Renegade (The Elysium Chronicles #1)(45)

“No. My life is here, Gavin.”

“Do you still really believe she thinks you have nothing to do with this? She’s not stupid, Evie, and neither are you. She knows you’re behind this and she’s never going to let you get away with it. Do you really want to lose all your memories? Again?”

I look down at the ground. He’s right, and I know it. But if he’s gone, is there any reason to remember this? Better question: if he’s gone, will I want to remember this? “We’ll figure it out when we get there,” I say after a moment. I can’t tell him what I’m thinking; there’s no way he’d understand.

I can feel his gaze on me, but don’t look at him. “Yes, I suppose we will.” He sounds tense, but he drops it.

I look down at the map again. “Well, we have to get to the other side of the city. It’s in Sector Three. Looks like we’re going to have to take the Tube after all. It’s the only way to get there. That’s going to be fun.” I roll my eyes, feeling a little proud of myself for the unladylike gesture. Not to mention the sarcasm. “I’m not even sure how we’re going to get to it, let alone get into it and to Sector Three without someone noticing us.”

“The Tube?”

“It’s like a”—what do they call them?—“a subway? Train? Anyway, it goes through a tube from here to Sector Three.”

He nods his head and points back at the book still in my lap. “Maybe there’s something in the journal. How was he going to do it?”

I read quickly through the entries again, but the only thing I can get out of it is he was in such a hurry, he was just hoping no one—including Mother—would notice a whole Sector fleeing at the same time, but didn’t hold out much hope for that.

I have to wonder if his plan worked, though. Maybe they did get away with leaving all at once—it’s not like anyone really looks different. It’s not as if we really look different. I’ll fit in easily enough, especially if I dress exactly like the others. It’s just a matter of finding a change of clothes.

The problem will be Gavin. His hair is an almost perfect match, even if it’s a bit dark and dirty. His eyes and skin are the catch.

“We’re in trouble. Your skin is too dark and your eyes are all wrong. There’s nothing we can do to hide them,” I say, my voice thick with frustration.

He shrugs, and I fight the urge to kick him. He’s not taking this seriously.

“My eyes are gray. It’s not that easy to tell blue from gray from a distance in sunlight, let alone the shadows in this place. It’ll be all right.”

I tilt my head to the side as I stare at him. Actually, he’s got a point. If he keeps his eyes averted, we cover most of his skin and we don’t get too close to people, we should be fine.

Now I just have to get better fitting clothes for him. Preferably something not all ripped and dirty.

He looks down at himself the more I continue to stare. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to get you cleaned up and dressed.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“This is a duplicate of Sector Two, which means there should be apartments on the other side of the Square. Since the lights work, let’s try to get into one and find out if the water works, too.”

He turns toward the weapons. “We should probably take some of these, too. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to take the chance of running into an Enforcer without something to defend myself.”

“Good idea.”

I bend down over the pile of weapons and look closely at them. While they’re covered in dust, they appear to be in working order and fully intact. I pull out two of each weapon and lay them across the ground at our feet, checking them for damage as I go.

“These will have to do. Take one of each.” I gesture to the four guns.

“What are they?” he asks, and lifts one of the rifles, studying it closely. He holds it gently, cradling it in his arms. Not in fear, but in love. It’s strange, but Mother did say Surface Dweller men were fond of their weapons. I guess she was right.

“That’s an M50 Reising. It’s a submachine gun, but it was actually designed as a compact semi-automatic carbine that is also capable of fully automatic fire. It has an automatic fire rate of four hundred fifty to six hundred rounds per minute.” He gapes at me. I hand him a small handgun. “That last one is a bit old-fashioned. You’ll probably get more use out of this. It’s a plasma pistol. It heats up the air to a comfy eight-hundred-and-fifteen degrees Celsius, creating a ball of plasma, which it shoots in any direction you want, effectively ending the life of almost anything it comes into contact with.”

He stares at it. “I guess I shouldn’t put this in my pants then.”

I can’t help but laugh at his expression. It’s a cross between horror and fascination.

“Relax. It will only go off if you press the trigger and the safety in the back here. It’s not even loaded right now. You need the silver canisters to charge it. Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll have more problems with the Reising going off accidentally than you will the pistol.”

He doesn’t seem so sure, but he carefully places it in his pocket. Then he pulls the strap of the Reising over his shoulder, obviously a lot more comfortable with that than the pistol. I load the two backpacks I found in the metal cabinet with ammo, grenades, and mines.