Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(23)

I jumped up and wrapped him in a hard hug, then pushed him back into the wall.

“What took you so long?” I said.

He choked out something indecipherable and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Square, as if this were the stupidest question he’d ever heard.

He turned to Chase. “Is your radio working?”

Chase had left it turned off in his belt for fear anyone might hear it and find us, but now he flipped it on and lifted it to his ear, keeping the volume low. Nothing but static—on every channel. The MM wasn’t broadcasting what had happened in the Square, which meant we couldn’t connect to one another, or to Wallace back at the Wayland Inn, either. There went our chance for backup.

The patter of footsteps outside had him quickly switching it back off. We froze, waiting for whoever it was to pass, but the footsteps came closer. Chase reached slowly for his gun and nodded to Sean.

“There room for one more at this party?”

Cara appeared between the Dumpster and the wall, her once long locks cut to chin-length and redyed black, like mine. Exactly like mine, I realized. Another layer of protection so that people might even mistake us for each other. Her Sister ensemble fit more snugly across the hips and the chest to accommodate for her curves, but apart from that we were practically twins.

My blood was still thrumming as Chase’s hand dropped from his holster.

“You could have just said no,” she said, feigning annoyance.

“Get down here!” Sean motioned for her to come closer, which she did with a smile that made me wary.

“Oh,” she whispered. “It’s a secret party. You should have said so.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “What happened to Houston and Lincoln?”

“We got separated,” she said, the seriousness finally catching up to her. “What happened to you two? I saw you get ambushed by the Sisters.”

So she had been watching us. I glanced at Chase. “We got separated.”

“Radios are out,” Chase interrupted.

“It’s the storm,” said Cara. “There were severe weather reports on the back channels earlier.”

“We’ll hold until this clears up,” said Chase, nodding toward the Square. “Then move out at nightfall.”

The disappointment weighed down on me; I did want to go back, but we hadn’t accomplished anything yet. No one had recognized us. We hadn’t even picked up the package.

Cara shook her head. “My guess is we’ve got fifteen, twenty minutes before those soldiers back there start combing every block in a ten-mile radius looking for the shooter. We need to move.”

“She’s right,” said Sean. He didn’t look happy about it. “With the radios out they can’t call for backup. This is the best chance we have to get out.”

I took a deep breath. Chase’s expression turned hard and unreadable. He finally nodded.

“We’ll go through Tent City,” said Cara. “Might as well pick up our package since we’re here.”

“Forget the package,” said Chase.

“No,” I said, ignoring his scowl. “We’re here. We came here for a reason. Like Cara said, soldiers are going to be coming this way soon.” This person, whoever it was, needed our help now.

I stood.

“Well, boys,” Cara said. “Safeties off. And remember, we’re all wearing blue today, so watch where you’re shooting.”

*

AS soon as we left the shelter of our enclosure, the evidence of just how severe the weather would be became apparent. The air smelled electric, and the wind and rain were gusting. They drowned out the sounds from behind us, in the Square, where the civilians were still being searched for weapons.

Just past the donation bus, the alleyway revealed a bottleneck of makeshift shelters, corked at the closest end by a table where, Sean informed us, two armed soldiers usually sat. For now, the way was clear, and we moved fast, heads down, looking back as often as we could spare a glance.

As we passed through the barrier, the air whooshed out of my lungs. It seemed a great accomplishment that we were still alive.

Tent City was meant to be a temporary housing settlement, set up during the War when people had evacuated from the major cities on the Eastern Seaboard. In the beginning, the Red Cross had provided supplies, but over time, as it became obvious that the occupants had nowhere else to go, they began building shelter with whatever they could find. Tent City became as much a fixture in the city as the Wayland Inn. I could see that now, as the street opened up into what Cara termed blocks. The stalls contained within each were no more than six feet wide, and made of anything people could get their hands on. Car doors. Trash can lids. Piled stones. Cracked windowpanes and scavenged pieces of plexiglass. All latched together by spare twine or even leather belts.

People peeked out of their flimsy thresholds, having no doubt heard the ruckus from the Square. They regarded us with suspicious glares, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I hadn’t considered that we wouldn’t be well received—we were here to help—but now of course it made sense. We looked like government employees; clearly they wouldn’t trust us. We rushed down the main drag, feet shuffling through the cyclones of trash that swirled around our ankles. The guys took the lead, weapons in hand, directed by Cara’s subtle instructions. We were given a wide berth. Even though the entire Tent City could easily overwhelm two soldiers, they were afraid. Should the MM have reason, this whole colony could be gunned down in an hour, tops.