Sneak (8 page)

Three

The Setup

1

The smell in the stable was strong and

natural, a far cry from the smells of Slog Row, where the Dust used to live. Jo opened the doors, and Blake scrunched his nose as he and the others filed in.

“This it?” Eddie asked, shuffling through the straw stalks on

the ground.

“This is it.” Jo nodded. “Welcome to our new home.”

Already Tyler had made his way onto the upper beams of the

enclosure, tiptoeing across one of them with his arms out. “New game!” he called, faltering a little and waving his arms wildly to keep his balance.

“So, what? We all just pick a horse and bunk up?” Eddie walked to a stallion at the stable’s end and waved his hands in its face.

“Pretty much,” Jo said. “The livestock’ll throw off any heat

detectors or satellite pictures, and their noise should distract long-range mic surveillance from picking up any of your lousy snoring.”

Behind all of this, Tyler quietly lost his footing and fell into a pile of hay.

“You all right?” Blake asked without much concern.

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“I won.” Tyler groaned.

“Let’s just try not to kill ourselves before DOME gets the

chance, hm?” Jo said, checking to make sure Tyler was okay. “You’ll ruin everyone’s fun.”

“Speaking of which.” Eddie pointed to the door as it swung

open. “Whaddo you suppose we do with
him
?”

Meg walked into the stable, dragging by his feet a man who lay slack and splayed on the ground. His head rested sideways, bounc-ing a little as it slid across the dirt. His arms followed behind, stretching up and over his head, and for the moment he was dead-weight. Knocked out. Harmless.

That would change, of course. The DOME badge on his

shoulder promised it.

Blake closed his eyes and composed himself. “I give Mr. DOME

Agent here another hour before he comes to. Tops.” He sighed.

“There’s a stream down past the corn field. Have you seen it?”

Meg nodded.

“Put him in faceup.”

Eddie took hold of the man’s hands, and he and Meg turned to

head out the door.

“And hey—” Blake called after them, “make sure he floats

before you let go.”

“Whoa, whoa, what happened here?” Dane asked, eyebrows

raised as he entered the barn.

“Another scout,” Blake said.

“He make it all the way to the farm?”

“No, they still don’t know we’re here. This guy was just tromping through the woods when Meg found him. Then she . . .” Blake paused. “Well, I dunno. Meg, what’d you do to the guy? Clobber him?”

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Meg smiled and nodded.

Blake turned to Dane. “Meg clobbered him.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’d gathered that much,” Dane said. He sighed

and dropped his bag to the ground. “So they really aren’t letting up, then.”

“On the contrary. They’re closing their grip around Hailey as

we speak. She’ll lead them right to us with these daily messages between her and Peck.”

“Nah, she won’t,” Dane said. “Peck’s system is good. It’s safe.

And besides . . . we’d lose her completely without it.”

“
Dane’s
in love with
Haaai-ley
,” Tyler sang from the hay.

“Will you shut it? This has nothing to do with me,” Dane said.

“Right now Hailey’s our only contact with the outside world. We can’t find Logan without her.”

“And, wait—I’m sorry,” Eddie said sarcastically. “Could

some one, anyone, please remind me
why
, exactly, we’re still risking every thing for that traitor? Because I’ve forgotten.”

“It’s not about Logan anymore,” Jo said, no less annoyed. “It’s about Lily. Peck and Logan are obsessed with saving her.”

Dane sighed. “She was Peck’s best friend, Jo. And she’s Logan’s sister. It’s hard to blame them.”

But Eddie just laughed. “He’s out there again, isn’t he? Peck.

Right now. Leaving yet another message for Hailey.”

“Yeah.” Blake rolled his eyes. “Right now.”

“
Man
,” Jo said. “Night after night after night! What will it take to get through to that tightwad? He’s gonna get us all caught— or worse!” Jo shook her head as an awkward silence settled over the stable.

“Hooooooo-
wee
, are we in trouble!” Tyler laughed abruptly.

“Welcome to the big leagues, kiddies!” He rolled out from his spot
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in the hay and lay flat on his back, arms folded over his stomach.

“And all thanks to our good ol’ friend, Logan Langly! Three cheers for that guy! Wherever you are, ya skinflint! To good health! To long life! To happiness!” He looked around playfully.

But no one else was laughing.

2

Logan waited with his hood up and a scarf over his nose and mouth.

He waited at the farthest edge of the huddle. He didn’t let a single tightwad out of his sight.

He’d spent the whole day this way, scared and indecisive. He

knew it was a risk to show his face anywhere downtown. He had

planned to see his aunt and uncle, to visit their safe, public, well-lit bakery, to ask them for help because he simply didn’t know where else to turn . . . but what if Bridget was right? What if the Mark really did trump family? What if they turned him in no matter what?

And yet, how much safer was it to stay where he was now?

Bridget
had
returned that morning, just as Andrew said she would, shortly before the huddle began waking for the day. No DOME officers in tow, no magnecuffs, no “Gotcha, ya filthy, stinkin’ beggar!”

But she wasn’t exactly forthcoming, either. Logan had pre-

tended to be asleep when she arrived. He had pretended not to

notice when she slipped silently under her blanket before making a big show of waking up after “a great night of sleep.” But he
had
noticed, and he couldn’t help but wonder what Bridget was hiding.

For the moment, Logan decided to risk it and stay at least one more day with the huddle. He needed the rest anyway, and time to plan. But he kept his distance all the same.

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“You’re quite the social butterfly,” Bridget joked, walking over to Logan. “Making lots of friends, I see.”

“Just, uh, don’t wanna be in the way,” Logan said.

Bridget smiled. “You’re not. Here—let me show you around.

It’s not much, but it is our home. And it’s yours now too, if you want it to be.”

She brought Logan to a pillar at the edge of the huddle’s space in the underpass. At its base was a row of boxes, each labeled with something along the lines of “Fiction A–F,” or “History O–Z.” The flaps of each box hung open invitingly.

“Books?” Logan asked. “Printed books?” Outside of museums,

this was only the second time in his life that Logan had seen so many.

“You bet,” Bridget said. “Gotta keep the mind sharp somehow.

And we Markless sure ain’t gonna be reading off tablets and plastiscreens anytime soon.”

“But where’d you get them?” Logan asked. “
How’d
you get them?”

“There’s been a book circulation for years now among the

Markless in New Chicago. Who knows what the source was. There’s rumors it was this kid Peck . . . but people say a lot of things about that guy.” Bridget shrugged, looking over the collection. “Anyway, this is what’s left after all the raids. We all took what was most valuable to us and ran.” Bridget smiled. “Usually, that was our huddle’s stash of books.”

Logan flipped through some of the yellowing pages in front of

him. “Any recommendations?” he asked.

“Oh, lots,” Bridget said. She passed a thick one his way. “This one here’ll keep you busy for a while.”

“Wait a second,” Logan said. “Is this—”

“A Bible. Yeah,” Bridget said.

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Logan stared at it.

“We have all kinds of religious texts here, if you’re interested.

Not to mention philosophy, politics . . . any of that sort o’ stuff. It’s all banned, so naturally it’s pretty popular among the Markless.”

Bridget winked. “If it’ll get you arrested, we probably have a copy somewhere.”

Logan looked through the book, scanning the columns of

tiny type on each page. The pages were so thin they were almost translucent, and they made a soft crinkling sound as he flipped through them.

“Just don’t get caught with that,” Bridget warned.

Logan looked up at her. “Thanks.”

And Bridget walked on. “Over here’s our clothing station. You

ever need dry socks, a new sweater . . . this is where you’ll come.”

“You mean I can just take anything?”

“Well, we certainly don’t expect you to be able to pay for it.”

Bridget laughed.

As they walked, Logan began to appreciate what the huddle

had done. The surrounding streets were crumbling. The buildings were falling down, and the sidewalks were charred and split from long-ago gunfire and explosions. But the underpass was different.

The underpass was bright and warm, like a home. All around it, there was art . . . finished paintings just lying on the concrete, sculptures scattered about, a shortwave radio chattering in the corner, tapestries hanging by string, poems graffitied onto each rusting pillar . . . all of it as if out of another era entirely.

“We still have time on our hands,” Bridget said. “In fact, it’s pretty much
all
we have. So we draw, or we write . . . we do whatever we can to contribute to the huddle.”

Logan stopped for a moment and listened to an older woman

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strumming a battered guitar and singing a song to a small circle of Markless surrounding her.

“Michael, row the boat ashore,” she sang. “Hallelujah . . .”

“We sing a lot around here too,” Bridget said. “It keeps our

spirits up.”

Logan looked at her, silent for some time. “Where’d you go

last night?” he asked finally.

“Nowhere.” Bridget frowned. She wouldn’t look at him as she

said it.

“I know you snuck off. I watched you come back.”

“I didn’t sneak off. Maybe you dreamed it—”

“I didn’t dream it,” Logan interrupted. “You’re hiding some-

thing from me.”

“
I’m
hiding something? From
you
? You won’t even tell me your name!”

Logan clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. In the back-

ground, the woman sang her gentle refrain, but it did nothing to cut the tension between the two of them.

Bridget sighed. She looked away, disappointed. “You’re really

gonna make me say it, aren’t you? You’re really gonna ruin the surprise.”