“It’s nothing.”
Hope feels a surge of anger. Here she’s gone to the trouble to find her sister and put her life on the line and Faith wants nothing to do with her.
“Faith, you can’t do this. You won’t make it on your own.”
“I can make it on my own just as well as you,” she says over her shoulder.
“Oh, come on …”
Faith wheels on her twin, nostrils flared. “Why don’t you think I can make it? Because I’m helpless without you? Because he wanted us to separate so you could live and not me?”
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“I heard him, Hope. He was telling you to go your own way. He wanted you to live. Well, guess what? I’m giving him what he wanted.”
Bug bites cover every inch of Faith’s face, and her eyes are nearly swollen shut. But even more painful for Hope is the haunted expression Faith wears. A look of genuine sadness. Hope doesn’t know what to say. What words can possibly ease her sister’s pain?
When Hope is finally about to speak, she’s interrupted by a low rumble. The earth shakes beneath their feet. Their father told them about earthquakes, but they’ve never experienced one. A flash of movement out of the corner of her eye swings her around.
It’s not an earthquake but a thundering of hooves. Horses. Dozens of them, headed straight for the two girls. Atop each of them is a Brown Shirt hoisting a semiautomatic rifle.
It only takes Hope a second to react.
“Run!” she screams at the very top of her lungs.
Hope drags her sister as best she can, tearing through the tall grasses. But there’s no place to hide. Their only hope is to reach the trees and pray the woods are thick enough to keep the horses from following. Then the Brown Shirts will be forced to dismount and lug their heavy weapons.
It’s a long shot, but better than none at all.
The rumble of hooves grows louder. The roar swells like a thunderstorm, hailstones slamming into the ground.
Both girls are sucking wind. Faith’s lungs make harsh, raspy sounds with each inhalation.
“I have … to stop,” she wheezes.
“No!” Hope says.
Faith bends over, clutches her knees. “Go,” she coughs. “I’m done.”
“You’re not done. We can do this.”
The horses are gaining speed. If the sisters leave right now, they stand a chance. But only if they leave this very instant. “Come on!”
Faith shakes her head. “Go,” she says. “It’s what Dad wanted.” She meets Hope’s eyes. “It’s what I want, too.”
Hope looks at her sister. And at the approaching Brown Shirts.
“H and FT,” she says.
Faith doesn’t respond.
“H and FT,” Hope repeats.
It’s their secret code. Has been since they were kids, since that awful day when their mother was shot before their eyes.
H & FT. Hope and Faith Together.
Finally, Faith says it back. “H and FT.”
Hope guides her. In her one hand is Faith’s arm; in the other is her spear. She veers straight for the sun, forcing the Brown Shirts to squint into the sunset. Forcing them to slow down to navigate creek beds and boulders.
The tree line grows closer and Hope can make out the dense underbrush. It’s all shrubs and thick tangles of vines. Good for hiding. Living hell for a horse. No way the Brown Shirts can navigate this maze. Hope realizes they’ve caught a break. They should just make it after all.
The first gunshots blast the trees in front of them. Bark explodes. Small birch trees are sliced in half. Faith slows.
“Don’t stop!” Hope yells.
“But they’re shooting at us.”
“And we’ll stop if they hit us!”
They’re a mere twenty yards from the woods when a lead horse circles around and cuts them off. Then another. And another. There’s suddenly no way out.
Still, when a Brown Shirt draws a pistol, Hope reaches back with her spear and sends it flying. It sails through the air, entering the soldier’s chest, the pointy end sticking out his back. A dazed expression paints his face as he tumbles off his horse.
A dozen other Brown Shirts raise their M16s and target them on Hope.
“Don’t shoot!” a voice cries out.
A trailing Humvee comes to a sudden stop and a man waddles forward. He is heavy to the point of obese, with thin, almost invisible lips. Unlike the men on horseback, he doesn’t wear the soldier’s uniform of the Republic, but a black suit with a white shirt and a thin black tie. His most striking feature is the soiled hanky he grips in his hand, which he uses to dab at the corners of his eyes.
“Don’t shoot,” the pudgy man says again, and rifle barrels lower. He appraises the twins with leering eyes. His sausage fingers cup Faith’s chin. “We’ve been looking for you two,” he says in a nasally voice. “Oh yes, we’ve been looking for you for quite some time.”
7. (#ulink_41483520-1b68-5ee3-8048-a908bb24ab54)
THERE WAS A FUNERAL to attend. There were always funerals at Camp Liberty. Another LT had succumbed to the lingering effects of ARS. Acute radiation syndrome. It was a lanky kid named Lodgepole who’d developed a tumor in his neck the size of a softball. Frankly, he was lucky to die when he did.
I didn’t know Lodge well, but had a feeling I would’ve liked him. Which is exactly why I didn’t get to know him. What was the point of making friends if ARS was just going to pick them off?
Another reason why I immersed myself in books.
I read everything I could get my hands on. History, biographies, fiction. If it was on the dusty shelves of our little library, chances were I’d checked it out.
But that wasn’t all. Someone was giving me books as well. It wasn’t uncommon to open my bedside trunk and find some new volume. None of the other LTs got books—just me—and I couldn’t figure out who was doing it.
As for Black T-Shirt, I still hadn’t found out anything about him, other than the fact that he was incredible at everything athletic. Whether it was shooting arrows or kicking soccer balls, he was drop-dead good. Yet another reason he pissed me off.
Now that he wore the camp uniform—jeans, white T-shirt, blue cotton shirt—his old name no longer cut it. So we called him Cat, because he was athletic and mysterious and half the time we didn’t hear him sneak up beside us.
