Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2) Page 11

  But not all the bunker residents are sleeping. Beyond the beds are tables, where teenagers sit, eating, drinking, playing cards. Speaking in hushed tones, so as to not wake those sleeping. A few of them look up to stare, but quickly lose interest, as if they see newcomers pass through the thick, iron door all the time. Are they the children of the older Lifers? Are they runaways, come to join the Lifer cause? And if so, would any of them be used as suicide bombers, like Benson has seen Jarrod use before?

  Benson’s about to ask all of these questions and many more that are already popping up on the tip of his tongue, but Destiny speaks first. “It’s all true,” she says. “All the rumors, all the stories. Refuge does exist. Not up there”—she motions above them, at a high ceiling—“but down here.”

  Benson looks at her blankly. He doesn’t have the slightest clue what she’s talking about.

  “Questions, Benson?” Jarrod says.

  “What is this place?” he asks.

  “Refuge,” Jarrod says, “but the place doesn’t matter. Refuge isn’t a single place. It’s an idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “That there’s a place for everyone, even those who don’t seem to belong anywhere.”

  Isn’t that what Destiny was saying earlier? he thinks. How did she already know about this place? But more importantly, “Who are these people?”

  “You don’t know?” Jarrod says, raising his eyebrows.

  Should he? Benson blinks, watching as a young girl—no more than seven or eight—in a sleeping gown, gets up and walks to a tap to refill a tiny plastic water cup.

  “Destiny?” Jarrod says, his eyebrows raised.

  “Slips,” she says, awe in her voice. “They are all…Slips.”

  Benson’s heart hammers in his chest and he can hear the blood flowing through the veins in his head. The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth and he realizes he’s bitten the tip of his tongue. “No,” he says. “No, they’re not. You’re lying. The both of you. It’s impossible.”

  But his words sound empty and hollow even to his own ears. Destiny doesn’t strike him as a liar, so obviously she believes what she’s saying. So when no one answers his accusations, all he says is, “How?”

  “There is so much to tell you, Benson. There’s a great big world out there, and you’ve been on an island your entire life.”

  Intuitively, Benson knows he’s right. There’s so much more out there, places he’s only read about, from the swampy southeastern coastline where Florida used to be, to the Gulf of Texas, to the California Islands in the West. A great big world.

  A big world that Benson’s hardly even thought about in his seventeen years of life, because it was completely and utterly unreachable.

  And yet, looking out into this huge underground space filled with dozens of…

  …Slips—even thinking the word sends bolts of excitement zinging through his chest—Benson realizes the world has come to him. These kids aren’t from Saint Louis, that much is certain. “You brought them here,” he says.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Jarrod says.

  The little girl, having finished filling her water cup, approaches. Her pink sleeping gown is too big for her, dragging around her feet, which are hidden by its cotton entrails. She has narrow eyes, powdery pale skin and long silky night-black hair. “I know who you are you,” she says to Benson, the slight airiness of awe evident in her voice. “Your face is on the holo-screen all the time.”

  “I’m just a kid,” Benson says.

  She shakes her head stubbornly and crosses her arms across her chest. “No you’re not. You’re the Saint Louis Slip. Everyone says you’re important.”

  Jarrod gives Benson a hard look as if to say See? I told you.

  Benson takes a step forward, then another, close enough that when he crouches he’s able to reach out and pull the little girl’s hand out from where it’s tucked firmly and resolutely under her armpit. He holds it gingerly, like it’s a fragile crystal figurine. “I am skin and bone, just like you,” he says. The girl’s eyes are locked on his, and although it’s slightly unnerving, he knows he won’t look away. “I have blood running through my veins, just like you. And I’m a Slip, just like you. We’ve both survived. We’re the same, as deserving of life as anyone. We’re real. You know that, right?”

  The girl moves her hand up Benson’s arm, past his shoulder and neck, across his jaw, finally resting on his cheek. Her hand is somewhat cold, sending shivers buzzing along his skin. “You are real,” she says.

  Benson smiles. “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll help us, right?”

  “I—I don’t know how,” Benson admits, feeling a powerful and sudden swell of inadequacy. He’s been lucky to have kept himself alive so far. Well, it wasn’t only luck. Luce had as much to do with his survival as he did. How can he possibly do anything to help all these Slips?

  “You’ll do it,” the girl says, retracting her hand. “I know it.”

  Benson’s dumbstruck by her innocent fervor. Then he realizes exactly what’s happening here. He’s being played. Jarrod set this whole thing up. He’s been filling these Slips’ heads with garbage about how Benson can save them all, building him up to the point of barely restrained reverence. And then he brought him down here so he can parade him around to his loyal Slip subjects who will do the very thing he’s been unable to do himself: persuade Benson to be the poster boy for the Lifer cause, validating every single choice he’s made to this point. Yeah, he made it feel like Benson’s decision to come down here, but it was really Jarrod’s all along.

  “Why me?” Benson wonders aloud, the words coming out in a whisper. He stands, trying to focus on the question.

  “What’s that?” Jarrod says.

  But Benson’s mind is already clicking through the facts. Jarrod has dozens of Slips he could use to his advantage, to show the citizens of the RUSA that unauthorized births are not as dangerous as everyone thinks. But he wants Benson Kelly. “My father was the face of the Department of Population Control,” Benson says. Jarrod opens his mouth to say something, but Benson cuts him off. “And yet even he broke the law. You think all those people who desperately want children but can’t get authorization will rebel if they see me surviving and even thriving, despite my illegal birth.”

  Jarrod doesn’t have to nod to confirm the truth of Benson’s words—his eyes tell all—but he does anyway. “We need you,” he says. “They need you.”

  He motions to the Slips, who, having realized something is happening, are yawning and rubbing their eyes, dragging themselves from bed to gather behind the little girl. There are boys and girls, most of them young, but several who look to be in their early teens, although none as old as Benson or Destiny. Hushed murmurs susurrate through the crowd—It’s him! and The Saint Louis Slip! and Benson Kelly!

  Although he feels his face warming under the stares of so many, Benson forces himself to focus on the little girl, to not fall into Jarrod’s trap. “What is your name?” he asks.

  “Mei,” she says.

  “Where are you from, Mei?”

  “Denver,” Mei says.

  Benson’s eyes open so wide they start to burn. Denver is hundreds of miles away, a distance that’s unfathomable for a Slip. He’s been within the same five-mile radius his entire life.

  “How did you get here?” he asks.

  “They led me,” she says, cocking her head to the side like a bird, as if surprised he even had to ask.

  “Who?”

  “Pointers,” Destiny says, answering for her.

  Benson turns and frowns, his eyes darting between Destiny and Jarrod, who’s nodding. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s how I got here,” Destiny says. “Someone gave me clues, a sort of trail. And the trail led here.”

  “We’re all glad you made it,” a voice says from behind.

  They turn as one to find Harrison leaning against the doorframe. Benson knows he’d heard the thick door swish
shut behind them after they entered, which means Harrison must have slipped through just behind them. The same with the first door, at the top of the stairs. Which also means he’s seen—and heard—everything Benson did.

  More murmurs rush through the crowd of gathered Slips. Harrison Kelly is apparently famous here, too.

  “You didn’t receive an invitation for this particular tour,” Jarrod says coolly.

  “Didn’t know I needed one,” Harrison says. “So my brother went through hell and back because he was a ‘dangerous Slip’”—his fingers form sarcastic quotes and hang in the air for a moment—“and meanwhile you had an entire army of Slips beneath your feet.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly characterize them as an army, but yes,” Jarrod says, not denying it.

  “Why haven’t you told anyone?” Harrison says. It’s impossible to miss the accusation in the question.

  “You think that would help?” Jarrod says.

  Benson sways from side to side, suddenly feeling dizzy. He feels as if every single Slip is staring at him, probing his every move, his every expression. He’s dimly aware of the argument that continues around him, but it’s the white eyes of his fellow Slips that capture his attention. The room spinning, he folds down into a crouch once more, his brain trying to process what all of this means for him. Selfish, he thinks spitefully. I’m being selfish. I don’t matter. The bigger question is: What does this mean for the world?

  “If the world knew how many Slips there were,” Harrison says, “they wouldn’t fear them so much. They would realize that there is more than enough food and water to go around. Maybe things would change. Maybe they’d pass new laws and STOP HUNTING MY BROTHER!”

  As his brother flings his last four words at the Lifer leader like rocks, Benson holds his head in his hands. Destiny eases down beside him, and whispers, “You okay?”

  Benson shakes his head. Nothing is okay. The world has flipped upside down in an instant. Did his father know? Did his father realize that Pop Con never had control of the population, that the very name of their department was a lie? Was that part of his father’s legacy? Turning a blind eye to the greatest hoax the world has ever seen?

  All at once, the facts crush together in a blinding hurricane of truth. And he knows.

  He knows.

  His father knew.

  Jarrod snaps something at Harrison, venom in his tone, but Benson is deaf to the words. “What is it?” Destiny says, her eyes as rich and thoughtful as a painting.

  “Pop Con wants the Slips to gather.”

  “No,” Destiny says. “That’s not right. Why would they? We’re out of reach now. We’re safe.” She says the last word—safe—with such intensity and feeling that it almost sounds like a prayer. A mantra. A goal and a dream and a lifeline.

  “Something’s not right,” Benson says, louder, trying to piece the right words together to explain the conclusion he’s come to.

  “What are you talking about, bro?” Harrison says, waving Jarrod, who continues to argue, away. Jarrod, seeming to only just realize that the two Slips are crouched at floor-level, turns his attention to them.

  “It’s a trap,” Benson says. A gasp immediately ripples through the crowd, the kids backing away, as if expecting a net to fall from the ceiling, catching them all.

  “Shh!” Jarrod hisses. “You’re going to cause a pani—”

  “Let him speak,” Harrison interjects, shoving an arm in front of Jarrod when he tries to step forward.

  “Get the hell out of my way, you ignorant fool,” Jarrod growls, trying to push through Harrison’s outstretched arm. Harrison forces him back, but stumbles in the process, tumbling into Destiny’s back, knocking her forward. Benson tries to grab her but he’s not quick enough and she sprawls face first, crying out in pain.

  “Idiot!” Harrison shouts, regaining his feet and glaring at Jarrod.

  “Are you okay?” Benson says, extending a hand to help Destiny up.

  She takes his hand and says, “I think so, but—ow!” A flash of pain contorts her expression. “I think I might’ve ripped a stitch.”

  Harrison leans down to inspect her back. A distinct circle of red seeps through her shirt, darkening and growing. “Dammit,” Harrison mutters, immediately pulling off his own shirt and pressing it against the blood. “Let me put pressure on it and see if we can stop the—”

  Crouching shirtless, Harrison stops suddenly, a frown clouding his face. An expression that means a conclusion has been reached—and not a good one.

  “Harrison, what is it?” Benson says.

  “Oh, crap,” his brother says.

  “It’s nothing,” Jarrod says. “Just a popped stitch. Our doctors can fix it in two minutes.”

  “You fool,” Harrison says. “This isn’t about the stitch. This is about the wound itself. No, not the wound, what came out of the wound.”

  “Shrapnel,” Destiny says.

  “Tell me what happened,” Harrison instructs.

  Destiny’s eyes are wide and confused, but she complies. “It was nothing,” she says. “I hoverskated away from the Hunters and they shot at me. They missed but one of the bullets must’ve splintered and pierced my skin.” When Harrison’s frown deepens further, she insists again, “It’s nothing.”

  “Did you test the fragment?” Harrison asks, this time directing the question at Jarrod.

  Jarrod sighs. “What are you getting at? There was nothing to test. It was a metal splinter, nothing more. It had the same density as a bullet. We discarded it.”

  “We need to test it,” Harrison says. “And then maybe evacuate Refuge.”

  “Ah,” Jarrod says, as if something has just dawned on him. “You think she was followed. That the splinter was a tracking device?”

  “I think it’s a distinct possibility,” Harrison says.

  Jarrod shakes his head and smiles like you would at a child. “We’re not amateurs. We scanned her for all known tracking devices. She was clean.”

  “What about unknown devices?” Harrison says.

  “Very funny. Hard to scan for something you don’t know about.”

  Harrison’s face goes pale, as white as a ghost. “I should’ve realized it sooner,” he says to himself. “I was too drunk to put it all together. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “Harrison,” Benson says. He’s never heard his brother be so self-deprecating before, but he knows it can’t be a good thing.

  Harrison’s eyes find his, as hard as turquoise gemstones in the dim lighting. “A couple of weeks ago I heard Dad talking on his holo about some new kind of tracker. Something impossible to detect. Just a sliver of metal.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Jarrod says, but Benson immediately notices the change in his tone. Less confident, like he’s forcing each word out.

  “I led them here?” Destiny whispers. There’s the distinct sharpness of fear in her gaze now, something Benson hasn’t seen in her since her arrival.

  “No,” Jarrod says.

  “Maybe,” Harrison says. “But we need to know for sure. We need to do more tests on the bullet fragment.”

  Benson’s about to object, his mouth opening to remind Harrison that their own father said that no test would identify the new trackers, but before he can get a single word out, the ground shakes.

  Jarrod’s eyes dart to Destiny. Harrison’s eyes meet Benson’s.

  There’s a moment of strange, hushed silence.

  And then the alarms start blaring and the Slips start screaming.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s like Janice’s nightmares have spilled into real life.

  It started with the ground shaking, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The darkness she has come to love, to rely on for comfort in the throes of night, has shattered in on itself, pulsating with red flashes of light that make her think of splashes of blood.

  Her husband’s blood, perhaps, come to torment her.

  His screams, too, shriekin
g through the guileless night, an ear-rending tear in the fabric of silence and peace. For, yes, sleep is the only time she feels truly at peace.

  It’s only when golden-haired Luce grabs her arm at the crook in her elbow and guides her to her feet does she realize the scream is an alarm and the bloody lights a warning. Run! she knows it says. RUNRUNRUNRUN! she hears Zoran bellow, and his cry urges her feet forward, her slip-on shoes slapping the floor, scuffing on the ground with every third step. Luce keeps her from falling, her arms wielding strength beyond what Janice would expect. She holds her up even when the ground rumbles again, writhing and twisting beneath her feet.

  And every time she asks where her sons are, the only answer she gets from Luce is “I don’t know,” whispered with ragged fear.

  The corridors are jammed with people, streaked with strobes of red light and wearing gaping black mouths of fear. Some carry weapons—they run toward the lifters—but most are empty handed and pushing toward the stairs. Someone shouts a command—“This is not a drill. Make your way calmly to the stairs and down to level minus-twenty-five.” The instructor repeats the command again and again, until it rebounds around in Janice’s skull, pushing a rogue scream to her lips.

  She’s not supposed to scream, she knows that, but her lips are ripped open as easily as a torn piece of paper. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” she shouts at the top of her lungs, her yell obliterating the blaring alarm and the instructor’s commands and the scuffle of feet on the floor.

  Luce jerks back to look at her, horror in her eyes, and releases Janice’s arm. She’s scared the poor girl, but it was worth it. She feels better already, like the scream exorcised a demon that was tormenting her soul. “Let’s go,” she says, and she’s glad when Luce doesn’t question her, doesn’t ask if she’s okay, just ushers her forward into the cramped stairwell.

  The people on the steps remind her of water. They don’t rush down the stairs as much as stream down them, moving as one. She melts into the flow, feeling like an autumn leaf cast into a swift river.