Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

“What was that?” I whispered. I felt exposed; every sideways glance prickled my skin.

He swore, obviously agitated. “Advertising. Nothing puts people in their place like the threat of pain. I saw it in Chicago. It’s sick.”

It was not so unlike Wallace’s plan to let the people see me in Tent City, I thought. Only that message was meant to inspire hope, not fear.

The world was coming unhinged. I could feel it, like a great crushing weight on my chest, pushing me into the ground beneath my feet. I’d been linked to a serial murderer, my name slandered across the country. My mother’s killer had infiltrated the resistance. Girls like Sarah were being beaten by their MM boyfriends and left for dead. Moms were using their kids to spread the MM’s tyrannical message. I’d lost Rebecca all over again, I didn’t know what was happening at home with Beth, and poor Rosa was probably still a zombie up at the reformatory. If there was ever a time to push back, it was now, but how?

“Name?”

My eyes refocused on a woman in front of me. A Sister. The light blue knot in her handkerchief was tied perfectly. She wore a paper mask over her mouth and nose, like mine.

I felt a surge of panic and blurted, “Lori Whittman.”

“Lori Whittman,” she read down the list on her clipboard. “Have you been here in the past two days, Ms. Whittman?” She didn’t look too closely at my face.

“ Mrs., ” said Chase, tearing away from another masked Sister and moving to my side. “My wife is sick,” he said. “She needs to rest.”

I coughed for effect, adjusting the mask to cover as much of my face as possible.

“If they’re married…” began the one who had asked my name. She was halted by the other’s dubious expression.

“We’re married,” I said defensively. I held up my left hand, thankful for my stolen wedding band.

“Fine,” huffed the one, still unconvinced. “Remember you’ll be issued a citation if the FBR finds out otherwise.”

I felt myself stiffen, wondering if the MM was going to be dropping by to question us, but I didn’t see anyone in a blue uniform within the tent.

The cranky Sister led us inside the flimsy chain-link barrier to the right, where we passed a bin for contraband items and cot after cot of sleeping individuals. There were three empty bunks in the back, these bigger.

The pungency of human sweat was nearly dizzying. Someone hacked up a lung to my right. We picked a cot beside a family of four, all sharing a space smaller than a twin bed. I thought of the woman outside with her son and wished they would come rest here instead of continuing their campaign.

I sat on the filthy canvas cot, avoiding a black spot near the edge that still looked damp. We’d had it good at the Wayland Inn.

I sighed, unwilling to pull the mask down on my chin. They hadn’t recognized me, but I wasn’t feeling particularly relieved. Chase sat next to me and placed the backpack down beside his feet, avoiding a puddle of stagnant rainwater that had blown in. He took a slow, deep breath.

“Tubman should be back in town tonight. We’ll stay with him until the roads are clear.” He kept his voice low so as not to wake those around us.

He wanted to go to the safe house, to abandon Rebecca and everything we’d come here to do, and though I wasn’t proud of it, part of me did want to run away and hide.

Who was I kidding? The chances of me making it that far were slim. Any one of these people might turn me in. Any one of the soldiers prowling around the city might shoot me without question. I knew this; it scared me to death. But not as much as Tucker handing over the entire Knoxville resistance to the MM.

“We can’t leave,” I said resolutely. “Tucker’s planning something.”

He flinched at the name. “We have to leave. It’s not safe here for you.”

“It’s not safe here for anyone.”

“Wallace made his decision.” Chase’s hand swiped along his temple, and he held it there in pain. The earlier fight must have triggered his injuries from the arrest. When he saw my concern, he dropped his arm, as if embarrassed.

“It’s a bad decision and you know it,” I said, wondering how much of his distance had to do with his new knowledge of me kissing Tucker.

“It doesn’t matter what I know.”

I felt my shoulders bunch defensively. “We’ve got to stay. Sean’s still there—I have to help him get Rebecca—and Billy….”

“They’re big kids.” His voice was strained.

“They’re our friends, ” I said, exasperated. “When people don’t do what’s best for themselves, you’ve got a responsibility to do it for them.” I’d learned that lesson with my mom.

He laughed wryly.

“Just so we’re clear, this rule doesn’t apply to you, right?”

I glared at him.

“That’s what I thought.” He made a frustrated sound in his throat, then mumbled, “I should’ve put you on that truck to the safe house when I had the chance.”

I balked. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that. I wouldn’t have gone.”

His brow quirked, and his eyes sparkled with challenge.

I shifted my legs to the opposite side of the cot so that we could watch each other’s backs.

“So, is it true?” he said, gaze roaming.

He didn’t have to qualify it. I knew what he meant. My damp hands clasped, unclasped, clasped again.

“Did he hurt you, Em?”

“No,” I said quickly.

Chase’s jaw twitched. He didn’t say anything.

“It was the only way to steal his gun.” My voice was all but a whisper now. It was impossible to explain how logic changed in the face of death, but still I felt ashamed.

After a moment, he touched my arm. It was a gentle move, a move of apology and support and question for what might become of us, and I stared down at his fingers, feeling my heart crack.

“I wish Billy hadn’t messed up my shot,” he said.

I wasn’t so sure I disagreed.

I adjusted the mask and focused on the bag, careful not to showcase Chase’s old MM nightstick and radio against the back. The batteries were dead, but I thought we might have some cash left. It would be good to be able to follow any new developments in the nightly report. My hands wandered over our extra change of clothes, a toiletries kit. A worn copy of the novel Frankenstein filled with the letters I’d written to Chase during his training, all rubber-banded together.

“Keep your head down.”

At Chase’s order I froze. Down the row, in the direction of the cougher, was a soldier—the same one with the clipboard from across the street who’d been talking to the old man. He was shaking the sleepers and checking their faces.

“There’s a hole in the fence we can fit through,” I whispered. I’d seen it when we came in. The soldier reached the family of four and poked the father’s shoulder with his baton.

“Get up,” he said gruffly. “Look at these pictures.”

The man blinked and rubbed his eyes. His wife woke their two children and pulled them behind her.

“Stand up,” Chase breathed. I rose and zipped the bag, pretending to keep myself busy with the contents. He stayed seated but moved to the edge of the cot, ready to follow.

A low beep cut through the coughing. The soldier’s radio.

“Hold it,” said the soldier. For a second I thought he was talking to us and fought the urge to run. I adjusted the paper mask. My knee brushed against Chase’s.

The soldier’s radio hissed, then clicked, then went clear as a woman’s voice came through.

“All units be advised. Fire at 1020 Franklin Station Way, ten-story motel identified as the Wayland Inn. Emergency crews called to attend have found evidence of rebel activity. All units, including road patrols, reroute to Franklin Station Way immediately. Repeat, all units reroute to Franklin Station Way immediately.”