Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(75)

I avoided Sean’s accusing stare, and then Chase’s as well. It occurred to me Chase had no idea what was going on, what I’d done. My stomach curdled with guilt.

“I’d just as soon leave you, but I have a feeling that’s not going to fly, is it?” he said to Chase.

Chase cast him a hard look and turned to me. “It’s your call.”

I realized this was the first time he’d left the decision solely in my hands. My eyes turned to the ex-soldier in the stolen uniform. Going with Sean seemed more dangerous, but it was a risk we needed to take in order to find the carrier. Besides, I owed him information about Rebecca. It was the least I could do for the trouble I’d caused them.

I nodded reluctantly.

*



SEAN shed the uniform behind the Dumpster, revealing the shabby civilian clothes beneath, and stuffed it into a black trash bag, which he threw over his shoulder like the other transients who carried their worldly possessions on their backs. We followed him down the alleyway in silence. After several blocks of turns and obvious backpedaling, we came to an old brick motel called the Wayland Inn.

It was a downtrodden place—somewhere I would have avoided even if it hadn’t been deserted. Overgrown ivy snaked up the side of the building, and every other window was boarded up, but there was no evidence of graffiti here, as there was on the other abandoned buildings around. This place had been left alone.

The light was fading, twilight bringing a pearly hue to the gathering clouds. We crossed the open street hastily, scanning for patrol cars, and ducked in through a single glass door.

Clouds of white dispersed in the room as the evening air blew in after us. The room stank of nicotine, which emanated from a drooping cigarette in the mouth of an orange-haired man behind the counter. Cigarettes were luxuries most people couldn’t afford. I wondered if he was part of the resistance, too.

As if to answer my question, Sean dug in his pocket, removed a pack of unfiltered Horizons brand cigarettes, and placed them on the counter. The clerk’s ruddy brows rose, and a smug look slid over his face. He offered a slight tilt of his head, which was enough to indicate he wouldn’t ask questions, and we crossed over the stained red carpet without another word.

Lying across the floor in front of the stairway was a man in tattered rags. Long dreadlocks hung like dead snakes over his shoulders. His eyes were heavily lidded. As we approached, he clambered up and gave us a suspicious glare. I could smell the sweat and alcohol wafting off of him.

I skirted around him into the stairwell, where Sean had stopped.

“Is this where we meet the carrier?”

Sean shook his head.

A moment later, the drunk from the hallway slithered in, straightening to his full height once the exit door shut completely. As he neared us, I could tell that he wasn’t drunk at all; the lights in his eyes were too focused, and his movements were unhindered.

“Wallace know they’re coming?” he asked Sean in a gruff voice.

“Yeah. Of course,” Sean responded. Then he gave Chase a sidelong glance. “He’s going to frisk your girlfriend. Try not to beat the hell out of him.”

I felt my face heat up at the title, but no one, including Chase, seemed to notice.

Whoever Wallace was, he couldn’t have known we were here; my presence in the square had taken Sean by surprise. I didn’t want to maintain a lie I knew nothing about, but I stayed silent.

The bouncer patted down Chase first, then me. It was done quickly and efficiently, but I still felt violated when his hands stroked my legs and waist. When he reached into my pocket to take Chase’s six-inch pocket knife, I jerked back sharply.

“You can collect this later if Wallace says so,” he informed me. He searched the bag and removed the baton and the MM radio. “These too,” he added, shoving the items into his jacket and slinking back into the hallway to resume his watch.

“Who’s Wallace?” I asked as we climbed the metal stairs. They made a bright ting with every step we took.

“He runs the operation here. He’s not the carrier, before you ask. That guy goes by Tubman. And it’s too late to drag you across town to his checkpoint.”

“So what is this place then?” I asked, deflated, but still edgy.

Sean pushed through the door into the hallway on the fourth floor. The lights were out here, and the dim corridor made me feel claustrophobic. A man and a woman, dressed in street clothes, loitered in front of one of the scuffed wooden doors. They had been playing cards and stood abruptly when we came into view.

“This is the resistance,” Sean said.

*



“WHO are you?” asked the man, sizing us up. He was not much taller than me but built like a tree trunk. Even his head was shaped like a can. He seemed impressed by Chase, but he frowned my way. He probably thought Chase would be more useful to the rebellion—an assumption that irritated me.

“I know her from the girls’ school,” Sean said. “She’s Miller, and he’s…”

“Jennings,” the girl finished. She knotted her long black hair back in a ponytail. I could tell it wasn’t her natural color: Her eyebrows were nearly transparent, and her skin was very light. I wondered where she’d gotten the dye; that was contraband now. Indecent, the MM called it.

“We’ve been following you on the nightly report,” she explained.