Elites of Eden (Children of Eden #2)(37)

I watch mothers standing on the dole line with children who scamper and cling and laugh and cry, all the things children do when they’re bored and waiting. Though the mothers’ clothes are worn and torn, though there is despair in the back of their eyes, when they look at their children they’re exactly like my mother. They’re so full of love and care and worry. They’ll do anything for their little ones. My eyes get hot, my throat tightens, as two small children play tag around my legs. The mother examines me curiously, but doesn’t seem to condemn me. She calls her kids over and gives me a little smile before turning away. Apparently I’m not a threat, but none of her concern. I relax just a bit . . .

. . . which, I’m learning, is generally a bad idea.

A murmuration goes through the crowd, and it starts to close in around me. I don’t know what’s happening, but they move like one entity, a multicelled animal with a mysterious but frightening purpose. I’m being closed in by a wall of people. No one is looking at me, but I can feel the heat of their bodies as some twenty people subtly move nearer to me.

Then I hear the voice, loud and commanding. “We’re looking for an inner circle girl. Have you seen anyone who doesn’t belong?”

They’re trapping me! They’re holding me for an easy capture, for the reward! I shove my way through, shouldering mothers and children out of the way, and break from the crowd.

“There!” a Greenshirt shouts, and I’m limping away again, a slow and painful half run. I look quickly over my shoulder. Behind me, the people move once more, like a school of fish, a flight of starlings, to get between me and the two pursuing Greenshirts. It is so smooth it looks accidental, circumstantial. The Greenshirts shout at them to move and force their way through after me. By now, though, I have a decent head start.

Then I hear a bullet hit the wall beside me. Without meaning to I skid a brief stop and look at the groove it gouged. That isn’t an electrical charge. That’s a real solid bullet that will tear apart my flesh!

There’s nowhere for me to go but in a straight line. The Greenshirts will have a clean shot at me. Another bullet streaks by my side and I dodge, zigzagging in what I hope are unpredictable turns. I might as well be a difficult target. Bikk! Isn’t there a place to turn? There are no alleys, no open doors.

“Hold your fire!” someone shouts. The voice is familiar. I hear feet pounding far behind us . . . but not far enough. They’re closing in!

I’m too tired to run any faster. Before long, I won’t be able to run any farther. My side cramps as if a claw was gripping my ribs, my swollen ankle throbs, and I can hardly catch my breath.

I have to get out of this open space. Finally I see a little side road between two buildings. I dodge sharply in and stagger against the wall as I run painfully on. But the walls get closer together! The road narrows into a dead end filled with piles of stinking garbage.

I whirl around, but it’s too late. The two Greenshirts are blocking the entrance. One of them levels his weapon at me. I press against the wall, fall to my knees, curl up in a ball . . . and hope the end will be quick.

There’s the sound of a tussle, a thump. I look up to see one Greenshirt standing, the other sprawled at his feet. The one who is standing holds a gun . . . but he’s pointing it at the unconscious Greenshirt on the ground, not at me.

I recognize the burly young blond Greenshirt from my first venture into the city. Rook, was that it? He looks scared. Of me? That can’t be. Could it be for me?

He beckons, but I stay cowering in the garbage.

“Come on!” he whispers urgently. “The others will be here soon.”

Cautiously, I rise and approach. His face looks so young. It doesn’t match his burly body and menacing uniform. “Do you have a safe place to hide?” he asks.

I shake my head. He looks down the road in the direction we came from. “Where is he?” he asks aloud to himself. “Look, I can’t take care of you. It’s going to be hard enough covering this up.” He gestures with his gun to his unconscious comrade. “Just go and hole up somewhere. But come back to the breadline after dark. He’ll find you.”

“Who will find me?” I choke out, completely confused. “Why are you helping me?”

Apparently the answer to both questions is the same. “My younger brother.”

His brother is another second child?

Before I can ask any more questions he curses, and hisses, “Run!” I see other Greenshirts approaching, marching swiftly in tactical formation. I stagger off, clutching my aching side, while Rook squares himself in the line between me and the other Greenshirts so they can’t fire at me.

He fires, though. And he misses, deliberately, each time.

I turn toward the only place the Greenshirts might not follow me: the wasteland beyond Eden.





EVEN THOUGH ROOK is helping me, I know I’m far from safe. I have one ally, compared to the entire might of the Center, all of the Greenshirts, the securitybots that will cut me down, even the little cleanbots that will alert all the rest of my whereabouts.

But no, I think as I limp away at a half trot. There might be other people on my side. There’s Rook’s brother, whoever he is and wherever he is. Though I can’t expect any help from him unless I can survive the day and sneak back to the breadline tonight.

And then there’s the hobo in rags, his second-child bright hazel eyes twinkling mysterious advice at me. And what had happened at the charity station? When all of those people—mostly mothers and children—crowded around me, I was sure they were part of a conspiracy to capture me. But then when I was spotted, and fleeing, they seemed to step between me and my pursuers. Did I just imagine that? It casts the first occurrence in another light. Though I’m a little incredulous, I think maybe when they closed around me they were trying to hide me, to protect me, to shield me.