Resistant: A World Divided, page 7
Abel doesn’t answer. He lowers his head, his deep brown eyes shrouded in anguish. “I want you to choose us, Cat,” and his voice is barely a whisper. “I want—no I need—to do something other than hide behind a lab coat and microscopes and results that just aren’t coming. I just can’t keep ignoring the simple fact that our friends and families are dying.”
Forge ahead.
I roll my eyes. “I am NOT ignoring that fact, Abel!”
Abel’s broad chest expands slowly. “No, I guess you’re not. But I have been. Until now. I refuse to ignore it any longer. There are people here in this community—your father—who are keeping things from us. And I won’t stand for it. Not when so many of us are dying. Cat, I want to know the truth beyond the walls of The Community. Don’t you?”
“The truth is my mother’s at home dying, Abel. The truth is I work too damn hard in clinical for you to tell me it’s all just a waste of my time. You want to know what I think is a real waste of time? This conversation,” I spit these words back at my friend who’s never done anything to hurt me until now. My insides are churning with rage. “I’ve already spent far too much time and energy away from my mother today. I need to go.”
I abruptly leave Abel standing alone by the hospital, his mouth agape. I haven’t said it, but I don’t have to. He knows. He asked me to choose, but there was never a choice to begin with. My mother needs me, and to hell if I’m not going to do everything in my power to save her.
I round the corner of the hospital and head toward the nearest and always largely stocked Off-Load rental building. It’s a modest-sized kiosk manned tonight by The Community’s head security guard and my parent’s childhood friend, Don.
“Good evening, Cat,” Don greets me gravely, and I am immediately taken aback. While it’s true that Don is known around The Community as Dr. Grayson’s right-hand man and thus can seem somewhat standoffish, he’s always been kind to me. And especially kind to my mother. I know her current condition pains him, but when he visits—which isn’t too often anymore—he always tries to make her smile. Now, however, beneath the eerie glow of the kiosk lights, he looks unsettled, a bruise, deep purple, surrounds his left eye.
For a second, I want to ask him if he’s alright, if there’s anything I can do for him, but the direness of my situation propels me in another direction. “I need wheels, Don,” I say simply, and when it seems like he’s planning to speak again, I add, “I’m in a hurry.” Don closes his mouth abruptly and nods toward a small screen attached to the side of the kiosk, and I scan my bracelet, feeling little guilt at my curt responses.
“You can take one of the new ones, Cat. Number 107. It’s fully charged.”
I purse my lips and say a quiet, “Thank you,” before heading to the rear of the small building.
“Oh, and, Cat?” I pause but don’t turn around, my frustration rapidly mounting, which isn’t exactly fair to Don. “This new edition, it’s fast,” he tells me. “And with your sling, you might find it harder to balance. So be careful.” He seems to want to say something else (maybe ask about my mother) but stops, so I continue walking, grab the helmet with my good hand, scan my bracelet to unlock the small robotic disk, unfold the two footrests with a click of the remote, and take off toward home with one hand awkwardly controlling the handlebars.
I reach our row house in less than fifteen minutes, covering the uphill five miles more quickly than expected. Don wasn’t kidding; the new and clearly improved Off-Load is lightning fast, and the sling, while difficult to get used to at first, did little to hinder my speed. It’s amazing, the power of adrenaline. I tear up the front porch steps so quickly I don’t even notice that it seems like every light in the house is on. Nor do I see the large white van parked just to the right of the house. Maybe if I had, I would have been more prepared for the horror awaiting me through the front door.
There’s the soft click of the lock as I scan my bracelet, and then I open the door and charge into the foyer.
The first thing I do notice is the chill to the house. It reminds me of winter, a time when air temperature wasn’t yet regulated. Instinctively, I hug my good arm around myself for warmth. My eyes dart to the living room to the right of the stairs where a lone figure sits slouched on the tattered couch. Rhema looks up slowly. She’s surrounded by a mountain of tissues, and I don’t have to look hard to see the pain in her swollen eyes. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. I turn away from Rhema, and let my gaze travel down the narrow hallway, past the dining room table, past the tiny kitchen. That’s when I see them.
Men in white suits. Putting a lifeless figure onto a gurney.
“Mom,” I moan and head unsteadily to the rear of the house.
“Cat, don’t,” Rhema pleads, but I ignore her. I will myself forward, each step becoming more difficult, when a hand from seemingly out of nowhere grabs my elbow.
“Miss,” and the voice is firm but kind. “There’s nothing you can do for her.”
For her.
“But she’s my mother. Please,” I beg, tears dripping from my chin. “I need to see her.”
The man in white hesitates a few moments more but lets me pass, and for the moment I am grateful. Until I see my mother’s face. Her dark hair is matted with blood, and the veins in her face are a ghastly purple, a sharp contrast against her ashen skin. I scan the gurney. There’s blood everywhere. On her gown, on the linens, on the floor. As though it has seeped from every pore on her ravaged body.
I turn quickly toward the trash bin and am violently ill, my body racked with sobs between retching over and over and over again.
The pain of loss is unbearable. The feeling of guilt even worse.
“What have I done?” I repeatedly moan.
“Dear, Catherine,” a voice comes quietly from the back door of the small room. I don’t look up but instead hang uselessly over the trash bin, placing my head on my forearm, too weak to do anything more. Dr. Grayson cooly continues. “You were too late. You couldn’t save her.” There’s a threatening tone to his voice that makes my body retch again. “Perhaps you’ll put more effort into your classes now. Tsk, tsk.” He moves past me, past the lifeless form of my mother, his wife, and into the kitchen where he grabs a handful of nuts from the bowl on the island. From my place on the floor, I watch how he chews them deliberately, one by one, savoring each as though they represent a tiny, separate victory.
He did this, I think. He killed her. And my mother’s warning from yesterday comes back with a sudden realization that leaves my eyes wide and my body retching once more.
“You can’t keep him out, Cat. No matter what. He’ll come for us all. One day.”
4: Wren
The hours following my mother’s kidnapping are a blur of packing, panicking, more frantic packing, and even more panicking.
So many questions race through my head, tumbling into one another, causing a nightmarish migraine. Where had they taken her? What were they planning to do with her? Who were they?
And Ryder? He hasn’t left my side. He acts like a puppy fearful of abandonment, following me around whimpering nonsense about me not having to go, the trip is too dangerous, I’ll get myself killed. All I hear is blah, blah, blah.
Bill, on the other hand, is as helpful as he can be. You know, between moments of intense grief and guilt. He blames himself. I blame myself, too. I had sensed in my mother a sort of quiet resignation the night before. My mother, normally steady and resolute, had seemed off. And I hadn’t questioned it then, and now it is too late. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I should have stayed by her side. Questioned her more about what was left unspoken. If I had, maybe the outcome would be different.
I head to the storage garage to finish loading my bags. Ryder, no surprise, is fast on my heels.
“Wren, you know you don’t have to do this,” he says for the umpteenth time. Blah, blah, blah. “You know how strong your mother is. She’ll know what to do. She’ll come back to us. You’ll see.” Blah, blah, blah. “I don’t think she’d want you to follow her. It’s too dangerous.”
I continue the back-and-forth trips to the garage, saying nothing.
“At least let me come with you. Wren,” and with this last attempt to speak to me, he places a strong hand on my shoulder. “Please.”
I sigh, but continue my way over to the shelves at the rear of the garage to add some final necessary survival supplies to my pack. “You know as well as I do that you’re needed here, Ryder. Bill needs you. Our family needs you.” I pick up a compass, check to make sure it works, and throw it into the zipper pouch at my waist.
“Bill can take care of the camp,” Ryder replies, and I can’t help but laugh in response.
“Bill’s a mess, if you haven’t noticed.” I rummage through a drawer for a bit until I come across an old, rusting Swiss army knife. I open the blade, hold it to my index finger until a minuscule drop of blood appears. Good enough, I think, and after folding the blade, go to drop it into my pack before reconsidering. Swallowing the dread that I might actually have to use this knife as a weapon, I unzip my boots and tuck it to the side of my ankle instead. I gently shove past Ryder to weave my way through the cramped space to the one cabinet I had deliberately chosen for last.
Ryder lets me pass but continues to follow me. I find myself starting to get annoyed, but then I remind myself that it’s because he cares about me that he’s begging me to stay. I reach for the cool metal handle of the cabinet, lift it, and twist. Nothing. I try again. It still won’t open.
Frustrated, I turn to face Ryder who is so close to me that our faces almost touch, and I shock myself by wondering what it would be like to kiss his mouth, just inches from my own. I shake away the thought.
“Can you help me?” I ask Ryder, turning my face any direction but his and placing my hands on my hips in hopes of displaying my annoyance. I refuse to leave Ryder with any reason to hang onto me. Onto the chance of us.
He sighs but does as I ask, digging out a ring of keys from his pocket and reaching around my waist to make contact with the lock. Once again, I find myself sharing very intimate space with Ryder, and my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. I wait impatiently as he messes with the lock and wonder if his struggle with the key is intentional, if he’s simply attempting to delay the inevitable. Holding onto me until he can no longer.
This little game goes on for a few more drawn-out, uncomfortable seconds until my frustration threatens to ooze from my pores. “Oh, for crying out loud, Ryder, let me try it!” I grab for the keys, but the cabinet opens finally, and Ryder backs away.
At first, I am shocked into silence, staring at the abundance of weaponry beyond the cabinet door. I knew the guns existed, I’ve had some up-close-and-personal interaction with them recently, in fact; however, before this moment, I never needed a reason to see the entire arsenal. Our existence in the camp, up until this moment, has been relatively quiet. Calm. Almost peaceful. As though the relationship between the people beyond the wall and our camp was mutualistic.
Not anymore.
The reality of the current situation is that the people on the other side of that wall have kidnapped my mother, my world. And I will need to cross into some seriously sketchy and dangerous parts of our world to get to her. The weapons are nonnegotiable.
My hands tremble as I reach in to take the least intimidating gun from a shelf littered with a half dozen look-alikes. “You’ll need to load it for me,” I tell Ryder, handing him the gun.
Ryder rolls his eyes, grabbing a box from a lower shelf. “I can’t believe I’m allowing you to do this,” he mumbles as he carefully loads the bullets and sets the safety.
“It’s not up to you to let me go anywhere. This isn’t your decision; it’s mine.”
Ryder rolls his eyes again but then nods as though making a decision about something important. Still, he hesitates before offering me the gun, and I immediately motion for him to lay it on the table, cursing myself that Ryder might see this as a moment of weakness on my part.
This is it, I think. I’m really doing this.
“Do you remember our first ride together?” Ryder asks, interrupting my thoughts and taking a seat on top of the motorbike that less than forty-eight hours ago had taken us for supplies. How quickly things can change. Yesterday we rode for clean water and gas; today I ride to save my mother.
“Of course I do,” I say, and because I know that he’s not going to let me leave without a proper goodbye, I take a seat opposite him on a pile of supply boxes.
Alone in the quiet, cramped space of the garage, I begin to fidget.
After a few awkward, drawn-out minutes, Ryder says, “You were so fiery. So full of life, riding with one arm out, challenging the wind.” I smile because I can still remember how this felt, to be truly free of worries. It felt like happiness. Before Ryder showed up in camp, I was a mopey, brooding child. But after? He changed me. “You’re still just as reckless,” he finishes. My smile fades.
“Reckless?” I almost shout. “Reckless?” I jump down from the boxes, knocking the top one loudly to the floor, supplies spilling. “You’re unbelievable! Reckless. Do you want to know what I think is reckless? Not doing a damn thing to save my mother. She’s the one person who can keep us grounded, who keeps us safe. And every minute I spend saying goodbye to you is one less “reckless” minute I don’t spend looking for her.”
I make the move to leave. My own bike is fueled and waiting for me by the road. But Ryder isn’t done with me yet.
“Wren, please don’t go.” He grabs my elbow, but I yank it free. “I’m not sure you realize how dangerous this little adventure of yours will be.” There’s a foreign but blatant disapproval and cruelty to Ryder’s voice, and that’s the final straw.
“My little adventure?” I explode. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Exploring the world? Traveling the unknown? A leisurely vacay? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I forcibly grab the gun that only a moment ago I was afraid to touch. I’m trying to prove a point even I don’t believe in. Because I know what he’s doing. His tactic is deliberate. But in trying to save me, he’s pushing me farther out the door. This was never about him and me.
The moment of silence between us is deafening, and as the last of my supplies are thrown haphazardly into my army-style backpack, I push my anger aside. “I don’t have a choice, Ry,” I say, resisting the urge to turn and take his hand. My back is facing him, but I don’t need to see his eyes to know what he’s feeling.
“There is always a choice,” he spats matter-of-factly.
“Ryder!” I plead, turning to face him. My tone is incredulous, anger threatening again like hot bile in my throat. “They took my mother.”
He nods, pursing his lips, starts to say something else but stops.
“What?” I ask. “Do you know something I don’t?” The look in his eyes tells me he does. After all, he was present on the bridge yesterday. He heard every word that the strange men had said. But if he knows more than I do, he doesn’t admit it now.
There is one final pause between us. An ever-so-brief and heart-breaking moment of silence before it’s clear he finally registers this is it. It’s done. I am leaving. His shoulders slacken, a signal that he’s finally given up the fight. There’s nothing more for him to say or do.
Yet still, he tries one more approach. It’s Ryder after all. The same Ryder who once saw me fall from my bike but pretended not to notice because he knew my pride was precious. The same Ryder who brought me bandaids and nodded reassuringly as I spun the story that I was chased by a pack of wild dogs but fought them off all by myself. Ryder. My best friend in the whole wide messed-up world.
“Wren.” And the desperation in his voice threatens to break down the walls of my defense. He steps towards me and clutches my face with his strong, calloused hands. His breathing is heavy as he looks at me, his emerald eyes darting back and forth, back and forth, as though he’ll find some part of me, buried deep inside, that still longs to stay. “You can’t leave.” Pause. “I love you, damn it.”
My eyes close. The world around us dissolves, almost comes to a stop it seems, and in my mind, lines begin to blur. Confusion threatens. I knew this was coming. It was inevitable. From the moment we met, I knew. I knew he would fall in love with me. But this world we live in, this disillusioned, corrupt world we call home isn’t a place for his type of love. My heart flutters; I am sure he can feel it beneath his fingers that recklessly caress my face, my jaw, my neck as they desperately try to take in every inch of me to remember once I’m gone.
I take a deep breath and turn my head just as a lone tear escapes and makes its hurried descent down my cheek. My resolve to leave him without a shred of hope crumbles. I simply cannot do that to the one true friend I’ve got. The truth is, I know there’s more than a slight chance I won’t be coming back. Once I’m gone, I might never see Ryder again. And I know what that will do to him.
But I’m already gone. My heart left with my mother when they came and took her.
Ryder’s hands fall heavy as stone to his sides.
“I’ve got to try, Ry,” I whisper, wanting to leave it at that, but Ryder won’t let me.
“I love you,” he says again.
We stand there for what feels like many minutes, time suspended by Ryder’s words, until finally I find enough nerve to get my next few words out. “You know I love you, too.” And then more playfully, “I’ll be back before you can miss me.”
