two colonels, and Dr. Gallingham made for the door. “Don't lose sight of him,” the colonel said to Dekker. “And if he makes any noise at all, cut his throat.”

“My pleasure,” Dekker said.

“Just so you know,” Chancellor Maddox added before stepping outside. “I suppose you remember your friend from the Hunters. Wears orange a lot. Has a scar on the side of his face from a certain propane explosion. He'll be joining us soon. And I'm sure he would like nothing more than to see you for a final time.”

She smiled her beauty-queen smile before disappearing into the hall.

I felt my breathing go short. If she was telling the truth, then there was no possible way we could make it out alive. Brown Shirts were bad enough, but Brown Shirts and Hunters together would be unbeatable.

H
OPE AND
S
CYLLA ARE
the last to leave the storehouse. They step outside, clad in the baggy, ill-fitting uniforms of Brown Shirts. Caps conceal their hair.

They carry an extension ladder to the rear of the storehouse, digging its feet into the snow. The ladder shrieks as they lengthen it, and they're counting on the camp's sirens to cover the sound.

Their packs are full and heavy, and it's no easy task climbing the ladder. Even trickier is scaling the steep incline. Crawling on hands and knees, it's all Hope and Scylla can do to grab vent pipes and chimneys, ascending the roof's snow-covered shingles like mountain climbers.

They reach the ridge and catch their breath. A fire
rages to the east—the vehicle compound, courtesy of Cat. The camp is a hornet's nest of activity.

The two Sisters get to work. Moonlight is their only illumination. Removing crossbows from their packs, they line them up on the roof, one next to another, and hammer them in place. When a Humvee barrels past, they duck. No one gives a glance to the roof of the storehouse. Why would they?

As she works, Hope glances toward the headquarters, wondering about Book. Rectangles of candlelight spill from the windows. She can only imagine what the Brown Shirts are doing to him.

Her work is tedious and slow: nailing, aiming, and arming a dozen crossbows to the top of the roof. It's taking longer than Hope expected, and she and Scylla are behind schedule. They have to hurry.

A slamming door startles them both. Hope peeks above the roof's ridge to see the two camp overseers hurrying from the headquarters. They are followed by Chancellor Maddox and Dr. Gallingham. Her stomach clenches at the sight of them.

The four officials hop into an army vehicle and accelerate away, heading toward the vehicle compound. Even as Hope watches them leave, she doesn't have a good feeling about this. Everything, she fears, is going terribly wrong.

D
ESPITE THE BLARING SIREN
from outside, the office of Colonel Westbrook felt deathly quiet. Just Dozer, me . . . and Sergeant Dekker pressing a knife into my neck. A guttering candle sputtered on the mantel.

“You are one funny dude, you know that?” Dekker said. “An army, my ass.”

He and Dozer shared a laugh. It was meant to be manly and full of swagger, but there was something pathetic about it.

“You happy, Dozer?” I asked.

“Course I'm happy. Why wouldn't I be?”

I shrugged. “You tell me.”

“I get respect here. I got my own room. They want me to be a leader. Sure beats running around with you
d-bags.” He gave a mocking laugh.

“Maybe, but we did something, you know. We made it to the next territory.”

“What good was that when we turned right around and came back?”

“Didn't you feel a sense of accomplishment?”

“For what? Eating maggots and squirrels? Yeah, that's a hell of an accomplishment.” Another laugh.

“For living. For surviving. For proving we could do it.”

“Don't give me that. Escaping from here was the stupidest damn thing we ever did.”

I gave my head a mournful shake. There are some people in life you just can't understand, no matter how hard you try. Dozer was one of those for me.

“And it was even more stupid for you to come back here,” he went on. “Did you really think we wouldn't catch you?”

I didn't answer him, and I realized—a moment too late—that I should have. I should have expressed remorse or anger or at least surprise at getting captured. But for a brief moment, I forgot my role.

“Wait a minute,” Sergeant Dekker said. “You wanted this.”

My heart came to a lurching stop, and I made a pathetic attempt to laugh. “What're you talking about?” I asked.

“This. Getting captured.”

“Yeah, right, 'cause everyone wants to have their hands bound behind their back.”

He stuck the knife deeper in my neck. I could feel a thin line of blood snaking to my collarbone. “You're too smart to use explosives in the middle of a camp. You wanted us to catch you.”

“Oh sure,” I scoffed. “Because I like being held at knifepoint.”

“Don't BS a BSer.” He leaned his face forward until it was so close, I could taste his sour breath. “The question is: why'd you want us to find you?”

“You're crazy,” I said, attempting to look away.

Dekker grabbed my chin and yanked my face around. “Am I?”

I avoided his stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Dozer was watching us with curiosity. He had no idea where Sergeant Dekker was going with this.

Dekker took a step back and lowered his knife. “If I'm really crazy, then let's go back to where we found you.”

Although I tried to hide it, I felt the blood emptying from my face.

“Fine,” I said. “If you want to disobey the colonel's orders, be my guest.”

A devilish smile pricked the corners of his lips. “He only said to keep an eye on you. He didn't say
where
I had to do it.” He looked to Dozer. “You have your nine mill?”

Dozer removed the handgun from its holster.

“Good,” Dekker said. “Just in case our little prisoner here gets any crazy ideas about running away.”

As the three of us left the headquarters, I could feel the cold, hard stare of Dozer's pistol aimed at the center of my back. I knew with absolute certainty that if I even
thought
about running away, I'd be gunned down in an instant. Nothing in the whole wide world would make Dozer happier.

T
HE PLAN UNRAVELS BEFORE
her eyes.

Hope knows if she doesn't prevent Dozer and the other Brown Shirt from reaching the Quonset hut, the mission fails. All the Less Thans die. End of story.

“I'm going down,” she mouths to Scylla, and slides down the ladder. Tugging her cap downward, she emerges from behind the storehouse and makes her way across the infield. Moonlight shadows her. Dozer glances once in her direction but thinks nothing of it. Just another Brown Shirt.

She is twenty yards behind them, stepping in their footprints. All she has to do is get Dozer's pistol. She can take out the lead soldier after that.

The cold steel of her dagger sighs as she pulls it from
its scabbard. Fifteen yards. Ten. She lifts the blade, ready to strike. . . .

“Halt!”

The lead Brown Shirt has pivoted in place, training his 9mm at a spot between Hope's eyes. She freezes, blade poised in air.

“What do we have here?” he asks, sauntering toward her. When he's close enough, he knocks Hope's cap off with the barrel of his gun.

Dozer's face lights up in recognition. “That's one of the Sisters I was telling you about.”

“Well, this Sister nearly slit your throat.”

He motions for her to drop the knife, and she has no choice but to do as he says. It hits the frozen earth with a muffled clank.

He steps forward and explores her face. “Hey, I think I know you,” he says. “Your hair's not as long, and you don't have the wrinkles, but you look just like your mother. Same big eyes, too, although hers were a little wider the last time I saw her.” He makes the sound of a firing pistol.

That's when Hope knows. This is Sergeant Dekker—the man her father wrote about. The man who killed her mother.

She suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. A stabbing pain radiates outward from her chest, and gun or no gun, she is tempted to throw herself at this Brown
Shirt, this
monster
, even if it means ending her life in the process.

“So who're you with?” Dekker asks. “A couple of your friends?”

Hope grits her teeth. “An army,” she says.

Dekker's smile evaporates. “Your mother thought she was clever, too. Wouldn't tell me where her daughters were. And look where it got her. That's why I wrote my name in blood on your little porch. So you all would know not to mess with me.” Dekker turns to Dozer. “Tie 'em up. Together.”

Before Hope can react, Dozer whips out a rope and yanks her wrists behind her back. When her hands are bound, Dozer joins the two prisoners by lashing their hands together. Their backs press into each other's.

“Now that's what I call dancing cheek to cheek,” Dekker says. “And your timing's excellent. We were just on our way to see what's going on in the barracks.”

“Nothing's going on,” Hope responds, a little too quickly.

Dekker gives his head a shake. “And you see? It's the fact that you both deny it so fast that makes me think just the opposite.”

He traces the gun barrel across her face. The metal is cold and makes her shiver. Then he turns his attention to Book. She can no longer see the sergeant, only hear him.

“So,” Dekker says, “what're you all up to?”

Book doesn't respond, and Hope hears the thud of the sergeant's fist striking Book, followed by a violent exhalation. Book struggles for air. All she can do is stand helplessly and listen.

“Stop it!” she says, her outburst provoking laughter.

“Maybe we will when you tell us what you're up to.” Dekker comes around and eyes Hope, waiting for her to speak.

But it's Book who talks, not Hope. “There's an army,” he manages to say.

Dekker's face turns crimson with anger. “We'll see about that.”

He marches toward a Humvee, one with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on top. He climbs in and positions himself behind the weapon, training its long, sleek barrel at the Quonset hut—where seventy-five Less Thans are currently locked in captivity.

“Last chance!” he calls out.

Hope and Book are too stunned to speak.

“Fine,” Dekker says. “Then here's what I think of your ‘army.'”

Book cries “No!” at the top of his lungs as Dekker pulls the trigger and the machine gun spits angry bursts of fire, shell casings arcing in the air and landing with steamy hisses in the snow. He sprays the Quonset hut with round after round, the bullets slicing through the thin metal like nails through paper, exploding and ricocheting and puncturing the walls with a thousand percussive shrieks.

Windows shatter and sparks fly, the door flies off its hinges, and the side of the barracks is tattooed in enormous, gaping holes. It doesn't take much imagination to visualize what's happened to the LTs inside, and to Hope's ears there has never been a more violent sound: the grating, jarring, slashing cacophony of bullets shredding metal as they penetrate the barracks into the sleeping quarters themselves.

Through it all, the muscles in Dekker's face are contorted in a grimace of satisfaction.
This is what you get,
his expression says.
Don't mess with the Brown Shirts.

When, finally, he removes his finger from the trigger and leans back against the turret, smoke plumes from the rifle barrel. It glows red with heat. To one side of the Humvee rests a steaming pile of casings, like droppings from some metallic creature.

Dekker swivels his face until his eyes land on Book and Hope.

“Where's your army now?” he says. He smiles.

“You killed them,” Book manages. His voice sounds disembodied. As if he's trapped in a deep, dense fog.

“They were going to die anyway. I did 'em a favor.” Dekker wipes his hands, climbs down from the Humvee, and sticks out his lip in a mock pout. “Aw, is someone going to twow a tantwum? Someone going to have a wittle cwy?” He snorts with laughter and turns to Dozer. “Go check to see if anyone's left.”

Dozer goes galumphing off toward the Quonset hut.

“What now?” Hope asks. It's taken her this long to gather words.

“Now we eliminate any remaining Less Thans, and then: bye-bye, army.”

He circles his two prisoners, jabbing at them with his knife so that they stumble backward. “Whaddaya say, Slice Slice? Like a few more scars to go with the ones on your wrists?”

“Leave him alone!” Hope screams.

Dekker steps around and looks at Hope. “And why would I do that?”

“Because he didn't do anything. If you want to torture someone, torture me.”

“Don't worry. I've got a whole other set of plans for you. You know what they say: like mother, like daughter.”

At that moment Dozer returns, wearing a dazed expression. In his hands are clumps of dried grass and bits of shredded clothing.

“What do you got there?” Dekker barks.

“The bodies,” Dozer says, not able to comprehend what he's holding.

“Huh?”

As Dozer speaks, his voice is halting, as though trying to understand a riddle. “No blood. No people. Just clothes . . . stuffed with grass.”

Dekker's face tightens. “What about all the Less Thans?”

Dozer gives his head a shake. “There were none in there.”

“That's impossible. There were seventy-five of 'em; they were too sick to move; they had to be in there.”

“They weren't there. Just this.” He raises his hands, and the weeds filter between his fingers, floating to the snow-covered ground like blowing hay.

Sergeant Dekker's look of triumph changes to outrage. His eyes land on Book . . . and then he backhands him. Book's face whips to the side. The sergeant hits him again, and Book's face reels in the other direction.

Dekker is about to hit him a third time when Hope sees something that turns her eyes to saucers.

“Duck!” she yells, jerking Book to the ground. Dekker stands there, a look of bewilderment on his face. Seconds later, a
whoosh
is heard.

The sergeant's mouth opens in surprise. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he collapses to his knees, then falls backward. The shaft of an arrow juts from the middle of his chest like a planted flag.

Hope's gaze travels to the far side of the infield, where Cat holds an archer's pose. He is in the process of nocking a second arrow.

Dozer stands there, stunned. He fumbles for his 9mm, accidentally firing it from its holster. A bullet
nearly gets him in the foot. An arrow takes out a chunk of his shoulder. He grabs the wound with one hand, the gun with the other, then turns and runs, firing blindly as he goes.

Cat races forward, slicing through the rope that binds Hope and Book.

“Nice shot,” Book says, rubbing his wrists.

“I was trying to hit Dozer,” Cat says.

Book's eyes go wide. “But he was on the other side of us.”

“I haven't gotten my aim down yet.”

Cat is about to go to Sergeant Dekker, but Hope beats him to it. The sergeant is writhing on the ground, gasping for breath. Hope slams a foot on his chest and rips the arrow from his body.

“Do I look like my mother now?” she asks.

Grimacing, Dekker struggles for a final, gurgling breath, but Hope doesn't pay attention. She gives the arrow to Cat.

He puts it in his quiver and is about to leave when Book says, “Welcome back.”

Cat looks at him a moment, nods, then runs off without another word.

“Are you okay?” Hope asks Book, raising a hand to his lower lip, which is swollen and oozes blood.

“Fine,” he says. “Cuts and bruises. You?”

She gives a none-too-convincing nod. The fact is,
she's not fine. It's not just learning more about her mother's death, but what Sergeant Dekker was doing to Book . . . and how utterly helpless she felt.

Book sees she's shaking and takes her quivering hands in his. Energy courses through her body. Her breaths are jagged, halting, uneven. She can feel the heat rising from Book, mingling with her own. Her eyes land on his cuts. “We should get those cleaned,” she murmurs.

“Later,” he murmurs back.

Hope knows they have much to do. But more than anything, she wants to stay and bandage Book's cuts. Wants to be by his side. And when she looks at him, she can't help but feel he wants the same thing, too.

All at once, their faces lean into each other and their lips touch. The kiss is brief, fleeting, as if each is asking permission. Even so, when they pull back, Hope feels dazed.

“Go,” Book says, and she knows he's right. They have work to do. She runs in one direction and Book in the other.