killed!”
Surprised, I loosen my grip. The guy’s almost to his feet when Germ knocks him down again. He shouts, “It wasn’t us!” I catch a glimpse of his face before he holds up his hands to shield himself from another blow.
I
know
him.
Germ stops short. “Who was it, then?” His shoulders heave.
When he’s sure Germ isn’t going to hit him again, he pushes himself up and holds his side.
“Neil?” I step forward to get a clearer view.
“What?” He glares at me and touches his tongue to where his lip bleeds.
Neil Pratt. Palo Brea dropout. Sells drugs to people like me. In my old life.
He turns back to Germ. “I don’t know. But it wasn’t us.”
“The directive sent us to the mall,” Germ says.
“I know.” Neil wipes the blood away. “I wrote it.”
Germ clenches his fists. “But you didn’t try to blow us up.”
“You know how it works. Orders come from higher up. Friday was just supposed to be a message. Paint. That’s all.”
“Then who set off the bombs?”
Neil gives a weak smile and more blood oozes from his lip. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Germ scoffs. “It wasn’t us.”
“Yeah, well”—he touches his lip again—“it wasn’t Red December either.” He moves his tongue around in his mouth. “I think you broke my tooth.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t break your face.”
Neil sneers. “Oooh.”
The roar of engines echoes across the courtyard and someone shouts, “Raid!” Light breaks over the wall. Armed guards in riot gear storm into the courtyard.
The girl grabs my arm and pulls me away. I look back to see Germ following us toward the dark of the mountain. When we reach the wall, she climbs up and over. The stones make for easy footholds. Before I know it, I’m over, too, running after her, with Germ behind. The ground rises as we approach the foothills. She stumbles, her shoes catching on the uneven gravel, and I grab her elbow to keep her from falling. The three of us slip into an alcove in the rock. Shouts carry up the slope from the castle below. Other ravers creep up the mountain and keep going. We watch them until they’re swallowed by the night.
“Let’s follow the Bounders,” Germ whispers. “They’ll know how to get out.”
The girl pulls a phone from her pocket and dials, shielding the light of the screen. Footsteps approach. I take her hand, ready to bolt, but it isn’t a guard who finds us. It’s a skinny guy in a striped shirt and goggles.
“M,” Germ whispers, waving him over.
This is M? He ducks down and crouches beside us. When he sees the girl, he smiles.
“Jonas?” Her voice is shaky. She covers her free ear and listens, then creeps forward to peek out of the alcove. “Yeah, I see you.” She looks down the mountain. “I think so. Okay.” She hangs up and continues to watch what the rest of us can’t see. No one says anything. Finally, she motions us forward, whispering, “Come on.”
We slink across the mountain. Below, the guards load the unluckies into vans and trucks. Looks like most of the revelers escaped. Our path takes us around the side, where the brush grows thicker. The girl leads the way, looking back now and then with wide eyes to make sure we’re still with her. Soon the action is behind us.
When we get close to the flat of the foothills again, headlights blink. We break into an all-out run for the car, not stopping until we’re inside with the doors closed. The car eases forward, lights off, turning away from the castle. The locks clamp down with a heavy
click.
No one says a word.
The driver is an older guy, balding. Wears a button-down shirt with a tie. He looks at the three of us—me, Germ and M—in the rearview. The girl sits in the passenger seat, rubbing her hands again and again on her jeans. Who is she? What kind of girl has her own driver?
“I’m assuming we’re not heading to the Executive Tower?” the driver asks.
“No,” she says. “School, please.”
When the bumpy
Surprised, I loosen my grip. The guy’s almost to his feet when Germ knocks him down again. He shouts, “It wasn’t us!” I catch a glimpse of his face before he holds up his hands to shield himself from another blow.
I
know
him.
Germ stops short. “Who was it, then?” His shoulders heave.
When he’s sure Germ isn’t going to hit him again, he pushes himself up and holds his side.
“Neil?” I step forward to get a clearer view.
“What?” He glares at me and touches his tongue to where his lip bleeds.
Neil Pratt. Palo Brea dropout. Sells drugs to people like me. In my old life.
He turns back to Germ. “I don’t know. But it wasn’t us.”
“The directive sent us to the mall,” Germ says.
“I know.” Neil wipes the blood away. “I wrote it.”
Germ clenches his fists. “But you didn’t try to blow us up.”
“You know how it works. Orders come from higher up. Friday was just supposed to be a message. Paint. That’s all.”
“Then who set off the bombs?”
Neil gives a weak smile and more blood oozes from his lip. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Germ scoffs. “It wasn’t us.”
“Yeah, well”—he touches his lip again—“it wasn’t Red December either.” He moves his tongue around in his mouth. “I think you broke my tooth.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t break your face.”
Neil sneers. “Oooh.”
The roar of engines echoes across the courtyard and someone shouts, “Raid!” Light breaks over the wall. Armed guards in riot gear storm into the courtyard.
The girl grabs my arm and pulls me away. I look back to see Germ following us toward the dark of the mountain. When we reach the wall, she climbs up and over. The stones make for easy footholds. Before I know it, I’m over, too, running after her, with Germ behind. The ground rises as we approach the foothills. She stumbles, her shoes catching on the uneven gravel, and I grab her elbow to keep her from falling. The three of us slip into an alcove in the rock. Shouts carry up the slope from the castle below. Other ravers creep up the mountain and keep going. We watch them until they’re swallowed by the night.
“Let’s follow the Bounders,” Germ whispers. “They’ll know how to get out.”
The girl pulls a phone from her pocket and dials, shielding the light of the screen. Footsteps approach. I take her hand, ready to bolt, but it isn’t a guard who finds us. It’s a skinny guy in a striped shirt and goggles.
“M,” Germ whispers, waving him over.
This is M? He ducks down and crouches beside us. When he sees the girl, he smiles.
“Jonas?” Her voice is shaky. She covers her free ear and listens, then creeps forward to peek out of the alcove. “Yeah, I see you.” She looks down the mountain. “I think so. Okay.” She hangs up and continues to watch what the rest of us can’t see. No one says anything. Finally, she motions us forward, whispering, “Come on.”
We slink across the mountain. Below, the guards load the unluckies into vans and trucks. Looks like most of the revelers escaped. Our path takes us around the side, where the brush grows thicker. The girl leads the way, looking back now and then with wide eyes to make sure we’re still with her. Soon the action is behind us.
When we get close to the flat of the foothills again, headlights blink. We break into an all-out run for the car, not stopping until we’re inside with the doors closed. The car eases forward, lights off, turning away from the castle. The locks clamp down with a heavy
click.
No one says a word.
The driver is an older guy, balding. Wears a button-down shirt with a tie. He looks at the three of us—me, Germ and M—in the rearview. The girl sits in the passenger seat, rubbing her hands again and again on her jeans. Who is she? What kind of girl has her own driver?
“I’m assuming we’re not heading to the Executive Tower?” the driver asks.
“No,” she says. “School, please.”
When the bumpy
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