The red-bearded guy points a dirty finger at me. “Stay the hell away from us, or you’ll learn what we did to three of the officers that brought us in here.”
The two walk back to their spot by the fence. Ponytail forgets about me, but Red Beard’s glares make me shiver with a new kind of fear. I’d assumed that everyone inside the bars was like me—that they had been put here because they knew the truths the government was trying to hide. That the danger I needed to be on guard against was from those not in the cages.
Stupid.
I’d forgotten that just because I think something is true, doesn’t make it real. I can’t forget that lesson again. Not if I want to get through this.
Red Beard and Ponytail watch the loading of the trucks. I move to a different section of the cage and press myself against the bars, squinting into the dim spaces for Isaac or any signs of the girl who once owned the shirt with the sparkles and the positive message.
“Get group two ready,” the loudspeaker voice calls.
Uniformed officials scurry to the next cell.
Metal clangs when the door opens.
There are more shouts this time—not just from the people in that cell, but from the others who are soon to have their numbers come up. Voices yelling for lawyers or to call their families or screaming that this is a mistake. There’s even one I hear above the din who’s shouting about the mayor.
I listen for Isaac’s voice and move down along the bars when I spot someone with his build. The hood of his jacket is pulled up so I can’t see his face. If only he turned. . . .
“Move!” A uniformed official backhands the man. The hood falls back, revealing blond hair as the man goes down to one knee.
Not Isaac.
I keep scanning the faces of the people who marched out of the cages. Then the next cell is opened. More people are led to the ramps and up onto the trucks.
Everyone in my cage is on their feet now. Some join me: faces pressed against the cold bars, watching as others like us are urged forward. The ramp for one truck is removed. The back doors are slammed shut. Then our cage door rattles open and a dozen uniformed officials stream in.
I’m shoved and bumped and step on something that squishes under my thin bootie. When I reach the door, I glance around for somewhere to run even though I know there is nowhere for me to go. There are too many uniformed officials and the one standing off to the side, at least ten strides from the others, is holding a gun.
My heart strains in my chest. I put one foot in front of the other, taking shallow breaths of stale air while desperately trying to push aside the waves of fear. Pay attention to every detail. Look for Isaac and Atticus. Trust the tracker will help Atlas find me as long as I don’t do anything stupid to attract attention.
Believe.
“You’ll answer my questions now!” A deep, booming voice cuts through the terror. I know that voice. “I’m here on behalf of the mayor.”
I pull up the hood of my jacket and look around for the man who belongs to the voice who could make this terrifying situation even worse. He knows I am not MaryAnn Jefferson, disruptive Wisconsin student. He can tell the Marshals who my mother was—and that I have worked with the Stewards. They’ll know I am someone who can tell them where the Lyceum is hidden and what the Stewards know. They might not care about MaryAnn and her secrets, but they will care about mine.
“The mayor has questions he needs answers to about the prisoners held here.”
“Subjects.” The official looks up from his tablet. “They are referred to as subjects.”
“Fine. The mayor needs a list of all the subjects who have come through this facility, and I want to speak with . . .”
“Get moving!” An official shoves me.
I lurch forward and ram into the back of the man in line in front of me. He stumbles. I gag at the intense odor as we both tumble to the ground. My knee cracks against the concrete. Pain sings up my leg. The man who went down with me groans.
“What are you doing? Get up!”
A uniformed official yanks me to my feet. My hood slips. I pull it back up to cover my face as the familiar booming voice snaps, “You!”
A man in a deep gray suit grabs my arms and pulls me out of line.
“What do you think you’re doing?” an official shouts as the line of my cellmates go around me. “Mayor or no mayor, we have to get these subjects on transport and out of the city before curfew ends.”
“You have your orders to follow and I have mine. My orders involve her. And she’s not going anywhere.”
No way out, I think as I look up into the face of the man in the suit who long ago helped me ride a bike—Rose and Isaac’s father—Marcum Webster.
Nine
“Please, let me go,” I whisper.
“Is there a problem with this subject?” A bald official appears beside Mr. Webster.
“You could say that.” Mr. Webster’s hand tightens on my arm. His dark eyes that I have seen crinkle with laughter are stony now as he stares down at me. “Do you know who this girl is? We have been—”
A woman’s scream cuts off whatever Mr. Webster was going to reveal and I turn toward the sound as the ponytailed man snaps the neck of a female official from behind. Her slack body sinks to the ground as the red-bearded man jabs something into another official’s stomach. Red Beard shoves his victim into three other officials and makes a break for the front of the trucks as all hell breaks loose.
The men disappear from my sight. The bald official shouts, “Go to full lockdown!” and then races into the fray.
A whooping alarm sounds. Lights go from dim to blazing white.
Some of the “subjects” who had yet to board the trucks attempt to flee even though they have to know there is nowhere for them to go. There are screams. Desperate shouts. The man I tripped on bolts in the direction of the elevators and is tackled to the ground by an official who punches him over and over again until he goes to the floor. A nearby woman is shoved face-first against the cage bars.
Another group of officials stream out of the elevators and Mr. Webster grabs my arm and yanks me behind a table.
“Please, Mr. Webster. They think I’m a girl named MaryAnn. Don’t tell them who I really am.” If he doesn’t reveal my real identity, the officials here won’t take steps to learn what I know. They won’t be able to force me to betray the people I care about.
A gunshot cracks beyond the trucks. Another.
Mr. Webster flinches at the sound of the gunfire, then shakes his head. “The city has to be protected. You are going to help the Marshals do that. You see what can happen if they go hard on you. If you cooperate . . .”
“Do you know what the word ‘verify’ means?” I ask, looking back to where several officials are dragging a man into view. The man’s face and red beard are streaked with blood from the gunshot hole in the center of his forehead.
“Do you know why it scares them enough to do that?” I point at officials unceremoniously dumping Red Beard’s limp body next to a cage. “Or this?” I point to the barcode riveted into my ear, hoping to see some regret in Mr. Webster’s face.
His expression is like stone.
The whooping alarm is cut.
Two officials drag another body away while the others once again herd subjects into the trucks.