Elites of Eden (Children of Eden #2)(38)

But why? I’m a stranger from an inner circle. A second child who threatens the very existence of Eden. Why would anyone help me?

The part of the outermost ring I’ve seen so far is dirty, crumbling, a place of desperation and squalor—but still, apparently, habitable. As I move outward, though, what was bad becomes so much worse.

Entire buildings seem to have been knocked from their foundations and lay sprawled across the streets like disheveled drunkards. There are huge holes in the road that look like bomb craters. I’ve read about the wars people fought back in the days before the Ecofail. They slaughtered one another for the flimsiest reasons: disputes over nuances of myths, or ownership of the toxic forms of fuel that gave the world energy back then. But these craters must have been caused by something else, right? Collapsed water pipes or faulty infrastructure. There’s no way that the last remnants of the human species could engage in anything like a war.

Whatever the cause, this stretch at the extreme outer edge is like another world, an alien landscape of tumbled masonry and exposed pipes, of shadow even in the brightness of morning. Of loneliness. I don’t see a living soul anywhere out here. The wind makes a mournful sound as it wanders through the wreckage of a city.

But alone is good. Alone is safe. Surely somewhere out here amid the devastation is a place where I can hide until nightfall.

Then I hear voices behind me.

“There she is! Get her!”

I dodge behind what was once the wall of a clothing store. A faded sign still clings by one bolt to the lopsided masonry, advertising the latest fashions at a reasonable price. Just as I disappear behind the cover, a spray of bullets embeds itself in the wall. I have the impression that this time the miss isn’t deliberate.

“Take her alive!” I hear someone shout, but I can’t tell if it’s Rook. There are reasons other than compassion why the Greenshirts and the Center might prefer to have me taken alive rather than gunned down in the street. Torture. Interrogation. A public example to the citizens of Eden . . .

I break cover to dash as fast as I’m able to the next crumbled edifice. A quick backward glance shows them moving slowly in tactical formation, as if they’re expecting to be attacked themselves. Maybe out here in this outlaw place they have more to worry about than me. I thank my lucky stars. I’m so slow now that if they pursued me at speed, I’d have no hope. But as long as they move in that cautious, stalking, defensive way, I can limp fast enough to stay ahead of them.

For a while, anyway. Until my ankle gives out, or I make a wrong turn and get cornered.

Panting, I lean against a wall riddled with what look like old bullet holes. What on Earth happened out here? My leg muscles are starting to twitch in protest, and my side is cramped, but my ankle has swollen enough that, for a little while anyway, the nerves are too pinched to hurt much. I know it won’t last, and any minute the stabbing pain will start. I just hope the ankle can bear my weight.

I know I shouldn’t rest, but my body has a mind of its own and I lean against that wall way too long. A bullet hits the masonry over my head, and with agonizing slowness I coax my legs into a run.

I round a corner . . . smack into a twenty-foot wall of twisted, tangled metal and wires, and concrete, all corners and sharp places. Bikk! The second they come around this corner, they’ll have an open shot. The wall of debris is unbroken, and there’s no way back except the way I’ve come. Back toward the Greenshirts. I try to climb—it’s one of the things I do best—but every hold either slices my hands or collapses beneath them. The wall is impenetrable, unclimbable, and stretches as far as I can see in either direction.

I want to cry. Not from grief this time, but from pure self-pity. I’m so tired! I hurt so much! I’m thirsty and bloody and bruised and my ankle is screaming now and my hands are raw . . . I can’t do this anymore. I can hear them coming.

I have no hope. I’ve reached the end.

I just want to lie down. What does it matter now? I let myself sink down, and the blessed relief of giving in to gravity—of giving in, period—is so welcome that I almost want to sprawl there, clasp my hands behind my head, and just gaze at the sky, waiting for the end to come.

But I don’t. I can’t. Not after Mom gave her life for me. I would be betraying her sacrifice if I just gave up.

Maybe I can’t go over, but what if I can go through?

I scramble to my knees and begin to paw at the seemingly impenetrable wall of debris. It isn’t long before I see it: a tunnel. Almost.

Go, my mother’s ghost commands, and I drop to my belly and begin to slither through headfirst.

“Halt!” someone bellows as my head disappears. Bullets pierce the wall around me, sending concrete dust into my eyes.

“Stop!” comes another voice, Rook’s voice, I’m pretty sure. But I can tell from his tone it’s not an order. It’s a plea. I’m shoulder-deep now, twisting and flexing to maneuver through the winding opening. “Come back!” Rook calls again as my hips almost don’t fit through, then squeeze past with a small avalanche of dust. He’s not putting on an act for the other Greenshirts. Something about his voice tells me he really believes that whatever I’m crawling toward is far worse than being captured by his compatriots.

My feet disappear, and the last thing I hear is one of the other Greenshirts saying, “Let her go. If she goes out there, she’s dead anyway.”