Among the Brave (15 page)

Great,
Trey thought
All this time I thought I’d be killed for being a third child. Instead, I’m going to be killed for being in the Population Police. Isn’t irony fun?

“Reinforcements are coming!” Trey screamed. “They’ll have more food!
Good
food! They won’t give it to you if you hurt me!”

Nobody was fooled. Hands were still reaching for him. Fists, too. Trey squirmed away and dived through the crowd. It was just like playing Red Rover back at Hendricks School—everything hurt, but he broke through. He landed in a heap on the ground, and immediately scrambled up and took off running.

“Get him!” somebody yelled.

They ran faster than he’d ever run before. He could hear the crowd behind him, roaring. Once or twice a hand wrapped around his arm, but he always managed to shake it off

“Help!” he called. “Help!”

And then he didn’t have enough air to spare for yelling. He just kept running and running and running, blindly forcing his body on long after he felt like his lungs would explode and his legs would crumble and his heart would thump itself apart He was too terrified to look back to see if the mob was gaining on him. He crashed into brush, and it felt enough like running into the woods back at Hendricks that he just kept going. Then he landed in water.

He couldn’t swim.

“Uhb, hel—” he sputtered, too breathless even to call for help. He struggled back to the shoreline and clutched a rock for safety. He was too exhausted to pull himself out right away He waited for someone to push him back in, to kill him by drowning rather than beating.

It took him a few minutes to realize the mob was far behind him. He could hear them calling in the distance, “Where is he? Where’d he go?”

I outran them,
he thought, astonished. It was all because Lee had taught him how to run back at Hendricks.

Of course, how much of an accomplishment is it to outrun people who are starving to death?
he reminded himself.

On shaking legs, he stood up. He was lost now. Except—this was the river, wasn’t it? Could he just continue along the shore? In which direction?

He looked from side to side, up and down the river. In the distance, he could see a dimly lit bridge. Was that the bridge near where he and Mark had hidden the truck? Or had he already run past that bridge, past the truck? What if he took too long finding it?

He took off toward the bridge, rushing through the weeds and brush. A branch lashed across his face, and brambles tore at his uniform, but he kept going. It was much harder walking along the river without Mark ahead of him, clearing the way

He was so intent on just moving forward and dodging branches that he practically ran into the concrete side of the bridge.

“Uff,” he grunted.

He looked up. Two lanterns stood on posts on either side of the bridge, casting feeble light into the wisps of fog rising from the river. He heard footsteps, but it was only a sentry pacing from one side of the bridge to the other. Trey could see the Population Police insignia on the sentry’s sleeve, and he relaxed.

How can I be relieved to see the Population Police?
he wondered.

He just didn’t want to face another mob.

Backing blindly away from the bridge, he felt around in all directions, desperately hoping that his hand would brush a hubcap or a fender. But there was no truck hidden here.

“No,” Trey moaned. The muscles in his legs began to tremble, exhaustion and panic catching up with him. If he didn’t find the truck soon, he had no hope of rescuing Mark. Why had he agreed to such an impossible plan? How could he possibly find the truck now?

He peered up and down the river once again, looking for another bridge. Why hadn’t he paid closer attention when he and Mark were hiding the truck? Why hadn’t he memorized every detail of their surroundings? Why wasn’t it daylight so he could see better?

No, he didn’t want it to be daylight When it was daylight, Mark would die.

In desperation, Trey looked around yet again. This time, when he was swinging his head back and forth, he caught a glimpse of something shiny on the opposite shore—metal, or maybe glass, catching the dim reflection of the lanterns on the bridge.

Trey locked his head in place and stared. Maybe, maybe...

What if this was the right bridge, but the truck was on the opposite side?

Trey squinted, trying to turn the small gleam into an entire truck, tucked away under leaves and branches.

Did I cross a bridge over the river? Could I have done that without noticing?

Of course he could have—when he was running away from the mob, or even before, when he was trying to stay in the shadows. He remembered the way Mark had taunted him, “I think if I’d never seen the outdoors, I’d keep my eyes open once I was in it” Trey’s not paying attention had almost cost Mark his life.

And it still might turn out to.

Trey stepped tentatively back into the water, but it was cold and the current rushed at him. The riverbed sloped so severely that he could tell: Only a few more steps and the water would be over his head.

Why hadn’t Lee included swimming in the roster of athletics he pushed at us back at Hendricks?
Trey thought ruefully

But he hadn’t, and there was no time to waste regretting that now.

Trey was going to have to cross the bridge.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Trey had barely begun climbing up toward the bridge before the sentry began yelling at him. He had practically forgotten about the sentry. He’d been more worried about the lights.

“No one’s allowed to cross this bridge!” the sentry screamed. “Turn back or be shot!”

“Relax,” Trey said, remembering how well bluffing had worked before. “I’m a Population Police guard come to, uh, requisition a contraband vehicle parked over there.” He pointed at the opposite shore and then, for good measure, lifted his arm to show the insignia on his sleeve. But now that he was in the light, he saw that the insignia was hanging by two threads from a ripped place in his sleeve. His pants were ripped too, he noticed, and mud stains covered the uniform from his waist down.

The sentry regarded him suspiciously.

“A mob attacked me,” Trey said. “They thought I had food.”

“No mob would dare lay a finger on a Population Police official,” the sentry sniffed.

“This one did,” Trey muttered.

“Where’s your travel pass?” the sentry asked.

“Look, I’ve got authorizations,” Trey said, reaching into his shirt pocket. But the authorizations only concerned transporting prisoners. The guard back at the Grants’ house hadn’t known that Trey would need authorization to cross this particular bridge.

The guard was reaching for Trey’s papers. Any minute now he’d discover that Trey was a fraud.

“See? Now out of my way. I’m in a hurry,” Trey said, shoving the papers back into his pocket

“Wait! I couldn’t—”

Trey took off in a dead run past the sentry.

“Stop! I have to sign the authorization!” the sentry was shouting behind him.

Trey reached the edge of the bridge and took a flying leap over the railing as soon as he saw firm ground on the other side. Except that it wasn’t so firm—he began slipping and sliding down the mound of dirt, crashing through branches and leaves.

He stopped only when he slammed into the truck’s tire.

Trey resisted the urge to hug the tire in relief and just lie there for a while. Instead, he scrambled up immediately, jerked open the door of the truck, and jumped inside, jamming the keys into the ignition. He’d planned to spend a few minutes studying all the dials on the dashboard, maybe reading the owner’s manual from the glove compartment. But there wasn’t time for that now. He turned the key.

Nothing happened.

Oops. What was that pedal I was supposed to push— the clutch?

He tried the key again, this time stabbing his feet at the pedals on the floor. The engine roared to life, but died while Trey was reaching for the gearshift.

Behind him, the sentry was leaning over the edge of the bridge, screaming at him.

“Sir! I insist—”

Trey ignored him, and concentrated on coordinating his feet and the gearshift. The truck lurched forward, toward the river.

No! No! Reverse!
his mind screamed, and he shifted, grinding the gears horribly The engine started to die again, and he panicked, hitting the gas pedal as hard as he could. The truck raced backward up the hill, toward the road. Branches scraped at the side of the truck and saplings broke off beneath the tires, but Trey didn’t care as long as none of the obstacles stopped him.

The truck died again at the top of the hill, as Trey was trying to shift gears into forward.

“Sir! You are forcing me to conclude that you are not on a legitimate Population Police mission!” the sentry yelled at him. “Get out of that truck or—”

Trey started up the truck’s engine yet again, and zoomed past the sentry, going as fast as he could in first gear. The engine made a terrible noise, but Trey couldn’t take the chance of trying to shift into second.

“I warned you!” the sentry screamed.

Trey heard gunfire, but nothing struck him, and nothing struck the truck as far as he could tell. He rounded a corner onto a new street, so that a row of buildings now stood between him and the sentry.

What if he radios for help?
They wondered.
What if every Population Police official in the country starts looking for me?

Trey pulled into a dark alleyway and shut off the engine. It was torture not to
know.
He silently crept back toward the bridge, staying hidden in the shadows the entire way.

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, They 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.”