Three (Article 5 #3)(67)

“Yes, but we’re going about it in vastly different ways,” said the president. “I won’t be boosted back into office by an organization that condones assassination attempts and guerrilla warfare. The people have that now. They deserve better.”

Chase and I glanced at each other. DeWitt hadn’t told us that Three was supporting the president; he must have conveyed this message to Jesse privately.

“This plan with the Statutes,” said Jesse. “It’s different from what’s been done in the past.”

“I’m listening.”

I felt my heart rate kick up a notch. The former president of the United States was about to hear a plan I’d come up with. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream in excitement or throw up.

Inside, the conversation had gone quiet. Either the president was taking a long time to read and think about the plan, or they’d moved out of earshot.

I pushed my hands in my pockets, disappointed not to hear his reaction.

“Have you heard about Three supporting this president?” I asked. I hadn’t much thought of what would happen if the MM was knocked out of power.

Chase shook his head. “Sounds like he’s not a big fan.”

I rubbed the three marks on my chest. “I don’t know that he’s got a lot of choice if he wants back in office. I don’t see anyone else opposing the MM.”

“We have our methods,” said Corporal Blackstone, emerging from around the corner of the deck. He was still wearing fatigues, though his skin had been wiped clean of camouflage paint. His face looked stretched, with large eyes, thick brows, and a flat nose.

Chase cleared his throat. “While you were gone, Corporal Blackstone was telling me how Restart paid off the insurgents,” said Chase.

“Didn’t just pay them off,” said Blackstone, his heavy jaw flexing with each word. “Formed them. Recruited them. And then paid off their families. We have proof—witnesses. Willing to share what they know.” He glanced down to the campfires and I wondered if some of these individuals were here now. “Chancellor Reinhardt was behind the attacks. He set ’em up so Scarboro could pick up the pieces.”

I’d heard talk of this before from Marco and Polo, but that didn’t make the conspiracy any less appalling. I cringed, thinking of Reinhardt’s creepy voice coming through the radio as he talked about the executions of the terrorists. The man was clearly capable of damage and unafraid of any consequences.

“When the time comes, we’ll be ready,” said Corporal Blackstone. He tapped his breast pocket, where for the first time I noticed a folded piece of paper emerging from it. The Moral Statutes—probably the ones we’d hijacked.

I swallowed.

“The president will be reinstated. The Bureau will be charged for their crimes. We’ll have freedom once again.” It occurred to me Blackstone was not referring to Scarboro. “In the meantime,” he finished, “your truck will be topped off and good to go by morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Chase, shaking his hand.

“Tomorrow?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we try to get out tonight?”

Chase motioned toward the food, a look of longing in his eyes. He had skipped eating in order to check on the truck and had yet to clean up. “They have rules about coming and going,” he said. “They have rules about who you talk to and what you say and how to assure you aren’t followed back. They have rules.”

“Ah,” I said. “Understandable, considering their guest list.”

He snorted.

I wondered how Sean was faring—if he’d found Tucker yet. If he’d wrung Jack’s neck yet; the last time I remembered them doing anything together, Sean was punching him in the face outside the swamp before we’d been ambushed by the survivors. He was going to freak out when I told him we had stayed the night in the Smoky Mountains, guests of the veterans of the dispersed military branches and the old president himself. It seemed too unreal to be true.

As Chase went to get a bowl of stew and canned mixed vegetables, I was distracted by something I hadn’t heard in years. Music. Not the preapproved church music piped in through the speakers at Sunday services, but not quite like the kind my mother used to play on the stereo when I was little, either. This was fresher, brighter. Alive. It began with the soft, high wail of a violin, then came the thump of a drum, followed by a brassy horn I couldn’t pinpoint, blending together as if they’d come from a singular source. It pulled at something inside of me, but at the same time raised the hairs on my skin, because beautiful things were always dangerous.

The musicians had congregated behind the largest of the campfires, and on the ground before them sat several children, entranced. As I watched, a few other people joined them, and soon they’d clasped hands and formed a ring around two men. For an instant, I thought they were fighting, until I saw one leap to the side and burst into an intricate pattern of kicks and stomps then challenge the other to follow. The other took the center of the circle, cheered on by those around him, and doubled the speed of the dance. Soon I found myself edging closer, gravitating toward the show.

They laughed as if our posts had not fallen. As if our people—good people—weren’t missing or stranded. As if there was no reason to be afraid. And I watched because I wanted to believe them.