E (13 page)

We're on our way home, and Apollon veers off, saying he'll catch up
with us later.  As we've been walking, I've planned my words, hoping to
get some answers once we get into the quieter streets.  Now, I'm stuck
with Jonas, and getting answers out of him will be like getting orange juice
out of a cabbage.  A nervous flutter fills my chest cavity.  I clench
my fingers into fists to keep my hands steady.

We enter an area that's completely quiet.  "Wait,"
I say softly.

Jonas keeps walking.

"Wait," I say again, grabbing his wrist to stop
him. 

He turns to me, and jerks his arm away.  "What?" he
says, his voice filled with impatience.

My mouth is hanging, my eyes scanning his face.  This isn't
the opening I'd hoped for.  And his barely-suppressed hostility sets me
off-balance before I've even started the conversation.  "You know
what," I finally say.

He crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.  His jaw sets. 
"I thought you knew what was good for you."

"Apparently not," I counter, tilting my chin up.

He looks at me warily and shakes his head.

Finally, I say, in what I think will be a nicer voice-- but what
comes out ringing with impatience-- "Jonas..."

His eyes narrow thoughtfully.  "You're such a
pain," he says.  "Why did we ever take you on?"

The words in themselves are hurtful, but there's something beneath
them that takes away the sting.  "Not like you had a choice," I
drawl at him as we start walking again, very slowly.  "You were kind
of out-voted."

He snorts.  "Just goes to show that democracy doesn't
work."

I check our surroundings at the mention of politics.  There's
not a Sentry in sight, but a few men are walking toward us.  I tug his arm
and we turn down an alleyway.  He eyes me as we walk in silence.  We
take the next left into an adjoining alleyway, turning back in our original
direction.  I slam on the brakes.  Jonas gropes at me and pulls me
back.  The beggars are covered in blood.  Their hands.  Their
mouths.  They're hunched over something.  Over someone.  Their
heads turn to look at us, eyes wild.  We backpedal and run for the other
end of the alley.

On the next street, we turn and walk, forcing our breathing to
normal.  I'm shivering, fixated on analyzing the glimpse of gore. 
When they turned toward us... I think one of them was that crazy boy from the
fire barrels.  I look at Jonas.  His answering glance is filled with
a warning.  We say nothing.

"Anyway," he says, after we have walked for a moment,
"you really are better off not knowing.  You know what happens to
kittens that get too curious, right?"

I can't get the image out of my mind.  I shove it into its
own dark box.  Imagine pulse beams erasing it.  Jonas.  I narrow
my eyes, focusing on him and his words.  "I guess I'll just have to
ask Miranda, then."

He shoots me a wide-eyed look of horror.  So Miranda doesn't
know.

I smile at him.  It feels almost normal, now.

His eyes narrow.  "You're going to get yourself
killed.  You know that?"

I half-wonder if it's a threat.  When I speak, my voice
sounds light.  Easy. "What're you going to do? Eat me?" 

Alarm flashes in Jonas' eyes, so brief I could easily have missed
it.

I shrug.  "Not like it was
my
idea to chose sides
in a war between bad guys."

Jonas produces the faintest hint of a laugh-- more just the
movement of shoulders than any kind of real noise.  Suddenly, his eyes are
hard on my face.  "But you did, didn't you?" he says. 
"You've already chosen a side."

I manage to smother the alarm before it shows on my face, but not
the confusion.  My mind is stumbling over the past few days, wondering if
he's seen me talking to Matthew-- if he thinks I've chosen that side. 

But he says, carefully, like he's feeding me the ideas, "You
chose us.  You're one of us.  Our side is your side."

I stare at him quietly.  Finally, I say, "It's kind of
hard to be on your side when I have no idea what that means.  What we're
even doing."

Now Jonas stops again, turning me to him, wrapping his fingers
lightly around my forearms.  The touch sends little shocks up my arms,
even though it's through the sleeves of my jacket.  His face is serious,
but his voice is soft, barely audible.  "We are getting the hell out
of here," he says.  His words, like his fingers, are full of
electricity.

Again, I'm gaping, staring up into his green eyes.  I don't
want to break that connection.  Don't want the moment of silence to
pass.  But I whisper, "Leaving?"  My pulse is out of the
starting gate and running like hell.  The idea blazes up inside me. 
I am consumed.

He nods and looks away, his eyes quickly scanning the street
around us, but no one is near.

I find my voice, though it comes in a broken, throaty
squawk.  "When?  How are we going to--"

Jonas silences me with a look.  His fingers tighten
ever-so-slightly on my arms.  He hesitates, then says, "I haven't
told the others yet."

I frown.  "Well," I say, "you two have never
been great at sharing information, have you."

But he's shaking his head.  "No," he says. 
"Apollon doesn't know either."

I take a moment to study him, but I can't quite figure him
out.  His face is written in a language I don't speak.  Some of the
words might look familiar, but the meaning is elusive, just beyond
translation.  I shift my arms, and his fingers fall away.  I say,
"So... it's not
really
a plan."

His eyes narrow on me.  "It's a plan.  It's the
only plan."

I wrap my arms about myself and look away, my hair blowing across
my face.  Now that the idea of leaving has seared itself into my core, I
can stand back and look at its smoldering edges.  I can analyze its
wisdoms and foolishnesses.  There are plenty of both. How, exactly, would
we manage to get our little group, eight-year-old boy included, out of the
Outpost and all the way to... to who knows where?  Where would we even
go?  My eyes flick to Jonas' wrist, though his scar is covered.  I
catch myself and look away, but I'm too late.  He's caught it.

His face flushes dark, his jaw tightening. 

"I'm all for leaving," I say, hoping to distract
him.  The statement is true enough, though I'm worried about the
practicalities.  "Yeah?"

I nod, allowing my mind to consider the possibility of
going.  I imagine myself running, and again, I'm thinking about the white
spire that haunts my dreams.  Is it real?  Could I find it?  The
hopeless urge to be there washes over me in the wan light of the waking
world.  I shiver and sigh.

Jonas pats my shoulder and we begin walking again. 
"Good," he says.  "You can help me convince Apollon."

"Oh, no," I say.  "That's all on you."

***

Whoever said that nothing can ever be easy was absolutely
right.  Jonas and Apollon spend a good deal of time arguing.  Apollon
says the journey would be more dangerous now than ever, and he's right. 
Miranda vehemently takes his side.  Neveah sits calmly, her eyes moving
back and forth between speakers.  I perch on the end of the bed, a
spectator.  Oscar leans against my side.  We watch, and I say
nothing.  I'm busy trying to keep my mind away from the memories that I
can't erase.  Jonas throws me a dirty look.

In the end, it's a stalemate.  There are a lot of questions,
and it doesn't help that Jonas has not revealed his and Apollon's involvement
with Grey to the others.  This annoys me, but I hold my tongue.  It's
not really my secret to tell.

My mind drifts away from the conversation, which has gone round in
circles so many times that it's just old.  Before I realize the path my
thoughts have taken, I'm wondering-- if the others decide to stay-- will I
still go on my own?  The idea startles me, but with it comes the need to
run.  I want to go.  I really want to go. 

Oscar stays behind when Jonas, Apollon, and I head out to the
Rustler.  We walk through the streets quietly, and I consider our
position.  There's hardly any money left.  Every day there's less,
despite the small amount Neveah and I bring in.  We cannot sustain
ourselves here.  Every day the Outpost becomes more frightening. 
Darker.  There's not really any choice then, except to leave.

We take up our usual spots-- Apollon and Jonas at the bar, and me
at the game table.  I'm sitting with my back to the door, which makes me
uncomfortable, but I know my friends are watching out for me.  The other
players mumble greetings.  Most of them look tired, worn down, and for
just a moment I feel bad about taking their money.  It passes
quickly.  Only Jacob and Taylor look unworried, which makes me wonder how
generous Matthew is being to them for their services.  The rest of his
thugs certainly appear to be well-fed.  But how long can that last? 
How long can even Matthew feed an army, when our major food source is not functioning? 
The shipments that flow into the Outpost like its lifeblood are slowly being
strangled, cut off.  Only a handful of the goods we need are actually
coming through.  Food has never been abundant.  Things are about to
get bad here.  Very, very bad.  I toss my coin into the pot.  We
have to leave.  We have to run.

I half-heartedly place a bet and exchange two cards.  I'm
still thinking about leaving.  I glance at Jonas and Apollon, who aren't
talking to each other.  They watch the game silently.  Neither of
them meet my eyes.  By the time it's my turn to call, I'm resigned to the
fact that I'll have to take Jonas' side in the argument that will continue at
home.  I take the few coins I've won, imagining what that lively
conversation will be like.  Miranda already dislikes me enough. 
She'll be livid if I speak out for the idea of leaving.  Will Oscar be
afraid, I wonder?  Will he look at me with those wide, brown eyes like
I've somehow betrayed him by wanting to take him into the dangerous unknown? 
Or will he jump in with his eight-year-old boy enthusiasm and innocent
disregard for peril? 

I toss in my next coin, and lose.  I toss in my next coin,
and win.  But the win is less than the lose.  I set my jaw and ante
again.  The next round is intense.  My cards are good, but the others
are betting higher than usual as well.  I don't think they're
bluffing.  I eye my hand and consider.  As I'm doing this, waiting on
Julian Moore's bet, the low buzz of conversation around us ceases.  I
blink, registering the quiet.  My fingers tighten on my cards, and very
purposely, I don't turn around. I don't glance at Apollon or Jonas, whose
tension I observe out of the corner of my eye.  I focus on the game. 
On my cards.  I watch Julian's hand deposit his coins into the pot. 
I consider my own cards.  On the edges of my vision, I see them walk
around our table-- a group of seven.  Their solid footsteps are loud on
the wooden floorboards.  They take their chairs at the table next to us;
the table I am facing.  And directly above my cards I cannot help but
notice that Matt is sitting now, looking quietly at me, studying me.  His
crew doesn't talk.  They're all watching our table.  I ignore
them.  I make my decision, and raise the bet.  Then I look at Lloyd,
who is sitting to my other side.  He falters, clears his throat.  It
takes him a moment, which, I suspect, has partially to do with the fact that
Matthew is sitting at the next table.  I catch Jacob and Taylor glancing
at their boss.  He gives them the smallest shake of his head-- permission
to stay in the game.  The turns go round the table, and I am
sweating.  Matthew is watching me.  I have too much invested in the
pot.  Apollon and Jonas are stone-still, but buzzing.  Matt's gaze
flicks to them.  The potential for disaster looms over me.  I force
my breathing to be steady, but I'm suffocating.  My brain is awash in a
dizzying fog.

Then suddenly, the cards are down, and we're all scanning the
hands on the table.  My eyes dart back and forth.  Jacob and I both
have straights.  Mine is one card higher than his.  I've won by the
skin of my teeth.  I reach for my money.

"Well played, Eden," Matt says from the next
table. 

Now I glance up and meet his gaze briefly before focusing again on
my coins.  "Thanks," I say.  I catch a shift of movement
out of the corner of my eye-- Apollon and Jonas, starving dogs that have almost
worked up the courage to take a bite out of their master.  I toss in the
next ante before they have a chance to jump up and drag me away.

Jacob and Taylor leave the table, pulling their chairs up amongst
Matt's crew.  This means less money in the pot, and by the time the next
hand is through, it's clear that the stakes are not worth it.  Boldly, I
plunk Matthew's twenty percent down on the table next to him.  There seems
no point in giving it to Arthur when Matt is right here.  He looks
sideways and up at me, a smug little smile on his face, and says nothing. 
I turn and head for the door.  Apollon and Jonas are on my heels.

We burst into the street.  I glance back at my friends. 
Apollon looks startled, but Jonas is absolutely fuming.  I could probably
cook an egg on his head right now.  I pull my gaze away and keep walking.