Rehabilitation: Romantic Dystopian (Unbelief Series Book 1) (14 page)

I
don’t know how I manage to haul Jacob to his feet. Despite being underfed, he is still a big man. Bigger than me anyway. But with one of his arms slung across my shoulders, I do somehow manage to pull him to his feet. Together, we sort of hobble walk toward the door of his cell where Alex is waiting, staring back the way we just came.

“Alex?” I ask, struggling beneath Jacob’s weight.

The older boy glances at me, fear written on his features now. He notices I’m struggling to carry Jacob, so he steps to his other side and puts Jacob’s other arm along his own shoulders. I’m thankful, at least, that Jacob seems to be too delirious to notice it’s a soldier helping us escape.

I think that would be too much to explain right now.

I expect to head out the way we came, but the voices are getting louder. “What do we do, Alex?” I ask, keeping my voice down though it’s no doubt pointless. Whoever is coming down that hall has to already know we’re here.

“This way,” he says, jerking his head toward the opposite hallway. He wants us to go deeper into the cave.

“Are you crazy?” I demand, but there’s no time to argue with him. Together, we begin to pull Jacob farther down the hall. The only reason I agree to this is because I no longer have a choice. There’s nowhere else to go other than down.

As we go deeper, my breath becomes shorter. I don’t want to be down here. Flashes of the dark hole I sat in before Alex threw that rope down run through my mind again.

I can do this
, I remind myself silently.
We’re almost out of here.

But I don’t know if that’s true or not. I don’t know where we’re going, or if it’ll lead us somehow out of this hell hole. And even if it does, I don’t know if we’ll get there in time. Whether we do or not, it’s our best shot though, our only shot, so I move as quickly as I can, trying to keep up with Alex’s fast pace.

“I was scared,” Jacob is muttering, barely strong enough to take steps with us. “But then... then I realized what they were doing. And I realized that whatever He decides, I’m okay with it. I’m okay.”

I have no idea what he’s saying. It doesn’t make any sense and I can’t just sit him down and ask him right now. We have to keep moving. But I want to know who he’s talking about when he says ‘He.’ It’s the second time now, and I don’t know what he means. We know all the same people, so unless it’s someone here at Rehabilitation, I’m at a loss.

“It’s okay,” I say to him, my voice as quiet and soothing as I can manage.
 
“Everything’s okay Jacob. We’re going home now.”

I hope desperately I’m not lying to him, but I think maybe I am. Until I catch a whiff of fresh air that is cooler, fresher than the air below in the tunnels. I still can’t really see much of anything, but just then Alex points ahead of us.

“There!” he says.

He’s right. We break out of yet another hole in the ground that comes up out on the opposite side of camp. I let out a quick laugh of relief. The sounds of men chasing us aren’t nearly so intimidating, so terrifying. They are far away and we are
outside
again.

“We’ve made it, Jacob!” I tell him.

He is struggling to stay awake, but he manages to stand shakily on his feet and look around. There’s a smile on his face, albeit small and still not quite right, but a smile nonetheless. I’ll take what I can get.

“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet.”

All three of us freeze at the sound of the new voice. It’s male and if I have to guess, I’d say it belongs to a soldier. That cool, collected, emotionless tone they all have seem to have in common is a dead give away.

All except Alex, who seems so much different than all the others.

Alex turns toward the new voice, slowly. He’s stronger, so when Jacob’s arm slides off my shoulders, I let it. I take a deep breath and turn also. The three of us come face to face with a single soldier. I think maybe we can take him, since there’s only one of him. A quick glance at Alex tells me he’s thinking the same thing.

Except there are more voices behind them, and they’re getting closer. Whatever we’re going to do, we need to do it now. But before we can decide anything, the soldier collapses in front of us and behind him stands a man. He’s only a silhouette, barely even visible in the dim natural light of the night. He is tall and thin with long, shaggy hair. He’s holding a shovel, I realize, which he used to hit the soldier over the back of the head.

I don’t know whether to say thank you or to start backing away. The man has just saved our lives, but why? What does he want? Alex looks similarly confused—and suspicious—when the man steps closer, his features coming into view as he does.

Shock registers in my system, and I gasp, feeling faint. I can feel the blood draining from my face, and my stomach taking a deep dive to my feet.

“No,” the word escapes as a whisper.

It’s not possible. I know it’s not because the man who stands before us is dead. He’s been dead for the last six years and I accepted that a long time ago.

I accepted he was never coming back.

“Dad?”

Read
Ruin (Unbelief Book II).

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00QJLBLKC/

Please keep reading for a chapter excerpt from
Awakening (Absence of Song I)
, now available for FREE.
 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00T1SWOQK

The sweet melody is stuck on an endless loop in my head. I scrub absently, lost in the beauty of it. Though music is forbidden and could get me in big trouble with the Ministry, I am at a loss when it comes to controlling my quietly rebellious streak.
 

Singing to myself while doing housework is one of the small pleasures I can revel in, in a world where our lives don’t always feel as though they are our own.

I’m always careful to keep my voice soft and low so no one outside our modest home hears me. I might be rebellious, but I’m certainly no dummy.
 

Resting on my knees, I sing softly as I hunch over, scrubbing away at the dirt coating the floor in grime, my long skirt getting wet where it touches the dampened wood.
 

I ignore it, continuing to scrub and sing, scrub and sing.

“Jaelynn Rose!” I jump, my heart leaping into my throat, a strangled sound erupting. I hadn’t heard anyone come in.

I sit up quickly, heart pounding, an energy surge coursing through my body as my gaze flies to the front door and my brain scrambles in an attempt to identify the voice scolding me from out of nowhere.
 

“What song are you singing now? Where’d you come up with that one?”

I slump, relief rushing out on a tiny huff of air, hands trembling with ebbing adrenaline as I recognize Mama’s voice and see her worn face peering down at me from where she stands in the doorway on the other side of the room.
 

Gaze drifting skyward, I mouth a quiet thank you. To what or whom, I don’t really know. Holding a fist against my chest in an effort to slow my heart’s pace, I’m only thankful it isn’t my father— or anyone else connected with the Ministry for that matter— stopping by to see my parents and catching me.

Still, my mother tends to scold me for singing because she knows I’m not supposed to be doing it. It’s against the Rules. When she’s not scolding me, she switches to asking questions I can’t really give her suitable answers to, often frustrating us both.

“They came to me in a dream, Mama,” I murmur nonchalantly, repeating the same answer I’d given her time and time again, though I know it never does any good.

“A dream? You’re still having those?” My mother shuffles into the room, sits down at the table and smiles at me tiredly. “Come on up here, child. Rest for a bit, get off the floor. Your knees must be black and blue by now.”
 

Hiding a fond smile at her fussing, I move to do as I’m told. It’s not often I get to sit down with Mama and just chat.
 
Rising to my feet, I stretch, wincing at the kinks I can feel pinched tight in my back. I ignore them, knowing my discomfort has to be mild compared to my mother’s exhausted state.

“Here, let me make you some tea, Mama.” I move toward the cupboards, taking long, deep breaths to slow down my still racing heart.
 

“Do we have some of our rations left?” she asks.

I nod, but do a quick mental inventory of what little food still remains. There isn’t much as far as actual nutrition goes, which is why lunch today consists of tea. Not the most filling of meals by a long shot.
 

My stomach takes that moment to grumble loudly, and I slide my gaze in Mama’s direction, feeling a little guilty and hoping she doesn’t hear it. Unfortunately my lunch had been tea as well.
 

Looking over our rations, I realize we do have some rice and beans— just enough for dinner tonight, but that’s about it. Thankfully I can pick up our next month’s supply of food tomorrow night, perfect timing for tomorrow’s dinner. But for breakfast and lunch, tea it will be. Again. I grimace, a pang of hunger pelting my belly at the mere thought.

Grabbing the teakettle from the cupboard, I ignore my vocal belly, fill the kettle and setting it to boil over the fire, quietly humming to myself as I work.

When the kettle begins to squeal, signaling the water is ready, I set about steeping the tea. My mother can’t stand the stuff, always says she’d prefer to drink regular old water, but I enjoy it. Even if it is bland these days. I wrinkle my nose. Good tea is hard to find. It provides a bit of flavor during those times my stomach gripes for food, so there’s that.