Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(100)

“Well, well, well,” he said, giving me a devilish smile as he approached. “Sounds like you been up to some trouble.”

From out of the back of his truck jumped a lanky teenager with a greasy mat of hair hanging in front of his eyes. A laugh bubbled up as I pushed by the carrier.

“Billy!” We collided, my arms wrapping around his bony shoulders. “You made it.”

“Marco and Polo took me to another checkpoint to see Tubman,” he said. He backed up a step, scratching his head when he saw Tucker. “He didn’t turn us in?”

“No,” I said, watching Tucker interact with a few of the Chicago guys. “He’s … all right.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying.

Billy looked confused, but let it go. “You haven’t heard anything about Wallace?”

I shook my head.

A grin spread from ear to ear. “He’s at the safe house then. He has to be.”

I didn’t disagree, because maybe he was right, maybe we would find Wallace. If we could pull Rebecca out of rehab, and find Billy after all we’d been through, anything was possible.

We loaded the trucks—a tighter fit even with Tubman’s storage capacity—and moved on toward the Red Zone.

*

WE drove through the night.

Truck’s compartment, which had seated only ten before, now held almost thirty, with the back area dedicated to Rebecca, the medic, and the other injured soldiers. The rest of us took turns standing and sitting, sleeping, and passing around water and bland cookies the woman had baked us. We smelled wretched, like body odor and antiseptic.

In the darkness it was impossible not to think about the tunnels, and the crushing weight of the landslide that had buried me under the table. Claustrophobia tightened our anxiety. Tensions rose, like the mercury on a thermometer, and then returned the speculations about the bombings: who had been followed? Who, as some were brave enough to mutter, betrayed us?

Only Sean, Tucker, and I knew the truth: that someone had sold out the resistance. Someone internal had tipped off the MM. I wondered if he’d already been completed in some jail cell, or if he, like Mags and so many others, had died in the tunnels.

Or if he were in this truck right now.

Some broke the pressure by talking about the safe house. A few of them had been there, and nearly everyone had sent family that direction.

“If every other person’s mama lives there,” asked someone from the other side of the compartment. “How big is this place?”

“Big,” said someone.

“Real big,” said another.

“It’s a town, man. They’ve taken over a whole town.”

At first I struggled, trying to place something like the Wayland Inn or the tunnels in the context of a beachfront property. But then my mind relaxed, and I saw houses on stilts, like I’d seen in pictures long ago. Homes filled with people, bustling with life. A soup kitchen line, like at home, where rations were given out. Yellow sand and the ocean, deep and everlasting.

Marco and Polo had suspected it wasn’t just refugees that inhabited the safe house, but the mysterious Three as well. Would their presence make us safer? Or put us in more danger? Finally the vehicle jostled to a stop, and we all braced for what might wait outside.

Trees. That was what I saw first. Tall and leafy, overgrown with ivy and spindly webs that reflected the face of the moon. The air seeped into my pores, so much fresher than the suffocating interior of the truck. My whole body lifted. We were going to be safe at last.

I listened as hard as I could, but couldn’t hear the waves. Some of the people from Chicago had talked about that—hearing the ocean, smelling the salt. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t hear soldiers either. We were far away from the road, far away from any bases or patrol cars. Miles and miles from the FBR.

We were free.

Truck helped me down, carting me from the tailgate like I weighed no more than a small child. Up close I could see that his eyes were sunken with fatigue, and his huge muscular neck was the same width as his jaw.

“Where’s the ocean?” I asked, frowning.

“Six miles east,” he said, his face falling into shadow. “Usually there’s a scout here to lead us into camp. I tried to radio ahead to them we were coming, but the lines are down.”

I frowned, and he play-punched my arm. “No worries,” he said. “They probably just ran out of batteries. I know the way in.”

The injured were carried, or loaded on stretchers made from blankets. Though Rebecca had tried to walk unassisted, the soft, mossy soil was too uneven for her dragging feet, and she reluctantly agreed to let Sean carry her piggyback.

Truck led us on a narrow path through the darkness. With my good arm, I carried a bucket of medical supplies that had been salvaged from the tunnels, and Chase hauled a flat of ammunition. Despite the added weight, the weariness lifted off my shoulders and my body hummed with excitement.

We stopped at a stream to rest the injured and refill our canteens. My worries about Tucker, about Harper, about the rat who’d sold out the Chicago resistance, drifted downstream with the current. I let the cool water wash over my hands and my sore wrist and my face, and breathed in deeply.

When I opened my eyes, I found Chase watching me. His face was momentarily void of the worry he’d been carrying since the hospital, his eyes clear of the horror we’d seen there. Now a small smile lifted his mouth, and he settled back on his heels. It took me a full beat to realize that he looked relieved.