The sentry was still standing on the bridge, but he wasn’t screaming into a radio. For some strange reason, he was taking his shirt off. Puzzled, Trey watched as the sentry lay the shirt on the ground, walked a few paces away, and fired his gun at it. Then he put the gun away and held the shirt up in the air. Light shone through the gunshot holes in the front and back. Then, laughing, the sentry tossed the shirt over the edge of the bridge and waved at something or someone in the shadows on the other side. Several dark shapes emerged from the shadows—men in dark shirts and pants, all carrying huge bags on their shoulders. The bags appeared to be burlap, or some similar material meant for holding food.
Food? Were these smugglers?
The shirtless sentry tucked his gun into his waistband and grabbed a bag of his own. Then all of the men disappeared into the dark, walking in the opposite direction from Trey.
Did the sentry just desert from the Population Police? Trey wondered. Or was he only pretending to begin with?
Either way, he didn’t seem worried about chasing down Trey, now that Trey was out of sight. Feeling vastly relieved, Trey crept back to the truck, started it, and began driving cautiously back to the Population Police headquarters.
After everything Trey had witnessed out in the streets, who could say what awaited him there?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Getting back to the Grants’ old house took only a fraction of the time it’d taken to get to the truck. But the whole time, Trey worried about the noise of the engine; he worried about another mob swamping him. He worried every time he accidentally killed the engine trying to shift gears and had to struggle to restart it. Every time that happened, he knew he was a sitting duck, a perfect target for anyone who might happen along. But nobody appeared.
Maybe the truck noise scares them off, Trey tried to tell himself. Maybe it’s good I’m making so much racket.
Between the mob, the smugglers, and the easily fooled Population Police patrol, nothing seemed to fit with the strictly regimented world his parents had always described.
Has everything changed? Trey wondered. Is everything still changing?
He peered into the area illuminated by his headlights as if the air itself might suddenly become different.
Hey, Dad? he thought. There’s no way you could have prepared me for all of this. I know you did the best you could.
The sky was still blessedly dark when Trey pulled up to the gates of the Population Police headquarters. The sentry guarding the gates yawned over Trey’s authorization forms, and barely glanced at Trey.
“Permission granted to proceed,” he mumbled.
Trey drove around to the back, hoping that he could manage not to kill the engine yet again right in front of headquarters. The truck did die a few feet away from the servants’ door, but Trey decided to pretend that he’d parked there on purpose. The guard Mark and Trey had bargained with came rushing over immediately.
“Great!” he said. “Help me get the cage.”
Trey followed him through the door and down a dark hallway toward the basement stairs.
“Why don’t you just unlock the cage and let Mark walk?” Trey asked.
The guard shook his head.
“Can’t,” he said. “Bring me back my friend, and then I’ll give you the key to your friend’s cage.”
“That’s mighty manipulative of you, isn’t it?” Trey joked, though he’d already agreed to that part of the deal.
The guard gave Trey a warning look as they came up to another guard sitting at a desk.
“Hey, Stan,” the first guard said to the second one. “This guy just showed up with authorization to transfer our prisoner out to Nezeree.”
“Huh?” the other guard—Stan?—said. “I thought he was going to be executed at dawn.” He didn’t sound like he cared. He sounded like Mark’s life didn’t matter any more than a gnat’s or a flea’s.
“Maybe they’re doing the execution out there,” the first guard said with a shrug, as if it didn’t matter to him either.
Stan peered carefully at the authorization papers.
“‘Should we call Commander Bresin and double-check?” he asked.
The first guard shrugged.
“You can if you want. I don’t feel like getting in trouble for waking him up.”
Stan seemed to be deliberating. He looked at the papers again. Trey sincerely hoped that every forged signature looked authentic. Then Stan looked at Trey.
“They let guards dress that sloppy out at Nezeree?” he asked.
Trey was suddenly conscious of the rips in his uniform, the dirt caked on his shoes, the mud streaked across his pants. And when had he lost his cap?
“Aw, Stan, they’ve got a rough crowd out there in Nezeree. He was trying to subdue one of their prisoners and …” The first guard shrugged, as if the rest of the explanation should be obvious.
“Remind me not to get transferred out there,” Stan said. He handed two of the papers back to Trey and laid the others down on his desk. “If the documents say our prisoner’s going to be transferred instead of executed, I guess he’s got to go. Need help loading?”
“Thanks, but the two of us can handle it,” the first guard said smoothly.
Trey followed him down the stairs. This time the guard hit the light switch. Mark gasped at first, then grinned when he saw Trey.
“Act like you still think you’re about to die,” the guard whispered.
Mark nodded, then began to flail about in his cage.
“No, no,” he screamed.
“Quietly,” the guard commanded.
Mark switched to making a horrified expression and tugging uselessly on his bars.
“That’s better,” the guard said. He picked up one end of the cage, and Trey took the other. It was a strain, but together they managed to carry the cage up the stairs. The other guard, Stan, stood aside and let them pass.
“You’re signing off on the paperwork on this,” he told the first guard. “I don’t want nobody blaming me for nothing.”
“No problem,” the first guard said. “Why would anybody blame anybody for anything? All the documents are right there.”
He and Trey continued carrying Mark on out to the truck. With great effort, they managed to hoist the cage into the truck bed. Too late, Trey thought that he should have faked weakness, forced the guard to let Mark out. But the guard probably wouldn’t have. He probably would have just gotten Stan to help.
The guard handed Trey even more papers.
“These’ll let you pick up my friend. Once the warden at Nezeree signs them, you’ll be authorized to pick up your other friends, too. They’re at the holding camp in Slahood. But I arranged these documents so you can’t get your friends without picking up my friend first. If—if you try to double-cross me, in any way, I’ll find out. You’ll both be on the most-wanted list You’ll be shot on sight by any Population Police officer in the country.”
“I understand,” Trey said, trying not to think about it.
The guard looked at his watch.
“It’s five thirty-three. The transfer order for picking up your friends expires at ten. Just like we agreed.”
Trey wanted to bargain for another hour or two. What if the officials at Nezeree were slow delivering their prisoner? What if he couldn’t drive fast enough?
“One more thing,” the guard said. “Just to make it look legitimate, I wrote on these documents that all the prisoners you’re transporting are being sent to Churko—the worst prison of all. So … don’t let anyone else take over your delivery job.” He laughed, but without any humor.
“Okay,” Trey said. He slid back into the driver’s seat. His knees were shaking, but he somehow managed to start the truck and shift it into reverse.
“Good luck,” the guard said. He tilted his head to look up at the truck, and his cap slid back on his head. For the first time, Trey got a good look at the guard’s face in the glow from a security light overhead. The guard had kindly
eyes that somehow looked familiar. And he was older than Trey had thought. Short gray hair spiked out from under his cap.
“Liber,” Trey whispered.
He thought he’d spoken too softly to be heard over the engine noise. But the guard answered him.
“Free,” he whispered back. “God free us all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Trey had barely driven out the gates of Population Police headquarters when Mark began tapping on the window behind him. Trey turned around to look, practically driving off the road in the process. He slammed on the brake just in time to avoid ending up in the ditch. Of course, that killed the engine instantly.
With shaking hands, Trey opened the window behind him so he could talk to Mark.
“Good grief! Who taught you how to drive?” Mark asked jokingly.
“You,” Trey said.
“I think I was safer facing execution,” Mark moaned.
“I’m doing the best I can,” Trey muttered through gritted teeth. His heart was still pounding hard, though. What if they had landed in the ditch, gotten stuck, and missed their deadline for rescuing Lee and the others?
“Okay, here’s what we do,” Mark said. “There’s a tool chest under the seat. Find the wire cutter in there, set me free, and then let’s go straight to picking up Luke.”
Trey glanced around quickly, as if he was afraid someone would hear. They were in a deserted stretch, but he’d already learned that deserted-looking areas might hold the most danger.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he whispered back to Mark. “Didn’t you hear the guard? If we double-cross him—if we don’t pick up his friend first—we can’t get our friends, and we’ll be shot on sight by any Population Police officer.”
“What if he was just bluffing? What if this is all just a trap that’s going to get us both killed—and Lee and the others, too?” Mark asked.
Trey hadn’t considered that possibility. He’d been too focused on the challenges of getting to the right place at the right time.
“What if the guard’s friend is dangerous?” Mark continued.
“I don’t know,” Trey wailed. The dashboard lights flickered. “Does that mean something bad?” he asked Mark.
“Yeah, you’re starting to drain the battery. Look, just hand me the toolbox, and start the engine again and keep driving. Once I get out of here, I’ll take over the wheel. Then you can look through the documents and see if you spot a trick.”
In the dark, Trey searched around under the seat until he found a large metal box. He stepped out of the cab only long enough to put the toolbox in the truck bed beside the cage, well within Mark’s reach. Mark handed him something round in exchange. Trey stared at it, puzzled.
It’s an apple,” Mark said. “Remember? Food? The guard gave me my knapsack back. You’ve got to be at least as hungry as I am.”
“Thanks,” Trey said.
He slid back into the front seat, and took a bite. The apple seemed to be the most delicious food he’d ever tasted in his life.
Good thing that mob’s not chasing me now, he thought, as he started the engine again and drove cautiously back onto the road.
He didn’t understand how the Population Police could promise people food, and then not give it to them. Or just give them ruined food.
Aldous Krakenaur isn’t running the Government very well, Trey thought, then almost giggled at the absurdity of it all. Of course Aldous Krakenaur wasn’t running the government well. He was most concerned with killing people.
What if that was the guard’s goal too?
Just drive, Trey told himself. Don’t think.
The road that led toward both the Nezeree prison and the Slahood detention camp carried them away from the city after just a few miles, and Trey was heartily relieved. The countryside seemed much less threatening.
Trey left the back window of the truck open, and he could hear Mark muttering behind him.
“… wire cutter’s not strong enough, but maybe with the pliers—”
“Can’t you hurry?” Trey shouted back at him.
“I’m doing the best I can,” Mark yelled. “Just like you. But it’d help if you stopped weaving so much!”
Trey concentrated on driving in as straight a line as possible. But then the road swerved to the left, and he barely managed to turn in time.
“Hey!” Mark yelled. “Watch it!”
“Sorry,” Trey said.
He slowed down for all the curves after that, which was frustrating. He didn’t have a watch on, but he could feel each minute ticking by. The sky was starting to brighten a little directly ahead of him—to the east, he guessed.
It was five thirty-three when we left. Is it six o’clock now? Six thirty? And Mark’s still in his cage and I’m scared to drive very fast … What if we don’t get there in time?
The road got curvier. Mark seemed to have given up on trying to escape, and just focused on coaching Trey around each turn.
“Ease the clutch out gradually,” he was saying as Trey maneuvered around a particularly narrow hairpin twist.
Trey was concentrating so completely on his shaking leg muscles that he didn’t see what hit the opposite side of the truck. But he heard shrieking, and then Mark screamed behind him, “Speed up! We’re under attack!”
In his panic, Trey let his foot slip off the clutch pedal entirely. The truck died. Trey glanced quickly off to the right as he reached for the key to restart the engine. Dark shapes were swarming all over the truck. They began to rock it.
“Food! Food! We want food!” the crowd chanted, bouncing the truck up and down.
“Leave us alone!” Mark yelled.
The next thing Trey knew, the truck was turning over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The truck landed on its side with enough force that the windshield shattered. Trey sat still, absolutely stunned, for several seconds, then unfastened his seat belt and shimmied out through the gaping hole in front of him.
Mark hadn’t had a seat belt. His cage hadn’t even been anchored down.
The mob had flowed around to the front of the truck, but nobody seemed to notice Trey escaping.
“An apple core!” somebody screamed. Trey’s must have fallen out onto the dirt by the side of the road. The whole crowd gathered around and seemed to be fighting over what little flesh still remained around the seeds.
Trey slipped around toward the back, and, in the darkness, practically tripped over Mark’s overturned cage. He felt around inside the bars, even though he was terrified that he might find only a dead body.
“Mark?” he called. “Mark?”
“Over here,” a voice called behind him.
Trey rushed over to a huge rock beside the road. Mark was crouched there.
“How—” Trey couldn’t make himself understand. “What happened? Why aren’t you in the cage?”
“Cage busted open when it hit the ground,” Mark whispered.
“Really? That’s great!” Trey said, not even fazed by the wacky grammar of “busted open.” It seemed downright miraculous that the mob had actually helped them.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “But my leg busted open too.”
Trey reached down, his fingers brushing sticky blood.
“Don’t,” Mark said. “I think the bone’s poking out a little. You probably shouldn’t touch it.”
“People with open fractures aren’t supposed to be moved,” Trey remembered from a phase when his dad had had him memorize all sorts of first aid information.
“What was I supposed to do—lie there and let those people trample me?” Mark hissed. He winced, and for the first time Trey realized that Mark was in intense pain.
“We should wrap it until we can get you to a doctor,” Trey said.
“Uh-huh,” Mark said, grimacing. Trey eased Mark’s arms out of his flannel shirt, and wrapped the shirt around Mark’s leg. But this was crazy—how would they ever get him to a doctor?
“You go on,” M
ark said through gritted teeth. “Go get Luke before it’s too late.”
“But—,” Trey started to argue.
“You’ll have to walk from here,” Mark said. “I don’t think it’s much farther.”
Trey stared out at the mob, still swarming around the truck. They’d discovered the knapsack now, and were fighting over it like a bunch of wild animals. How long before they decided to come looking for Mark and Trey?
Trey looked down again at his injured friend. The choice before him now was not between cowardice and bravery. Whether he stayed to take care of Mark or left to rescue Lee and his other friends—as well as the guard’s mysterious prisoner—Trey would need immense courage. How was he supposed to choose?
“Go,” Mark moaned.
“No,” Trey said. He looked back and forth between Mark and the mob again. “Just a minute.”
He took his Population Police shirt off and dropped it beside Mark. Then he stepped out from behind the rock and joined the mob.
“Gimme some! Gimme some!” he snarled, just like the others were doing. He pushed and shoved, reaching toward the backpack.
A boy beside him—also shirtless—glanced toward Trey but said nothing, only elbowed him out of the way.
“Wait! Wait! It rolled under the truck!” Trey screamed.
He rushed over to the truck and began pushing uselessly against the cab top.
“Lots of food rolled under the truck!” he screamed again.
A few members of the crowd joined him, shoving against the truck as well, trying to set it back up on its tires.
“Oranges! Bananas! All under the truck!” Trey yelled. Then he worried that someone might ask him how a banana might roll—or how anything could roll under a truck lying flat on its side. But nobody said anything, except to grunt in exertion. The mob was too hungry for logic. Even more people joined him, pushing and pushing on the truck. With one great shove, they had it upright again.
A cheer burst forth, and everyone instantly fell to the ground, feeling around for the promised oranges and bananas. Everyone, that is, except Trey. He backed away, then took off running down the road, toward one of the curves he’d navigated right before being attacked by the mob.