Flawed (19 page)

She grabbed the brush off the floor where it had ended up and went to the mirror. She was going to miss the simple things, like a mirror, the warmth of a home, good food set on a table, the sweater and dark jeans she wore. She was going to miss Tim and Sarah. She wondered if she would ever see them again.

Ellyssa didn’t want to leave, but at the same time she felt like they shouldn’t wait until tomorrow. Every day brought unknown consequences to their group at the concentration camp.
If
any members were still alive. As much as she hated to think about it, the odds were not in their favor. And unfortunately, Dyllon’s security clearance and the need to be inconspicuous had hindered any further helpful information.

Her hair tied back in a loose bun, she started toward the door. Footsteps filtered from the hall.

Trista, so impatient
.

Narrowing her eyes, Ellyssa sidled to the door with cat-like stealth and waited to pounce. Knob in hand, she prepared to whip the door open and pop out, but the sound caused her to hesitate. They didn’t belong to Trista.

Woody lingered outside the door, the thickness of the wood separating them. She could feel his presence, hear his breath. Closing her eyes, Ellyssa pressed her back against the wall, waiting for a knock, but one never sounded. Instead, he sighed and continued to his room next door. As soon as she heard the
click
of the door closing, Ellyssa released bated breath.

Since the day of his confession, they hadn’t been alone together—thankfully. Ellyssa’s lack of experience made her feel uncomfortable at the prospect. She didn’t know what to say or how to act. Even though in some ways things were better between them with the air cleared, at least for her because she understood now. But at other times, a thick wall of tension settled between them. Then there were instances, like now, when the ghost of his touch breathed across her cheek.

Guiltily, she rubbed her cheek until her pale skin glowed, as if to erase the phantom presence.

Sitting on his bunk, alone, Mathew leaned forward on his elbows, his hands hanging between his knees. A pile of dull boots was stacked next to feet, the unused cloth and unopened polish next to him. Unshed tears stung his eyes as he stared at the cold ground. Guilt crushed his chest, his being, like a ton of bricks were dropped on him.

A week had passed, and still no Eric. Mathew had known the first night his friend was dead, Eric’s body shoved into the incinerator like trash. The following morning held more proof; puffs of dwindling smoke had curled from the chimney on top of the square building with the vent, but he had held on to hope like a life preserver.

Mathew had to let it go, accept his friend’s demise. Sink or swim.

The Commandant wouldn’t touch him—
couldn’t
touch him?—but the man wasn’t beneath making Mathew pay anyway. Eric’s disappearance had proven that. What was worse was that he would care less if it had been his own life. That was something he’d come to terms with a long time ago. None of the Renegades sacrificed the safety of their group for themselves. What he couldn’t come to terms with was a group member being sacrificed anyway. All on account of him.

Fury and despondency wilted what was left of Mathew’s optimism. He couldn’t stand to face the dismal cloud of death anymore. He stood and kicked the boots he was supposed to be polishing. Black leather rose and fell to the concrete ground with unsatisfying thumps. He stomped over to a boot lying by Danny’s bed—a young man of about twenty, wafer-thin and sickly now—and ripped it up off the floor. With all his might, he launched it at the metal mirror, angered even more because it just bounced off the polished surface without so much as a crack. Mathew carried on with his tantrum, kicking and throwing the boots, smashing them into walls and bunks, each attempt to destroy as unsatisfying as the next.

Suddenly, Mathew stopped, the coals of uncontrollable rage fizzling into ashes, his paroxysm ebbing.

Chest rising and falling irregularly, Mathew looked around at the chaos he’d created. Boots lay around everywhere—on the bunks, on the floor, one tottering at the edge of their pathetic source of heat.

All he’d managed to do was cause more trouble if a soldier happened to appear. Actually, Mathew was surprised that, with all the noise, someone hadn’t burst through the door. Then what would happen? More people dying because of his outburst. Punishment and more punishment. Before the nightmare was realized, Mathew rushed around the room, picking up the boots and tossing them into a pile next to his bunk, until he stooped to grab one at the foot of Eric’s old bunk.

Mathew tried not to pay attention to where he was, but it was useless. His eyes were drawn to where his friend, up until recently, had slept. The thin mattress lay bare with no grey, scratchy blankets to hide the yellowed stains of fear from previous occupants.

With the boot dangling from his fingers, Mathew crumpled to his knees, tears coursing down his face.

As much as he hated the fact, he knew what he had to do.

Ellyssa waited until Woody’s bedroom door closed, and his steps faded down the hall before she peeled her back off the wall. She couldn’t explain why she was so afraid if he happened to knock. So what if Woody’s love for her was different than the love she felt for him? She still felt close to him for all he’d done, for being her best friend. Eventually, a time would come when they would be left alone. The problem was, when she’d tried, she couldn’t rub away the feel of his touch. Still it haunted the side of her face.

Plucking up her courage, Ellyssa straightened her sweater and opened the door to an empty hall. She stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind her.

Voices carried from the kitchen, the clinking of dishes. They had started without her.

“Is Ellyssa feeling well?” Sarah asked, motherly to the core.

“She’s fine,” replied Rein. “Fixing her hair.”

“Maybe you should stop messing it up,” Trista said with a giggle.

Ellyssa felt red rush into her face.

“Shut up.” Rein’s words.

Trista giggled again.

Slowly, waiting for the heat to diminish from her cheeks, Ellyssa started a slow pace to the end of the hall and stopped at the small room where Tim kept the out-of-date radio. A short burst of static resonated within the room, along with what sounded like a single word.

She swung the door open. Dead air greeted her. The gun-metal-grey longwave radio sat silently on top of the scarred desk. The slatted-back chair was pushed into the space under the single drawer; unconnected headphones lay draped across the scarred arm. A black wire led from the radio to the beat-up microphone. The dial rested to the left.

Ellyssa reached out and fingered the volume knob, turning it to the right. Nothing. The band stayed still.

Thinking she was mistaken, hearing things, she dropped her hand. She started to turn around when the tuner band pegged and static erupted from the speakers.

“Base One,” the electronic voice said followed by silence. Interference marred the voice, making it hard to understand.

Ellyssa backed out of the room. “Tim. The radio. Someone is trying to contact you.”

Abruptly, silence swept away any conversation. Less than a second later, excited words and chairs scraping across the floor answered. Rushed steps galloped toward Ellyssa.

Tim burst into the hall first, his bald head shining with perspiration. Rein, Woody and the rest were on his heels.

“What did they say? Did you respond?” Tim asked as he moved past Ellyssa, not giving her a chance to answer. He plopped onto the chair and started turning dials back and forth. White noise squelched. He depressed the button on the microphone. “Base One to Control. Go ahead, Control.” Static answered and Tim turned another dial.

Rein’s hand slide into Ellyssa’s, and she turned to look at him. “What did they say?” Rein repeated Tim’s question.

“They said, ‘Base One.’”

“That’s our radio name,” Sarah said, excitement lighting her face in a beautiful glow. Her hand intertwined with Trista’s, whose face shone, too.

“Was that it?” Woody asked.

“That’s all I heard,” Ellyssa replied, turning back toward Tim. “I was walking down the hall when the static started.”

The older man pushed the button again. “This is Base One. Go ahead, Control. Over.”

Buzzing squelched, loudly, like fingers across a chalkboard. Ellyssa cringed. More white noise transmitted, then a single word came through, clear as a cloudless day. “Run.”

Dead air settled from the speaker and blanketed the room in an ominous cloud and, for a second, time seemed to crawl as things focused crystal clear.

Rein’s face darkened as his hand tightened, squishing Ellyssa’s fingers together. Trista’s and Sarah’s faces dimmed. Woody’s muscles twitched as if he was going to take off any moment.

Tim glanced back, his forehead bunched into horizontal lines. “Did I hear him right?”

As if to answer his question, the back door banged against the counter. Heavy footfalls stormed across the linoleum.

They found us
, Ellyssa thought, tendrils of fear constricting her heart.

“Trista?” Dyllon’s frantic voice echoed through the house. “Trista?”

Time sped up.

All at once, everyone exhaled as Dyllon flew around the corner without his parka. His uniform was crumpled, and sweat circled under his pits and dripped from the side of his face. His breath came in gasps as if he’d been running.

“Oh my God, there you are,” Dyllon said, his voice mixed relief and fear.

Dyllon pulled Trista into his arms, smothering her against his chest. She said something, but her voice was muffled.

Pulling back, Dyllon covered Trista’s face in kisses. “What?” He didn’t give her a chance to speak before he yanked her back to his chest.

“You’re freezing,” Trista mumbled.

Dyllon laughed, but not a happy one, more of one teetering on the edge of panic. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Releasing Ellyssa’s hand, Rein stepped forward, his gait stiff with alarm. Fear breathed from his pores. “What’s happened?”

“It’s time to go,” Dyllon answered over Trista’s head. “Now.”

“What do you mean?” Woody asked.

“They know. They’re coming” was all the answer Dyllon gave.

Tim leapt from his chair faster than Ellyssa had ever imagined the older male could move. After unplugging the radio, he handed it to Rein, then grabbed the microphone and headset. “Showtime,” Tim said, dashing out the door.

Ellyssa wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she had a fair assumption that there was no waiting for tomorrow. Like roaches, everyone scattered. Woody bolted toward his room. Tim’s hand appeared from behind the wall and grabbed Sarah’s. He pulled her into the living room.

Rein looked at Ellyssa, his face marred with worried alarm. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.

Ellyssa was unsure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “I know.” She squeezed his hand. “We’re together.”

Trista started to pull Dyllon down the hall toward her room, but he stopped her. “No time.” He raised his voice. “No time for anything. They were about thirty minutes away when I intercepted the call. That was about fifteen minutes ago.”

Dyllon turned, pulling Trista as he went into the living room where their hosts stood off to the side. For the first time ever, Sarah’s youthfulness had disappeared, and she looked like a fragile old woman. Even Tim seemed to have aged.

The older man called out, “Everything is ready. Just go.” His voice was frantic, edging toward hysterical. The change in his usually calm demeanor was terrifying.

“Let’s go,” Tim repeated.

Woody reappeared, a knapsack slung over his shoulder. Three more dangled from his hand. He handed one to Ellyssa, one to Trista, and the last to Rein. When Woody’s hand was free, he took Ellyssa’s, their differences forgotten, and squeezed reassuringly. Fear tightened his face, his pupils dilating.

Rein led the way, lugging the radio and pulling them through the living room toward the kitchen door. Ellyssa knew the destination was the van hidden somewhere to the south within a copse of trees. Avoiding the roadways meant going through the backyard, over the fence and across the frozen barren field.