Forged

“Bree!” I grab her wrist and her face snaps to mine. “I love you so damn much,” I tell her.

 

Her bottom lip quivers, and her eyes work over me, lingering on my hairline. She fishes a wipe from the med kit and pulls me nearer. I stand between Bree’s knees, my thighs against the cool sink she sits on, while she tends to my forehead. I’d forgotten about my own injury, the blood I felt trickle behind the blindfold as the vehicle rolled. She cleans the wound, fighting against the shaking of her own fingers, and then applies a small bandage. No stitches needed, I guess.

 

The alarm keeps blaring, dulled slightly by the door that separates us from the hallway. The fighting seems incredibly distant right now.

 

Bree looks at me. No, not just at me, but into me. It makes me feel weak and capable in the same breath. Then, as though something has jolted her out of a dream, she jumps from the sink and snatches up her gun.

 

“The sewers. We’re late and Sammy’s going to think the worst.”

 

It’s only when she’s resorted to her typical demeanor—channeling strength and sureness—that the shock crashes down on me. My legs go slack. I brace myself against the wall, my opposite hand shaking as I clench the gun.

 

I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t.

 

“Gray,” she says. “I need you with me.”

 

I swallow. With both hands on her gun, Bree trains it up and steps into the hall. Because she asked me to, and because there’s no one I’d rather follow, I make myself move.

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-ONE

 

 

I HOP FROM THE LADDER and my feet hit the water with a splat.

 

It smells fouler than death down here. Like mold and waste and stale liquid.

 

“Watch your mouth, the bandage.”

 

“Relax, Gray. I’m not about to stick my face in this filth.”

 

Her words might be slow and clumsy, but the Forgery’s knife certainly didn’t injure her sarcastic tongue.

 

The tunnel is barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and the only light source comes from street-level grates every hundred paces or so. As we walk farther into the sewers, the murky water grows deeper. Thankfully there’s a raised walkway at the next intersection. The new cross tunnel is twice as large, with a ladder leading to an elevated area running parallel to the water flow. I try not to think that my hands are holding rungs Bree’s filthy boots just trekked waste against as I climb after her. Overhead, an occasional vehicle rumbles past on the streets.

 

“Do you think they’ll track us?” I ask.

 

“They’ll try. Especially once they get a reading on where that Forgery last transmitted.” A backward glance. “You should see the signs in town. Frank’s promoting the heck out of the Sunder Rally, asking everyone across the country to tune in. He’s even offering extra water ration cards to families as a way to ensure they’ll attend in person.

 

“The Rally’s going to open with executions—a bunch of unlucky bastards getting the axe publicly—and then he’s unveiling the Forgeries. He’s not calling them that, of course. It’s painted like he’s going to introduce everyone to a new task force, additional law enforcement to protect and serve each community, even the domeless ones.”

 

“I was supposed to be a part of those executions,” I tell her.

 

“I know. All of Taem does. You’re the biggest selling point. Frank’s been dismissing the news the Harbinger printed—the truth behind water resources, the deaths in Stonewall, the battle at Burg. He claims all that blood is on your hands, that the Rebels and AmWest are terrorists and you’re pulling the strings.”

 

My mind drifts back to what Isaac once stated on the Gulf: Revolutionaries and terrorists are one and the same. We are the minority, threatening the norm. But it’s right, what we are doing. Isn’t it?

 

Bree glances over her shoulder. “What happened to your neck?”

 

I didn’t pause long enough in the bathroom to examine myself in the mirror, but I imagine I have rope burns from my near hanging. Maybe bruises, too.

 

Bree scowls as I tell her the story, then follows it with her own. The drive east with Sammy and Clipper was uneventful. Rebel sources confirmed I was being held at an interrogation center on the outskirts of the city. As planned, Harvey leaked the time I was to be moved to Union Central, plus the route the car would be taking. The Rebels coordinated their attack, detonating roadblocks at predetermined intersections to turn around the armored car and lead it to a dead end of their choosing. Street teams held the incoming Order forces at bay as Bree and Sammy moved in for me.

 

“Where’s Sammy now?”

 

“At the safe house,” Bree says. “Unless something went wrong.”

 

She pauses as we reach another junction, then swings her legs over the edge of the walkway and scrambles down the ladder. Back into the waste. She points at an offshoot about the size of the tunnel we used to first access the sewers.

 

I sigh, and follow.

 

 

The safe house is no more than a block from where we emerge aboveground.

 

Sammy and Clipper are waiting for us, along with Elijah. The place belongs to his cousin, who we’re introduced to upon arrival. Elijah has been staying here for the last few nights. Ryder is in town, too, at a different location. Preparing, Elijah explains.

 

If I never hear the words preparing and planning and waiting again, it will be too soon.

 

We are shown to the basement where we’ll stay for the night, and it’s not pretty. A few cots are set up between dusty crates and storage boxes. A lone window just inches shy of the ceiling might offer some light come morning, but right now the cluttered room is dingy and gray. There is moisture in the air. I feel like I’m back in the sewers.

 

“You think this is a show or something?” Bree snaps.

 

Clipper averts his eyes from her bandaged cheek, suddenly very interested in his boot tips.

 

“What happened?” Sammy asks.

 

“A knife,” she answers.

 

“A knife?”

 

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