Joshua McCune - Talker 25

I want to believe her, but I know it’s not true. We’re no different from dragons to them.

Villains.

No.

Monsters.

I pull Lorena into the blind corner of the bathroom, employ a tactic I’ve seen a couple other girls use. Since we’re not allowed any writing utensils—Eleven was reconditioned because he stabbed one of the ER Mengeles in the eye with a pen—they converse by finger drawing words on their blankets or body parts. Slow going, but safer.

I trace out the word on my arm. Escape .

She shakes her head.

I have a plan .

It takes a few tries before she deciphers my words. She taps her CENSIR. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I have to try.”

“Others have tried.”

“I have to.”

“What if . . .” She writes the number 15 on my forearm.

I can’t wait to die here.

Twonights later, Big Brother Billy has a midnight date with Lorena. Lantern in hand, he beelines it toward the back. Lorena intercepts him. She runs one hand along his pants, grabs the lantern with the other, and sets it on the floor. Several girls start humming. Kissing him, Lorena strips him from his winter clothes. He kicks off his boots. She grabs his hand and pulls him toward the bathroom.

“Hold up,” he says. He grabs the lantern. In its light, his grin is wicked. “I want to see you.”

As she enters the bathroom, Lorena looks back at me and gives a little wave. Then the door shuts and darkness returns.

Hands extended in front of me, I look for Twenty-One. She’s not in her bed, nor in the corner where she sometimes sleeps. “Twenty-One? Allie?” I whisper several times. No response.

Billy’s quieter than the others, and I can’t hear him or Lorena over the humming. He’s only visited once before. Lorena said she’d delay him, but for how long?

Something rustles beneath my bed. “Twenty-One? Allie?”

She doesn’t respond. Asleep?

I lower myself to the ground, reach for her. Our hands meet. Hers is cold and soft. So small. She opens my fingers, places the dragon brooch in my palm.

“Keep it safe for me.” I give her the brooch back, curl her fingers around it. I hear her sniffle, then retreat. “We’ll get to that island.”

I scramble to my feet before my resolve fails me.

I find Billy’s pile of clothes. As I change into his jacket, the humming intensifies. Are the other girls actually covering for me, or am I just imagining it? Billy’s boots swallow my feet. His gloves come past my wrist. I search for keys in his pocket, have a moment of panic before remembering that most military vehicles don’t use keys.

I feel my way to the door, enter the key code, the one I’ve seen Lester use every time we return from dinner. Locked.

“Reverse it,” Evelyn says from the nearby bed.

It works.

I glance over my shoulder. In the haze of sunlight, Evelyn’s expression is distant, unreadable. Has she tried this before?

I squeeze out the door, squinting against the brilliance of blue sky. Other than the whip of sharp wind, the world is silent. I slip into the Humvee, teeth chattering, and almost crush a pair of sunglasses on the seat in my rush to get out of the cold.

Dad once let me drive one of these behemoths down Reservation Road. I don’t remember much about the controls, but I remember enough to get it started. I max out the heater, put on the sunglasses, and accelerate toward the glow of caged dragons in the distance.

I need a long-range radio or a sat phone, something that will allow me to contact the outside world. Antennae sprout through dragons skulls from several of the buildings near the cafeteria. One of them must be a communication station, but it’s undoubtedly manned 24/7. My best bet is the hangar.

The speedometer needle hits fifty-five, doesn’t want to go much higher. The engine whines and whirs, the Humvee trembles. As I race through the dragon skeletons that mark the entrance to Georgetown, a gust of wind crashes into me, sends the Humvee sideways several feet before I regain control. Thankfully, the road’s deserted except for the caged dragons.

Their choked roars follow me, a rumble of angry noise that cannot keep up with my heartbeat.

Tick-thump, tick-thump, tick-thump.

Any moment now, Billy will find his clothes missing, the Humvee gone.

I swerve onto the runway. The hangars are too far away. The Humvee’s too slow. If I actually do contact somebody, what do I tell them? I’m in Antarctica. Where? An entire continent of tundra and ice. No visible landmarks.

Tick-thump-tick-thump-tick-thump.

Major Alderson was right. I’m a needle in a frozen haystack. This was a mistake. I should turn around. Maybe I can make it back in time.

But I don’t slow, I don’t change course, and I reach the first hangar.

The code doesn’t open the door. Nor the reverse code.

Tickthump-tickthump-tickthump.

I push another four numbers. Then another four . . . my fingertips go numb. Breathing hurts. My vision blurs. I steady myself against the wall, manage another four numbers. No, I already did those. A tear freezes on my cheek, makes me laugh, which stings my lungs. I laugh some more, slam my palm into the keypad. Pain sizzles up my arm.

The door opens. A man in a flight suit and bomber jacket stands there. He holds a wrench in his left hand.

He gapes at me. In his eyes, I see confusion and what I pray is sympathy.

“Help,” I mumble.

He reaches for me, and I strike with a side kick to his stomach. He doubles over; the wrench skitters across the floor. I follow with a knee to the chin that knocks him senseless. On a nearby workbench, adjacent to a soldering iron and some rubbing alcohol, is a box of tie wraps. I use thick black ones to bind his hands and feet.

There are two gunships in the hangar. The engine’s open on one, a ladder beside it. I spot an array of electronic equipment on the bench against the far wall, including a phone attached to a metal controller of some sort. Terms like X5 DATE/REM and MODE: P1-P6 cluster around numerous dials and pronged interfaces.

I flip the various controls, but don’t hear anything. I check the adjacent computer, but it’s password protected.

Tickthumptickthump-tickthumptickthump.

I sprint back across the hangar, where I retrieve the wrench. Overhead vents blast heat everywhere, but I’m shivering more now than I was outside. I clutch the wrench tighter, consider using it to ring his doorbell, then remember the bottle of alcohol.

I pour half of it onto his face. He startles awake, curses, blinks back tears.

I tap his forehead with the wrench. “Tell me how to use the radio.”

“Huh?” He continues to blink rapidly, his face squeezing up as he tries to look at me. “Who are you?”

I jam the wrench handle hard into his thigh. He cries out. “Tell me how to use the radio.”

“Who are you trying to contact?”

I raise the wrench over his kneecap.

“Look, girl, you can bludgeon me to death, but without a little information, I can’t help you.”

“I need to contact somebody in Michigan.”

“We’ve got a thousand-mile throw on our signal. You aren’t reaching topside. You’d be lucky to reach McMurdo.”

“What’s that?”

“A civilian research outpost. Come on, girl, put the wrench down. Let’s figure this out. I can help you.”

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” I jab the wrench at the gunship. “Can you fly me there?”

“To McMurdo? What’s going on? Why are you so scared?”

“You won’t fly me?”

“I’d need clearance. Without it, they’d shoot us down.”