Day
I TRY TO BREAK OUT OF MY PRISON TONIGHT. THIS is how it happens.
As night falls on the third to last day of my life, I hear more shouting and pandemonium coming from the monitors outside my cell. Plague patrols have completely sealed off the Lake and Alta sectors. The steady rise and fall of gunfire coming from the screens tells me that the people living in those sectors must be facing off against the troops. Only one side has the advantage of guns. Guess who’s winning.
My thoughts wander back to June. I shake my head, amazed by how much I’ve allowed myself to open up to her. I wonder what she’s doing right now and what she’s thinking about. Maybe she’s thinking about me. I wish she were here. Somehow I always feel better with her. It’s as if she can completely sympathize with my thoughts and help me channel them away, and I can always take comfort in her lovely face.
Her face might give me courage, too. I’ve had trouble building up my courage without Tess, or John, or my mother.
I’ve been thinking about this all day. If I can find a way out of this cell, and arm myself with a soldier’s weapons and vest, I have a fighting chance to get out of Batalla Hall. I’ve seen the outside of this building several times now. The sides are not as slick as the Central Hospital was, and if I manage to break out of a window I could run along one of the ledges wrapping around the side of the building, even with my healing leg. The soldiers won’t be able to follow me. They’d have to shoot at me from the ground or the air, but I’m fast when I can find footholds, and I can tolerate the pain in my hands. I’ll have to find some way to break John out too. Eden probably isn’t in Batalla Hall anymore, but I remember quite clearly what June said to me on the first day of my capture. The prisoner in 6822. That must be John … and I’m going to find him.
But first I have to figure out how to get out of this cell.
I look over at the soldiers lined up against the wall and near the door. There are four. Each wears a standard uniform: black boots, black shirt with a single row of silver buttons, dark gray trousers, bulletproof vest, and a single silver armband. Each has a close-range rifle and an additional gun in his belt’s holsters. My mind races. In a room like this, with four steel walls that bullets could bounce off of, the rifles probably use something other than lead ammo. Rubber, perhaps, to stun me if needed. Even tranquilizers. But nothing that can kill me or kill them. Nothing, that is, unless it’s shot from a very close range.
I clear my throat. The soldiers turn to me. I wait a few more seconds, then make a gagging sound and hunch over. I shake my head as if to clear my thoughts, then lean back against the wall and close my eyes.
The soldiers seem alert now. One of them points his rifle at me. They stay silent.
I keep up my act for another few minutes, gagging twice more as the soldiers continue to watch me. Then, without warning, I pretend to dry heave, then burst into a fit of coughs.
The soldiers look at each other. For the first time, I see an uncertain light come into their eyes.
“What’s wrong?” one of them snaps at me. It’s the one with the cocked rifle. I don’t answer him. I pretend to concentrate too hard on holding back another heave.
Another soldier glances at him. “Maybe it’s the plague.”
“That’s nonsense. The medics checked him already.”
The soldier shakes his head. “He was exposed to his brothers. That young one’s Patient Zero, isn’t he? Maybe the medics didn’t pick it up back then.”
Patient Zero. I knew it. I gag again, trying to turn away from the guards as I do it, so they think I don’t want their attention. I heave and spit on the floor.
The guards hesitate. Finally, the one with the cocked rifle nods at the soldier standing next to him. “Well, I don’t want to stick around in here if it is some weird mutated plague. Call for a bio team. Let’s have him brought to the medical ward cells.” The other soldier nods, then raps on the door. I hear it unlock from the outside. A soldier from the hallway ushers him outside, then quickly relocks the door.
The first soldier walks toward me. “The rest of you, keep your rifles on him,” he says over his shoulder. He holds out a pair of handcuffs. I pretend not to notice his approach, so busy am I with my gagging and coughing. “Get up.” He grabs one of my arms and pulls me roughly to my feet. I grunt in pain.
He reaches up and unlocks one of my hands from its chain, then clips it into the handcuffs. I don’t fight him. Then he unlocks the second hand. He gets ready to shove it into the handcuffs.
Suddenly I twist, and for a split second I’m free. Before he can react, I whirl, yank the gun out of his holster, and point it straight at him. The other two guards fix their rifles on me, but they don’t fire. They can’t do it without hitting the first soldier.
“Tell your boys outside to open the door,” I say to the soldier I’m holding hostage.
He swallows hard. The other soldiers don’t dare to blink. “Open the door!” he shouts. There’s commotion in the hall, then a few clicks. The first soldier bares his teeth at me. “There are dozens of them out there,” he snaps. “You’ll never make it.”
I just wink at him.
The instant the door opens a sliver, I grab the soldier’s shirt and shove him against a wall. One of the others attempts to fire at me—I duck to the floor and roll. Shots are fired all around me. They sound like rubber pellets. I break out of my roll in time to trip a soldier flat on his back. Even this makes me grit my teeth in pain. Damn this sore leg. I dart right through the opening before they can close it.
I take in the hallway scene in the blink of an eye. Soldiers litter the walkway. Ceiling tiles. Right-angle turn at the end of the hall. The walls say 4th Floor. The soldier who opened the door has started reacting–his hand goes to his gun as if in slow motion. I leap up, push off against one wall, and grip the top ledge of the door. My injured leg throws me off completely—I nearly fall back to the ground. More shots ring out. I swing up toward the ceiling and grab the crisscrossing metal between the tiles. Room 6822—sixth floor. I swing back down, kicking one soldier in the head with my good leg. He goes down, and I roll with him. I feel two rubber bullets hit him in the shoulder. He cries out. I crouch down and dart through the hall, dodging soldiers and guns, slipping out of the hands that reach for me.
I have to get to John. If I can get him out, we can help each other escape. If I can—
Then something heavy hits me across the face. My vision goes dark. I fight to concentrate, but I feel myself fall to the floor. I try to spring back to my feet, but someone knocks me down again, and a sharp pain makes my back twitch. A soldier must’ve hit me with the butt of a rifle. I feel hands pin my arms and legs down. My breath escapes me in a gasp.
Everything happens so fast that I can barely register all of it. My head swims. I think I’m going to pass out.
A familiar voice sounds out above me. It’s Commander Jameson. “What the hell is this!” She continues to shout at her soldiers. My vision gradually comes back. I realize I’m still trying to fight my way out of the soldiers’ grasp.
A hand grabs my chin. Suddenly I’m looking directly into Commander Jameson’s eyes. “A foolish attempt,” she says. She glances at Thomas, who salutes her. “Thomas. Take him back to his cell. And put some qualified guards on his watch, for once.” She releases my chin and rubs her gloved hands together. “I want the current guards dismissed and thrown off my patrol.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Thomas salutes again, then starts barking out orders. My free hand is clipped into the handcuffs that are still hanging off the other wrist. From the corner of my eye, I see another black-clad official standing next to Thomas. It’s June. My heart leaps into my throat. She narrows her eyes at me. In her hand I see the rifle she used to hit me.
They drag me kicking and shouting back to my cell. June stands by as soldiers chain me to the wall again. Then, when they step back, she leans down near my face. “I would highly suggest you not try that again,” she snaps.
There’s nothing but cold fury in her eyes. By the door, I see Commander Jameson smile. Thomas looks on with a serious face.
Then, June leans over again and whispers in my ear. “Don’t try it again,” she says, “because you won’t be able to do it alone. You’ll need my help.”
Of all the things I could’ve imagined coming out of her mouth, this is certainly not one of them. I try to keep my expression from changing, but my heart stops beating for a second. Help? June wants to help me? This is the girl who’d just knocked me to a state of half consciousness in the hallway. Is she trying to throw me into a trap? Or does she really mean it?
June pulls away from me the instant she utters the last word. I pretend to be angry, as if she’s just whispered something insulting. Commander Jameson lifts her chin. “Well done, Agent Iparis.” June gives her a quick salute. “Follow Thomas down to the lobby, and I’ll meet you there.”
June and the captain leave. I’m alone with Commander Jameson and a new rotation of soldiers standing near the cell’s door.
“Mr. Wing,” she says to me after a while. “An impressive effort tonight. You are truly as agile as Agent Iparis claimed. I hate seeing such talents wasted on worthless criminals, but life isn’t very fair, is it?” She smiles at me. “Poor boy. You truly believed you could break out of a military stronghold, didn’t you?”
Commander Jameson walks over to me, bends down, and rests her elbow on one knee. “Let me tell you a short story,” she says. “Some years ago, we caught a young renegade who had a great deal in common with you. Bold and brash, stupidly defiant, just as inconvenient. He tried to escape before his execution date too. Do you know what happened to him, Mr. Wing?” She reaches over, puts her hand on my forehead, and pushes me backward until my head presses against the wall. “That kid made it as far as the stairwell before we got him. When his execution date came, the court granted me permission to kill him personally instead of putting him in front of the firing squad.” Her hand tightens on my forehead. “I think he would have preferred the firing squad.”
“Someday you’ll die in a worse way than he did,” I snap back.
Commander Jameson lets out a laugh. “Ill-tempered until the end, aren’t you?” She releases my head and tilts my chin up with a finger. “What fun you are, my beautiful boy.”
I narrow my eyes. Before she can stop me, I dart out of her grasp and sink my teeth deep into her hand. She shrieks. I bite down as hard as I can, until I taste blood. Commander Jameson slams me into the wall. The hit knocks me loose. She clutches her hand, performing an agonized dance while I blink, fighting to stay awake. A couple of soldiers try to help her, but she shoves them away.
“I’m looking forward to your execution, Day,” she snarls at me. Her hand oozes blood. “I’ll be counting down the minutes!” Then she storms away and slams the cell door behind her.
I close my eyes and bury my head in my arms so that no one can see my face. Blood lingers on my tongue—I shudder at the metallic taste. I haven’t had the nerve to think about my execution date. What does it feel like to stand in front of a firing squad with no way out? My thoughts wander around and then zoom in on what June whispered to me. You won’t be able to do it alone. You’ll need my help.
She must have discovered something—who really killed her brother, or some other truth about the Republic. She has no reason to trick me now. … I have nothing to lose and she has nothing to gain. I wait for the realization to sink in.
A Republic agent is going to help me escape. She’ll help me save my brothers.
I must be losing my mind.