Three (Article 5 #3)(26)
As we approached, Dr. DeWitt slowed. I waited with bated breath as he turned to face us, hoping for a proclamation that this was indeed a resistance base.
“We call it Endurance,” he said. “Named by our first settlers—a small band of criminals and freaks hunted by the Bureau.”
At his callous tone, I felt myself smirk, because he was talking about us—all of us, himself included.
“You’re tired,” DeWitt said. “Hungry. Hurt and angry. We can help you.”
Though his words were encouraging, I found myself frowning. There was more to this than DeWitt was letting on—Wallace hadn’t been nearly so hospitable when we’d been brought to the resistance base in Knoxville. Three was made up of the most illusive rebels in the country, it made sense that they’d surrounded us and aimed guns at our chests. Offering us food and shelter without even verifying our story didn’t fit.
“What about the Bureau?” called the old man from the group of survivors. “What if they send their bombs again?”
A sympathetic smile stretched the scars on DeWitt’s face. “Inside these walls you don’t have to fear the Bureau.”
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
Dr. DeWitt glanced up, and as I followed his gaze I saw the gunmen, half a dozen of them, seated in slings in the trees on either side of the gate. Their clothing was the same as the others, only camouflaged to blend in with their surroundings. I wondered how many trees we’d passed that held the same silent watch.
“Only that you protect our secret,” said DeWitt. “And that you work. Everyone contributes in Endurance.”
With a clank and a squeal of metal, the gate pulled back, revealing an open field, split down the middle by a dirt path. On one side were gardens—rows and rows packed with leafy greens and crawling vines. Bushy plants I didn’t recognize, and bright red tomatoes, their tender leaves trembling in the breeze. Against the far wall, men and women, dressed like DeWitt but with broad straw hats, picked sickle-shaped beans hanging from trellises made of old doors and chairs. It was enough to fill my eyes with tears and make my stomach grumble in eager anticipation.
On the opposite side of the path the grass dipped down into a pond, and anchored to the shore by iron posts were two men attending to large mesh boxes. They looked up, but did not seem surprised by our arrival. Fish, I heard people whisper. They were harvesting fish. And ahead were pens of chickens, sheep, and goats. Those tending them leaned against the fence, welcoming us with nods and the occasional wave.
Too astounded to do anything but gasp, we entered without a backward glance. Past the gardens and the pond was a white barn. There were horses inside—brown with black noses and manes, dapple gray, and even one that was white with glassy blue eyes. They ran to the fence as we approached, and we all laughed as they huffed and stomped and smacked their lips, expecting treats.
Joy streaked through me, overriding the suspicion. It was better than what I’d hoped the safe house would be. It was better than anywhere I’d ever seen.
“These people are going to eat us,” Sean muttered behind me. “Or use us for fish bait. Or horse food. Something. This is way too good to be true.”
If I hadn’t wanted it to be true so badly, I might have agreed with him. But since we’d been inside, the guards had holstered their weapons and were trailing the group, joking with one another as if we weren’t there at all.
Finally we approached a wide, one-story brick building that stretched back from a simple white stone foyer. A cement pillar rose on each side of the entranceway. They’d once been part of an arch, but now were the connecting points for long clotheslines from which hung drying wildflowers and braided strings of withered vegetables. Over a boarded front door was painted one word: LODGE. Far to the right a crooked metal pole emerging from the ground had been bolted to the side of the building. It stretched ten feet above the roof.
“This was a school,” said Dr. DeWitt. I got the impression that he’d been talking for a while, but I’d been too awestruck to hear anything. “Now we call it the Lodge. We eat here, store food and supplies. Most everything we grow ourselves.”
He held the door, and with an impressed glance at each other, Chase and I followed the crowd inside.
It was much like the elementary school I’d gone to—a long hall with classrooms lining the right side and big windows on the left. Their mismatched shutters were cast open and the breeze that entered was tinged with the scent of the livestock across the pasture. The walls—decorated with charcoal drawings of stick figures and houses—were bathed in sunlight.
The sound of children’s voices floated down the corridor, easing the remaining tension in my chest. We came to an open door, and the classroom inside was bright and colorful. There were children of all ages sitting in plastic chairs attached to L-shaped desks like I’d used in school. The older ones, probably near twelve or thirteen, helped the younger ones, who wore just the straw-colored tunics that exposed their little legs. In the back, one boy sat alone, staring at us with a sour look on his face.
On the walls were clusters of water-wrinkled magazine photos. Cityscapes, smiling women wearing the tight clothes of the old days, and even pictures from the War—crushed buildings, yellow smoke, and people running. The images chilled me—a reminder of our bloody past, viewed from a failing television in my old living room.