The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) (32 page)

“Pure meanness, that
one,” Bran whispers to me. We share a smile.

“Stay in Leeds as long
as you need,” Samuel is saying when I tune back in. “But we’re
ready to leave, soon as you give the word.” Echoes of agreement
come from his people. Looking at the aircraft, he asks, “Is there
enough room on that for all of us?”

“More than.” Cell
sounds harsh compared to the smooth voice of Samuel Colla. “This
aircraft’ll hold more than a hundred and there’s only twenty of
us.”

I miss Samuel’s
response. I’m distracted by Kari weaving closer to us, her eyes
narrowed at a girl in the back of the Leeds crowd. I watch the girl
but she doesn’t seem threatening or suspicious. I write off Kari’s
attention with a shrug. I thought my friends were weird—especially
since one of them is a time traveller—but Kari is weirder. I don’t
get her at all, and the only conversation we’ve had made me uneasy.
Her words are still with me now, creepier every time I think about
them. And there’s the bird tattoo on her face.

From the next two
minutes of droning conversation, I pick up that we’ll be sleeping
in buildings deeper in the town while everyone packs up and
prepares to leave. It shouldn’t take more than two days.

It’s like déjà vu,
being led through an unknown town by an unknown group of people who
blindly follow an unknown leader. It’s Manchester all over again. I
just hope these people don’t die. There’s been enough death in the
past two months to last me a lifetime. I wish Manchester would be
the last of it but I’m not stupid. I know we’ll lose more people
before we reach States.

A row of old shops
have been converted into houses along a wide main road—our next
home. The civilians guiding us split up and go to their respective
homes, though some of the younger ones linger in doorways to watch
us. We’re given three glass-fronted ‘houses’ to share between us
and me and my family pile wordlessly into one.

I worry about the
glass front, about people seeing me sleeping, washing, and
shirtless—but the building goes far enough back that the house area
is concealed by a sea of clothing rails and display tables.

I’m excited to see
that most of the clothes that were once for sale are still here,
undamaged and completely wearable. Before we leave, I want to pack
a bag with T-shirts, jumpers, underwear, and jeans. I would’ve lost
all my old stuff if I hadn’t grown obsessive about keeping some
things in my pockets—my father’s letter, John’s research, a knife,
the letter Tia left when she went away with Marrin that I still
haven’t read. I’m grateful to still have those with me, and my
sister still has our old stuffed bear, the one that kept the
Unnamed’s letter safe all those years. I know they’re only
possessions, but I wouldn’t feel like myself if I didn’t have
them.

I lost my bag, though,
the one with all the things I stole from Harwich—all my water
bottles and other weapons and the first aid kit I was so happy to
have. I’ll have to find another, and build up another backpack of
supplies. At least I’ll have things to wear.

I watch Hele snag a
cardigan from a shiny, white table and know she’s thinking the
same. Sleeping, walking, living every day in the same grubby
clothes has a weird way of getting you down, but new clothes make
you feel like a different person. A cleaner, less disgusting
person. A person who hasn’t trekked halfway across the island to
escape Officials who want them dead because their dad was a famous
rebel, who want them captive because they’re a murderous tool they
created.

Dalmar sets down his
backpack of computer stuff—thank God he didn’t leave it in the
Station—and throws himself onto a brown sofa that looks almost new.
His groan of satisfaction breaks the tension around us. Hele
instantly goes into mothering mode, moving Dal’s pack out of the
way, fluffing up the pillows of a second, green sofa. When the area
is arranged and tidy to her standards, she lowers herself
gracefully to the floor beneath Dal and tips her head back, her
eyes fluttering closed when Dalmar winds a lock of her hair around
his finger.

My heart aches.

I hear the tell-tale
sound of things falling over and lope over to Branwell to distract
myself. He’s rummaging through the cupboards that make up the
kitchen, hunting for something.

I
could have this
keeps running through my
head.
I could have this. We’re so close. I
could have a family, a real one, and we can be safe.

“Aha!”

“What is it?” I lean
against the counter beside Bran, my eyes heavy now we’re out of
immediate danger. I force them open.

“Food,” Bran says
reverently. “Here, eat some of this and go to sleep.”

“No, I’m alright.”

“I didn’t ask for your
compliance.” He puts an energy bar in my hands. “I don’t know what
this is but it looks like food, and you appear to need it.”

He won’t back down. I
eat the energy bar.

“Eat one yourself,” I
say, crumpling the wrapper.

“Is it any good?
Absolutely awful?”

“It’s alright.”

“Well then.” He puts
an arm around me in a half-embrace. He’s so warm that I almost fall
asleep right there and then, stood up. “I’ll eat this, and you go
to sleep.”

“Hmph.” I drag myself
away from the furnace that is Branwell. “Fine.”

I glance over the
living room area. Dal and Hele are sleeping, pressed together on a
sofa. Miya and Yosiah are already bickering over something
unimportant, Olive is groaning, and Tom is curled into the cushions
of the green sofa, fast asleep.

I smile without
meaning to.

“Hang on a second,”
Branwell says as I’m about to wander to the other area of the
‘house’. I can see at least ten beds, my sister tucked up in one of
them, and countless pillows. I want a pillow so bad right now. I
tear my gaze away from the bedroom in time to see Bran pour water
from a waiting container onto a rag. He presses the wet rag to the
side of my head and says, “You have ash on your face.”

I’m so exhausted I
don’t fight him as, with gentle touches, Branwell cleans the
killing ash from my cheek. My eyes get heavier and heavier. “I’m
going to fall asleep,” I mumble.

He
laughs softly. I hear the
thunk
of wet fabric hitting metal sink. Bran puts his
arms around me, supporting me effortlessly as I stumble to a
mattress. The pillow is every bit as heavenly as I imagined. I miss
the heat of Bran’s body as he leaves me to the bed, but the thick
cover he pulls around my shoulders and the whisper of a kiss he
leaves in my hair more than makes up for it.

I fall asleep feeling
warm and loved.

I wake up God knows
how much later. Not late enough—it’s still pretty dark. A quick
glance says everyone’s where they’re meant to be—everyone but Tia.
The bed she was in is empty. I haul myself to my feet.

The store is sleepy,
dead quiet except for the low hum of a generator somewhere below
us. I weave my way around displays and circular wood tables, my
tread quiet as I move into the thick of the shop. It gets colder
and colder as I near the entrance. I rub my arms to keep warm, glad
I fell asleep fully clothed.

For some reason I’m
not worried about my sister. I want to know where she is, just to
make sure, but any anxiety is absent. Maybe I’m still sleepy, or
maybe I know Horatia can look after herself. Mostly I’m curious and
numb, the way of dreams spilling into my waking life.

I find Tia stood in
the doorway, dwarfed by the glass and metal, watching the world go
by. A lilac knitted hat contains her hair, and a long blue coat
makes her look tall and thin, a dark silhouette in the yellow
streetlight. She leans her head against my shoulder when I stop
beside her, gracing me with a soft smile.

Most of these Leeds
people are in their homes sound asleep, but every few minutes a man
or woman will stride down the road, purposeful and single minded.
They wear business suits and long coats, skirts ironed to be
perfectly straight, hair neatly slicked back or tied in tight
ponytails. These must be the people who run Leeds. I didn’t see any
of them when we came in—those were just commoners like us. But
these look like some of the wealthier Forgotten London civilians in
the inner zones, the ones who had better jobs and decent food, the
ones who could afford pills to make them live longer.

I hated those people.
Everyone did—their pressed suits would end up splattered with
rotten vegetables and mud-water by the end of their walk to work.
Forgotten London wasn’t a very understanding place, or a forgiving
one. I see the truth of it now, that even though those people had
more money and fancy houses they were still as trapped as us. And
now most of them are dead, sunk into the ground with the town
itself. I can’t find it in me to hate any of them, not anymore. I
don’t know whether that’s because all the capacity to give a damn
has been sucked out of me or because I’ve grown up.

I’d like to think I’ve
become a better person in myself. Even if I am a walking Strains
bomb.

I watch the trickle of
people for a long time, my sister silent beside me. For once I find
it in myself to be kind, to not hate Tia’s silence. In the early
morning, with the sky gradually turning from a bruised arm to a
pastel flower, with the flow of people growing with every half hour
that passes, none of them noticing two kids stood in a shop doorway
under a flickering streetlamp, I find peace.

Peace with myself,
with my fate and my doom and my life as a weapon. Peace with Tia’s
silent grief, with her way of dealing with life. Peace with what I
want and need in life and what I’ll never have. Peace with what
I’ve got to do.

I screwed up my first
attempt at being a Guardian—a real one—with the speech in
Manchester but there are other ways I can help the rebellion. The
people here in Leeds have a strange kind of life. I watch them
going to work, talking with friends, carrying briefcases and tool
boxes, picking up breakfast at a cart that squats at the top of the
road, waves of cooked beef and scrambled eggs and hot bread making
the air almost edible. They don’t realise they’re living in a world
after the world’s end. They don’t care, either. They’re acting
normally, going about everyday life without Officials breathing
threats down their necks. They laugh and it’s not strained, they
shout at their workmates across the road without their eyes darting
for Official consequences.

I want that for
everyone, for all of us, for all the world.

Not matter how much I
hate it or want to pretend it isn’t true, I have a privilege and a
responsibility. I can make every place in the world like this—with
the Guardians help, I can. They keep telling me I’m the Unnamed’s
son, that I can make things better, motivate people, make a change.
But all I’ve really known before this week was a contained life and
a chaotic way of existing. Death, loss, pain, fear. That’s what
I’ve been working on, what I thought the Guardians meant when they
said motivate.

I understand now. You
can’t motivate anyone with fear, can’t inspire with grief. It’s not
about that. It’s not about the past, our history, what’s been taken
from us. It’s about what we can have, what we can take for
ourselves.

We can have normal,
boring lives like Leeds, like Manchester. We can do crappy building
jobs and back breaking laundry and burn breakfast and get
frustrated looking after our kid brothers.

I feel so stupid that
I didn’t understand earlier. I don’t think I’ll attempt a rallying
speech again but if I had to, I might know what to say. I wouldn’t
remind people of what they lost yesterday—home, family, love, a
limb—but what they can have tomorrow.

God,
it’s so simple. So frustratingly simple that I begin to understand
why the Unnamed thought he could change everything with a handful
of rebels. It’s not about blowing up States. It’s not about
shooting Officials. It’s why States has never had the people’s
loyalty, why all their attempts at breaking people don’t work. It’s
one single idea, one single want, that can’t ever be taken from us
no matter how many times we’re stabbed or shot—because it’s not an
idea from just one person. It’s everyone’s idea, everyone’s desire.
It’s
future
.

It’s saying you can’t
break us because there will always be someone left, unbroken. You
can’t kill us because we want to live, because ideas cannot be
killed.

The horizon has turned
a pale yellow with strokes of purple clouds by the time I return to
reality. I’ve been so caught up in my realisation that I missed
most of the sunrise. I should feel tired—I only slept a few
hours—but there’s just the buzz in my veins and plans in my head. I
feel like I could stay awake for days but I know I’ll crash
soon.

My sister tenses under
my arm, going so still that I only now realise she’d been jittery,
the way she is when she’s happy. There’s always something about her
moving—a foot tapping, a finger drumming a rhythm. But now she’s
stopped moving.

“What is it?”

She doesn’t answer.
She holds her hat to her head and takes off running down the
street, headed for the food cart and the businessmen. I race after
her, my newfound peace falling apart with every slap of my feet
against the tarmac. Why is my sister running? What is she running
from? I close in on her but she’s running too fast and I’m getting
breathless. The wind slams into me, tasting of food and rain to
come. Tia gets even further away. Unless she stops or slows, I’m
never gonna catch up.

The next thing that
happens makes no sense. Horatia changes direction, heading right
for a tall, dark haired man stood on the corner of the street. The
wind tears the hat from her head when she crashes into him, her
arms grabbing him into a hug. I watch the lilac blur of the hat as
it’s blown across the street and stoop to pick it up, frowning,
watching. The man’s arms flail about Tia’s body, clearly startled,
but then they fold securely around her. I’m brimming with confusion
and protectiveness and jealousy. What else has Tia kept from me?
What other secrets does my sister bear?