The Pursuit of Truth Page 6

  In a trance, Chris turned to stare at her. Liz spoke again, her lips moving, her eyes watering with unspilt tears, but no sound reached Chris’s ears. She leaned forward, her arms wrapping around his chest, pulling him to her, but still Chris felt nothing. An empty void had opened inside him, stretching out to swallow him whole.

  His stomach swirled and a sick nausea rose in his throat. Pushing Liz away, he staggered to his feet. He felt a desperate need to scream, to shout and shriek and rage, to lash out until the entire world felt his pain.

  Then an image of his mother rose in his mind, her eyes warm and lips curled in a smile, and despair swept away his fury.

  Chris sank back onto the plastic seat, and buried his head in his hands.

  9

  Liz winced as the bus lurched over another pothole, sending her bouncing towards the roof. The engine roared as they raced down the gravel road, its maintenance long forgotten by a government intent on expanding its own wealth. A massive network of railroads crisscrossed the prairies, carrying harvests from distant properties to the cities and their shipping ports, but for the locals, the bus was their only choice for transportation. No one Liz knew could afford the passenger train, let alone a car.

  Now, some eight hours into the bus ride, Liz was still struggling to sleep. When they’d first boarded, the bus had already been packed with passengers, and they had been forced to stand. The bus stopped constantly to pick up and drop off passengers though, and slowly they edged further down the aisle in the hope of finding seats.

  Even without the boiling sunlight, the heat in the bus was suffocating. The breeze from the open windows barely reached them in the aisles, and by the time a seat opened beside Liz, her head was swimming.

  Unfortunately, Liz knew from experience that the seats were little better than standing. The old benches were meant to fit two passengers, but the cramped conditions meant three people squeezed onto each. This left Liz perched half in the aisle, still far from the cool breeze coming through the windows. To make matters worse, she could feel the muscles of her wings beginning to ache beneath her jacket, and when she leaned against them, a sharp ache quickly developed in her back.

  Finally, the two large women in the seats beside her rose and shuffled their way off the bus. Liz quickly moved across to take the window seat, allowing the others to figure out who would take the two remaining spaces. Mira and Jasmine soon slid in beside her, while Richard and Chris stayed standing.

  Liz’s heart twisted as she looked up at Chris. He had not spoken since the broadcast. His eyes had taken on a haunted look, and his skin was a pallid grey beneath the red of his sunburn. She desperately wanted to pull him into her arms, to hold him and love him until he was whole again, but when she’d tried earlier, Chris had been as stiff as a board, his eyes blank, void of emotion. When the bus had arrived, he’d pushed her away and boarded without a look back.

  Now, closing her eyes, Liz prayed he would be okay. They had to stick together, had to be strong if they were to survive. They were alone now—truly alone, the five of them against the world.

  Mira seemed to be the only one of them capable of sleeping through the hellish bus ride. She was nestled between Liz and Jasmine, curled up on the seat with her knees tucked beneath her chin. Glimpsing a tangle of feathers hanging out from beneath Mira’s purple jacket, Liz carefully tucked them back out of sight. She smiled, realizing it had been one of her mother’s favorites. She had often worn it when the winter storms rolled in, bringing with them the howling wind and drenching rains.

  But the memory brought back the image of her home disintegrating in the flames. She turned away, struggling to banish the sight, lest she fall back into an abyss of her own.

  “They didn’t have her picture up,” Jasmine’s voice whispered from the darkness.

  Liz looked across at her. The bus was full, but most of those sitting appeared to have nodded off. Even the people standing looked asleep on their feet, their eyes closed, heads leaning against arms clenched around steel poles. Only Chris and Richard remained awake.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Liz replied finally. She eyed Jasmine carefully. Since the incident in the forest, something had changed in her. She seemed to be less antagonistic, less distant, though it was difficult to tell for sure. “And she thinks the Chead is her brother.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Jasmine murmured.

  Liz bit her lip, recalling what they knew about Mira, but the puzzle pieces refused to fit. They fell silent as the bus pulled to a stop in front of a tiny shack, allowing a new passenger to stumble aboard. The man leaned against a pole and closed his eyes, apparently well used to the torture of the night bus.

  As the engine roared once more, Liz changed the subject. “Do you really think…do you believe what the President said?”

  “He had no reason to lie,” Jasmine replied quietly.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Liz reached out and squeezed Jasmine’s shoulder. She could hear the grief in the girl’s voice, the unspoken sorrow. They had all been so focused on staying alive, on surviving the horrors of the past weeks and months, that the fate of their parents had become a distant worry. But that distance had crumbled, exposing them to harsh reality.

  Liz looked away and stared into the darkness outside the bus. Clouds had rolled in with the evening, and now the sky was dark, the open plains hidden beneath the blanket of night. In the faint light of the bus’s headlights, Liz saw her reflection in the clouded glass. Her hair was a wild tangle, her eyes hard, her brow creased.

  She stared at the face, so different from the girl she had once been. Even before she’d been taken, her life after the loss of her parents had been harsh. It had taken its toll. She had become hard, unforgiving in her desire to survive. It was a fate she would not wish on anyone.

  “I hope it was quick.” She turned back as Jasmine spoke. Tears streamed down the other girl’s face as she continued, “I hope they didn’t suffer.”

  Liz looked at the girl, surprised by her strength. She remembered then how Jasmine had reacted in the forest, when the soldiers had captured them. While Richard had begged, Jasmine had been silent, offering only a frosty glare to the circle of soldiers. And after hearing the fate of her parents, it seemed she was coping better than anyone.

  “What did they do, your parents?” Liz asked suddenly, sensing a need in Jasmine to talk, to remember.

  The other girl fell silent, and Liz thought for a second she’d misread Jasmine’s mood. She was starting to turn away, preparing herself for another attempt at sleep, when Jasmine finally spoke.

  “They were managers in a rural meat packing plant.” Jasmine’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “They didn’t even put up a fight. We were sitting around the table, just starting dinner, when the SWAT team kicked down the door. They told us we were under arrest, cuffed our hands behind our backs before we could even think of resisting. Then they led Mom and Dad out of the room, and pulled a hood over my head. A few minutes later, I heard a woman’s voice, then something cold pinched my neck. That’s the last thing I remember before I woke up in the facility.”

  Liz shivered at the simplicity of Jasmine’s story. The passiveness with which her parents had surrendered only served to highlight the absurdity of their charges. Surely traitors would fight, would resist capture to their dying breath.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed.

  “Don’t,” Jasmine cut in. She looked away, her eyes turning distant. “I don’t need your false pity, Liz. We both know we’ve only stuck together this long because it’s our best chance of survival.”

  Liz blinked at the harsh tone to Jasmine’s voice. She fell silent, turning over the other girl’s words, wondering whether they were true. She was right, in a way. There had been little love lost between them in the past, though she had thought that might be changing.

  “You’re wrong,” she said at last. When Jasmine didn’t turn around, she continued, “We’re in this together becau
se, whatever you may think, we’re family now. The five of us are all we have left.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jasmine hissed, struggling to keep her voice under control. She looked at Liz then, her eyes hard. “In the forest, if the Chead hadn’t come, you would have left us for dead—”

  “No,” Liz said, cutting her off, “if the Chead hadn’t come, we would have found a way to save you.”

  Jasmine only snorted. Liz sighed as the silence stretched out between them. She looked down at Mira sleeping, thinking idly that at least one of them was enjoying the ride. She reached out and stroked the girl’s soft grey hair, wondering again at the mystery surrounding her.

  “Whatever you think, we are family, Jasmine,” she said at last. “Maybe this is just about survival for you, our little group. But it’s not for me, and it’s not for Chris.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” Jasmine replied.

  Liz nodded. Her gaze turned back to the aisle, where Chris stood with his head leaning against a steel pole. His eyes were closed, though she doubted he was sleeping.

  “I’m worried about him,” she said suddenly, not caring whether Jasmine listened or not. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when we reach San Francisco, what he’ll do.”

  “Probably something stupid,” Jasmine said wryly.

  “I’m serious,” Liz growled. “I’m afraid he’ll do something reckless, something that will get him killed. I’m afraid I’m going to lose him.”

  “Maybe,” Jasmine murmured, “and maybe he’d be right to do it. I mean, what’s our alternative? Our parents are dead. We’re wanted fugitives. And you haven’t exactly been forthcoming with ideas to bring down the government. Maybe reckless is what we need.” She paused. “Besides, I’d rather go down fighting than go back to being a slave.”

  Jasmine’s hand drifted to her throat, to the soft flesh where her collar had once rested. Liz found herself shivering as she remembered the awful devices, the agony as electricity burned through every nerve in her body. Even so, she shook her head.

  “It doesn’t have to come to that,” Liz argued. “Not if we’re smart, if we lay low. Our parents wouldn’t have wanted us to throw away our lives.”

  Laughter came from the darkness. “Lay low? We’re heading into the very heart of the government’s power.” Jasmine’s eyes flashed as she looked at Liz. “No, Liz. If we did what our parents wanted, we would have never left those mountains.”

  Liz fell silent at that, unable to argue with Jasmine’s words. Closing her eyes, she turned them over in her mind, wondering if they were true, what her parents would have thought of her now. What would they want her to do?

  She smiled as she recalled a time when she was young, when bandits had come to their lands and stolen their livestock. Her mother and father had gathered up the farmhands and started handing out rifles. They had ridden off at dawn, and returned by dusk, the missing livestock in tow.

  “You’re wrong, Jasmine,” she said at last. “They would want us to fight back.”

  10

  Sam sucked in a breath as he walked across the open hall, the wooden boards creaking beneath his boots. His body felt fresh, all but recovered from the relentless beatings. Even after everything he’d witnessed over the past few months, it still shocked him how quickly he’d healed. Within a day, the bruises and swelling around his eye had started to fade. Yet another boon of their genetic manipulation, he guessed.

  The thought did nothing to lift his spirits. He had not seen Ashley since that fateful day in the facility. He’d hoped to see her when they shifted him to San Francisco, but he had been alone in the prison van. His collar chained to the floor, he had spent the long journey with nothing but the roar of the engine and the stench of gasoline for company. The road had been old and rutted, bouncing him around like a sack of old potatoes. Within hours the air had become blistering, the steel walls burning with the heat of the sun.

  Sam had suffered the journey without complaint though, thankful to at least be free of his empty prison cell, of the relentless torture.

  Now as he strode across the hall, his body healed and fresh clothes on his back, he could almost imagine himself free. Almost—if not for the unrelenting pressure of the collar around his neck.

  He kept his wings pressed tightly against his back as he moved. Like the rest of his injuries, they were healing nicely, and he now felt at ease with the strange appendages. Distantly, he recalled the difficulty he’d had even standing when they’d first appeared. It would have been embarrassing, if he’d not been so preoccupied with escape.

  Armed with the memory, he knew he should have viewed the spectacle taking place in the center of the hall with more compassion. But he could not help but grin as he watched the antics of the boy and girl he had come to meet.

  They clung desperately to one another as they staggered across the wooden floor, their long black wings hanging behind them like dead weights. Their mouths were open and panting as they struggled to remain upright. Every so often one would shriek and topple to the ground. They seemed to lack any control over their wings, which would shift position almost spontaneously, throwing them off-balance just when they seemed to find their feet.

  The girl sported long blonde hair and had plain brown eyes, and stood at least a foot shorter than Sam’s own six foot five. Her features were sharply pronounced, and he noticed several bruises spotting her pale skin. Of the two, she seemed to have the better control over her faculties, though that was not saying much.

  The boy’s dark skin and athletic build stood out in stark contrast to his partner. Even stooped by the weight of his wings, the boy was as tall as Sam. The only feature the two shared were their brown eyes and black wings—and those differed vastly in size.

  Neither had noticed Sam’s approach. When he finally drew to a stop beside them, he was forced to clap his hands to get their attention. Their eyes widened when they found him standing beside them, and they promptly toppled onto their backsides.

  Sam laughed, then quickly masked it with a cough. He raised an eyebrow. “That was graceful.”

  The boy scowled up at him. “I’d like to see you do any better.”

  Sam smiled. With a sharp crack, his wings snapped open, the copper feathers spreading out to shade the two teenagers from the overhead lights. Their mouths dropped to the floor and the color fled their faces.

  As Sam slowly contracted his wings, the girl stuttered. “How…how did you do that?”

  Sam laughed as he offered her a hand. Pulling the girl to her feet, he held her steady and smiled. “What’s your name?”

  The girl hesitated. “Francesca,” she mumbled finally, then waved at the boy who was still finding his feet. “This is Paul. You look familiar. Who are you?”

  “My name is Sam. We were probably neighbors in the facility. It seems we belong to the rather exclusive group of unfortunate souls lucky enough to have survived that nightmare.” He paused. “But the two of you look like you just woke up.”

  The two shared a glance. “The last thing we remember was the injections in our cell, and passing out from the pain,” Francesca said. She took a breath. “Next thing we know, we’re in some prison van. And there was just the two of us. Well, us two, and the girl.”

  Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “What girl?”

  “Didn’t get a name.” Paul had finally found his feet. “She looked pretty beaten up. Big bandages around her chest and things.”

  Sucking in a lungful of air, Sam struggled to contain his excitement. “Describe her.”

  “Ahhh,” Francesca bit her lip. “Skinny girl, pale skin, red hair?”

  Sam closed his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.

  Ashley.

  “You know her?” he heard Paul ask.

  Sam nodded. “Did she say anything?”

  “Not much,” Francesca offered. “Like we said, she was pretty beaten up. She just warned us about…well, these.” She gestured to her wings with a shrug.

  “Ye
s, you do seem to be having some problems,” Sam said, smirking. “You looked like newborn foals, stumbling around like that.”

  Paul scowled. He crossed his arms defiantly, but the effect was somewhat diminished as his wings shifted, throwing him back off-balance.

  Sam chuckled as the boy stumbled sideways into Francesca. “Halt wasn’t kidding when he said you might need some help.”

  The two exchanged glances as they steadied themselves. “Halt sent you?” Francesca asked.

  The smile fell from Sam’s lips as he nodded. He eyed them both, weighing them up. They were vaguely familiar, though he could not recall any particular time he had seen them in the facility. Both looked fit and well-toned, in good shape considering the time they had spent in the coma. The girl looked like she could have been a cheerleader in her former life—her long blonde hair and pale skin certainly matched the stereotype. In contrast, the boy could have been a linebacker.

  But who were they really? And could he trust them?”

  “I’m here to teach you how to use those,” Sam said at last, deciding to withhold judgement for the moment, “to show you what you’re capable of.”

  “What we’re capable of?” Paul frowned.

  “Yes.” Without warning, Sam sprang forward and grabbed the boy by the shirt. With one hand, he lifted him from the ground.

  Paul gasped, his eyes bulging as he stared down at Sam. “What—?”

  He broke off as Sam released him. He landed easily on his feet, but the weight of his wings pulled him off-balance again, and he crashed back to the wooden floor. He stared up at Sam, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

  “How did you do that?” Francesca whispered. “He must weigh 250 pounds, at least.”

  Sam offered Paul a hand. When the boy was back on his feet, he grinned at the two of them. “Oh, that’s just the tip of the iceberg, kiddos.”

  11