Darkness Follows Page 13

  I lay tensely awake, listening to the occasional auto passing down below. It sounded like traffic anywhere. Yet we were in the Central States. Can-Amer, I corrected myself. All I cared about was getting what we’d come for and then getting the hell out of this place.

  “Amity?” whispered Collie, and I started. I’d thought he was asleep.

  “What?” I murmured back.

  He hesitated. “Nothing.”

  I raised up on one elbow and studied him in the faint light from the partially-open curtains. I stroked his arm. “What’s wrong?”

  He gave a short laugh. “What isn’t wrong, being back here?” He rubbed his forehead. “Look…I love you, okay? No matter what. Do you believe me?”

  “Of course I do,” I said in bewilderment. “I love you, too. Collie, what…”

  The sheets rustled as he rolled onto his side, facing me. He took my hand and played with my fingers. “I just…I wanted to tell you…”

  He faltered and fell silent. I heard a milk truck pass down below, bottles clinking. It faded. “Tell me what?” I said.

  “Nothing,” he repeated finally.

  I gripped his fingers. “No, it’s not nothing. Collie, tell me.”

  In a low voice, he said, “You know…I think about my father sometimes.”

  At first I thought I hadn’t heard him right. Collie’s father was a fast-talking man who smiled too much and had hard, calculating eyes. The few times I’d met him, back when Collie and I were both children, I’d wanted to stay far away.

  “Is he here?” I asked uneasily. Collie had told me once that his parents were still in the Central States – that he didn’t know what had happened to them.

  He rolled onto his back again. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding tired. “I don’t want to know. Amity, the thing is…he loved Goldie.”

  At the mention of Collie’s mother, I went still, remembering the pretty, drunken woman who’d danced in their shabby parlour while her young son lay feverish in the next room.

  “You probably don’t believe that,” Collie said into the darkness. “But he did. And he made her unhappy anyway. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t good enough for her. Eventually he dragged her down to his level and—”

  I moved quickly, straddling him. Collie gave an oof of surprise.

  “Stop it,” I snapped.

  “Stop what?”

  “You’re making some kind of analogy between you and your father! Well, knock it off. You are not him, Collis Reed.”

  He started to speak; I gently shook his shoulders. “Are you listening? You’re a good person! You make me the opposite of unhappy. Don’t you know that, you big jerk?”

  I’d wanted to make him laugh. I heard him swallow. He took my wrists. “There’s…a lot you don’t know, Amity.”

  My skin chilled. “Like what?”

  When he didn’t answer, I slid off him and pressed close against his side. I touched his cheek. My heart hurt with all I wanted to say. “Collie, please,” I whispered. “Isn’t it time for me to know exactly what happened to you here?”

  He gave a sort of choking laugh and wiped his eyes. “Yeah, probably. But not while we’re still in this place. I just can’t. Once we’re safely away, I’ll tell you everything.”

  I squeezed his hand hard. “Promise?”

  He nodded. His fingers felt strong against mine. Yet when he spoke, I could hardly hear him: “Yes. I promise.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  December, 1941

  When the morning sirens went OFF I’d been awake for hours, thinking about what was going to happen that night. I rose with the others and went through my usual routine, trying to act like nothing was different.

  “Well, that’s a good question, Tom,” boomed Gunnison’s voice. “And you know, I think the best way to answer it is to ask a question myself: have you known the joy of Harmony in your life?”

  “I hope so, Mr President.”

  “Of course you have! You’re a Libra, aren’t you?” A chuckle. “Oh, yes, I checked. So you see, for you, Harmony is going to be all about balance. The power of astrology can—”

  The volume dropped to an intimate whisper. As I retied my boots I froze and looked up: outside, the band had started playing “Happy Birthday”.

  We glanced at each other. Anything different here was to be feared.

  “Happy birthday to who?” muttered Claudia, her eyes wide.

  I let someone else volunteer the information. “Gunnison, I think,” Natalie said in a small voice. “December 8th…” She trailed off.

  We all jumped – someone was outside our hut banging on a garbage can lid. “Get out here, Discordant scum! Sing!”

  It was five minutes before the counting. We scrambled for the door. Some of the women hadn’t finished dressing yet and stumbled to yank on shoes and coats. Trepidation filled me. Ingo and I had assumed that this would be the perfect day to escape. Instead it suddenly felt like a wild card.

  We gathered in rows, like for the counting. The Guns hooted. “No, no! We need a choir! Who can sing?” Randomly, they started pulling people from the ranks. My heart pounded. Was it better to volunteer or not?

  Before I could decide a Gun grabbed me. The pretty blonde one. Laughing, she shoved me in place with the others. She stood in front of us and pretended to conduct, waving a stick in the air. “All right, all together now…sing!”

  “Happy birthday to you,

  Happy birthday to you,

  Happy birthday, dear…”

  Our voices sounded ragged in the cold air. The Gun stopped us with a slice of her stick. “No, louder!” she cried. “Is that the best you can do?” She took out her pistol and pointed it at us. “Show me how much you love President Gunnison! Now SING!”

  We started again. I sang with all my might, belting out the words. I’ve never been able to sing; it didn’t matter. The Gun levelled her pistol and flicked off the safety. I flinched, but kept looking straight ahead, kept singing even as she fired.

  The shot thundered in my ears. The Guns were all laughing, singing along.

  Finally the song ended. I stood motionless with the others, trembling, staring blindly at Gunnison’s murmuring screen image as he sat relaxed in an armchair. But from the corner of my eye, I saw a huddled shape on the ground and recognized Natalie’s hair. Red stained the snow and the hair. The hunched figure didn’t move.

  The Gun grinned and put her pistol away. “One less to count. Get in line!”

  We did.

  At the mine it was the same. I was put onto the crusher – much too near the Guns, who stood around their flaming oil drum all day, warming their hands. Today they were also passing around a brown bottle. Their cheeks were ruddy, their eyes too bright. I kept my head down and prayed none of them would notice me.

  They noticed others. That day I heard more infractions, made-up or real, than I’d ever imagined. Hardly a half hour went by without one of the Guns pouncing on someone. “You there! Stand straight! I’ll teach you to be proud to work for President Gunnison!”

  Tonight, I thought fervently. No matter what, Ingo and I would try to get out of this place.

  Then unease stirred. I dared a glance towards the tunnels. Where was Ingo? I’d been here for hours and hadn’t seen him. I squelched the thought and redoubled my efforts, stooping to grasp rocks and then shove them onto the conveyor belt.

  Finally Ingo appeared. I was so intent on avoiding attention that I didn’t see him until he had almost reached me. Then I gasped out loud.

  He was hunched over. A purpling bruise spread across his ribs, with an ugly, dusty wound at its centre. The wheelbarrow wobbled in his grip as he struggled to keep it steady, his jaw rigid. I froze; my gaze flew to his in horrified dismay.

  What had happened? But it hardly mattered – I could guess. I turned back to the crusher. My skin felt too tight for my body. Our plan tonight. How could Ingo escape like this?

  He couldn’t.

  With a dull scrapi
ng sound, Ingo upended his load of rocks next to the crusher. As he crouched to help me, he touched my wrist fleetingly, asking me to look at him.

  Imperceptibly, he nodded: I will still be there tonight.

  A Gun strode over in his long wool coat, carrying a switch. Ingo looked away again; I did too. Not fast enough.

  “Stop dawdling!” barked the Gun. He raised the switch and fire licked across my back. I cried out and stumbled, falling against the mound of rocks. The switch whistled again as he brought it down hard across Ingo’s shoulders.

  The Gun laughed and tucked the switch away. He kicked at Ingo’s bruised ribs and Ingo sucked in a hissing breath, abruptly paling.

  “Ha! That’ll teach you to work harder.” The Gun strolled back to the others.

  A tide roared in my ears. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I kept grasping rocks, kept pushing them onto the endless, eager tongue of the crusher.

  Ingo got to his feet. His movements were tight, steely. He gripped the wheelbarrow’s handles and headed back into the mine, slower and more hunched-over than before. A trickle of blood coursed down his thin back.

  He didn’t appear again.

  That night there was a party for the Guns at the camp director’s house. Those who had been left to guard us were thin on the ground but making their presence known.

  “Ready, steady, go!” I heard one yell distantly, somewhere outside our hut. Cheers rang out. I cringed as I realized: they were forcing prisoners to run races, and betting on who would win.

  The camp felt abandoned. Everyone who’d so far escaped the Guns’ notice was hiding inside their hut. It was where I wanted to stay too. Instead, once the food truck had been gone for two repetitions of the films, I braced myself and stepped outside.

  Bedraggled-looking red bunting framed the moving-picture screen. Gunnison’s solid, suit-clad image shouted faintly to a cheering crowd: “…I’ll stop at nothing! I WILL rid the Discordant elements from our Harmonic society!”

  “Where are you going?” Claudia’s thin face seemed to swim at me from nowhere. A searchlight swept by, flashing briefly across us.

  I tensed. I’d thought she was in bed. “I’ve got something to trade.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. Tonight.”

  Her gaze flicked to my boots. Everyone knew how much I’d needed them – and now I had them. Her unspoken words seemed to hang between us: what do you need so badly that it can’t wait?

  “I’ve got rags,” she said, as though fishing for the answer.

  “Thanks, but no.” My mind ticked desperately. Claudia was an informer. Tonight of all nights the Guns would love to be informed of something. She’d be more eager to sell me out if she suspected where I was really going.

  On impulse, I clutched her arm. “Would you come too?” I whispered. “Please! Two of us would be less likely to attract attention.”

  She recoiled. “No! Go on your own, if you’re that stupid.”

  After a show of hesitation, I set off towards the marketplace. From the direction of the races I could hear the Guns laughing. I slunk through the shadows, avoiding the searchlight.

  When I glanced back, Claudia still stood in front of our hut, watching. Then to my relief she went inside.

  I veered off between two huts, leaving the marketplace behind. Finally I reached where I was going. I pressed into the shadows and stared out at a large, square building that stood on its own at a crossroads, its windows dark.

  Claudia’s domain: the laundry.

  I licked my lips, taking in how exposed it was. I hadn’t seen a Gun in a while, but those still around were swarming in packs tonight, bored and resentful at being kept from the party.

  “Lady Harmony has spoken!” cried Gunnison’s fervent whisper.

  I grabbed my courage with both hands and darted for the laundry, veering for its rear door. It was shadowy back here, with a gate across the nearby road – a dead end if I was caught.

  As I pressed against the dark doorway, the cut on my back throbbed. This was insane. Ingo wasn’t going to come; he couldn’t.

  Yet even as I thought it, I heard footsteps.

  When Ingo’s lean form appeared I let out a shaky breath. In the dim light I could see him moving more stiffly than before, hunched over and clutching at his side.

  Our eyes met. His were ablaze, as if hanging on by sheer force of will. He seemed to be daring me to protest.

  “I was afraid you might not make it,” I whispered. “Are you all right?”

  “I said I’d be here, so I’m here.” Ingo pressed a piece of thick wire into my hand and glanced over his shoulder. “Do it,” he hissed. “Hurry.”

  As Gunnison whispered on, I took the wire apprehensively and crouched down. I hadn’t picked a lock since that time in the World for Peace building. This one was more basic, even with my hands half-numb from cold. With a few well-placed prods, I felt the tumblers click into place. The door opened and I drooped in relief.

  Ingo exhaled, and I realized he’d been scared that I might fail too. We hurried inside and shut the door behind us. Gunnison’s voice faded.

  We were in a back room full of sinks and boxes. A delicious warmth embraced us. A furnace sat in the corner with embers still glowing through its door.

  “In here.” Ingo motioned to the main room.

  Its only windows were small, high up. Ambient light from the camp slanted in. Industrial-sized washers lined one wall.

  Ingo went quickly to a rack of clothes and started scraping through them. “These are the women’s, I think. What size are you?”

  I told him, then stopped short. “No – better make it a few sizes smaller.”

  Ingo’s laugh held no humour. “The Harmony diet. It works wonders.”

  He thrust a Gun’s uniform at me. We found one for him as well, and clean underclothes for us both. There were even gloves; fur-lined hats; long woollen coats, with thick fleece linings. We’d broken into a treasure trove. I felt light-headed as I pulled a coat off the rack and handed another to Ingo.

  “What do we do with our old things?” I said. “Burn them?”

  “Perfect.”

  We rushed back into the small utility room. Ingo started stripping off with no hesitation – I did the same. For a second it was like being a Peacefighter back in the mixed-sex locker room, except that no Peacefighters had ever looked as scrawny as the pair of us.

  Ingo winced as he shrugged out of his tattered shirt. I winced too, to see the extent of the wound that gashed across his ribs. It was gaping, grimy with dust. The bruise looked worse now, a mottled stain on his skin.

  I glanced around and found a rag – grimly reflected that this was where Claudia must steal them from. I turned on a tap in one of the sinks. “We’ve got to clean it, or it might get infected.”

  Ingo looked at himself and then me, more carefully. “We’ve both got to get cleaned up, in case we’re challenged.”

  The possibility filled me with dread, but he was right. I wet the cloth and found some soap; I hastily cleaned Ingo’s wound for him. Grime ran in rivulets down his skin. He stood motionless, gritting his teeth.

  “It needs stitches,” I said as I wrung the rag out in the sink.

  “I know. Forget it.”

  “Do you really think you can make it, even if we escape? Ingo, you can hardly walk! I think you’ve probably broken a rib.”

  “I’ll make it.” His tone was low, deadly. He grabbed the rag from me and finished mopping himself off, swiping it over his face and arms.

  “What happened, anyway?” I asked.

  Ingo shook his head shortly. “One of the Guns in the mine today. A stupid contest, ho ho, how amusing… another miner swung badly and got me with his pick. I wish he’d gotten the Gun in his head.” He thrust the rag at me.

  I got myself cleaned off. We helped each other with the shallow cuts on our backs, then quickly fashioned a bandage for Ingo’s wound from a torn-up shirt.

  We got dressed in
the glow from the furnace. Our stolen uniforms were too big, but with belts they weren’t bad. I still had my leather jacket. I put it on over my uniform for extra padding with the long coat over it.

  We shoved our old clothes – twin piles of filthy rags – into the furnace.

  “Good riddance,” murmured Ingo, his jaw tight as we watched them burn. I knew just how he felt.

  We searched the room hastily, grabbing anything that might be of use: a ball of twine, some rags. There wasn’t much; the cabinets were all locked. As an afterthought, I swiped my hand across a high shelf and my fingers closed on a prize.

  “Look,” I said with a small smile, holding up a half-full pack of matches.

  Ingo nodded. “Good. Keep them dry.”

  The coats came with scarves tucked under their lapels. We wound them around our necks and mouths the way the Guns did.

  “All right, listen,” said Ingo, his voice slightly muffled. “Remember, the Resistance leader’s name is Vince Griffin. We ask for him in a Calgary bar called the Mayflower. The message is this: The caterers can smuggle in what you need. There are three names.” He gave them.

  I stared at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because if one of us falls, the other keeps going. No heroics. Agreed?”

  He meant him. He was afraid he wouldn’t make it.

  Once I would have protested. Now I thought of getting to Madeline and nodded. “Don’t worry, I’m not heroic. And the same goes for you.” I adjusted his scarf a little, covering more of his scar.

  “Do we pass muster?” Ingo asked tautly.

  “You do, I think.” I pulled on a hat and bundled my filthy hair up into it, tense with fear. “What about me?”

  “Yes, I think you’ll do…” Ingo broke off. His dark eyes flew to mine as we both heard it.

  Footsteps, approaching down the path.

  My pulse spiked. Ingo grabbed me; we flattened ourselves against the wall in the shadows. My eyes stayed riveted on the door. I’d locked it after us, hadn’t I?