Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

“It was like… four… or five years ago,” Polo pointed out. “And anyway, he was tough. He’d fought overseas, before the War. He showed up at the FBR enlistment office in old army fatigues, spouting all this stuff about how President Scarboro and his Restart America buddies were behind the attacks.”

“What?” I stole another bottle of water. “Insurgents were behind the attacks.” I’d memorized the word from the news reports we’d watched in my living room, but it wasn’t until high school that I learned what it actually meant.

The people who had bombed the major cities weren’t terrorists from a foreign land, though many suspected that’s where they’d gotten their support. They were American citizens. They were born and raised in our towns, in our schools, and held jobs that weren’t particularly special.

But they were poor, even though they were educated, and even though they worked. They lived like my mother and I did, paycheck to paycheck, and when the money wasn’t coming in, on what assistance they could find. One of the Insurgents was the manager of a restaurant—a normal looking guy with a receding hairline—and when he gave his statement before execution he said that he was tired of sleeping in the back of the kitchen, feeding his kids rich people’s scraps. He just wanted to level the playing field.

My mother told me once that the world was like her favorite singer, an overly busty blonde with a tiny waist. It was just a matter of time before her middle was stretched too thin and she broke in half.

And that’s what the Insurgents had done. They’d broken the world in half. They’d hit every major city on the coasts, and some of the big ones in the middle, too—like Chicago and Dallas—and when it was done, nobody was rich, and nobody trusted anyone.

That was when Scarboro became president. Maybe before people thought his rigid stance on government control was a joke, but they didn’t anymore. It wasn’t two months after he’d taken office that the military branches—what were left of them—were relieved of duty, and the Reformation Act came into effect. It was said that Reinhardt, the man he’d named the Chief of Reformation—the man who had nearly been assassinated while we’d been in Knoxville—was responsible for the changes, including the creation of the Moral Statutes.

Polo leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Yes, but how did the Insurgents get their bombs?”

“Same way we get our guns,” said Sean, although he didn’t sound so sure. “They stole them. Or bought them on the underground.”

“That’s a lot of firepower,” said Polo, conspiracy brightening his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s true, but this guy—he had a point. Scarboro and his pal Reinhardt were backed by Restart, and Restart had money. Tons of money. Lots of people believed in their cause, too—getting rid of the division between religion and the government, bringing back those old-fashioned values. Think about it. He sets up the crash, then swoops in to save the day.”

“Ridiculous,” said Tucker dismissively.

Polo laughed. “The Insurgents effectively brought down our nation. I’ve yet to see Three make that kind of stand.”

“What do you know about Three?” I asked.

“What does anyone know about Three?” Cara said cynically.

“Heard they operate out of the safe house.” Polo winked at me. “Sure you don’t want to wait for Tubman?”

I did feel the sudden urge to wait for the carrier and find out more about these elusive resistance leaders. Beside me, Chase made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. He’d thought the safe house would be safe, but if the largest resistance organization in the country was there, it couldn’t possibly be. I glanced back at him, noting how quiet he’d been through this conversation.

“ I heard they operate from a Bureau base,” said Billy.

“No one knows,” said Marco. “Honestly, they’re probably the ones that started this whole sniper rumor anyway.”

I felt my eyes narrow. Had he been in the Square during the last attack, I doubted he’d be referring to it as a rumor.

“Marco’s a skeptic,” said Polo, waving him off. “He thinks the whole thing’s a crock. That those soldiers were done by their own troops and the Chief of Reformation’s just looking to cover it up.”

“Which is more likely than the sniper being some random tattooed protester,” argued Marco.

“He did have a tattoo on his neck,” Polo admitted. “I mean, who does that?”

“The sniper, apparently,” said Sean.

Polo pointed at him. “Exactly.”

“What kind of tattoo?” asked Chase suddenly. “A snake?”

His uncle had a snake tattoo on his neck, and he had been in the military. That Chase would speculate the man could be responsible for a string of murders made me even more cynical of the time Chase had spent with him before the War.

Polo frowned. “I don’t remember. Maybe. Why, you’ve met him?” Sudden excitement lit his eyes.

“There are a lot of guys with tattoos out there,” evaded Chase.

“No way it was soldiers. It had to be a sniper,” Billy interrupted. “Cara was at the draft in Knoxville when he hit. Tell them, Cara.”

One blond brow arched. “They’re saying it was someone in a uniform, you know,” she said. “A mole. Sort of like you boys. I’d be careful if I were you.”

Marco and Polo were speechless.

“I think we’ve had enough bedtime stories to give everyone nightmares,” Marco announced finally, his eyes even buggier than before. With that, he stepped on the office chair and lifted a slat from the ceiling. Hidden in the rafters was a lumpy trash bag, which he tossed down to his partner.

“Santa Claus has arrived,” announced Polo. Clothes were doled out from within, and I was given some old dusty jeans and a sweatshirt. Both were big enough to fit two of me, but I was glad to get out of my smoke-drenched wardrobe.

Tucker pulled off his shirt right in front of everyone, and I immediately looked away. I had no desire to see what he looked like under his clothes, nor did I want him to see me change. It didn’t help when Chase checked to see if I was watching.

I retreated into the single-stall bathroom. The light flickered, and the door didn’t lock, so I pushed the trash can in front of it. My mind was still spinning with Marco’s and Polo’s claims—about the War, and the president, and the mysterious Three. When I peeled off my singed pants something clattered to the floor. I crouched beneath the sink to see what had fallen and retrieved the copper cartridge I’d found under the front seat of the Horizons truck at East End Auto. With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten all about it.

Someone knocked, and I jumped up, stuffing my legs into the borrowed jeans.

“Just a second!” I called, but Cara was already forcing her way in. Apparently the trash can wasn’t enough of a hint that I’d wanted some privacy.

“Girls only,” she called over her shoulder to whoever waited behind, then slammed the door. “What do you got there?” she asked, pointing to the fist I’d clenched to my chest.

“Oh.” I opened my hand reluctantly. “Just something I found.”

Cara’s mouth rounded in surprise.

“Where’d you get that?”

I shrugged, and when my hand moved, her eyes followed.

“Riggins thought it was you,” she said in a strange voice. “He told me, at the garage in Knoxville. After you went missing on the mission.”

I winced. “Yeah, I know.” He’d died thinking it was me.

“He says you’ve gone missing a lot.”

I balked at that. She went missing a lot. Chase and I had been pulled apart in the Square during the attack, but she’d been separated from Lincoln and Houston as well. And yet no one, not even paranoid Riggins, questioned her whereabouts.