Resurgence (2 page)

‘They’ve not . . . ?’

Pietra doesn’t want to say ‘killed him’. I shake my head again. ‘He’s too valuable alive.’

Hart has shrunken back into himself, knowing that Imrin is in the hands of King Victor and the Minister Prime because we went to get the medicine that has saved his life.

I take Hart’s hand. ‘We weren’t only there for your medicine. We got all of the Offerings out too. Imrin knew the risks.’

Hart squeezes my hand and nods to say he understands, but he is feeling guilty. I don’t turn but can sense Opie behind me. We know the third reason we were at Windsor Castle: to get the
final part of a weapon that could boil the King’s blood – and kill anyone with the same blood type within a twenty-mile radius or so. The inventor didn’t seem too keen on
specifics for numbers of people who might be killed. I don’t tell Hart about this.

Pietra gently touches my arm but I still have to force myself not to flinch away, wary from the way Hart grabbed me earlier.

‘What about Faith?’ she asks.

‘We buried her two nights ago in the woods outside Lancaster.’ I try to keep my voice level but crack halfway through the final word. When I close my eyes, I can still see the whites
of hers. The smell of her blood is permanently in my nostrils.

‘She died in my arms,’ I add, blinking back tears.

Opie puts his arms around me as Pietra and Hart cling to each other, trying to understand why. I don’t have an answer for them.

They ask who did it but I can’t say the name.
I
took Faith to Xyalis, the man who used to be the Minister Prime,
I
stole the weapon with which he wanted to kill thousands of
people,
I
put my trust in someone I shouldn’t have – and Faith is dead because of it.

Opie pulls me towards the entrance of the shelter before I start sobbing again. He has already spent a day and two nights helping me get to a state where I could return to the gully and not be a
complete wreck. There are people here who need me to be strong.

He wants to hold me but I don’t feel comfortable in his arms, not with Imrin trapped. It doesn’t seem fair to either of them.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Opie whispers as I pull away from him.

I shake my head. We’ve had this conversation and it doesn’t matter what he thinks, or if the others forgive me – I cannot forgive myself.

When it’s clear I don’t have an answer for him, he asks the question I suspect he pulled me away for: ‘Are you going to tell them about the blood bomb?’

I don’t know why he calls it that but I suppose it is as good a name as any. When we were leaving Xyalis’ laboratory, I said I was going to destroy it. On both nights since, I have
sat with the weapon in my hands, willing myself to smash it to pieces. On the surface, it is the simplest of objects: one long black tube with a button on top. I could unscrew the lid and tip out
the King’s blood, I could throw it away, bury it, or do any number of other things to get rid of it for good.

Instead, I keep it in a pouch hooked to my belt. I try to think of the thousands of people who could die if I press the button within the King’s vicinity, but then I remember Faith and how
her life ebbed away, her blood covering my skin and clothes. It may not have been the King who killed her directly but he is responsible for all of the deaths I have seen. Perhaps Xyalis was right
all along and the King deserves to die in as brutal a way as possible.

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ I hiss. ‘If anyone needs to know what the weapon can do then I’ll tell them.’

The venom in my voice stings Opie as he holds up his hands as if to defend himself. ‘I won’t say anything.’

I am about to tell him that he’d better not when he raises his eyebrows. I turn to see my mother hovering nearby. ‘Is everyone all right?’ I ask.

‘It’s amazing, as if Hart was never ill. What did you give him?’

‘I’m not sure. The scientist who told me about it said it was an amalgamation of every disease ever discovered. He says it can cure almost anything.’

‘How much of it do you have?’

‘Three more doses.’

She steps forward, pulling me towards her again and reaching for Opie. She pushes the hair from my face, separating out the silver streak, and running her fingers along the length of my arms.
She is worrying about how thin I am but doesn’t say anything. ‘Are you two staying here now?’

I shake my head and she bows in reluctant acceptance.

‘Can I ask you one thing?’ she says, not waiting for my reply. ‘You’re my daughter and you’re amazing. You’ve helped all of these people, you’ve given
so many hope, you’ve saved people’s lives. I don’t expect you to sit here and do nothing – and if Opie is who you want to be with then you have my blessing . . .’

I’m not sure where she is going with this, and feel nervous with her mention of Opie. She pulls us both closer until she is wedged between us and then lowers her voice. ‘But why does
it have to be you?’

She sounds tired and scared, her fingers digging into my back. I gently release myself and cup her chin between my hands. Her tears dribble through my fingers.

My throat is dry but I manage the words clearly enough: ‘If I don’t do it, who else will?’

I have never been a big sleeper but now it is as if my body fights against anything that will allow me even the smallest amount of comfort. I suppose I can’t blame it
– the endless walking has taken its toll and I haven’t been able to give myself the nourishment my body craves. My mother forces me to take her bed despite my protests. She wraps me in
blankets, tucking me in so tightly that I can barely move, and kisses me goodnight. ‘Sleep well,’ she says, but her sideways glances towards me and the raised eyebrows betray her
thoughts that I am almost unrecognisable. The glimpse I saw of myself in the mirror near the fire showed a pale, thin girl wasting away, not the warrior everyone seems to believe I am.

I lie with my eyes closed, taking deep, slow breaths and pretending to sleep. Time passes and as the cool sunlight begins to fill the room, there are people nearby – Opie’s family
and mine – saying my name and whispering under their breath. Isn’t it amazing about Hart? How did I get into and out of Windsor Castle? Why did I go? What am I going to do next? Over
and over they ask if I am well. Opie is nearby and I hope he is sleeping because the conversation is all about me, not him – even though he was there too.

By the time the smell of something meaty starts to drift through the area, I am sick of hearing my name. I kick my way out of the covers and follow my nose until I see a spit that Opie’s
father, Evan, has set up. On it, he is slowly rotating three squirrels, ensuring they are cooked evenly. A week ago, he was convinced that much of what had happened was in my head; now he is the
provider and father for the entire camp. Everyone else looks older, the ravages of isolation and hunger too much to avoid; but he is energised, his hair less grey, his skin almost glowing.

‘This one’s for you,’ he says, pointing at one of the creatures.

I yawn and wave my hand. ‘Make sure everyone else has something first.’

‘We’ve all eaten. There’s one for you and one for Opie.’

‘Who’s the other one for?’

‘Your mum says Hart is a lot better. He’s barely been able to eat all week, so he could do with getting some strength back.’ He notices the confused look on my face. ‘Oh,
don’t worry about food, we found a patch of woods on the edge of the lake where there are all sorts of things to eat. There’ll be plenty to get us through the rest of winter.’

The idea of plentiful amounts of food sets off a chain of growls in my stomach which I feel sure Evan can hear. If he does, then he doesn’t say anything. He removes the skewer from the
fire and slices the meat onto a circular piece of metal which looks like it has come from one of the cars. The first bite tastes as if it is from a juicy, succulent cut of beef. Suddenly I am
famished, tearing, licking, chewing and swallowing until there is nothing left.

Evan looks awkwardly at me, a mix of surprise and relief that his culinary skills are adequate. He nods towards the two remaining creatures. ‘You can have one of these if you want?
We’ve got more.’

I don’t need to think. ‘Okay . . .’

After two more squirrels and a selection of leaves courtesy of Jela, I am feeling wonderfully unlike myself. For the first time in ages, my belly is grumbling from being full, not hungry. Opie
and Hart have also eaten, with the story of Hart’s recovery, Faith’s death and Imrin’s capture now common knowledge. Opie’s mother, Iris, is devastated that Faith has not
made it back. They bonded on our final day in camp and she eyes us with a mixture of betrayal and bewilderment, wondering how we let it happen.

The kids are as brilliant as ever. Opie’s youngest brother, Imp, races around my feet telling me stories he has made up about the soft tortoise I gave him. Apparently the toy has magic
powers and they go on adventures each night. His imagination and enthusiasm is wonderful given everything he has been through. Despite only having it a week, his tortoise is not in such a good
state. When I gave it to him the toy was clean; now it is mottled with sand and there is a small tear around its mouth with soft yellow foam spewing out, making it look as if it is smiling. Its
battered nature makes it look more like something Imp would own.

After everyone has said their hellos, and I’ve spent a few minutes assuring my brother Colt that I’m fine, Opie and I head outside, weaving in between the vehicle wrecks until we are
on our own. The morning is cold but the towering hunks of metal provide a solid cover from the breeze.

‘How well do you know the area?’ I ask.

Opie was here for weeks before I arrived, leading our families away from danger after I first escaped Windsor. He shrugs, refusing to commit either way, but I suspect he is doing himself a
disservice. ‘I need a list of items,’ I add, reading them to him from the notes on my thinkwatch. ‘I’ll be able to find a few around the main site but can you take one of
your brothers to find the harder things?’

I take another moment to glance at my thinkwatch. The face is orange with the gentle imprint of a lightning bolt to symbolise industry and productivity. Every sixteen-year-old has to take the
Reckoning, which divides us into classes. Elites are the highest-ranked, with black watch faces and all sorts of other benefits. I am the next level down, a Member, but most become Intermediates.
No one wants to be a Trog.

‘What are you building?’

‘I’m hoping to use Xyalis’ design for the teleporter. The theory isn’t that difficult, it’s the precision that makes it awkward. A lot of the technology is the same
type of thing I was working with at Windsor. After he finished going on about Scotland and Hadrian’s Wall, Xyalis admitted that you didn’t need two doors to get from one place to
another – he just hadn’t got around to experimenting with the technology. The danger was jumping into a space already occupied by something else, but we’ve got the perfect place
to practise here because it is so open.’

Opie looks at me quizzically. Usually I’m good at predicting his thoughts but I’m not sure what’s going through his mind. Does he think I am trying to string him along for some
other reason?

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ he eventually asks.

Of anything I could have predicted, this perhaps hurts the most. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

He squirms, fingers snaking down to his sides. ‘Yes . . .’

‘Is this about Imrin?’

Opie is the person I have grown up with but then I met Imrin at Windsor. We didn’t know if we would escape the prison in which we found ourselves, and bonded in a way that is impossible to
describe without being able to explain what it is like to be trapped. I have been dodging the question of my feelings for Imrin and Opie ever since, almost hoping an answer would fall out of the
sky.

Opie is horrified at the implication that he is wary of helping because he gets me to himself if Imrin is left where he is. As soon as his face falls, I feel sorry for saying it. I don’t
even think I meant it.

His eyes narrow. ‘Is that what you think of me?’

‘No . . . I’m sorry.’

I reach for him but he stares at me for a few moments longer and then strides past, calling his brother Samuel’s name.

I stand and stare at him walking away, wondering how I find it so easy to mess things up. As he rounds a corner and disappears out of sight, I start to search for some of the items I will
need.

Much of the technology comes from old thinkpads that no longer work. I salvage a handful of parts and then pick apart a few old wireless phones. Opie returns a couple of hours later with Samuel
at his side. Our argument seems to have been forgotten and he places everything I requested on the ground close to where I’m working.

‘Can I help with anything else?’ he asks.

I start to hunt through the items he has brought, discarding a few parts because they are too new. Most of what I require would generally be counted as old-fashioned. ‘I need someone to
test it on.’

‘Is it going to be dangerous?’

‘Not if I’ve got everything right.’

He stands behind me, brushing a hand along my hip, and laughs. ‘So it
will
be risky then.’

I tell him to get out of my way but he stays close, watching intently and handing me the few tools we possess when I need them. Because I don’t have anything I can properly solder with, my
work isn’t as tidy as Xyalis’ at his labs or my own at Windsor. Despite that, it is of a better standard as I have the ideal parts from the unlimited scrap in the gully.

‘It looks like a box,’ Opie jokes as I show him the finished product.

‘It
is
a box. It’s what’s in it that is important.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘Stuff.’

Opie laughs and playfully threatens to fight me. It makes me giggle like the old days when we played in the woods – but this time I know I am far too frail to be able to hold my own.

‘You can test it on me, or I can try it on you,’ I say. ‘It
should
work but I don’t know who else to try it on.’