9.
Jag and I jumped apart like we’d been caught making out by my mother.
Two Greenies approached, their hands empty. The Hawk and Baldie.
“Perfect,” Jag whispered. “You take the woman.”
Instead of taking on anyone, I sprinted toward the guard station, with Jag right behind me. I found the lack of personnel odd, but maybe this area wasn’t manned so early in the morning. Or maybe those two Greenies made sure there wouldn’t be any witnesses to our deaths. I ran faster.
Jag passed me and swiped his stolen card across the gate reader. We squished through before it opened fully, and Jag tried to jam it while I sprinted toward the terraced crops in the Centrals. Curses and clangs caused me to glance over my shoulder. My hopes of losing anyone were dashed by the sight of Baldie running a few yards behind me and Jag still wrestling with the gate.
I made a sharp turn to my right, heading toward the imminent drop-off. I jumped at the last second, which made my landing that much harder. Rolling, rolling, I finally came to rest in a plot of bean plants. I didn’t have time to feel the pain throbbing in my spine.
From the bottom of the terrace, I saw Baldie—still at the top—swipe a large stick at Jag’s legs. I sprinted up the nonmoving stairs, both desperate and disgusted that I had to save him.
By the time I reached the top, Jag was kneeling with his hands laced behind his head. I sparked the taser, wondering if I had the guts to use it. The blue electricity caught Baldie’s attention, and Jag dove at him. I dashed forward as they wrestled. Jag threw Baldie off just before I discharged the taser into Baldie’s shoulder.
He screamed as he fell. Silence. A twitch, then he lay still. I stared at him, my stomach lurching. I may break rules, but I’m not violent. My chest tightened. The air around me evaporated.
“Vi, let’s go.” Jag pulled on my arm. I turned and ran. Very far to the west, across the rolling wheat and beans and golden-tipped corn, the flames in the Fire Region created an orange horizon.
I started down the staircase first, only to hear a strangled grunt behind me. Then Jag smashed into me.
I’d never felt such pain, not even when the surgery skin had melted away my flesh. My head hit on the sharp corners of the steps, my back crunched against itself. Blood flooded my mouth and I gagged. Jag swore with every collision, and I would’ve joined him if my jaw didn’t feel splintered.
Above it all, the Hawk laughed. I finally stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Silver and black flashes swam in my vision. My head felt heavy and soft at the same time. I wanted to move, but couldn’t. Time slowed into breathing and pain.
“The taser.” The Hawk leaned over me. I managed to lift my head. Blood ran down my face, but at least I didn’t have to inhale the hot, coppery scent anymore.
Jag moaned but didn’t move. Blood covered most of his face, and his left sleeve was completely stained red.
“The taser,” the Hawk repeated, her hand outstretched. She towered over me, one step up on the staircase. Her silver hair shone in the moonlight.
Give her the taser, the voice commanded. You don’t need it. My injuries made my attitude dormant, and I couldn’t muster the energy to tell the Thinker that he had no right to tell me what I did and didn’t need.
But if I gave up the taser, Jag and I would end up like Baldie. Unconscious. Who knew where we’d wake up—if we woke at all. But I couldn’t use the taser again. Baldie’s scream still echoed in my ears. His vacant eyes . . .
Give her the taser, the voice ordered again.
“Jag,” I pleaded. “Get off me.”
Using the sturdy metal stairs for support, he stood and wiped his bloody hands on his prison uniform. He watched me slowly extend the weapon toward the Hawk, understanding spreading through his eyes.
“No!” he yelled, hitting my arm. The taser flew in a magnificent arc into the terrace behind us. The Hawk swore and kicked Jag in the chest. He landed with a soft thump and didn’t attempt to get up again.
Anger surged through my desperation and pain. I shook Jag’s shoulder as the Hawk leaned over to inspect him.
“Vi, leave the bad boy. You’re a good girl. Your father would’ve wanted you to be free.” Her words sounded rehearsed, but she’d just given me the label I craved: free. But if being free meant leaving Jag, I couldn’t do it.
Choices, choices. The voice mocked me now. In my mind, I saw the Thinker, with those dark lenses hiding his eyes. A cruel smile graced his features. He clearly controlled the situation. The Goodgrounds. The Hawk. Everyone and everything.
But not me. And not Jag.
Jag rolled over, with the tiniest curve in his lips. I ground my teeth and thrust my elbow back, right into the Hawk’s beak.
She staggered backward. I grabbed Jag’s arm and hauled him to his feet. I half-dragged him through the fields between the two terraces and up the steps on the other side. I didn’t turn back until we made it to the top. The silver Hawk was on her feet, searching for the taser.
Like I was going to wait and see if she found it.
I ran. More like stumbled. In my delirious I’ve-lost-too-much-blood state, I didn’t know Jag had stopped until he called my name.
I turned too fast and fell down. As far as I was concerned, it would be fine to stay there for the rest of my life. Something cold touched my head and probed in my hair. I faded out as Jag dabbed at the blood with a cloth. Then he said my name in his soothing voice. It sounded so restful, so calm.
“Don’t,” I slurred. “I’ll fall asleep.”
He stopped talking. When I opened my eyes, I wished I’d kept them closed.
“You look awful,” I said. Blood oozed down his face and dripped off his jaw. He wiped it with the piece of cloth—one of his sleeves he’d ripped off.
Even though his face was smeared with blood—probably mine and his—it caused my stupid heart to pump a little faster.
“Come on,” he said. “We can’t stop here.”
We clung to each other as we made our way toward the Fire Region. I thought it odd that hovercopters weren’t circling but didn’t say anything. Maybe They would just let us go. After all, I was tagged. They could find me easily if They wanted to. At least until we made it to the Fire Region and the heat obscured the signature in the tag.
The sun had crested the mountains when we came upon a lonely farmhouse in the middle of a rolling wheat field. I collapsed against the bricks, my breath burning on the way in and out. Jag unrolled a hose and sprayed himself down, yelping and dancing around in the cold water.
I wanted to laugh because he looked like such an idiot, but the thought of it made my insides hurt. When he turned the hose on me, the burning in my lungs wasn’t my biggest problem.
“Hey!” The water ran red, sickening me. After my “shower,” Jag traced his finger along my hairline.
“Not my hair,” I said dryly.
He chuckled in his soft, sexy way. “Of course it’s ruined, but it’s this gash that concerns me.”
“You don’t look so great yourself.” A long cut ran behind his left ear.
He nodded toward the back door. “You up for some rule-breaking?”
“Always,” I said. “I’ll get food and first aid. You get clothes, okay?”
Jag moved up the stairs and paused next to the door, peeking inside to assess the situation. He reminded me so much of Zenn, the way he took the lead, the way he seemed to have a plan for everything.
“All clear. I think this guy must already be working in the fields.” Jag cracked the door and slipped into the house. Unlike Zenn, he didn’t wait for me to follow, and I entered the kitchen to find it empty. I couldn’t even hear Jag’s footsteps—the guy had broken into houses before.
I collected the first aid kit from its regulated place under the kitchen sink. After checking it to make sure it was fully stocked, I grabbed two handfuls of protein packets and shoved them in the foil bag with the medical supplies.
The farmer didn’t have any dehydrated food, so I took two bottles of water and retreated to the back porch to wait for Jag. He emerged seconds later with a backpack, and I loaded my stolen goods into it.
My head ached, and I had to wipe a trickle of blood away every so often. I leaned on Jag more than I wanted to, but he seemed to be relying on me just as much.
I thought about the night Zenn and I spent in the Abandoned Area last summer, and the way we kept each other awake by making up stories about what life would be like if we were in charge. How I missed him, but at least thinking of him helped me to keep going.
Finally I stood on the edge of a wheat field. If I took a single step, I’d be on cement. In front of us, small huts dotted the landscape, made completely of stone. No grass, no vegetation. Besides the blazing heat needed to manufacture tech, the Fire Region consisted only of concrete and technology. A buzz started behind my eyes, pulsing along the cut in painful zings. Waves of heat shimmered in the air.
Jag scouted ahead and found a small shelter next to an inactive Burning Element. We scooted inside just as the street swarmed with fire workers wearing shiny, yellow jumpsuits.
Littered with broken equipment and garbage, the shack didn’t have much room for anything else. Jag kicked debris around, clearing a small space in the middle.
He knelt down and opened the backpack. Then he let out a soft moan of satisfaction. “I’m changing right now.” He pulled out an off-white shirt with long sleeves. Then he pulled out a pair of dark jeans and smiled his Jag-winner. “Be right back.” He left, and I wondered where he would change.
I rummaged to the bottom of the bag, and pulled out another shirt. I cast a quick glance at the door, then pulled off the prison top and slipped into the much thicker shirt that covered my arms down to my wrists. Even with the sweltering heat, it felt like freedom. I threw my bloodstained prison pants in the corner with a pile of garbage. The shirt was cleaner, thanks to Jag’s hose-down, and I tucked it back in the pack. After pulling on the slightly too-big jeans, I felt like a normal good girl. Except I was bad now. But whatever.
Jag came through the doorway and he looked fine. Really, really fine. His jeans looked like they’d been made especially for him and settled down around his hips. His shirt was untucked, making his waist seem much lower than it really was. His arms were bronze and muscled—and bare, because he’d pushed the sleeves up above his elbows. His skin looked warm and smooth.
He wore a necklace. Jewelry is against the rules in the Goodgrounds. Yeah, I broke that rule too, after Zenn gave me a watch for my birthday. I wished I would’ve worn it the day I went to see him. It would’ve shown him that I loved him.
But I’d never seen a boy wearing jewelry. The necklace didn’t hang down onto Jag’s chest, but barely encircled his throat. It looked like it choked him—almost. The white rocks were shaped like cylinders with different colored jewels alternating between them. Red, blue, purple, and orange. The gems sparkled even without a light source. Almost like an internal glow radiated from within.
He caught me gaping at the necklace. “You like?”
“It’s nice, I guess,” I said, struggling to remain nonchalant. “Where’d you get it?”
He laughed, the sound truly happy. “I have secret hiding places.”
The heat rose to my face. I wished it wouldn’t, and I covered my embarrassment with a fake coughing fit. No one should be allowed to look that hot.
A wave of guilt engulfed me. I’d been matched with Zenn. I shouldn’t be looking at another guy like that. Especially not a bad one.
But my future with Zenn was as good as over. I couldn’t enter the Goodgrounds again. And I doubted Zenn would leave his position of authority in the Forces and follow me to Seaside, even if I could send him an e-comm to let him know that’s where I was headed.
That hurt. A lot.
Jag scanned me from head to toe. “Nice.”
“What does that mean anyway?” I asked, annoyed at my stupid racing heart and how I couldn’t tear my eyes off him.
He shrugged.
Damn him. Damn him to hell. I turned away and pulled out the first aid kit. I spread some cream over my cut, feeling the cooling powers of excellent meds. Wordlessly, I offered the tube to Jag and zipped the backpack closed. Lying down, I used it for a pillow and thought about how screwed up my life had become.
A lost future with Zenn.
A possibility of finding my dad in the Badlands.
And the excitement of a different future. With Jag.
Someone grips my shoulders. “Don’t let them control you, son. You have no duty to them.”
I blink, and the brown-haired man in front of me is whisked away by three men wearing black suits.
Someone else touches my arm. “Let’s go, Jag.”
I follow my oldest brother. “Blaze! What happened back there? Wait!”
But he’s so much taller than me and can move faster. It’s not fair, I think, sprinting to catch him before he rounds the corner.
I skid to a stop next to Blaze. He puts his arm around me, and I know something is very wrong. “Run home, Jag,” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth.
Another man approaches. He has pale, pale skin. Like the men who just killed my father.
“Blaze, you must come with me.” The man has no hair. His voice doesn’t sound menacing, but filled with urgency.
I grip Blaze’s hand. “No,” I whisper. What if he dies too?
“Jag, go tell Pace,” Blaze says. He takes a step forward, trying to shake my hand out of his.
Fear and panic combine with the hurt inside. “No!” I shout. “You can’t leave!”
He turns and crouches in front of me. His eyes are glazed over. He sighs and draws me into a hug. “I must. You’ll be okay. Just tell anyone who bothers you to go to hell. You’ll be fine.”
“Blaze,” the bald man says again. “Please, you must hurry.”
Blaze wipes my tears. Smiles. “Tell Pace good-bye. I’m sure I’ll see you both soon enough.”
“When?” My voice sounds so high. So childish. My chin quivers. Tears leak out of my eyes.
“Soon.”
I watch him walk away with the Goodie. And something breaks apart inside. Something that can never be put back together.
* * *
I rolled over, gasping, feeling the pieces of Jag’s shattered life as if I still lingered in his nightmare. His arm jerked and he muttered something. Something that sounded very much like, “Blaze, don’t.”
I sat up, drawing my knees to my chest. My hands trembled as I laid my head in them. How did I get inside Jag’s head?
My stomach clenched. My head throbbed. I stumbled to the door and leaned against it.
I hated having people inside my mind, and that’s when I was awake and could control what they heard and saw.
What I’d done (unwillingly, but still) was so much worse.
Jag could never know.
I took a deep breath, shaking as it shuddered through my chest. I held it for a moment, before letting it out slowly and turning back toward him.
An unmarked book, bound in plain brown leather, lay on his chest. Only Jag could find time to read while on the run. I wondered how long he’d stayed up—and how he’d managed to find a book out here. I picked it up and started reading where he’d marked his place.
Technology isn’t that hard to invent. All it takes is a little imagination and a lot of money. True, money can be a problem, but not in the Goodgrounds. They want the tech, and they’ll pay for it.
Badlanders can invent tech too, and they should try. Maybe then the good and the bad can be reunited.
Reunited? Had the Baddies and the Goodies lived together before? Why were we separated now? Who did it? I closed the book and found the author’s picture on the back cover. If his name hadn’t been printed under the photo, I never would have known it was him. A strangled cry escaped my mouth and I dropped the book on Jag’s chest. He jumped and grabbed my arm, his fingers closing over the tag.
I jerked away from him, covering my wrist where he’d gripped it. The ache in my arm matched the one in my heart. “Where’d you get that?”
He glanced around wildly for a second before realizing where he was. He looked a little guilty as he picked up the book. “I saw it poking out from under that farmer’s bed.” He studied my face. “Why?”
The answer wouldn’t form. I sat all the way up, trying to get more oxygen. The shelter had grown stiflingly hot. The walls crowded in around me, the air choked on the way down.
“Vi?” he asked, sitting up and cupping my chin in his hands. “What’s wrong?” He used the soothing voice, the one that made my eyes heavy and the truth float to my lips.
“That’s my dad,” I said, finally getting the words out.
He examined the picture. “Lyle Schoenfeld.” He looked up. “What’s the problem?”
I shook my head, the mass in my throat choking me. I held the tears back as long as I could. But there were just too many, pushing, fighting their way out. I turned away from Jag before closing my eyes and letting them fall.
Jag had told me a bit about his family and life in the Badlands. He answered every question I asked and some I didn’t.
I, on the other hand, had flat out refused to reveal anything about my missing father, my dead sister, or my cruel mother. And now I’d fallen apart over a book. Just great.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Jag grasped my shoulders and twisted me back around. I slumped into his chest, sobbing. He held me, just like Zenn used to when the world stopped spinning and I needed someone to tell me that life would go on.