The notebooks had been filled with Jag’s pressed handwriting, but nothing was in order. I couldn’t believe it. He lived his life according to straight edges and tucked corners. I suppose he’d found a way to let the chaos out through the notebooks. Figures it would be me left to find a clue in his mess.
Some pages were filled with long paragraphs of writing. Jag had been documenting the missions. Three notebooks were filled with the things he’d done in the Goodgrounds and the oceanic region to the west.
Two more notebooks simply contained lists: clothing, food, tech. I wasn’t sure what they were for. Another book, written in a different hand, made no sense whatsoever, with strange numbers and names of cities I had never heard of. But that book gave names too, and I felt certain I’d need to know those people. Most likely, they were Resistance contacts around the Association. I wondered who had given the notebook to Jag, and briefly thought of his long-dead father.
I found a blank page at the end of the notebook. I ripped it out and copied the names and the cities they were paired with.
And that was it. Jag didn’t have a notebook that said, “When I’m gone, do this. Then this.”
I hated him for it, just for a moment. A long moment. I stared at the writing on the page, desperate for a line that would tell me how and where and when to rescue him. But I had no way of knowing where he was, or if he was even still alive. I swallowed that fear back.
He’d wanted me to run the Resistance if he didn’t come back. Not rescue him. So I would run his stinkin’ Resistance—if only I knew how.
I flipped a page, realizing that the Resistance was a living, breathing, changing identity. Jag likely didn’t know what those left behind without him would do or how they might react.
I was on my own. With the meeting looming in the next few hours, I spent the remainder of the night puzzling over what I might say or do.
As I entered Jag’s house behind my parents, I still didn’t know.
I began by clearing my throat. The fifty people convened in the living room seemed to inhale as one, and every eye swung to me. I caught Sloan Washburn’s eye, and upon seeing her rainbow hair and supportive smile, some of the nervous energy drained out of my body. No matter what Sloan had or hadn’t done with Jag, she was still my best friend.
“I need someone to act as second,” I said. Jag would like that. Everything about the Resistance was done with an organization, with a hierarchy in mind. Sure, things sometimes got chaotic, but that’s because people were involved, not because the system was flawed.
Half a dozen teenagers raised their hands, some at the prompting of their parents. Jag had established teens as the leaders years ago. He’d taken over Resistance efforts at thirteen. His reasoning was sound, and would be followed.
Adults had paying jobs and families to support. They were also monitored more closely by the authorities, and though the Badlands didn’t have Thinkers broadcasting rules and messages each night, we did have security details and laws. The adults in the Resistance played supporting roles by using their employment to aid the missions, infiltrating networks, and guiding their children.
The infiltration team was all teens. Teens had more freedom to hang out with different groups of people in different locations. They didn’t carry as much social responsibility. They could act rebellious and it would be zinged up as simply trying to “find themselves.”
I scanned the pool of volunteers and found both Sloan’s and Lex’s hands up. “Lex,” I said, without mulling it over. As the only remaining member of the infiltration team, he had knowledge and experience Sloan didn’t. I tossed a sympathetic look toward Sloan, who waved me away as if to say You made the right choice.
The room exhaled, and one of the younger girls giggled. I almost allowed myself to smile, but I caught the emotion and buried it. I wished Jag were there to see me. I could shut down. I could lead without displaying emotion.
“Our directive for the next several weeks is to visit the cities on this list.” I smoothed the pocket-wrinkles from the list I’d copied from the notebook. “I need runners who are willing to fly day and night and meet with people we don’t know.”
I expected parents to protectively put their arms around their kids and break eye contact. The atmosphere in the room shifted from passive to high-alert, but no one shot me dirty looks.
“I need hoverboards. Anyone who has the resources to borrow or purchase the boards, please let me know.” I fought the urge to clear my throat. I didn’t want to give the impression of nervousness. Or weakness. “I will be available in the kitchen for volunteers and questions.”
I half expected to sit at Jag’s kitchen table by my sad self, sipping a lukewarm bottle of water while the Resistance members gossiped about me in hushed tones in the living room.
By the time I’d pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and sat down, the line stretched down the hall and snaked through the living room.
six weeks later
4.
A vibration jolted me out of the weak sleep I’d managed to find. I’d been getting an average of four hours each night. I’d slept at Jag’s house, at Sloan’s, at Lex’s—wherever I happened to be when the exhaustion took over.
Tonight I’d made it home before collapsing into my own bed. I sat up, listening hard. Maybe the sound had come from the kitchen. Couldn’t be from Irv’s room. He hadn’t come home yet. There’d been no word from anyone on the infiltration team.
Meanwhile, I’d been busy gathering hoverboards and sending my people to the cities listed in the notebook. I’d been taking reports and writing down every detail of every mission. I’d been analyzing my notes and comparing them to Jag’s, trying to make sense of things I didn’t understand.
I’d learned that the Resistance existed on a Union-wide scale. Jag hadn’t been the beginning of the movement; he was just the most passionate leader we’d had in a long time. The most driven. I’d learned that my contacts in the other cities were waiting for Jag to give them the go-ahead.
The go-ahead for what, I didn’t know. I hadn’t been to Freedom yet, and though a name was listed (Starr Messenger), I didn’t dare send someone to the capital of the Association without more concrete information.
I got up and looked out the window, hearing nothing and feeling as empty as the house had felt since Irvine hadn’t come home. I used the sadness to fortify myself, make the walls around my heart stronger. My reflection in the glass showed a fierce person I didn’t recognize. I would’ve never known she missed her brother. She didn’t broadcast her longing to feel Jag Barque’s arms around her. Her eyes gave no indication that she had no idea what she was doing leading a Union-wide effort against a genetically talented government.
I congratulated myself and went back to bed.
A male voice distracted me from my phone. The way the person had spoken with inflection and desire wasn’t lost on me. I knew that voice. . . .
Sloan squealed and launched herself at none other than Jag Barque while I watched. I fortified the weakening walls around my heart, using the jealousy burning through me as best as I could. I’d gotten good at keeping everyone out too. I’d learned real fast not to let the tears of a mother sway my decisions. And the pleading of a twelve-year-old who wanted to fly to White Cliffs alone now fell on deaf ears.
The barriers I’d placed between myself and everyone else quivered, but held, as I analyzed the guy I’d thought about every stinkin’ day since I’d last seen him. He looked semirested and showered. He’d had time to shave, and his hair stuck up in precise angles, just as I’d expect if he were picking me up for dinner.
Jag spun Sloan around while she squealed with joy. Another girl hovered nearby, clearly with Jag. I wondered how together they were. Another one of his refugees from the Goodgrounds? Just friends? Or something more?
The way the sunburned girl twisted her hands, I guessed she was all three, which only added betrayal to the envy inside. And anger and hurt. I hated that I couldn’t just let my reli
ef at seeing Jag wash over me. I took a deep breath as he set Sloan down, and reminded myself that I had broken up with him.
Sloan retreated to my side, something that caused a flame of gratitude to ignite in my gut, while Jag made the introductions. He wore a clean pair of jeans, but they weren’t his. I scanned the black T-shirt and instantly recognized why it hung strangely off his frame. It belonged to Irvine.
Jag had been at my house. I remembered the thud I’d heard last night. Had that been him? Had he slept in my armchair without waking me? Somehow that hurt more than seeing him now, with yet another girl. He’d had a chance to explain everything in private, and he hadn’t taken it. Why didn’t he take it?
I struggled against the tears, willing myself not to cry right there in the open street. Not in front of Jag. Never in front of him again.
Vi With-No-Last-Name said hello in a polite-ish way, and Sloan said what I wanted to. “Another Goodie?”
I noticed the way Vi cringed, and though Jag defended his new girlfriend, I was more than happy when she wandered away. Immediately, Jag pulled us into a tight huddle and began talking.
“Who’s second?” he asked.
“Lex,” I said, looking at a point just above his shoulder so I wouldn’t have to look into his pretty face. I wanted to hurt him so badly, the way he’d hurt me. I kept that emotion hidden, utilizing my newfound strength.
“Did you find the notebooks?”
“Yes.” I wanted to tell him that they were nonsense, that I’d done next to nothing with them, but I was determined to speak as little as possible.
“I found what I needed,” Jag said. “I’m going to Seaside with Vi, because we escaped the Goodgrounds and now we’re sort of fugitives.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m stopping by my house for some supplies.”
“You won’t find much,” I said, suddenly angry with myself for not keeping the Resistance headquarters better stocked. “Your phone is on your desk where you left it. I plugged it in for you. There might be some water bottles in the fridge.”
He looked right at me, and I felt pinned by the intensity in his gaze. “The fewer people who know I was here, the better.” Which translated to “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you last night.” I understood Jag and his hidden messages.
I appreciated his way of apologizing, but my fingers still tightened into fists. He noticed, and one eyebrow quirked up.
“Thane Myers is tracking us,” he said, and that snapped me out of my personal problems. A higher-up in the Association of Directors, Thane Myers could cause serious complications for me, Jag, and the Resistance.
“I’ve been sending runners to the cities you had listed,” I said. “None of them have reported Thane leaving Freedom.”
“Indy, you’re a genius. Keep the Resistance running.” He checked something over his shoulder. “Send me word in Seaside with your runners.”
I nodded, wishing a compliment from him didn’t rock my world. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t.
Jag gestured with his hands at his surroundings. He leaned closer. “Gather as many supplies and people as you can. I have a feeling life is going to change in the Badlands. Soon.”
“Will we have to evacuate?” Sloan asked. A tremor of fear bolted through me at the question.
“Possibly,” Jag said. “Be prepared for anything. Our people cannot survive in a brainwashed city.” He looked at me again, and I didn’t need empathic genes to feel the urgency behind his words.
“Why Seaside?” I asked suddenly. “Why can’t you come with us?”
He shook his head. “Vi needs—”
The rest of his explanation was cut off by the sudden crimson glow of an iris recognizer. Screams pierced the night, and I got jostled as people began scattering.
Jag gripped my hand and pulled me to him. I couldn’t resist pressing my nose to his chest and inhaling deeply. The forest smell of his gel and the flowery scent of my mother’s fabric softener punctured the walls around my heart. “I’m sorry, Indy,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Then he stepped back and said, “Run,” in that freaky calm voice of his. Sloan slid her hand into mine and pulled me toward a sidewalk that went between the post office and the general market. “My house!” she yelled over the noise. “It’s closer!”
I paused in the safety of the shadows next to the post office, the red light pulsing against my face. I searched the fray for Jag, but couldn’t find him. I felt cheated that I hadn’t had the chance to ask him about Irvine. About anyone else on the team. Or the success of the mission. Or anything.
“Come on.” Sloan pulled on my hand, and this time I turned my back and sprinted toward safety. Along the way, I determined to enter Irvine’s room and search every corner.
Jag had been there. Maybe he’d left something for me. That thought drove me on like nothing had before.
Irvine’s room held nothing but an empty hanger and a dresser drawer that hadn’t been shut properly. Even the smell of Jag hadn’t lingered. My chest caved in at the thought that Jag had been so close and had chosen to stay so far away.
I closed the door to Irvine’s room and stood in the dark hallway. I couldn’t tell my parents about Jag. I couldn’t tell anyone in the Resistance. I’d made Sloan promise not to breathe a word about him, as he didn’t want people to know.
I didn’t quite understand his motivations, but I knew he had them. He always did, whether he chose to share them with me or not.
Once again, I found myself in a situation where I had no idea how to proceed. I returned to my room, took my phone out of my pocket, and sent a message to Lex asking him to recall the runners from their various cities. I’d sent them as far east as Castledale, about halfway across the Association. I told Lex to have them gather supplies if they could.
He didn’t question me. Ten minutes later, he messaged that it was done. Then he asked when we were leaving.
As soon as we gather enough supplies, I sent back. That’ll be everyone’s job at first light. Clothing, food, water, everything.
I tossed my phone on my bed, ignoring the incoming message. I didn’t have the energy to explain anything to Lex right now. Jag had never taken the time to give me his detailed reasons. It was a Resistance leader perk.
I reclined the armchair and snuggled into it, pretending Jag lay beside me with his strong arms encircling me. With his scent embedded in the fibers, I almost believed the fantasy.
5.
The next morning I left my house at dawn and headed toward Resistance headquarters. I hoped Jag had been able to find the supplies he needed, and I half thought I might find him sleeping in the house.
Two blocks away from my home, I spied two Greenies sweeping the sidewalk with handheld devices. They seemed unconcerned by the deathly silence on the street, and I shrank behind a hedge in someone’s front yard, watching.
They spoke in carrying voices, though I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. A prickle of discomfort stole down my spine, and I crouch-walked down the hedge and into the backyard. Then I straightened, doubled back the way I’d come, and chose a different route to Jag’s.
I stuck to climbing fences and dashing through backyards instead of moving down the sidewalks in plain sight. I emerged midblock and needed to cross one more street before I’d be able to slide through two more backyards to reach Jag’s. I sucked in a breath and pressed myself against the fence I’d just climbed.
Four Greenies clustered at the corner of Jag’s block, wearing their official Association robes. One held his projection screen out for the other three to see. I couldn’t see their faces, but I felt their frowns. A truck ambled down the street and I took advantage of the noise to mask my footsteps slapping against pavement.
Once in Jag’s backyard, my chest heaved with more than labored breathing. Countless questions circled in my mind, including the one that asked: Did Jag make it out of the city last night?
I watched the house for ten minutes, looking for clues as
to whether anyone was inside or not. The foliage around each window had been trampled, and geared tracks tore up the dirt. The Greenies had brought their robots with them. I swallowed back a curse.
Stepping in someone else’s footprints so I wouldn’t leave my own, I crept to Jag’s bedroom window. Steeling myself for the worst, I peered over the lip. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of the emptiness.
Everything was gone. Totally and completely gone.
The house held a sense of desolation, like no one would be using it for a very long time. A strange sensation rippled across my skin, and I knew I wouldn’t be entering the house again. And now I would need a new location for the Resistance efforts.
As I made my way home, I kept thinking, At least Jag was gone too.
Gathering clothing, food, water, and medical supplies took much longer than I anticipated. Resistance supporters sent any excess they had, but most didn’t have much lying around to begin with.
My mother helped, cleaning out Irvine’s room and using it to store bottled water and canned peaches. Medical supplies took up four crates in his closet, and jeans and jackets lay in heaps across the bed. After two solid weeks of gathering supplies, I stood in my brother’s bedroom with a checklist, chewing on the tip of my pencil.
“Not enough,” I murmured, comparing the list of people I needed to evacuate with the supplies I’d gathered. “Nowhere near enough.”
I wasn’t sure how to get more. In the Goodgrounds, the people were allotted identical supplies and food stores. Only enough for their needs, nothing more. Everything was provided by the Thinkers.
I didn’t know what to do, but I did know one thing: I was running out of time.
“The evacuation team will take the medical supplies we have and leave tonight,” I instructed everyone that night at the Resistance meeting. An itch I couldn’t satisfy skimmed just below my skin. “My mother will be acting as lead on this mission, as she has the next three days off work.”
The five people on my mother’s team nodded, their faces grim. I appraised them with sharp eyes. Two fourteen-year-olds with the stamina of lions, two interns at the hospital who’d been able to secure another bucket of first-aid supplies, and my mother.