Resist

1 ALINA

We didn’t think sailing to Sequoia would be easy, but we hoped for better luck than freezing rain and winds. The slightest miscalculation and we’ll end up at the bottom of the river.

“Help me!” I shout, throwing my weight into my heels and tipping backward to keep the rigging from slipping out of control. The rain hits us horizontally, and makes ice of the deck. The boat creaks and lurches forward. The sails flap wildly as my cousin, Silas, stumbles toward me and grabs the cable. Almost effortlessly he pulls it taut, and I quickly tie a stopper knot to keep the sail from ballooning out and capsizing us. “That should do it,” I say, my voice thinned by the storm.

Silas pulls up the hood on his coat. He hasn’t said much since we set sail. No one has. What is there to say now that The Grove’s a ruin—now that everything the Resistance ever fought for has been destroyed?

At least the storm keeps us too busy to wallow in memories: the screams and blood; the tanks; soldiers rushing at us with guns; our friends lying dead. And the trees, our whole forest, shriveling while we watched.

I can still taste the toxic foam in my throat.

I follow Silas to the cabin where our tiny group of survivors is taking shelter from the squall. My hands burn from the cold. I rub them together, then tuck them inside my coat and under my armpits.

“We did everything you said,” I tell Bruce. I never thought I’d be so grateful to have a drifter on our side, but whatever harm the old man caused on behalf of the Ministry all those years ago, doesn’t matter now. Without him, we wouldn’t have known how to get the boat going, let alone save it from the storm.

“You young’uns did good,” he says, scratching his gray beard and keeping his eyes on the view out the filthy window, where the outline of city buildings on the shoreline is barely distinguishable through the haze of spray and rain.

The boat dips and the wheel rips out of Bruce’s gnarled hands. My stomach reels. I adjust the valve on the airtank buckled to my belt, and the tank hisses as more air is released into the tubing. I inhale deeply through my nose. As Silas steadies the wheel with Bruce, I squat next to Maude. The old woman has a blanket wrapped around her like a shroud; only her head and one scrawny arm are exposed. “Did you manage to collect all the airtanks from the deck?” I ask. Without air, we may as well jump into the river—finish ourselves off quickly.

“You think I’m some kinda nitwit? I put ’em over there.” She points to the corner of the cabin where the tanks are untidily piled. We have ten, and there are seven of us. How many days of oxygen is that? How many hours?

A sob comes from the opposite corner. My fellow Resistance members, Dorian and Song, are bending over Holly, one of The Grove’s gardeners. I don’t know her well, but I’m glad for everyone who survived.

I grab an airtank and go to them, keeping my stride wide to stay balanced. Holly is shivering so fiercely her teeth are clacking together. Although she lived at The Grove with Song and Dorian, and learned to survive on low levels of oxygen, her breath is quick and shallow. “She’s hyperventilating. She needs this,” I say, holding out the airtank.

Dorian stands up and runs his hand through his hair. “She won’t take one.”

I try to put a hand to her forehead. She swipes me away, scratching my hand with her nails.

“She’s gone loopy,” Maude crows, rubbing a hard scab on her elbow.

Keeping his hands on the wheel, Bruce peers at Holly from under his thick eyebrows with an expression that tells me he’s seen this kind of thing before. I’m sure he has. The Switch sent people mad as the oxygen levels plummeted and everyone slowly suffocated. And he and Maude lived through it. But maybe this is worse. What’s happening now feels like the end. “She’ll be okay,” he says quietly. Maude tuts, but she doesn’t contradict him; she isn’t that heartless.

Holly mutters something. “What is it, Holls?” Song asks. He doesn’t touch her. Instead he presses his own slender brown hands to his heart like he wants to feel what she feels. His eyes are watery and filled with aching. Is it possible they’re an item? Romantic relationships between Resistance members were always forbidden, but maybe that rule was ignored more than I knew. Silas was with Inger, after all.

“Air,” Holly moans. Song reaches for an airtank, but Holly shakes her head. She turns to the cabin door. “Fresh air,” she says, as though there’s such a thing.

Dorian sighs. “We’re sailing through a storm.” The boat pitches backward in answer to his warning. At the wheel, Bruce and Silas grunt and struggle to keep us upright.

“Let’s wait until it passes,” Song says gently.

Holly gazes at her boots, which are flecked in hardened black foam. “I want to go out and feel the air.” She bites her bottom lip and picks invisible lint from her pants. “Then maybe we can go back to The Grove and take showers to warm ourselves up.”

I envy Holly’s retreat. If I could pull away from reality a little bit, what we’ve seen might not hurt so much. “I’ll take her out for a minute,” I say. “Might clear her head.”

Holly stands, pulling her hood over her short, frizzy brown hair. Her nose and ears are already red from the cold. “Where’s Petra?” Holly asks.

I take her hand and lead her to the cabin door. “She’s back at The Grove taking care of the trees,” I say. It’s not untrue. Our leader clung fiercely to a doomed tree as we ran. Petra couldn’t leave behind her life’s work. And she paid the ultimate price.

And then my throat tightens as I remember Jazz scampering up a tree to be with her. Jazz was only a child. She didn’t deserve to die. No one did. “Alina?” Dorian says. He’s behind me.

“We’ll just be a few minutes,” I say, and force the door open against the wind.

Holly and I turn our backs on the lashing rain and head for the bow. I let go of her hand and she clings to the rimed railing, leaning forward and smiling. She allows the biting surf to spray her face and water to trickle down her neck. The boat rocks against a heavy wave, and I grab the railing with my ungloved hands, but Holly lets go. Maybe it was a mistake bringing her outside. “Let’s go back in,” I say.

Holly squints into the bleary distance, and her bottom lip quivers. “I knew we’d lose the war,” she says. Over the roiling of the waves and wind, it sounds like a whisper.

I don’t tell her we haven’t lost because it would be a lie. We’re no better than drifters now, refugees heading for Sequoia and hoping they’ll take us in. All we’ve been left with are our lives, and I’m not sure that’s enough anymore. As though reading my mind, Holly steps on the bottom rung of the railing, and hoists herself onto the other side, so she’s suspended over the prow like a living figurehead. I throw my arms around her.

“Holly, what are you doing? Get your ass back on the deck.”

The boat dips forward, and she begins to cry. “Let me go.”

My feet slip. “Help!” I scream.

Within moments, most of the others are on us and Song is helping me drag her back over the railing. Once she’s safely lying flat on the deck, he shakes her. “What the hell’s wrong with you? How dare you do that? How dare you!” He rests his head on Holly’s stomach and sobs. Holly strokes Song’s tight curls and gazes at the clouds.

“We’ll carry her inside,” Dorian says. He glares at me through the driving rain.

“How was I to know what she was planning?” I say.

Dorian shakes his head and puts his hand under Holly’s arms.

Although the rain is still drubbing the boat, the wind has settled, making sailing smoother. Dorian, Holly, and Song doze in their corner. Bruce and Maude are whispering and caressing each other’s wrinkly hands. Silas is at the wheel. I go to him and stare out at the river through the cracked window of the cabin. Dilapidated buildings along the embankment have spilled into the river after decades of neglect. “You should have let her jump.” His voice is low.

“Are you serious?” A lump swells in my throat. Are our chances of survival that slim?

“Dorian claims to know where Sequoia is, but when I showed him the map, he was pretty vague. As far as I can work out, we’ve a search radius of around ten miles.”

“We’ll find it. We’ve done harder things, Silas.”

“I’m not sure we have. How long do you think our oxygen’s going to last?” he asks. I glance across at the stack of airtanks and then at Maude and Bruce wheezing in their facemasks. Maude looks up at me and, for no particular reason, scowls. Despite what we’ve been through together, we still aren’t friends.

“We have a few days,” I say.

“If that.” Silas keeps his eyes on the burnt sun.

“Do you have a better idea?” I ask. I’m not being argumentative; I really hope he’s thought of something.

He shakes his head. “Sequoia’s our only shot at not being drifters. If we find it, we can resume planting and make contact with the pod, with my mom and dad.” He stops and looks at me. His eyes are red-rimmed, though whether it’s from the foam the Ministry’s army used to destroy The Grove, tiredness, or despair, I can’t tell.

I take Silas’s arm. “Harriet and Gideon are fine,” I say. Even if a civil war has broken out in the pod, my aunt and uncle are too smart to be dead.

A blast of wind pitches the boat toward the bank and Silas pulls the wheel sharply to the left. I’m thrown off balance and fall onto my face. A thick, metallic taste fills my mouth.

“Sorry,” Silas says. “You all right?”

“Fine,” I say. I lift my facemask and wipe away the blood with my sleeve. Under the circumstances, it would be childish to complain about a split lip.

Maude starts up. “Stop!”

I am about to snarl at the old woman, tell her Silas is doing the best he can to keep the boat steady, and turn just in time to see Holly sneaking out the cabin door. I dash after her. “Holly, no!”

She is already at the bow, climbing over the railing. By the time I reach her, she’s hanging over the water, jostling from side to side with the current. And she is smiling. Silas’s words rebound in my head—You should have let her jump. But I can’t. She isn’t in her right mind.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow, Holly.” I hold tight to one of her arms. Ice chips from the freezing river nick my face.

“Nothing will be different tomorrow,” she says. She turns briefly and catches my eye. “Everything’s gone.”

“We have to hope,” I say.

Holly laughs mirthlessly. “I’m all out of hope,” she says, and lets go. The railing bites into my chest as I’m wrenched forward. I hang over the railing, gripping Holly’s arm, but she’s heavy and my hands slide to her wrist. A violent spray from the keel drenches her. She gazes up at me with a look of perfect serenity. My fingers burn. “You’re hurting me,” she says. And then it happens: her wet skin slips from my grasp.

Holly hits the water and is devoured. And all I can do is watch.

Heavy footsteps pound the deck. “Holly!” Song cries. He leans over the railing and searches the waves breaking against the hull.

But Holly is gone.

I turn away.

Everyone but Bruce is on deck, staring at me.

“I couldn’t hold her,” I say.

“Holly?” Song howls.

Dorian puts an arm around Song, and pulls him back from the railing.

“We’ll dock for the night,” Silas says. “Now everyone, back inside.”

Silently, we file into the cabin. I slide onto the floor. One of Holly’s brown boots is lying next to the pile of airtanks, the laces loose and frayed.

I will not feel guilty. I couldn’t hold her. It was her decision to die. I close my eyes and press my knuckles against the lids.

I no longer feel cold. I feel nothing.

“Poor girl lost the fight,” Bruce says to no one in particular.

And I am left to wonder: What are we fighting for, anyway?

2 BEA

Sometimes I wished I believed in God, like people did before The Switch. Knowing there was a grand plan and that someone you loved wasn’t gone forever must have given them a lot of comfort. But even if my parents are in a better place, God couldn’t reverse time and bring them back and that’s what I want: the chance to hug my parents, to smell my mother and father again.

When I pined for Quinn, I thought I knew what people meant when they talked about having broken hearts. I didn’t know a thing. Now, my insides are all eaten up. My heart pumps what little oxygen I have around my body, but the breath doesn’t make me whole.

Even though it’s covered in slush and lumps of ice, Quinn, Jazz, and I are following an old railway line from The Grove into the center of the city. From there we’ll track the river west. I have the old map Gideon gave me before I slid out of the pod, and Jazz has fingered a place on it she thinks is Sequoia. We have to trust she’s right because we don’t have another choice.

Quinn puts an arm around my waist and squeezes me. “Maybe we should rest,” he says. He must hear me wheezing through my facemask, but this isn’t a safe place to stop. The temperature is dropping with the sun, so we need shelter, but the graffiti-covered buildings around us look like they’re about to topple. I shake my head and without asking me, he turns the valve on my airtank to allow more oxygen into my mask.

But there’s no knowing how long it’ll take to get to Sequoia. When he looks away, I turn it back to fifteen percent.

“A tunnel!” Jazz chirrups, pointing at an underpass a few hundred feet ahead. She bounces away, kicking up the slush with her feet as she goes.

“Be careful!” I call out. I pull the map from my coat pocket and unfold it for what must be the hundredth time. “There should be a train station after the tunnel. Saint Pancras,” I tell Quinn. He takes our moment alone together to hold me. Without meaning to, I stiffen.

He steps back. “You all right?”

“I wish we’d found more people alive,” I say, diverting his question. I don’t want him to worry, and there’s nothing he can do to sweep away the cinders of grief anyway.

“We’re going to get through this,” he says. I nod, pull the beret Old Watson gave me over my forehead, and smile weakly.

“Stop smooching and hurry up!” Jazz insists. She’s already way ahead. She pulls her facemask down over her chin—having grown up at The Grove and spent her life training her body to subsist on low levels of oxygen, she doesn’t need to wear it all the time. She spins in circles, opening her mouth to the sky. Her spirally red hair, singed at the ends, blazes like fire against the snowy backdrop. You’d never know she was the one survivor we found in the rubble that was once her home.

Quinn takes my wrist and forces me to look at him. “Against the odds, we got out alive and found each other.”

“I just wish . . .” I think of my parents’ motionless bodies, their blood spreading across the stage as the fighting broke out. I was all they ever had and they worked every day of their lives just to pay the air tax, so I could breathe. Thank goodness I have Quinn . . . but I want them, too.

“Do you think Maude made it?” I ask.

“That scrappy lunatic? Of course. Jazz said as much, didn’t she?”

I am about to say that Jazz can’t know for sure that anyone made it when there’s a shrill scream followed by a thud. We spin toward the sound. “Jazz?”

She’s gone.

In a second, Quinn is off. I trail after him, unable to keep up. He halts on the tracks and desperately glances around. “Jazz!” he calls. “She was right here,” he says, as I catch up. We stand and listen.

Silence.

We zigzag back and forth over the track, stopping when we reach a barbed wire fence on one side with old bits of plastic bags caught in it, and a procession of rusting train carriages on the other. Then we inch toward the tunnel, calling Jazz’s name into the dusk. After everything awful that’s happened, I brace myself for the worst.

I pick a red hair from my coat, and it floats to the ground. “Let’s split up. We’ll find her quicker,” I say.

“And lose each other? No way.” He takes my hand and we peer into the tunnel without going inside. The light at the end is a semicircle of gray.

“Do you have a flashlight?” I whisper, so my words won’t rebound.

“I don’t have anything.” He sighs, and I touch his hair with my gloved hand.

“You have me,” I tell him. “And we’re going to find Jazz.” I peer into the tunnel. “But there’s no way she’s in here. She wasn’t that far from us. Let’s go back.”

He puts a finger to his ear. “What was that?” he says. I stay as still as I can, but all I can hear is my own breath and the faint ticking of the airtanks.

Quinn turns and charges along the tracks.

“Careful!” I tell him, following and almost tripping. Quinn stumbles and circles his arms wide at his sides to steady himself. As I get to him, I see what he almost fell into: an opening.

The manhole is protected by a heavy, circular metal plate, which is tilted slightly. Quinn clutches one side of it, while I take the other. On the count of three, we haul the leaden covering away from the hole and it lands with a clang. And there she is, several feet below. “I’ve been calling and calling,” Jazz groans.

“We didn’t hear you. But we’re here now,” I say. I sit and swing my legs over the manhole.

“Are you kidding?” Quinn says, grabbing me.

“It isn’t far to jump,” I say. He snorts. I shrug him off and feel my eyes harden, but I don’t know why; he’s just trying to protect me.

“I’ll go,” he says. He sits, then uses his arms to lower himself slowly into the hole, careful to avoid landing on Jazz. He adjusts her facemask, so she can breathe easier. “I’ll lift her and you pull her.”

Jazz’s bruised face appears through the opening. I sit in the snow, take her under the arms, and lean back, using my full weight to drag her out. She whimpers the whole time.

“Now me!” Quinn calls. I stroke Jazz’s forehead, leave her lying on the frosty ground, and bend over the hole. Quinn raises his arms toward me. I strain against his weight, but he’s so much heavier than Jazz he doesn’t budge when I try to lift him.

My temples throb. “I’m not strong enough,” I mutter, crumpling at the edge of the hole. I hate having to admit this, even to Quinn. “I’m going to find something for you to stand on.” I might be weak, but I’m not stupid.

I rush toward the decomposing train to my right. When I step aboard, the floor buckles under me. I hold on to a rusting fire extinguisher attached to the wall, then creep inside. Most of the seats have been ripped out of place or knifed open, their frothy green innards spilling onto the floor. Only two seats are intact. I shut my eyes, but it’s too late; I’ve already seen the parched bones, one set significantly larger than the other. And on the floor next to them are two skulls: a large one and a small one. And a knife.

They probably took their own lives: one slice to the throat is all it would have taken, and I learned in history class that people resorted to worse during The Switch, when they were gasping for air and starving to boot. But who were they? A parent and child, perhaps? No one will ever know. Two lives wiped from the face of history as though they meant nothing—like so many before and after them.

Quinn calls my name. I need to focus.

I reach for a seat, mildewed and broken, and tow it from the train, my arms burning.

I force the seat down the manhole, and it lands with a whump. Quinn puts it on its side and, wobbling, uses it as a stool. After two attempts he pulls his chin and elbows aboveground before finally crawling out. He lies on the ground and breathes heavily. “I need to start doing more push-ups,” he says, and I can’t help smiling.

But beside us, Jazz’s whimpers have turned into sobs.

Her corduroys are ripped open below the knee. “You have to be quiet, Jazz,” I say. We can’t know who’s lurking. The whole area could be crawling with drifters. Or the army could be out hunting for me already.

I pull at the flap of Jazz’s pants, then turn away so I won’t be sick. She isn’t just bleeding: a deep, jagged gash runs all the way up her leg to the knee and a piece of bone is sticking out.

Quinn appears at my side. He stares at the wound, his jaw slack. I untie my scarf and tightly bind Jazz’s leg. She bites on her fist. “It hurts . . . so . . . much,” she says.

“What are we going to do?” I ask.

“We’ll get her to the station and then. . .” He trails off. “Do you have the strength to carry her?”

“I have to.”

“And we can’t stop, even if she screams,” he says.

“I won’t scream,” Jazz says through tears. But she does scream. And scream and scream and scream.

By the time we’ve carried Jazz through the pitch-black tunnel, and all the way into St. Pancras station, she’s unconscious. And I’m barely able to walk myself. Our oxygen is never going to last all the way to Sequoia if we keep exerting ourselves like this.

We set her down beneath a marble clock and slump next to her. She doesn’t stir. I slide my hand into her coat and place it against her chest. I relax when I feel the heartbeat.

“It’s bad,” Quinn says. I can’t speak through my panting, so I sit catching my breath and gaze at the station’s vaulted glass ceiling. Stars speckle the night sky. It’s beautiful.

Quinn bends toward me. “We’ll make it through this, you know,” he says. He’s trying to be positive. But Jazz’s leg will get infected, and then what? We leave her here to rot and move on?

“She’ll die, and then we will,” I say.

He shakes me. “Why are you talking like that?”

I push him away. “Because in case you hadn’t noticed, everyone dies, Quinn.”

“We’re alive.” He removes his facemask, then pulls mine from my face so he can kiss me quickly on the lips. A few weeks ago, I wanted nothing more than to know Quinn loved me. When he kissed me for the first time, it was like an elixir—but today, his lips don’t revive me. “You have to be strong,” he says firmly, sliding both facemasks back into place.

And he’s right. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have wanted me to give up. They would have wanted me to fight, like they did in the end. Even if the fighting kills us.

3 RONAN

I’ve been a prisoner in my own home for two days, and I don’t know how much more of it I can take. When we got back from the battle at The Grove, Jude Caffrey bundled me into a buggy with armed stewards and sent me home instead of letting me help contain the riots. He said it was for my own protection, but never bothered to say what I need to be protected from, and anyway, I hardly think the stewards commissioned to protect me could fend off an attacker better than I could.

The only reason I haven’t given them the slip is because I don’t want to leave my sister alone. Niamh was hysterical when I got home. She’d been in her bedroom with Todd something-or-other when the stewards barged in. They frog-marched them to the basement where they kept them until I got back. And when I did, she asked me about a thousand questions: Where had I been? What was happening? When could we leave? But I couldn’t answer her. The mission to The Grove was classified. And even if I could have answered, I didn’t want to talk about it. I went straight to my room and ripped off my uniform and dirty boots, throwing them against the wall. We’d been told we’d be fighting terrorists. Well, that was the biggest crock of crap I’ve ever heard in my life.

Neither my nor Niamh’s pads have worked since then, either. The screen’s nothing but static. Every so often raking shots are fired outside or a voice booms through a megaphone. And strangely, no one seems to know where my father is. I’m not his biggest fan, but I am beginning to feel uneasy.

“You married?” Niamh asks the steward on duty guarding us from the perils of our own kitchen. She twists a piece of hair around her finger until the tip is bluish. Todd is elsewhere.

“Give it a rest, Niamh,” I say. The guy must be forty and Niamh’s only flirting because she’s bored.

“Just making chitchat, Ronan. You might want to try it some time,” she says, lifting herself up onto a bar stool and leaning forward against the stone island, her head resting on her hands.

I go to the window. The stewards surrounding the house look like a human fence, and beyond them the street is deserted. “How much longer is this going to last?” I ask.

“Please step away from the window,” the steward warns. He’s shorter than me and thin as a whip. But I do as he says and take a jug of juice and a handful of strawberries from the fridge.

“Want something?” I ask. Normally our housekeeper, Wendy, would see to visitors, but she’s been banished to her annex, and Niamh and I have been feeding ourselves for the first time in our lives.

“No,” the steward says curtly, then tilts his head in the direction of the hall. “Wait here,” he whispers for what must be the twentieth time today. He slides along the kitchen wall until he’s out of sight. I pour a glass of juice.

“Those dirty subs do nothing but cause trouble. I hope Daddy’s dealing with them,” Niamh says. She pauses. “Do you think Daddy’s all right?” She has an arm outstretched, admiring her polished nails. She’s pretending she isn’t worried, too.

“He can take care of himself.” I don’t know anyone who’d dare cross my father—I certainly wouldn’t. But it is strange that he hasn’t called, when we’re on lockdown.

Niamh takes her pad from a drawer in the kitchen island. “Why won’t this thing work?” She bangs it on the stone top. “Hell!”

The steward reappears at the kitchen door followed by Jude Caffrey, who pulls off his facemask, unbuckles the tank from his belt, and dumps everything onto the floor. The steward spins around and stands with his back to us. “Ronan. Niamh,” Jude says. He’s wearing the same soiled clothes I last saw him in, and his knuckles are grazed. He hasn’t shaved in a long time.

“Why are you here?” Niamh asks rudely.

“Take a seat,” I say, and tap a stool.

When he comes into the kitchen, I see Todd is standing behind him. Todd rests against the arched doorframe with his T-shirt in his hand. His chest is bare and his hair is standing up like he’s been wrestling. “Is it over?” he asks.

“The pod’s been pumped with halothane gas,” Jude says, sitting on the stool. He addresses me as though Todd hasn’t even come into the room. Todd squints and steps further into the kitchen. He’s waiting to be acknowledged. Or at the very least noticed.

“And what does that mean?” I ask.

“If you go outside without a tank, you’ll black out,” Jude says matter-of-factly. But I’m not stupid; he knows that isn’t the question I’m asking.

My mouth goes dry. “Jude, is this a coup?” I ask. “Where’s my father?”

“You haven’t seen any coverage of the press conference on the screen?” he asks, his tone reproachful.

“The screens have been tampered with,” Niamh snaps. No one but Cain Knavery’s daughter could get away with speaking like this to the general of the pod’s army.

He arches an eyebrow. “You, leave us,” he tells Todd, who’s finally found his way into his T-shirt.

“So, I’ll get an airtank from the basement, yeah?” Todd says. Everyone, including Niamh, ignores him.

Jude closes his eyes and massages the lids. “Go help your boyfriend, Niamh,” he says.

“Excuse me?” Her jaw drops and she takes several moments to be deeply offended. “You’re in my house.”

“Please, Niamh. Let me speak to Jude.” I dip my head to one side, and she stomps out of the room after Todd.

Jude stands up, slides his hands into his pockets, and rocks back and forth, side to side, in his dirty boots. The creamy marble floor is covered in muck he’s carried through the house. “It’s important you’re safe. We’ll keep snipers on the roof for another couple of days, and I strongly advise you to stay indoors,” Jude says. He is broad and tall, but he looks unusually tired and defeated.

“Do you think I need a babysitter?” I ask.

“I don’t doubt you’re able to take care of yourself. It’s a precaution, that’s all.” I’ve been training under Jude Caffrey with the Special Forces since I was thirteen and he knows I could take down an assailant with two fingers. And I did—just days ago at The Grove.

Jude moves to the sink, turns on the tap, and puts his neck under the running water. He shakes his head and stands up straight, the water running into his shirt collar. Then he pushes his thinning hair out of his face with wet hands and clasps them behind his back. He’s stalling, I realize, and my gut aches. What is he so reluctant to tell me?

“The pod’s gone mad. You know the auxiliaries have rebelled,” he says.

“They have every reason to,” I snap. I’ve never questioned what the Ministry stands for, but that was before seeing the trees at The Grove, before destroying them at Jude’s command.

He looks like he’s about to say something, then changes his mind. I take a short breath. “Where’s my father?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and I brace myself against the wall because it’s obvious why Jude’s so nervous. My ears ring. “Your father’s dead, Ronan,” he says.

I wince at the words. My muscles tense. “What?” I say. I’ve heard him; I need time to take it in, that’s all.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. I stay on my feet, which is more than I managed when Wendy told me my mother was gone. All I could do back then was moan into the kitchen floor. Today I retain my balance. And my composure.

But I’m so damn thirsty. My mouth is dryer than ever. I return to the fridge, get the jug and drink straight from its lip, juice spilling across my mouth and all over my shirt. Jude takes the jug from me. His jacket is missing a button. A loose thread hangs where it should be. I focus hard on it. I have to focus on something. Maybe the button was ripped off at The Grove.

“You’re in shock. Sit down,” he says. He’s probably right. And if I’m feeling like this, how will Niamh take it?

She doesn’t know, and I’ll be the one to tell her. The air seems to have thinned. I pull at my collar.

Jude leads me to the kitchen table, where he lowers me into a chair. “Breathe slowly,” he says. I push him away. I don’t want his hands on me.

“I knew something like this must have happened,” I admit. I take large gulps of air as the words dead and forever spin in my head. I wasn’t my father’s favorite, and we weren’t friends. Still, I didn’t want this.

“At the press conference, Quinn started a—well, your father was mobbed and attacked, but it was a heart attack that killed him. By the time the medics arrived, it was too late.”

“What should I do?” I ask. I need him to tell me what life looks like now—what comes next.

But Jude’s an army man; he thinks I’m asking how we catch the perpetrators. “Well, you know we’ve been chasing the Resistance inside and outside the pod. We’ve nearly got them all rounded up. You can help with that.”

“Me? No . . . I want nothing more to do with the Special Forces.”

He squints. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to talk about it tomorrow. I want out. Those people weren’t terrorists. They were gardeners, Jude. And most of them were my age.” I’ve tried not to think about those we killed, but it comes back to me now: the faces of boys and girls, only a handful of them wearing bulletproof vests, not one of them holding an automatic weapon. They had rifles and shotguns. It wasn’t a war at all—it was a massacre.

“Those people are responsible for your father’s death.”

He knows the only reason I joined the Special Forces was for my father’s approval. But strangely, now he’s dead, I couldn’t care less if he rolls in his grave. I have no interest in working for the Ministry and spending my life subjugating people for no good reason.

“No. The Ministry’s lies are responsible for that riot, and I won’t be a part of that anymore.”

“You don’t really have a choice. Do you know how much your training cost?”

“I’ll pay back whatever it cost. We have money.”

Jude sighs. “None of us have money, Ronan. This house, the buggy, your housekeeper, dammit, even your air supply . . . who do you think pays for it all?”

“But my father had shares in Breathe. A pension.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But Special Forces soldiers don’t quit. You’re one of the Ministry’s most dangerous weapons. They aren’t going to let you loose. Who’s to say you won’t defect?”

“But you can cut me loose.”

He smiles. “If only that were true. I’m as much a slave to them as anyone.”

“I’ll refuse to fight,” I say. They can’t make me.

“Get real. What do you think they’ll do to you . . . and to your sister? Have you forgotten what happened to Adele Rice?”

“She was killed by—” I stop and stare at Jude, who nods slowly. It was all over the news: Adele Rice, Special Forces elite, went missing and was suspected dead after a mission to The Outlands. The Ministry blamed the “terrorists.” Were any of the supposed terrorist attacks true?

My stomach tightens and bitterness against my father, the Ministry, and Jude Caffrey surges. I swallow hard and have a desperate urge to go up into my studio and throw paint. Why didn’t I stay up there years ago and do what I love instead of trying to be the soldier-son my father wanted?

“The ministers have invited you and your sister to the chamber next week. They’d like to pay their respects,” he says. He stands, puts on his coat, and retrieves his airtank from the floor.

“Right,” I say.

“It’s protocol,” he says flatly. “And again, I’m sorry, but my advice, if you want to stay safe, is to stay useful. The Special Forces is a prestigious group and we’ll need you to clean up the mess in the pod. If I were you, I wouldn’t give up on us just yet.” He turns to the door as Todd and Niamh stroll into the kitchen. Niamh’s red lipstick is smeared across Todd’s neck and white T-shirt. I grip the edge of the table to stop myself from jumping up and knocking him out.

“I’m taking this.” Todd holds up an airtank. Niamh comes into the kitchen and flops into a seat beside me. “Listen, Niamh, I’ll see you at school, yeah?”

Niamh chews on a thumbnail. “Okay,” she replies, and smiles.

“Should I wait for you to call me, or should I—”

“Just get out,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Leave,” I bite out.

“Why are you being such a jerk?” Niamh asks.

“I’m going anyway. No worries,” Todd murmurs, and steps out of the room.

“I’m telling Dad,” Niamh says. We’re both practically adults, yet when I look at her, I see my baby sister—the six-year-old who ten years ago, wearing a yellow knit dress, was told her mother was dead and clung to me for weeks. She would’ve clung to my father if he hadn’t spent every day either in his room with a bottle or at the Ministry. He was never the same again and committed himself completely to work.

I sit back down and gaze at Niamh, who is glaring at me. How can I be the one to tell her our father is never coming back? Why should I be the one to destroy her world?

“Please tell me what’s going on,” she says.

Jude looks at me seriously. “I’ll go and let you two talk,” he says.

Niamh frowns. “Talk about what?”

4 QUINN

While Bea and Jazz get some kip, I scout the station for drifters, climbing the escalator to the upper concourse—a glass atrium bursting with light. The sky is this amazingly bright blue, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think it was a summer morning.

At the end of the concourse, where the light is brightest, is a jumble of discarded solar respirators. Hell, even the drifters have legged it.

I stoop over one of the solar respirators, a metal box that looks like a rusty mini-fridge, and turn it on. It sputters to life, then hums loudly. I pull my facemask from my nose and mouth to test the one attached to the respirator. The air coming from it is humid, but I can breathe all right. A tightness I didn’t even know I had in my chest relaxes; at least we aren’t going to suffocate anytime soon. With Bea I’ve tried to be more positive than I feel, but that’s only because she needs me to be strong. She’s lost way more than I have, and she hasn’t given up. Not completely, anyway.

I refit my facemask and pull my father’s long coat more tightly around me.

Maybe he thought that saving my life made him a model father or something, but it doesn’t. Anyone would have done the same, or more. And if he could see me now, he’d know that sending me into The Outlands to fend for myself wasn’t far from a death sentence anyway.

Who am I kidding? Of course he knew that.

But at least I can walk, which is more than I can say about Jazz, and if we don’t do something soon, we’ll have to watch her die because there’s no way we can treat her leg ourselves. If only we’d managed to make it to Sequoia unharmed.

I slump on the floor and nudge a solar respirator with my foot. Maybe I should go there alone and bring back help. Bea could take care of Jazz in the meantime. They have air and water. And this station is as good as it gets for shelter out here.

It’s probably the worst idea I’ve ever had, but when I hear Jazz call out, I figure I don’t have any other option.

5 BEA

I wake up on the cold station floor, and Quinn is missing.

“Petra,” Jazz mutters, and tries to sit up. She lets out a screech, crumpling back onto the tiled floor. I slide closer and elevate her leg using Quinn’s backpack. This should help stop the bleeding. Then I take her head in my lap. “I thought it was only a nightmare,” she says. She begins to cry, and I can tell from her eyes that it has nothing to do with the pain in her leg.

After a few minutes, a noise echoes through the station. “Quinn?”

“Coming!” And he’s with us again. “I heard a scream,” he says, and lowers a rusting, dented solar respirator onto the floor.

“It was me,” Jazz admits.

He pushes his hair away from his eyes and crouches next to her. “How bad is it?” he asks. Cautiously, he presses his hand to her forehead.

“I’m fine,” she says, and leans away from him. Her eyelids flutter as she courts unconsciousness again.

Quinn turns to me. “I found a ton of those respirators. This place must have been swarming with drifters. But there’s no one here now. You’ll be fine.”

He smiles, but it looks forced. “What are you talking about?” I swallow hard.

“Hear me out, Bea.”

“No,” I say.

“We can’t carry her across the country.”

“You’re leaving?”

“One of us has to get help, and I won’t let you go out there alone.” I don’t want to be without him. Not again. Not ever. I try to speak, but the words get trapped in my throat, and I cough. He pats me on the back. “Give me the map and let me go,” he says.

“Where? Where will you go, Quinn?” My voice is a squeal.

“I’ll find Sequoia. How hard can it be to locate a building big enough to house a whole movement? Someone will be able to help, and I’ll be back. Alina will be there.” He lowers his voice. “Jazz doesn’t stand a chance if we all stay here.”

“There has to be another way.” Now I do cry as the weight of what’s happened and what will happen crashes down on me. I want to be stronger, I just don’t know how.

He wraps his arms around me, holding me up as much as embracing me. “I’ll be back. I promise,” he says.

My parents made a promise like this, and it was the last time I ever saw them. I let him hold me. But I don’t believe him.

“They work. I checked,” Quinn says, unloading another respirator, and pressing his hand against the solar panel bathed in light from above. He turns a knob on the top, nudges it with his foot, and we listen to the old thing grind to life. “And they’re mobile, so you can carry them . . . if you have to.” I nod even though the respirators are enormous; I’d never even be able to lift one. “But you should stay here, so I’ll know where to find you,” he says.

Beside me, Jazz mewls and turns over in her sleep.

“What day is it?” I ask. I want to feel grounded to something reliable, predictable. And unless I know when he left, how will I know when to expect him back? When to stop waiting?

Quinn blinks and calculates using his fingers. “Monday,” he says. “Or Tuesday. Let’s say Monday. Look, every time the sun comes up, throw something in there.” He points at a tarnished water fountain attached to the wall.

“And when should I stop counting?”

“Bea.” He sighs. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t go,” Jazz says, waking up. She winces with pain. “Can’t you give me a piggyback? I’m light. I’m really light.”

She’s already sweating a fever, though she’s shivering. “You need to conserve your energy,” I tell her.

Quinn buttons up his coat. “Tell me this is for the best,” he says. “Please tell me I’m doing the right thing.” I don’t answer but follow him outside into the derelict city. The sunshine has melted some of the snow. The air is still frigid. I tuck my chin into my chest.

“Your air won’t last long,” I say.

“Stop it,” he says.

“You stop it.”

“Bea . . .” He takes my wrist, lifts his mask, and pushing back my sleeve, kisses it. I close my eyes, and he takes off my glove and kisses the palm of my hand. Eventually he has to put his facemask back in place, so he wraps me up in his arms. I rest my chin on his shoulder. “I can’t read you,” he says.

“I can’t read myself anymore.” I take a deep breath and push my hair away from my face. “If Jazz dies, and you don’t come back, I’ll head for Sequoia,” I say.

He looks up at the rows of broken clerestory windows set into the red brick of the station and nods. “Give me two weeks. You can survive here for two weeks.”

“Yes,” I say, but we both know Jazz won’t make it that long.

We stand for a few moments longer, holding hands and looking at our boots in the sludge.

“Why did it take me forever to see you?” he asks. He puts his hands around the back of my neck and pulls my head toward him so that our foreheads touch. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

I nod, but I don’t tell him that I love him, too. Maybe he’ll be back, maybe he won’t; my love won’t change what happens.

6 RONAN

Niamh is admiring herself in my bedroom mirror. She’s dressed in my father’s black mourning robe, and it should look weird, but Wendy’s taken it in so it fits, and Niamh wears it as though it were made especially for her. Usually I’d make a snarky comment, but I just watch her. “What do you think?” she asks.

I climb out of bed, pulling on the pants I left draped on the chair next to it. “I think I’d appreciate some privacy.”

“You should be up. I don’t know how you can sleep.” Today the ministers will pay their respects in the chamber. But that probably isn’t what Niamh means; ever since she found out our father died, she has spent all night in his bedroom, sobbing into the pillows. I let her grieve—someone should.

“You feeling better?” I ask.

“No, Ronan,” Niamh says. “Our dad is dead. I feel like crap.”

I stand behind her. My eyes in the mirror have dark circles beneath them. I look older than I did a week ago, which shouldn’t really surprise me.

I pull a sweater over my head and push my hair away from my eyes. Wendy bustles into the room with a tray.

“Morning,” she says.

“Hey,” I say. Niamh doesn’t bother looking at her. Wendy sidesteps Niamh, balancing the tray on her hip, and as she brushes past me, I have a feeling she wants to give me a hug. Wendy brought us up after our mother died and was the closest thing I had to a parent. But my father didn’t want her trying to replace my mother, so she stopped cuddling us. Maybe my father threatened her, and I was too shy to admit that a hug now and then would have been all right.

Wendy puts the tray on the dresser. “Toast and tea,” she tells me. “Have it while it’s hot.” On her way out, she stops in front of Niamh. “You look lovely.”

Niamh shrugs. “I know,” she says, though Wendy is already out of the room. “And it would be nice if you made some effort too, Ronan.”

“Give me a minute’s peace, and I will,” I say.

“Well, we leave in ten minutes, so hurry up.” She blows me a theatrical kiss and sweeps out of the room.

Niamh and I make our way up the marble pathway to the senate. The whole area’s been cordoned off and stewards are lining the streets to prevent anything from kicking off, though the pod’s been pretty quiet since everyone was anesthetized. No one’s interested in challenging the Ministry now—not when consciousness depends on compliance. I turn to Niamh, about to reassure her, but she has her head up and eyes fixed on the entrance. She doesn’t look one bit afraid. So why am I?

The antique wooden doors to the senate swing inward and a group of stewards bows. A dimly lit lobby ends in a broad, winding staircase. “Ms. Knavery. Mr. Knavery,” the stewards mutter, each one bending lower than the last.

We’re led up the stairs, down a pink-tiled hallway, and into a sealed cavity between the outer door and the Chamber of Governance. Our fingerprints and faces are scanned, and we’re given swabs so we can provide saliva samples. It takes a few minutes for the screen to come to life: Niamh Jean Knavery, Ronan Giles Knavery —Authorized.

The Chamber is a golden walled amphitheater with tiered seats set around a central platform. Down in the well of the gallery is a row of solemn officials perched in high-backed chairs. The room goes quiet as we shuffle along an empty row at the back. Anyone wearing a hat takes it off, and a few people stand. I recognize most of the ministers from dinners and parties my father dragged us to. Back then they were all smiles—not today. And the stoniest face of all is Lance Vine, the new pod minister, though why he looks so grim is hard to tell.

Jude Caffrey is one of the ministers sitting on stage. He catches my eye and nods. I nod back. It’s good to have a familiar face I know to focus on, should I need it.

Vine approaches the lectern and clears his throat into the microphone. When he’s satisfied everyone’s listening, he begins. “Welcome,” he says. For such a thin man, his voice is surprisingly deep, and any ministers still standing or murmuring quickly shut up. “I stand before you today as your newly appointed pod minister. Yet this position comes at a price. Today we honor the memory of Cain Knavery and, as a mark of respect, offer a moment’s silence in the presence of his children. Thank you for coming. We are deeply sorry for your loss.” Niamh sits up straighter. I bite the insides of my cheeks. I’ve no interest in being eyeballed and even less in being pitied. Vine lowers his head. The ministers mirror him.

And the silence is under way: time to think about my father. How many nights he came home steaming drunk, needing to be placated to stop him from smashing up the kitchen. Or the times he had to be carried to bed. Or the day he chased me up the stairs with a belt for daring to contradict him. A tear trickles down Niamh’s cheek. What does she remember that I don’t?

“Thank you, ministers,” Vine says. “And now to today’s agenda. Item one is pod security.”

“Is that it?” Niamh hisses. “Our dead father gets one minute?”

I shrug, and Vine is continuing. “We must restore order. Our authority must not be challenged again.” He bangs his fist against the lectern, and the chamber booms with the noise of it. The ministers applaud. “We have reports of RATS escaping via the trash chutes during the riots, and of new terrorist cells in The Outlands. We must not allow the grass to grow under our feet.” He simpers. This is a joke, and the handful of ministers who get it titter. “We will deploy the army to finish the job.”

The chamber goes silent, and I freeze. I can’t go out there and kill innocent people. I won’t.

Jude jumps up. “May I address the chamber?” he asks. Vine nods and steps away from the lectern as Jude approaches it. “The army was severely damaged during the last campaign. We lost too many soldiers, and depleted our fuel supply for the zips. I can’t vote for an immediate deployment of troops.” The ministers shift in their seats.

“So we let them get away with it?” someone calls out.

“We let the RATS escape?” another voice adds.

“We need to find another way,” Jude says, and seems to stare at me. “We could send scouts on a reconnaissance mission. Young people the RATS would trust. I could have the junior Special Forces ready in days.”

Niamh prickles up. “Does he mean you?”

Jude keeps his mouth straight and his hands clamped to the lectern. I should have known better than to expect any compassion from him—a man who sent his own son into The Outlands to die. How could he do that? I know by now that Quinn was the one who started the riot in the pod—but even I didn’t want him dead, not when all he did was tell the truth.

The chamber is heavy with silence and all eyes rest on me. Some ministers look troubled, but most are beaming, delighted by the scheme. Jude’s expression is impenetrable.

“Tell them you’ll do it, Ronan. For Daddy. Those bastards are responsible for this.” Niamh tugs on her black mourning robe. I take her hand and squeeze it.

But I won’t advocate for this mission. Besides, I hardly think that what I say matters. They’ll send us whether I agree to it or not. Niamh pulls her hand out of mine and does start to cry.

“And in the meantime, you’ll recruit and train a new army?” someone asks. “If this is a reconnaissance mission, we have to be ready to attack once they’re found.”

“Of course,” Jude says. “I’ll begin recruiting today.” Is he smiling? I want to tear onto the stage and throttle him.

“Thank you, General,” Vine says, and moves on to item two on the agenda.

Because item one has been resolved: I am going into The Outlands again, whether I like it or not.

7 ALINA

Silas lowers the anchor for the final time. He wipes his brow with his forearm and ties the roping in place. The deck moans as it collides with the jetty. We’ve come as far as we can in the boat: the river winds west, and it’s time to head north.

Song unbolts the gate in the railing, slides a narrow gangplank between the boat and landing, and steps ashore. “Mind your step,” he says. His eyes are dull.

We haven’t talked about The Grove, and with Holly gone, we have something else to blot from our memories. Not that we can.

“You’re sure it’s north?” Silas asks Dorian.

Dorian nods. “Not far now. A couple of days at most.” It doesn’t sound like much, but we left The Grove over a week ago. We’re freezing and hungry and our air is dwindling quicker than we thought.

“Make sure we’ve got all the airtanks and weapons,” Silas says. He stands with his hands on his hips, his chin raised. He’s good at this—appearing unbreakable. And that’s what we need now: someone to pretend everything will be okay.

Maude steps up to the gangplank and holds the rail. She coughs loudly. “Haven’t you got anything warm to put on?” I ask her. A persistent drizzle has replaced the pouring rain.

“What do you care?” she asks, elbowing me out of the way. She totters down the gangplank, then pulls an old, damp blanket around her like a cape.

“You don’t look too toasty yourself. Stick that on, love,” Bruce says to me, holding out his coat.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, even though I’m so cold I can no longer feel my toes or the tips of my fingers. He shrugs and puts on the coat himself.

I follow Maude down the gangplank and onto the jetty where the solidity of the land makes me wobble.

“I wish we could hide it,” Dorian says, looking up at the towering masts of the boat.

Silas tuts. “Let’s get a move on. Everyone stay close,” he says.

We march along the jetty and onto the riverbank. “It looks the same everywhere,” Song says. We’ve left behind the city’s high-rises and cathedral spires that seem to pierce the clouds, but all along the riverbank is the usual desolation: tumbledown buildings, smashed-up cars, warped roads, and toppled lampposts. Bones are scattered among the debris; animal or human, it’s hard to tell. In the distance are folds of hoary, barren fields.

I used to think that if I traveled far enough and walked quickly enough, I’d find a cluster of untouched trees. It was a fantasy, and a childish one; beyond the city’s devastation is more devastation. It just happens to be of the rural variety.

“What if they won’t let us in?” Bruce wonders aloud.

“Do you have a better idea?” Silas snaps. His mood has been increasingly prickly.

“Take it easy.” I place a hand on Silas’s arm. He flinches and kicks the wheel of a rotten baby stroller, which spins and squeaks. Then he storms ahead, carrying a bag of guns, a full backpack of supplies, and several airtanks. Part of me wishes we could talk about what’s happened. Everything we’ve seen. But it’s too soon, and Silas isn’t one for talking anyway.

“People who go to Sequoia never come back,” Song says, turning to me, his voice as gentle as ash.

“Petra didn’t want defectors. If you went to Sequoia, you had to go for good. You had to choose a team,” Dorian reminds him.

Song bites his bottom lip and I stop to look at the sky. The sun is up, but thick, white clouds make it impossible to locate. I sigh and try to wiggle my toes. I still can’t feel them.

“Hurry up,” Maude says, pushing me from behind. “I’m freezing my berries off ’ere!” Bruce smiles and links her arm through his.

“They’ll let us in because we’re all on the same team,” I say loudly, so Silas can hear. “We all want the trees back. We all want to breathe again.” He doesn’t turn around or stop walking. Maybe he doesn’t hear me, but I don’t think that’s it.

“You’re a drifter now. No better than me,” Maude says. She laughs. No one else does. And a thread of fear trickles through me.

We rest only once, at dusk, when we find a stranded bus along a stretch of open road, frozen scrub poking through the cracks in the tarmac. We climb aboard, the vehicle creaking under our weight, and I choose a spot at the back where I throw off my backpack. Then I check the gauge on my airtank. A little over a quarter tank of oxygen remaining. Maybe I should ask Silas for the particulars on our air supply as he’s the one carrying the spare tanks, but if we don’t have enough air, I’d rather not know.

I’m too tired to care that the bus seat is stippled black with mold. If it kills me, it kills me. I lie down and curl up, my airtank between my legs.

Maude has chosen a row behind me and hacks until she spits up.

I close my eyes and wait for sleep to creep toward me. Maude is restless. She bangs the back of my seat. “Oi, you,” she croaks. I sit up. Everyone else is already lying down, only their feet poking off the edges of their seats visible. “You reckon Bea’s okay?” she asks, frowning.

“I know as much as you do.” General Caffrey only retreated from The Grove because fighting broke out in the pod. I wish I could be certain Bea was nowhere near it. Or Quinn. Is it possible that their return and the civil war were completely unrelated?

“You lied,” Maude grumbles. “I only rounded up all them drifters to help yous fight ’cuz I thought Bea would be in trouble if I didn’t. That were a dirty trick.” She points a finger at me, the nail broken and black.

“Technically, Petra lied to you,” I say. Then I add, “Bea’s tougher than she looks.”

“She’s ain’t the sort you meet everyday, tha’s for certain. A real doll.” She studies the cracked window.

This is the closest we’ve ever come to a real conversation. “Get some sleep, Maude,” I say, using what I think is a kind voice.

Maude glares at me anyway. “You ain’t my boss, missy. I’ll do what I bloody well like.”

“Well, I’m going to rest.” I turn away and curl up into the seat again. After a minute I hear Maude lie down, too.

I listen to the others snoring and try to picture something calming to help me sleep, but all I can see is Holly’s face as she let go of the railings. And then Abel’s face is next to her in the water. They are both being swallowed by waves. This wasn’t how it happened for him, of course; the Ministry murdered him. Probably turned him out of the pod without an airtank.

It’s been days since I thought about Abel, but now all the guilt and shame about his death steal back in: how he was only on that mission in the pod because I wanted to spend time with him; how I was too stubborn to abandon it even though he begged me to. He probably lied to me about who he was, but it doesn’t change the fact that I cared about him. And because I did, he’s dead.

I tuck my knees up under my chin. I feel so cold. Colder than ever before.

8 RONAN

I’m leaving the pod in less than an hour and I haven’t even packed. Instead, I’m in my studio smearing thick black and white swaths of paint across a board. It doesn’t look like much—just a choked monochromatic muddle.

I thought that coming up here would help me figure out how I was going to get out of this bullshit mission, but all I have to show for the mulling it over are the paintings—no solution at all.

I’m not scared of The Outlands: We’re all being kitted out with enough food, air, and medical supplies to last a month, and no half-starved drifter would be a match for me. But to hell with gathering information on so-called terrorists for the Ministry and Jude Caffrey, just so they can cut down innocent people. And I’d refuse to go if it wasn’t putting Niamh at risk—I’m all she has left.

I go to the sink and wash the brushes. Then I take one last look at the painting, what will probably turn into a devastated soccer stadium, and lock the studio door.

Once I’m ready to go, I meet Niamh by the front door. “When will you be back? I’m worried,” she says. I can’t remember the last time she’s said anything remotely affectionate, and it makes me gulp.

“When I kill the bad guys, I suppose,” I lie. I’m not killing anyone.

Anyone else.

I’m going to get out there and find somewhere to hunker down long enough that it seems like I tried, even though I’ll return empty-handed. If I do happen to find anyone, I’ll warn them.

“You will be back though,” Niamh says.

“Don’t be silly,” I say, and heave my bulging backpack up over my shoulders.

“Be careful, you big asshole,” Niamh says. She leans in and kisses me awkwardly on the cheek. Her lips are dry.

I laugh. “You be careful,” I reply, and without doing anything else that might trigger more emotion in either of us, head for the waiting buggy.

Jude Caffrey is standing next to the press secretary at the border. He raises his hand. I pretend I don’t see him and make my way to the gates where the rest of my unit is waiting. I have no intention of buddying up with him when he’s spent his life lying and embroiling his soldiers in the Ministry’s lies.

Robyn, the youngest member of the Special Forces, smiles as I approach. “Sorry about your dad,” she says.

“Thanks.” I pause. “We’ve all been rounded up, huh?”

“Everyone.” She stands back, so I can see the others. Mary, Rick, Nina, and Johnny all turn my way and wave. I raise a hand in greeting. “First time a junior unit’s been sent out alone. We heard you offered us up,” Robyn says. She pulls her thick ponytail tight.

“What? No.” I sound more defensive than I mean to.

“Are we even ready to go out again?” Robyn asks. She looks at me askance, and I think what she means is, do we want to? None of us had expected the trees at The Grove. And it’s changed everything. For some of us, at least.

Rick comes forward. He’s eighteen but looks thirty. “Nice one, dude. I was bored to death at home. Kept saying we were ready to get out there again. I’m pumped to be doing this. Pumped!”

“I didn’t suggest it,” I say. Rick is a thug. He’s always been a thug.

“General Caffrey said you did.” Mary is pointing at Jude.

“We’re pleased,” Nina says.

“Better than spending the next year in the gymnasium,” Johnny adds.

Their excitement is palpable. I turn to Robyn, who bites her bottom lip. The others might be pleased, but she isn’t. And neither am I.

Jude steps forward and without any kind of pep talk, hands each of us a small pouch and launches into directives. “You’ve been issued new pads with long-range tracking devices for two-way communication. In case of a malfunction, you’ve also been given walkie-talkies. Primitive but functional. Make contact at least once a day, so we know you’re alive.”

“Alive?” Rick scoffs. “I don’t think you need to worry. A bunch of tree-hugging hippies won’t be a match for us.” He punches his own abdomen in a gesture of stabbing someone in the gut.

What’s wrong with him? Hasn’t he killed enough people? “Oh, shut your mouth for once, Rick,” I say.

Robyn gasps, and Rick scowls as he throws a punch at me. I grab his fist and twist his arm behind his back and up toward his neck. He groans. “All right, all right, let go,” he says, and I release him, pushing him away from me, as the others look on speechless. I’ve never turned on anyone before. But I should’ve shut Rick up a long time ago.

Jude shakes his head. “Lucky we aren’t sending you out together.” He pauses. “If we did, you’d just be at each other’s throats. Besides, you’d be searching forever, so each of you is being sent in a different direction. As soon as you find something suspicious, make contact. We need a location. Once we have that, the army and zips can get out there and do some damage. Hopefully we’ll be back up and running by then.”

“Have we permission to kill?” Rick asks. He gives me a sideways glance.

Jude pulls at the sleeves of his military jacket. “Your job is to find the RATS. Radio in for further instructions.”

Robyn scratches the tip of her nose. “How long have we got?”

“As long as you can last,” Jude says, and makes to leave as the press secretary rushes over, her heels clacking against the ground.

“Can we have a picture of Ronan at the border?” she calls. “Pod Minister Vine thought it’d be good PR if Cain Knavery’s son made a statement. The press are going back to work in a few days and they’ll lead with this.”

“Sure,” I say, and the press secretary opens her pad, snaps a picture, then smiles, waiting to record me. “After all the destruction we’ve brought about so far, I’d say that this mission is . . .”

“Write whatever you think,” Jude says, suddenly standing between me and the press secretary and cutting me off. He puts his arm over my shoulder and pulls me away. “Enough time wasting,” he says. I look back at the press secretary, who’s still smiling despite not getting her interview, which is probably because the story’s already been written.

The border is guarded by armed stewards, who stand aside for us, and we walk unobstructed through the gates and down the glass tunnel. We attach airtanks to our belts and slip facemasks over our mouths and noses. It feels different from the other times we’ve marched outside. Before, I was excited to save the pod. But the best way to do that now is to go out there and do nothing.

We push through the revolving doors at the end of the tunnel and into The Outlands. Six robust buggies, their engines running, are waiting.

“I guess this is it,” Robyn says. She wrings her hands. The others mumble agreement and adjust their airtanks.

“We’ll drive you out about thirty miles,” Jude says. “Far enough to save some time, not so far they’ll hear you coming. Good luck.” And that’s it. Mary, Rick, Nina, Johnny, and Robyn each pick a buggy and climb in.

I look up at the pod. I could leave now and never return. Disappear by choice. Jude’s made it clear that the Ministry won’t release me, and if I try to resist, they’ll have me killed. But if anyone could survive in The Outlands, I could.

The question is, do I want to? In training we met our fair share of drifters driven so crazy by loneliness they didn’t know what planet they were on. One old guy was so hungry he tried to eat his own arm. And what about Niamh? I can’t leave her to fend for herself. Who knows what they’d do to her?

“Get a move on,” Jude says. He throws my backpack into the only vehicle without a driver.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m driving you,” he says. “We need to talk.”

We don’t talk. We drive in silence for a long time over the rutty terrain, and I watch the wipers swish back and forth across the greasy window.

Eventually Jude brings the buggy to a halt and cuts the engine. He sits with his hands on his knees staring ahead for several minutes. I don’t try to ease the tension. If he has something to say, he should say it.

“You know by now that Quinn was the one who almost brought the pod to its knees?” He turns to me.

“If you mean that he’s also responsible for the death of my father, then yes, I know,” I say. Our eyes lock. He waits for me to detonate. But I’m not really angry with Quinn. How could I be now I’ve seen what the Ministry was up to? If anything, I’m angry with myself for being so stupidly naive for so long and never standing up to my own father like Quinn did.

I wait for him to say more. “Quinn’s alive,” he says. He rests his forehead on the wheel and sighs, and for the first time in a week, I don’t despise him.

“Go on.”

“I did the wrong thing sending him out here alone, and I didn’t want the army or zips sent out because if they find him, they’ll kill him. You, on the other hand . . .”

“You think I’ll help him.”

“You want out of the Special Forces, and I can give you that.”

“You said you couldn’t.”

Jude rubs his chin. “Everyone has his price, and I know the right people. I can get you and Quinn new identities—biometrics, the lot. It’s been done before. But it would mean becoming auxiliaries. It’s a high price. I can’t offer you any better.”

I gaze at the fogged windshield. I’ve been to Zone Three twice in my entire life. All I remember were the dirty faces of the children and the darkness. It was so gloomy. Is that what I want?

“There was a tracking device in the coat Quinn was wearing, and this is the last place the signal came from before the battery died.” He points outside. “All you have to do is find him and keep him safe. Then I’ll bring you both back to the pod with me. An auxiliary life won’t be much for either of you. But you’ll be alive.”

“So the others are on a wild goose chase?”

“They’re being driven far from here,” he says. “They won’t find anyone besides drifters unless there really is another cell somewhere. But finding another cell is about as likely as finding another pod.” We’ve been told since we were kids that there are other pods. Another lie. Another damn lie.

“I’ll think about it,” I say. I pull up the collar on my coat and tighten the belt.

Jude offers me a handgun. I take it and push it into the band of my trousers, then throw the semiautomatic I’m holding onto the back seat. I don’t want a gun like that. I won’t need it. “All I’m asking is that you do the right thing,” he says.

“I suppose that’s what you’d do,” I say snidely.

“Me? I wouldn’t even know what the right thing was.”

Jude leans across my lap and pushes open the passenger door. I climb out, lugging my backpack behind me and throw it to the ground. The road we’re on is warped and covered in plastic traffic cones, and the rest of the area is nothing but mounds of sad gray rubble and half-standing buildings with one or two walls fighting to stay alive.

“Do this one thing and you’ll never have to compromise your principles again,” Jude says. “You’ll be done with all the lies and killing.”

And without waiting for my answer, he shuts the door, revs the engine, and is gone.

9 BEA

I kneel next to Jazz and place the back of my hand against her forehead. She’s still burning with a fever. The scarf I bound her leg with is sopping wet. I unpeel it and examine the wound. The skin around the gash is yellowing and the smell is gut wrenching. She’s losing so much blood, she’ll bleed to death before long, and if that doesn’t happen, she’ll die of the festering infection.

“Please stop the pain,” she begs in a voice so controlled and desperate, all I want to do is hold her and have her suffering seep its way into me.

I look at the escalator and wonder whether there could be a pharmacy up on the concourse. “I’ll be back,” I say, jumping up with my backpack. I could clean her wound and help stop the bleeding, but only if I can find what I need.

“Please don’t go,” she whimpers. “Bea!”

“Two minutes,” I assure her, clambering up the escalator.

I pause on the sun-drenched upper concourse, taking in the row of stores on either side: their glass doors and windows are smashed in, the stock looted, and the signage covered in graffiti.

A store selling nothing but tights and socks has moldy merchandise strewn across the floor, and an electronics store is littered with broken screens and leaking batteries. And as I should have guessed, the pharmacy has been hit worst of all—tubes, bottles, cans, and loose pills of every size and color are scattered across the floor. I pick my way through the mess and go behind the counter. I use my toe to root around on the floor for anything intact, but the sedatives, painkillers, and antibiotics have already been eaten up by drifters. I do spot a travel-size sewing kit and a small bottle of methylated spirit, which I stuff into my backpack.

I leave the pharmacy and step into a store with faded pictures of exotic foods and drinks in its window. Maybe alcohol will be enough to kill her pain.

I scour every shelf, throwing aside bruised tins and empty cans. Then I lie on the floor to check that nothing has rolled out of sight. Defeat seizes me, and then, as I’m about to return to Jazz, I spot a door with a crooked STAFF ONLY sign hanging from it. When I push, it squeaks but swings opens.

Moldy cardboard boxes are piled high like children’s giant building blocks, and most are empty, but eventually I find six untouched bottles. I pull one out and try to unscrew it, but it’s been sealed with a strange type of lid hidden down inside the bottleneck. I have no time to figure out how it works, so I smash the bottle’s neck against a filing cabinet. The alcoholic stench sends me reeling. I pour a little of the liquid into my hand, sniff, and let the tip of my tongue taste it. Definitely drinkable, but unlike any alcohol I’ve tasted before. It’s thick and red and bitter. I look at the label—Malbec. I stuff the bottles into my backpack, and a scream echoes through the station.

“Jazz?” I fly from the store.

Jazz is writhing in half-sleep. I pull a bottle from my bag and smash it open, take Jazz in the crook of my arm, and pull the mask from her mouth. “Here,” I say, awkwardly filling my cupped palm with the red alcohol and holding it to her lips.

She sips from my hand. “Ugh,” she says. “What is it?”

“Medicine.” She continues to drink, and when she’s drowsy, I lower her onto the floor and reattach the mask. The alcohol calms her down, so I can look at her leg again. It’s bad. So bad, I’m not sure that what I’m doing is a good idea. But I have to try something.

She stirs. “Bite on this,” I tell her. I push a piece of thick cloth under her facemask and slide it between her teeth. I arrange everything I’ve collected on the tiled floor, then run a long piece of thread through the eye of the needle and pour the methylated spirit over it. Then I use the spirit to clean her wound. She squeals, but I quickly tie her hands and legs together with scarves so she won’t try to stop me.

“It’s okay,” I say. She lets out a groan muffled by the cloth in her mouth. “Stay calm,” I add, this time to myself because my nerves and nausea won’t help anyone.

I sit on her chest, bite the insides of my cheeks, and use the tips of my fingers to jam the jutting bone back in place, pulling the skin over it. She bellows and writhes and finally passes out.

I pinch her skin, sticky with blood, and slowly, with trembling fingers, pierce it with the needle and pull the cotton through. Jazz thrashes, as she floats in and out of consciousness, but I keep a knee on her chest, congealed blood seeping through my fingers as I pinch and sew back and forth, back and forth, until the stitches are halfway up her shin, the bone is hidden, and the wound closed.

I pull away her facemask and remove the cloth from her mouth. She’s still breathing. Gently.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, because I may have made things worse.

Now, all I can do is wait—for someone to save us, or for Jazz to die.

10 ALINA

We’ve been walking for the best part of two days. My feet have blisters and my muscles are tight and burning. Even Song and Dorian are exhausted and have started wearing airtanks.

“That has to be it,” Dorian says.

We’re in the middle of nowhere, standing on the dip in a cracked road surrounded by miles of flat fields dotted with old brick houses and long-dead tree stumps. Silas unfolds the map, looks at it, and juts his chin toward a set of ornate iron gates, rusting but still standing at the end of the road. “There?” he asks.

“We’ve been circling in on the area all morning. This is the only place we haven’t checked,” Dorian says.

“We can’t waste any more air on maybes,” I mutter. I feel momentarily lightheaded and allow a little more oxygen into my facemask.

“We’ll see,” Silas says, stuffing the map into his coat and leading us down the road, his gun hanging at his side.

As we move closer I make out a lane beyond the gates. I press my face between the railings. “The lane bends. We’ve no way of knowing what’s down there,” I say.

“Then let’s check it out,” Dorian says. He waves Song forward and together they ease open the gates. Silas doesn’t stop them, and neither do I. But it seems strange that there’s no lock.

“Hope they’ve got the kettle on,” Maude says. “I could do with a cuppa.”

The lane is overgrown with weeds and peppered in old bicycles and broken glass bottles, but on either side is a low, sturdy brick wall that looks newly built. Silas has taken the lead again, and I stick close to him.

Suddenly a disembodied voice punctures the silence. “Stop! The lane is protected with mines. One more inch and you’ll lose a leg.” Silas’s right foot is suspended in the air. He tilts his weight into his left heel and steps back.

“We come as friends!” he calls out.

“Resistance,” Dorian says.

“Friends don’t need weapons. Throw down your guns,” the voice calls out. We look at Silas for direction. “Put the guns down or we’ll open fire!” the voice booms. Silas places his gun gently on the ground behind him and we all do the same. Instinctively I put my hands up.

And then we are surrounded. Each of the twenty or so soldiers who appear are wearing balaclavas, but, crucially, no airtanks. They leap onto the wall and aim their rifles at us.

A beefy soldier in a tight tank top, arms covered with black tattoos, all thorns and barbed wire, lowers his gun. “Who’s in charge?” he wants to know.

Silas is, of course, but he doesn’t step forward, not when any one of us might disagree.

“I’m the leader here. Kneel before me, minion,” Maude says, and cackles. I shoot her a warning look; somehow I don’t think this guy is going to find her entertaining.

“He is,” Dorian says. He points at Silas. I can’t tell if he’s being cowardly or magnanimous.

“Yeah?” The tattooed leader jumps down from the wall. He doesn’t seem to notice the cold. The others, dressed in green fatigues, stay where they are, still aiming for our heads. “Well, you’re trespassing.”

“We’re from The Grove. We’re fellow Resistance,” Silas says.

The man laughs. “Resistance and gasping for air?” Dorian pulls off his mask and leaves it hanging around his neck. I elbow Song, who quickly follows Dorian’s lead. “So what? Some of you can breathe. Maybe Petra’s methods have improved, but you’re wrong about us. We aren’t Resistance. We want nothing to do with you people.” He peels back his balaclava, stuffs it into his back pocket, and crosses his muscled arms in front of his chest. He is handsome, despite a dark scar down one side of his face. But he knows it: he looks at me and cocks his head to one side. I swallow hard and wait for him to look away.

“The Grove’s gone,” Silas says.

“You’re lying,” he says.

“It was destroyed by the Ministry. We have nowhere else to go,” Silas says, and a mild feeling of shame rises in me as I realize how weak we must seem.

“This isn’t a refugee camp. There were hundreds of you at The Grove. We haven’t the space. I suggest you turn around and tell Petra the answer is no.”

Silas drops his head. Dorian and Song exchange a look. Maude and Bruce shrivel into themselves. I step forward, and the man doesn’t warn me to stop. He raises one eyebrow. “We aren’t envoys. Petra’s dead, her people are dead, and the trees are gone. We’re all that’s left.” I feel the others watching me. Was I wrong to say what happened out loud?

The man is silent. He puts a finger to his ear and nods. “The landmines have been deactivated,” he says. He has an earpiece in—he isn’t the leader at all. The other soldiers, all carrying guns, jump down from the walls and surround us, retrieving our weapons from the ground.

“Get your manky hands off my gear!” Maude screeches, but the soldier taking her gun rams her in the ribs with it. She lets out a yelp.

Silas’s eyes widen. “Tell your goons to behave properly,” he says.

But the man smirks. “And why would I do that?” He looks at my airtank and then into my eyes, the only part of my face not covered with the mask, and I can tell he’s unimpressed by my need for it.

“We aren’t useless. We’re all well trained,” Song says. “I’m a biochemist. I can help create a storage system for oxygen.”

“You only need one skill here,” the man says. He steps forward and pulls my mask away from my face. Silas only has to flinch and a soldier cocks his rifle to stop him from intervening. The man holds me by the chin and pulls me closer. I hold his stare, refusing to be intimidated, and he smiles and replaces my mask, gently pulling the straps tight at the back of my head. I take a long, deep breath from my dwindling air supply.

“Let’s go and find out what Vanya wants to do with you,” the man says.

Dorian is the first to follow, but the rest of us hang back, exchanging glances.

“Did we come to the right place?” I ask under my breath.

“We came to the only place left,” Silas reminds me.

We round a bend in the lane and a wall appears. Although the bricks are old, the wall itself isn’t mossy or crumbling or threatening to collapse. It looks newly constructed, the cement cleanly holding the bricks together and the wall itself topped with broken pieces of multicolored broken glass to prevent anyone scrambling over the top. At each corner of the wall is a camera tracing our movements as we file under an archway protected by steel doors and a batch of armed guards. “Coming through,” the tattooed man says, and the guards heave open the screeching doors.

Inside I expect to see an old prison or school or hospital, but Sequoia is none of these things: it is a giant white palace, virtually unspoiled, and sandwiched between two gleaming conservatories. A dry fountain adorned with flying copper angels sits before it, and swirling here and there are orderly pebbled pathways and edgings. Most of the Palladian windows in the palace still have glass in them, and those that don’t are covered in plywood painted over in white, so they blend in with the building. It looks nothing like the heaps of rubble in the city, and for a moment I am transported to what it must have been like before the Switch. Despite this, I don’t feel like smiling. Something’s missing.

I elbow Silas. “No trees,” I say. A burning rises in my throat. I cough and hold on to him to stop myself from collapsing.

“Dorian, your tank,” Silas calls out, holding me up. My empty airtank is unbuckled from my belt and replaced with another. Within seconds, I’m alive again. I blink at Silas. “Why didn’t you say you were low?” he chides. I shrug, and he rolls his eyes.

Most of the soldiers are smirking, standing waiting for us between two undamaged colonnades. “Come on,” Silas says.

We’re ushered up stone steps, through a pair of wooden doors into a cavernous foyer, and whisked up several flights of stairs decorated with faded, gold-framed oil portraits. Although the exterior of the building is virtually undamaged, inside is cold, with damp patches shining like fresh bruises on the ceiling.

When we reach the top floor, the tattooed man flips open a box attached to the wall and pulls out a retractable mask. He presses it to his face and inhales. He sees me watching. “We’ve installed oxyboxes all over the compound. Pure oxygen,” he says. “Saves on pumping into each room.”

“What about those who can’t breathe on a limited supply?” I ask, my hands fingering my airtank.

“We’ve not many like that here,” he says, and passes the mask to another soldier.

The hallway is long and lined with doors. Above each, is a sign: Meditation Room 6 – Yoga Room 10 – Testing 1 – Testing 2 – Dispensary – Propagation. I tug on Silas’s coat and point. He nods. Although we haven’t seen their trees, rooms like this imply that what they do is not all that different to what we did at The Grove. We might be safe here.

The man waves away the soldiers still accompanying us when we get to a set of doors at the end of the hallway. Then he frowns. “Try not to piss her off,” he says.

The room is lit by natural light filtering through vast casement windows, and in front of them, stretched out on a scuffed, velvet daybed, is a slim woman with short hair that looks like she’s haphazardly cut it herself. She’s wearing a plain black shirt and wide-legged pants.

She looks up from a retro pad she’s reading and lazily rolls onto her side. “Maks,” she says, greeting the tattooed man. She stretches her arms to the ceiling, then slowly stands. “What a medley of mortals.”

Maks laughs. “Understatement,” he says.

The woman, Vanya, stops in front of Silas. “Hi,” she says, drawing her finger down his face. He looks away. “Do tell me you don’t need this thing,” she says, tipping her nails against his airtank. Her hands are lined, though her face is smooth and clear.

“They do,” Maks says. He’s standing behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. “We almost lost this one a few minutes ago.” I wriggle but his hand remains where it is.

“Well, we don’t use tanks here,” she says. “We’re close to needing nothing whatsoever.”

“I don’t use one,” Dorian says. His face is awash with pride, and if he were standing closer, I’d kick him. We all had our roles within the Resistance. Silas’s and mine were in the pod. It isn’t our fault we need so much supplemental air.

“I been suckin’ in fake air for fifty years, and no one’s gonna make me give it up now. I am what I am, and I ain’t ashamed of it,” Maude pipes up.

Vanya’s nostrils flare. “Drifters?”

“Actually, I’m a catwalk model,” Maude says. She wiggles her hips.

“And what are we meant to do with them?” Vanya speaks to Maks through clenched teeth. He removes his hand from my shoulder, and I relax enough to check the gauge on the airtank and adjust the levels.

“They’d make excellent benefactors,” Maks says. I have no idea what this means, no one does, but we don’t ask. Instead we listen.

Vanya sniffs and looks at me from top to bottom like I’m something about to be sold. Rather than fighting it, I stand tall and clench my jaw to prove how strong I am. I must be desperate.

“We want to join you. Help you,” Silas says.

She puts her hand on his chest. “That sounds lovely,” she says. Maks snickers. Silas blushes. He looks everywhere but at Vanya. “But once you join, I won’t let you leave,” Vanya says. Her hand rests on his chest, but she looks at each of us in turn to make sure we understand that she is addressing all of us. She might be teasing Silas, but beneath the flirting is serious distrust. And I hadn’t expected anything less. Petra would never have welcomed newcomers without first threatening to kill them. When you live in fear of your world being destroyed, you have to be merciless.

“We’re happy to stay,” Dorian says.

Vanya smiles and steps away from Silas. “I’ll have Maks escort you to one of our cabins as a temporary measure. Tomorrow we’ll get to know each other a bit better.”

“Of course,” Dorian says. Silas squints at him. His bootlicking is beyond irritating—it’s dangerously close to disloyalty.

“But tell me: Did anyone else survive at The Grove?”

My stomach hardens. The room is silent. We shake our heads and look to the floor. Holly survived, but no one will mention her.

“We told ’em to leave,” Maude says. “We warned ’em. No one can say as we didn’t.” This is true, though it doesn’t make us feel any better, and I want to tell Maude to keep quiet.

“You’re sure no one else made it out?” Vanya asks.

“The whole place fell in on itself and was foaming the last time we saw it. We waited as long as we could,” Silas says.

“I’m sure you did,” Vanya says. She turns her back on us.

“This way,” Maks says, and we are led out and along the hallway. Maks marches ahead, leaving a gap between him and us.

“At least they’re letting us stay,” I say.

Within seconds, Song is between Silas and me. “Do you know who that was?” he whispers.

“Shh,” Dorian says. He points at Maks.

“Who?” I whisper.

“Vanya is Petra’s sister.”

“Her sister?” I say. I didn’t know she had one.

“Vanya made wild threats, then disappeared. Walked into The Outlands and never came back. We weren’t even allowed to mention her name.”

“What are you lot whispering about?” Maks asks. He stops and waits for us to catch up.

“I was admiring your tush, sweetheart,” Maude says. She winks at Maks. And we all laugh far too loudly, trying to cover up our doubt and panic. Why didn’t Vanya mention it? And why did she flee The Grove in the first place?

11 QUINN

I stand beneath a rotten awning to get out of the rain for a minute and pull out the map. From the look of it, Sequoia is more than one hundred miles from St. Pancras, and I’ve walked less than half that. It’s only been a handful of days, and I’m already completely knackered. And I’ve used far too much oxygen. Jazz said I should follow the river as far as Henley, then take the old roads, which is easier said than done. In their search for The Grove, the Ministry has had their way with the whole bloody city, and the route along the river is blocked every few miles by fresh mounds of rubble.

What was I thinking? Bea’s got no one except me, and I just up and leave her. Now I’m alone, and Bea’s practically alone, and I’ve no way of knowing when we’ll see each other again.

The awning creaks under the weight of the water collecting in one corner, and I quickly step into the rain to avoid getting dumped on. The road’s narrow, dark, and most of the buildings have been demolished. In the dust are the marks of tank treads. I kick a sneaker lying in the road, pull up the collar on my coat, and move on.

I round a bend and where the road should continue is a massive stack of rotting cars and trucks. I’ve no choice but to climb, using the car windows and wing mirrors as footholds. I slip and slide on the wet vehicles and when I reach the top, I’m relieved to see that the way ahead is clear and the river is in sight.

And then something moves.

Not one thing—two.

Two people.

They stop abruptly and look in my direction. I claw my way down the other side, catching my hand on a piece of jagged metal as I duck out of sight. The gash isn’t wide, but it’s deep. I wipe it on my trousers, and with nothing on me to use to clean it, I lift my facemask and spit onto the wound. It stings like hellfire. I curl my hand into a fist to stop myself from shouting. “Shit,” I say aloud.

I turn left toward the river, then scoot along it. As I get to a break in the embankment, flanked on either side by what must have once been stone lions, I stop. Steps lead to a jetty and tied to the jetty is a rowboat. It isn’t big, and isn’t new, but it’s floating.

I don’t wait around. I sprint down the steps.

The boat is tied up with a frayed piece of rope, the oars are in the hull, and other stuff is scattered on the floor: a flask and an airtank, a sleeping bag, a pair of socks, a gun.

Further along the bankside an identical boat has been tied up. So if they see me, they’ll have a way to follow, and there could be a gun in that boat, too. Either way, I need to protect myself. I jump into the boat, and it rocks and bangs against the jetty, water lapping the sides. I sit down to stop myself from getting tipped into the river, grab the handgun, and stuff it into my coat. I open my backpack and shove the sleeping bag into it.

And I freeze because I hear footsteps. And then I see a girl, her head bobbing above the wall along the embankment.

She darts down the steps, and when she sees me, she turns and shouts, “By my boat!” As she reaches the bottom step, she trips and lands in a heap at the foot of them.

I untie the rope tethering the boat to the dock. “No!” the girl pleads. “Wait!” She’s hunched over holding her belly. She pushes her hair out of her eyes and struggles to stand up. I begin to row. It’s harder than it looks; the current on the river is strong. “I need the airtank,” she says. She’s already wearing one, so I keep rowing. Is she mad? Who wouldn’t need it?

“Please,” she sobs. She yanks open her coat. Her belly is round. She’s no more than sixteen, with large, glassy eyes. Her coat’s soaked through and her hair is stuck to her cheeks. I can’t steal from a pregnant girl. I’m not that low.

“You’re with someone,” I say. She nods and glances over her shoulder. I don’t know whether or not I can trust her, but I stop rowing, and the current drags me back to land. I throw her the rope and, straining, she pulls the boat into dock.

“Thank you,” she says as a tall guy about my age appears at the top of the steps. He’s not wearing an airtank and is panting desperately. I throw the tank in the boat to him as he approaches. He catches it, puts the mask to his face and inhales a few times. His bottom lip is swollen, and he has two black eyes. He looks like the kind of person Silas might team up with.

“Get out of the boat,” he says.

I don’t take any chances: I put my hand inside my coat, resting it on the gun. “Are you Resistance?” I ask.

“Get out of the boat,” he repeats. I reach for a post, keeping one hand on the gun, and pull myself onto the jetty.

“I’m heading west,” I say.

“Where are you going? You don’t look like a drifter. And you don’t look like Resistance either,” the girl says. She probably means I look pampered.

“I’m heading to a place called Sequoia,” I say.

The girl stares, and without waiting to find out more, the boy reaches into his jacket and pulls out a handgun. I don’t know what to do, so I grab the gun from my own coat and point it at the girl, which is a stupid thing to do. I’m obviously not going to shoot her. “No need for any of this,” I say.

“Who are you?” he snarls.

“Quinn,” I say. “I’ve left my girlfriend alone in the city with a dying child. I need to find a doctor.”

“How do you know about Sequoia?”

“Someone from The Grove told me about it,” I say.

“Are we going to kill each other?” the girl says, and stands between us.

“Get out of the way, Jo,” the boy snaps. I think he might really kill me, if he had to.

“We’re going to Sequoia, too. You can come with us.” She turns to the boy and gestures for him to lower his gun, but he doesn’t. “He should come with us,” she repeats.

“Your purple tattoo,” the boy says. “You’re Premium scum.”

I touch my earlobe. “I was,” I say, and put the gun into my coat pocket. “They think I’m dead.”

“Yeah?” he says. “They think I’m dead, too.” Jo steps aside as he finally puts his gun away and begrudgingly holds out his hand. “I’m Abel,” he says.