The Watch (The Red Series Book 1) (22 page)

I
didn’t get caught. It was worse than that.

For hours I prowled around trying to
spot someone I trusted. It proved difficult, finding the handful of
people who fit the requirement—people I trusted, with strong nerves, who
were quick on their feet—without being noticed by anyone else. I had my
black cap on and knew all the tricks to avoiding the cameras or the eye of
anyone in the watchtower surveying things from the windows. What I was afraid of
was other people on the streets, not just the wardens, but the regular people
.
Sir Tom had said I’d have been reported; I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it
was possible that everyone had been told to keep an eye out for me, and I knew
there were some people who would be all too happy to turn me in, and more who
would be afraid not to.

Taking my cues from the old game with
Petey
and Judd, I did my best to blend in, to act normal, walking with purpose but
without hurry along the streets. It was best, I decided, to walk behind a group
of people—far enough back that they wouldn’t particularly notice me, but
not so far back that I stood out as a girl alone. I slipped in and out of
doorways, marched purposefully
around buildings, and
several times hid my face by bending over as if searching for a splinter in my
foot. The sky was a spiritless gray, and after a couple of hours I began to
lose heart.

Twice I
caught sight of girls from my
dorm, but first it was weepy Lea—not exactly a person with strong
nerves—and the second time it was
Cynda
, but
she was with Wanda the Watcher Defender. Once I saw
Ezzie
from a distance, but I didn’t know him well enough to be certain we could trust
him. And anyway he was driving the tractor to the big farm shed and there was
no way for me to reach him, crossing the wide empty field, without drawing
attention to myself.

All afternoon went like this. Though the sky was cloudy and
I couldn’t see the sun, I knew when it set because the gray became darker.
Twilight lasted a long time, this time of year, but it would be dark soon
enough, unless the clouds cleared. This wouldn’t be a problem in the city with
its blue electric lights, but I didn’t like to think how the orchard and
wilderland
would feel in pitch blackness.

Finally, shortly before supper, when the streets would
become too crowded to be safe, I turned a corner and spotted Cline scraping his
boots outside the slaughterhouse.

I glanced around; he was alone.

Casually I walked up to him as if it were any other day, as
if I were any other person, as if I had every right and reason to be there.

“Hey,” I said, leaning against the building wall. Cline
looked up at me, just for a heartbeat, then went back to scraping his boots.

“They’ve got Farrell Dean,” he said.

“I know. He’s pretty beat up, but he’s alive. I went and saw
him last night.”

Cline shot me another look. His nose was back to normal
size, but traces of his black eyes remained as yellow bruises against his pale
freckled skin. “Is that why we’re supposed to turn you in if we see you?” he asked.
“Because you sneaked into the prison?”

I shrugged. “I don’t think so. It’s probably because I went
to the
wilderland
last night and met with the Chief
Guardian. We have a plan. I need your help collecting a group to steal guns and
then overthrow the Watchers and save the city.”

Cline stood up straight, his face incredulous. I couldn’t
help but grin.

Cline’s face went suddenly blank. “Warden behind you,
heading north,” he said. “Walk past me—act natural—and go into the
slaughter yard.”

I did as he said, moving as casually as I could. The yard
smelled metallic but wasn’t too gory. I picked my way around a few puddles and
crept into the shadow of the back doorway to wait for Cline where I’d so often
waited for
Meritt
.

A few minutes later he joined me. Cline was a big guy,
stockier than most boys his age, strong from working cattle. His pale blond
hair had been cut recently, and the top of his forehead looked white where it
had been protected from the sun. I noted this while he stood studying me, no
doubt weighing his dislike of me against the urgency of the situation.

“You’re telling the truth?” he asked me finally. “This isn’t
a sick joke?”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t joke about this. And surely you
know Farrell Dean has been up to something.”

Cline nodded. “But how is this plan of yours going to get
him out?”

That, I didn’t know. “Every minute the Watchers are in
charge, he’s vulnerable,” I said, feeling my way as I spoke. “But if we can
take control away from the Watchers, we should be able to get him out.”

Unless they had already killed him
for
refusing to speak, I thought. Or unless the wardens killed their prisoners in
the chaos when we tried to take the city, or he died of his injuries without
any further assistance from his interrogators. And unless the insurrection
failed miserably and the whole of us got slaughtered. Standing by the
slaughterhouse, the thought took on a visceral quality in my imagination that I
could have done without.

Judging from Cline’s face, similarly dark
thoughts were running through his mind. But after only a moment’s reflection,
he nodded. “I’m in,” he said.

That was the break I needed. Cline agreed to talk to some
others in the cafeteria at suppertime—
Ezzie
would do it, he said, and Joe and Harding, and of course
Meritt
.
All boys, Cline insisted, all almost nineteen. They’d be stronger and they’d be
less likely to be frightened by the woods, or by Jensen.

“And guys won’t be impressed by the glamour man,” he noted,
giving me a dirty look I thought was entirely unfair. Describing Angel merely
as tall and fair-haired, without mentioning his beauty, would have been about
as helpful as describing
Ezzie
as having dark hair
without ever mentioning
his dark brown
skin.

“Angel might be okay,” I said. “He might be on our side.”

“Or he might not be,” Cline retorted. “And the old guy’s
clearly the one in charge, if anyone is. We have to go with that. Stick with
the plan, Red.”

When everyone else left for the city meeting, Cline and the
others would make their way out to the apple orchard. I would be waiting there,
out of sight, to lead them to Sir Tom.

It was a good plan, but it didn’t work.

I did my part, the easy part. In the dying light I went to
the orchard to wait among the twisted trees. It seemed like forever, but it
could only have been a couple of hours that I waited out there, pacing around,
avoiding the bees that hovered around the fermenting windfall apples. For a
little while I sat, listening to my stomach growl, trying not to think about
how impossible our task seemed,
but sitting somehow
made waiting harder. Then I tried to find apples that weren’t too far gone, but
there was a reason the pickers had left these; most were
worm-eaten and
mealy, disintegrating into a slimy mass in my hands. I only managed to find a
few edible bites.

A light rain began to fall and the bare-branched trees
offered no real shelter. Fortunately it was one of those rains that was more a
thick falling mist than real rainfall—we never got truly stormy weather
until late November. So although I grew damp I wasn’t wet through or
particularly cold; it was the waiting that was bad, the long anxious time
alone.

Finally, just before eight o’clock,
Ezzie
came running into the orchard, peering around in the gloom, trying to find me.
As soon as I saw him I stepped out from behind the trees, smiling, so glad to
finally see someone, to not be alone, but when I saw his face I knew something
was terribly wrong.

He skidded to a stop on the wet grass. “Farrell Dean,” he
gasped out, panting hard. “Farrell Dean’s in the circle.”

The ground swayed beneath me, righted itself. Without a word
I began to run, and
Ezzie
ran with me. This couldn’t
be happening. Farrell Dean was the steady one, the reliable one. I couldn’t
imagine the world without him.

We ran back through the orchards in the heavy mist
that suddenly made me feel like I was drowning. When
we’d skirted the beehives and reached the lit city streets we slowed to a brisk
walk, trying not to attract attention.

Why was Farrell Dean in the circle? Had he confessed? Had they
beaten him again, gotten
something out of him, or had
all the damage been done before I’d seen him last night?

Meritt
had said Farrell Dean could be broken, made to tell everything,
but I didn’t believe it. He was loyal
, Farrell Dean. He had
integrity; perhaps only I knew how much.

The streets were almost empty now, the electric blue lights
reflecting off damp bare pavement. Everyone was at the city meeting. Around us
the mist drifted in heavy waves, muting sound, making strange halos of the
streetlights.

 
We slunk around
the watchtower near the base, in the deep shadows. I scanned the crowd
frantically.

“Where’s
Meritt
?” I said.
Meritt
would know what to do, would have an idea. I had
none, had no idea what to do, how to save anyone from that horrible circle.

Ezzie
shook
his head, didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the center of the circle, on
Farrell Dean, Judd, and two other boys who stood in the glare of the watchtower
spotlight. They weren’t bound, and the wardens watching them were not standing
particularly close. Ever since the snipers had been instituted, the wardens
stayed back as much as possible.

The boys stood facing one middle-aged woman. The cook, I
thought. My brain seemed to be moving in fits and starts, unreliably, because I
remembered the Watchers’ discussion of this city meeting before I realized
exactly who the woman was.

It was Cook Alice. She still looked calm enough, but even in
the washed-out electric lights I could see spots of color high on her
cheekbones, and her chest rose and fell quickly with her shallow breaths. I
wanted to help her, but I was helpless, I was hidden in the dark, and my head
was throbbing. I had to stay calm, had to get a grip on myself. I was watching
Cook Alice’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and I was breathing with her,
faster and faster, in danger of hyperventilating. Now that would be real
useful, I told myself viciously. Faint, call attention to yourself, get
everyone shot.

Forcing myself to breathe more slowly, I tried to make sense
of the scene—was it better for Farrell Dean that there were others in the
circle as well? Did that give him more of a chance?

I hated myself for the thought, for wanting someone else to
die instead of him. And instead of Cook Alice. And instead of Judd. This was
twice in the circle for Judd—how could that be? How unfair—how
monumentally unfair—to put him there twice.

Like last time, Judd looked furious. Farrell Dean didn’t
look angry. He looked pale and self-contained, as if he might be having to
concentrate very hard to stand up straight. He was still in pain from the
flogging, of course. Had he had any food or rest? I willed him to look my way,
half believing that even in pitch blackness Farrell Dean could find me, but his
eyes stayed fixed on the ground a few yards in front of him.

The other two boys, a little older than Judd but still a
good bit younger than me, shifted uneasily from foot to foot, casting sideways
glances at each other, at the crowd, and my heart swelled with worry for them,
too.

The loudspeakers crackled to life.

“Family of
Optica
,” said the hated
Voice. “There are cancers among you.”

What were we going to do? I searched the rows of people,
spotting friends here and there, but no one was moving to stop this
horror—all the faces looked stunned, all eyes were fixed on the spot-lit
scene, strangely softened and unearthly in the misty drifting rain.

The Voice boomed out, “Stealing food for favorites,
betraying the Family of
Optica
.” In the circle, Cook
Alice shook her head firmly.

Where was
Meritt
, Cline,
anyone who could help—but how could anyone help? It
would be just like
Rafe
all over again.

A warden stepped forward and, bizarrely
,
handed Cook Alice a gun.

“We know which boy you have fed,” the Voice said. “And you
know, Cook Alice. But the rest of the family does not know. You have five
seconds to consider. Then you will walk up to the guilty boy, put the gun
against his head, and pull the trigger. You have one bullet. If you do not
shoot him—if you choose instead to shoot yourself or someone else—all
four boys will die, and so will you.”

Suddenly I saw it. It was there in the straight line of the
nose, the steady eyes, in the constant understated kindness to me. Cook Alice
was Farrell Dean’s mother.