Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(53)

It took me a moment to realize that Chase’s whole body, from the shins up, was cramming mine into the corner of the closet. He’d begun whispering again. I couldn’t hear him over my raging pulse, but I felt his lips move against my ear.

“Upstairs,” said a soldier. “Cover me. We’ll move the body in a minute.”

Footsteps ascending. The ceiling groaned under their weight.

I couldn’t hear the man anymore. He wasn’t crying for his son. I felt the bile scrape my throat.

The FBR was murdering civilians.

Before I could think through the ramifications of this, Chase was dragging me out of the bathroom. My legs didn’t feel right. Like they were pulling through water.

He halted unexpectedly at the entrance to the kitchen. I glanced down and saw a man’s denim-covered legs emerging from beneath the table. Before I saw anything else, I was again smashed beneath Chase’s heavy arm. His hand snaked around my face, blocking my vision.

But I could smell it. The metallic tang of blood. The peppery sting of gun smoke.

And I could hear the carrier gasping for breath.

I took a step, guided by Chase. I slipped on something wet. I tried to swallow, but my throat felt like sandpaper.

There was a change in the man’s breathing.

Chase paused. Leaned down. He did not release his grip over my eyes.

“Lewisburg … West Vir … ginia … two … o’clock … Tuesday…”

“Oh, God,” I sobbed. Imagining the scene below me was just as terrifying as the real thing must have been. The ceiling creaked again.

“Clear!” one of the soldiers called upstairs.

“Look for … the sign.…”

That was all the carrier said. He sighed, a sound infused with liquid, and then he was gone.

Chase didn’t release me until we were outside, and even then, he didn’t let go of my hand. He pulled me at a run through the empty backyard, toward the woods. My legs, to my relief, were working again.

“Don’t look back,” he ordered, breaking the silence of our flight.

Frigid air needled at the drops of sweat lining my brow and neck. The grass crunched, frozen, beneath my rushed steps. I had to sprint to keep up with his breakneck pace as we crossed through the threshold of the woods. Neither of us made any attempt to soften the noise of breaking branches. My eyes stayed fixed on the pack over his shoulders; he must have grabbed it when we’d gone back through the kitchen. My strained hearing picked up only the sounds of the forest, tempered by the rush of my breathing. But my thoughts were loud, loud, loud.

The carrier was dead. Murdered.

My mother would have to find someone else.

Even if she’d already made it to South Carolina, she wasn’t safe. She’d never be safe again. I’d never be safe again.

I would never see Beth again. Contacting her would only invite soldiers to her doorstep.

And finally: It’s my fault. I hadn’t caused the carrier’s death, I hadn’t been responsible. But just as I knew this, I knew that he would never have been there if not for people like me.

They told us girls like you were dangerous, Chase had said after I’d run away. I hadn’t believed him then, but I did now.

I was dangerous. A man, a stranger, had just died to save our lives.

A commanding resolve shuddered through me. If I died now, his death would be in vain.

Focus. His last words had been to help us, but this plan was more thinly laid than the last. What sign? Surely checkpoints didn’t advertise their purpose. We didn’t know where we were going. We didn’t know who was safe to ask. We couldn’t even go back to the truck, now that the radio report had described it. We only had a time and a date, one that was rapidly approaching.

I kept seeing his legs, spread awkwardly over the kitchen floor. I could hear his sobbing plea to return to his son—to Andrew. My brain morphed the faceless soldier who had executed him into the guard Randolph. Then the scene changed from the kitchen to the woods outside the reform school, and I was the one crying out for my mother. It was my legs splayed out across the cold, wet ground.

“Ember!” Chase gave my shoulders a firm shake. I snapped alert. It was dark now. I didn’t know how long we’d been moving. I’d lost track of time.

“If we’re caught, that’s what will happen,” I said, refocusing on the present. He’d begun pulling me along again, and didn’t confirm or deny my statement.

I gulped down the frigid air. My heart rate was high from the exertion and the adrenaline.

“What if they catch my mother?”

She’d already been sentenced. And if she’d made it to the base, she’d already served her time. Would that matter if she was caught at a checkpoint?

He slouched but kept moving at a fast walk. The woods were growing denser; the line of houses no longer visible in the distance behind us.

“‘Multiple-offense Article violators are subject to trial by a senior jury of the Federal Bureau of Reformation and sentenced appropriately,’” he quoted.

“What does ‘sentenced appropriately’ mean, Captain Jennings?” I said, exasperation rising above the panic.

“I’m not a captain. I was just a sergeant.”

“What does it mean?” I growled.

He didn’t answer for a full minute.