Kristen Simmons - Article 5

My eyes darted to Chase. He looked like a wolf ready to attack. I felt the energy radiating off of him and knew to be prepared for anything.

The door cracked open and then pulled inward as Sean was recognized.

We entered a narrow room that smelled stale. The walls were bare and yellowing. In the back were a few crates of food and nearly thirty cardboard boxes marked by sizes: M, L, XL. Uniforms. The missing uniforms.

A gray wool sofa, the only piece of furniture present, sagged against the side wall. Above it hung a blueprint of the building. The exits were marked by bright red circles. A man in his mid-thirties stood from his seat on the couch. He had long greasy hair, too gray for his youthful face, and a mustache.

The guy holding the door was younger. Fourteen or fifteen maybe. A mousy mop of hair hung over bright green eyes. He held a rifle, lowered but still lethal.

“Who are they?” interrogated the man with the graying hair.

“A girl I knew on duty. She came here to find me,” Sean lied. “They need shelter.”

“They need—”

“Before you blow a gasket, Wallace, remember I’m only here because of—”

“You’re risking the entire operation for a girl?” he exploded. “This isn’t a damn game, Banks!”

I was already on edge, tired, hungry, and hedging on desperation. On some level I understood the need for caution, but the rest of me was furious that this man was treating us like children who had run away from the babysitter.

“Does it look like we’re playing?” I said hotly. I felt Chase’s hand on my arm. The boy still held the gun. The tension in the room was palpable.

Wallace turned on me.

“There are induction procedures in place.”

I felt a flash of anger, and without thinking, displayed the discolored welts running across the backs of my hands.

“I know about induction procedures, ” I spat. “So we can go ahead and skip the initiation.”

A cynical smirk lifted Wallace’s face but faded away into understanding.

“I can see that. This is merely a safety precaution, I assure you,” he said, calmer.

Sean cleared his throat. “Wallace tries to make sure recruits aren’t followed or working for the FBR.”

“You cleared me,” I said stubbornly. “Sean can vouch for me. We weren’t followed, and we sure as hell don’t work for the MM.”

“Sean hasn’t been with me long enough for that responsibility,” answered Wallace flatly.

Sean’s jaw was set. “So what are you going to do, discharge me?”

Wallace groaned. “Maybe it would sink in the second time.”

He stared at both Chase and I for several seconds. Seeming to have made up his mind about our threat, he motioned for the boy at the door to put down the shotgun. I sighed audibly. Chase did not.

“I’d apologize for the reception, but I’m sure you understand why we can’t send out open-house invitations.” He dipped his head toward me. “I’m Wallace. That over there is Billy. And you are?”

When I introduced us, recognition dawned on Wallace’s face.

“Jennings. Interesting. Been a while since we’ve had celebrities.” His curiosity was quickly snuffed. “I don’t suppose Sean stressed the importance of discretion?”

“We won’t say anything,” I promised.

“Certainly he won’t,” said Wallace, eyeing Chase.

He was right. Chase was uncharacteristically silent. He was rarely loquacious, but neither was he usually so deadpan. Something was weighing heavily on him. I could feel it.

“I suppose you’re here for work,” Wallace said. I felt Chase stiffen beside me, and wondered what he was thinking. It would make sense for him to want to join the resistance. That way he could strike back at the MM for everything they’d taken away.

I felt the same pull inside my own self but stuffed it down. I couldn’t allow myself to project past finding my mother. One step at a time.

“We’re looking for Mr. Tubman,” I said, when Chase hadn’t answered. His silence was starting to make me uncomfortable. It appeared he was more tempted by the resistance than I had thought. If he joined here and now, he might not even come with me for the rest of the journey. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, faced with the sudden reality of his upcoming good-bye.

“A safe house.” Wallace clicked his tongue inside his cheek. “Waste of your talents.” He was talking to both of us, not just Chase, when he said this. I didn’t know what talents of mine he could possibly mean, but then I realized that the radio reports had probably insinuated that I was far craftier than I was. That I had escaped reform school and the MM. That we’d accosted thieves in Hagerstown and stolen vehicles. All of this was true of course, but much less impressive in reality than it was when relayed secondhand.

“It’s no waste,” said Chase firmly. It made me feel a little more confident that we were still making the right choice.

We were about to say more when there was a commotion outside and three more men charged through the door. Two must have been brothers. One was in his late twenties, the other older. They had dark hair and dark eyes, but the younger had recently broken his nose, and the other now had a bruise below his right eye. The third was a wiry redhead, about Chase’s age. Dry blood had crusted over his cheek. I didn’t recognize them from the square, but I knew it must be the other soldiers Sean had been with, because they all held the same trash bags filled with their uniforms.

There was an eruption of voices and movement. Everyone was trying to speak at once.

“Get them out of here, Banks. Then come back for debriefing,” ordered Wallace. “Tomorrow, take them to Tubman yourself.”

I wanted to stay but was glad Wallace had approved our departure.

Sean led us down the hallway in the opposite direction from the stairs. A few heads popped out of the doors, interested in what had transpired in the square. I realized with some amazement that the entire floor must have been filled with resistance fighters.

The single room we entered was more tightly confined than Wallace’s had been. A moth-eaten velvet chair crowded the corner, bumping into a bare queen-sized mattress. On a small nightstand were boxes of cereal and Horizons bottled water.

“Is this someone’s room?” I asked, staring longingly at the food. I hadn’t eaten since a rest stop mid-morning in eastern Kentucky, and I was famished.

“It was,” he said grimly. My spirits crashed as I realized the previous occupant was either captured or dead. “Talk, Miller. Quick.”

I promptly told him everything I knew, beginning with the night I’d blackmailed them and ending with my abduction from the shack. I didn’t dare look at Chase. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t done bad things, but the secret of how I’d hurt these people had festered inside of me, and I was more ashamed than ever.

Chase prowled like a trapped animal while I talked, opening a window, which revealed the wrought-iron fire escape just outside. This seemed to settle him, but he remained quiet. The weight of his judgment hung over me. Maybe I deserved it.

“Was she hurt?” Sean looked far away. Broken.

“I don’t know.” I closed my eyes. I remembered the crack of the baton on her little body. Yes, she had been hurt. But the frantic gleam in his eyes stopped me from telling the truth. It seemed cruel to tell him when there was nothing he could do about it.

“And you never told Brock about me and Becca.” He still sounded a little leery.

“No. Rebecca was…” I paused. “Rebecca was my friend. Maybe not at first. And she probably doesn’t think so now. But I’ll always remember her. I know it doesn’t matter what I say, but I wish things had been different.”