UnWholly (Unwind Dystology #2)(29)
Connor had released them over a period of two months, but the ADR cut their supplies immediately, as if those kids had suddenly ceased to be their problem. Between the released seventeen-year-olds, kids sent out on work programs that had been set in place by the Admiral, and kids who deserted when there wasn’t enough food, the Graveyard population had dropped to about seven hundred.
“I see you’ve planted yourself quite a garden—and you’re raising chickens as well, yes?” Rincon says. “You must be fully sustainable by now.”
“Not even close. The Green Aisle produces only about one-third of the food that we need, and with the ADR flaking on our food shipments, we’ve had to resort to raiding market delivery trucks in Tucson.”
“Oh dear,” says Rincon. That’s all, just “Oh dear,” and he starts to gnaw on the end of his pen.
Connor, whose patience has been frayed since day one, is tired of beating around the bush. “Are you going to tell me something useful, or are you just here to waste my time?”
Rincon sighs. “It comes down to this, Connor: We believe the Graveyard has been compromised.”
Connor cannot believe what this fool is telling him. “Of course it’s been compromised! I’m the one who told you it was compromised! The Juvies know about us, and since the day I took over, I’ve been saying we need to relocate!”
“Yes, we’re working on that, but in the meantime we can’t keep pouring valuable resources into a facility that could be taken out by the Juvies at any moment.”
“So you’re just going to let us rot here?”
“I didn’t say that. You seem to have everything under control. With any luck, the Juvies will never find a need to invade—”
“With any luck?” Connor stands and storms from the table. “The resistance should be about action, not luck. But do you take action? No! I send you my plans to infiltrate harvest camps, and ideas on how to free kids in nonviolent ways that won’t piss people off and create a backlash—but all I hear from the ADR is ‘we’re working on it, Connor,’ or ‘we’ll take it under advisement, Connor.’ And now you’re telling me to rely on luck for our survival? What the hell is the ADR good for?”
Rincon takes this as his cue to end the meeting—something he’s clearly wanted to do since the moment he arrived. “Hey, I’m just the messenger—don’t take this out on me!”
But there are some things Connor simply cannot help, and he finds himself swinging Roland’s fist at “Call-Me-Joe” Rincon’s face. The punch connects with the man’s eye, and he stumbles backward into the bulkhead. He looks at Connor not with contempt, but with fear, as if Connor might not stop there. So much for nonviolence. Connor backs off.
“There’s my message,” he says. “Please take it back to the people who sent you.”
? ? ?
There’s a wingless Boeing 747 airliner that has been gutted, like just about every other plane in the Graveyard, and retrofitted with gym equipment. It’s been named GymBo, although some call it “the fight deck” since so many brawls seem to break out there.
This is where Connor goes to get out his frustrations.
A big punching bag before him, he pounds it like a prize-fighter hell-bent on a first-round knockout. He imagines the faces of all the kids who pissed him off that day. All the ones who have excuses for not doing what they’re supposed to do. And he spreads his anger further to people like Rincon, and the Juvey-cops that he’s had to face, to the smiling counselors at the harvest camp who tried to make unwinding seem like a wholesome family-friendly activity, and finally to the faces of his parents, who set in motion the clockwork that landed him here. For them he can’t hit that bag hard enough and yet can’t stomach the guilt he feels for feeling that way.
The punches from his left hand are nothing compared to those from his right. He looks at the shark tattoo staring at him from the forearm; that tiger shark even uglier than the real thing. He has to admit to himself that he’s gotten used to it, but he’ll never like it. The color of the hair that grows on that arm is also thicker and darker than that of his other arm. He’s here, Connor tells himself. Roland is here with every punch I throw with his hand. And the worst part about it is that throwing those punches feels good—as if the arm itself is enjoying it.
He moves toward a bench press, and a couple of kids who had been sharing it make way for him—a perk of being in charge. He looks at the weight, adds another five pounds on either side, then leans back, ready to pump. Every day he does this, and every day this is the part he hates the most . . . because nowhere is the difference between his left arm and his right clearer than on the bench press. The arm he was born with struggles to raise that bar. And suddenly he realizes that even now he’s still fighting Roland.
“Need someone to spot you?” says a kid behind him. Connor tilts his neck to see standing above him the kid everyone just calls Starkey.
“Yeah, sure,” says Connor. “Thanks.” He goes for another set, already feeling his natural arm aching but not wanting to give into it . . . but after seven reps it starts to give out, and Starkey has to help him get the barbell back onto the cradle.
Starkey points at the shark on his right arm. “You get that after Happy Jack?”
Connor sits up, nursing the burn in his muscles, and looks at the tattoo. “It came with the arm.”