Julian must notice it at the same time I do, because he mutters, Shit. Shit.
All right, lets think about this, I whisper back, trying to sound calm. But my mind has turned to snow: the same idea coming down like a blizzard, freezing my blood. Im screwed. Ill be trapped here, and when Im found, Ill have a bruised and bound guard to atone for. They wont be so careless anymore either. No more flap doors for me.
What do we do? Julian asks.
We? I shoot him a look over my shoulder. The crown of his head is encircled with dried blood, and I look away so I dont start feeling sorry for him. Were in this together now?
We have to be, he says. Well need to help each other if were going to escape. He puts his hands on my shoulders and moves me gently but firmly out of the way. The touch surprises me. He must really mean what he said about setting our differences aside for now. And if he can do it, so can I.
You wont be able to pick it, I say. We need a code.
Julian runs his fingers over the keypad. Then he takes a step back and squints up at the door, runs his hands along the doorjamb as though testing its sturdiness. We have a keypad like this on the gate at home, he says. Hes still running his fingers along the doorjamb, tracing cracks in the plaster. I can never remember the code. Dads changed it too many timestoo many workers in and out. So we had to develop a system, a series of clues. A code within a codelittle signs embedded in and around the gate so whenever the code is changed, Ill know it.
Suddenly it clicks: the point of his story, and the way out.
The clock, I say, and I point to the clock hanging above the door. Its frozen: The small hand hovers slightly above the nine, and the big hand is stuck on the three. Nine and three. But even as I say it, Im uncertain. But thats only two numbers. Most keypads take four numbers, right?
Julian punches in 9393, then tries the door. Nothing. 3939 doesnt work, either. Neither does 3399 or 9933, and were running out of time.
Shit. Julian pounds the keypad once with his fist in frustration.
Okay, okay. I take a deep breath. I was never good at codes and puzzles; math was always one of my worst subjects. Lets think about this.
At that second, the voices down the hall resurge. A door opens a few inches.
Albino is saying, Im still not convinced. I say if they dont pay, we dont play
My throat seizes with sudden terror. Albino is coming into the hall. Hell see us at any second.
Shit, Julian breathes again, a bare exhale. Hes jogging a little on his feet, back and forth, as though hes cold, but I know he must be as scared as I am. Then, suddenly, he freezes.
Nine fifteen, he says, as the door opens another couple of inches, and the voices spill into the hall.
What? I grip the knife tightly, whipping my head back and forth between Julian and the door: opening, opening.
Not nine-three. Nine fifteen. Zero-nine-one-five. He has already bent over the keypad again, punching the numbers in hard. Theres a quiet buzz, and a click. Julian leans into the door and it opens, as the voices grow clearer and edged with sharpness, and we slip into the next room just as the door behind us swings open, and the Scavengers take their first steps into the hall.
Were in yet another room, this one large, high-ceilinged, and well lit. The walls are lined with shelves, and the shelves are crammed so tightly with things that in places the wood has begun to sag and warp under the weight of it all: packages of food, and large jugs of water, and blankets; but also knives, and silverware, and nests of tangled jewelry; leather shoes and jackets; handguns and wooden police batons and cans of pepper spray. Then there are things that have no purpose whatsoever: scattered radio bits lying across the floor, an old wooden wardrobe, leather-topped stools, and a trunk filled with broken plastic toys. At the opposite end of the room is another concrete door, this one painted cherry red.
Come on. Julian grabs my elbow roughly, pulling me toward it.
No. I wrench away from him. We dont know where we are; we have no idea how long it will be before we escape.
Theres food here. Weapons. We need to stock up.
Julian opens his mouth to respond when from the hallway comes the stuttered cadence of shouting, and the pounding of feet. The guard must have given the alarm somehow.
Weve got to hide. Julian pulls me toward the wardrobe. Inside it smells like mouse droppings and mold.
I swing the wardrobe doors closed behind me. The space inside is so small, Julian and I practically have to sit on top of each other. I ease my backpack onto my lap. My back is pressed up against his chest, and I can feel its rise and fall. Despite everything, Im glad hes with me. Im not sure I would have made it even this far on my own.
The keypad gives another buzz; the door of the stockroom bursts open, slamming against the wall. I flinch involuntarily, and Julians hands find my shoulders. He squeezes once, a quick pulse of reassurance.
Goddammit! Thats Albino; the raspy voice, the anger running through his words, like a live wire. How the hell did this happen? How did they
They cant have gone very far. They dont have the code.
Well, then, where the hell are they? Two goddamn kids, for shits sake.
They might be hiding in one of the rooms, the other one, the not-Albino, says.
Another voicefemale, this time, probably Piercingchimes in. Briggs is checking on it. The girl jumped Matt, tied him up. She has a knife.
Damn it.
Theyre in the tunnels by now, the girl says. Have to be. Matt must have given up the code.
Does he say he did?
Well, he wouldnt say it, would he?
All right, look. Albino again; hes obviously the one in charge. Ring, you search the containment rooms with Briggs. Well clear out to the tunnels. Nick, take east; Ill get west with Don. Tell Kurt and Forest theyre on north, and Ill find someone to cover south.
Im tabulating names, numbers: So, were dealing with at least seven Scavengers. More than I expected.
Albino is saying: I want those pieces of shit back here in the next hour. No way Im losing payday over this, okay? Not because of some eleventh-hour screwup.
Payday. An idea squirms at the edges of my consciousness; but when I try to fixate on it, it blurs into fog. If its not about ransom, what kind of pay can the Scavengers be expecting? Maybe theyre assuming Julian will roll, give up the security info theyll need to get into his house. But its an elaborateand dangerousprocedure for a run-of-the-mill break-in, and its not standard Scavenger operating procedure, either. They dont plan. They burn, and terrorize, and take.
And I still dont see how I fit in.
Now theres the sound of shuffling, of guns being loaded and straps being snapped into place. Thats when the fear comes gunning back: On the other side of a one-inch plywood door are three Scavengers with an army-style arsenal. For a second I think I might faint. Its so hot and close. My shirt is soaked with sweat. Well never make it out of here alive. Theres no way. Its not possible.
I close my eyes and think of Alex, of pressing close to him on the motorcycle and having the same certainty.
Albino says, Well meet back here in an hour. Now go find those little shits and skewer them for me. Footsteps move toward the opposite corner. Sothe red door must lead to the tunnels. The door opens and closes. Then theres quiet.
Julian and I stay frozen. At one point I start to move, and he draws me back. Wait, he whispers. Just to be sure.
Now that there are no voices and no distractions, Im uncomfortably aware of the heat from his skin, and the tickle of his breath on the back of my neck.
Finally I cant take it anymore. Its fine, I say. Lets go.
We push out of the wardrobe, still moving cautiously, just in case there are any other Scavengers sniffing around.
What now? Julian asks me, keeping his voice low. Theyre looking for us in the tunnels.
We have to risk it, I say. Its the only way out of here. Julian looks away, relenting.
Lets load up, I say.
Julian moves to one of the shelves and starts pawing through a heap of clothing. He tosses a T-shirt back to me. Here, he says. Looks like it should fit.
I find a pair of clean jeans, too, a sports bra, and white socks, stripping down quickly behind the wardrobe. Even though Im still dirty and sweaty, it feels amazing to put on clean clothes. Julian finds a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Theyre a little too big, so he holds them up with an electrical wire he uses as a belt. We stuff my backpack with granola bars and water, two flashlights, some packages of nuts, and jerky. I come across a shelf filled with medical supplies, and pack my bag with ointment and bandages and antibacterial wipes. Julian watches me wordlessly. When our eyes meet, I cant tell what hes thinking.
Underneath the medical supplies is a shelf empty but for a single wooden box. Curious, I squat down and swing open its lid. My breath catches in my throat.
ID cards. The box is filled with hundreds and hundreds of ID cards, rubber-banded together. There is a pile of DFA badges too, gleaming brightly under the lights.
Julian, I say. Look at this.
He stands next to me, staring wordlessly as I sift past all the laminated cards, a blur of faces, facts, identities.
Come on, he says, after a minute. We have to hurry.
I select a half-dozen ID cards quickly, trying to pick girls who look roughly my age, and rubber-band them together, slipping them into a pocket. I take a DFA badge too. It might be useful later.
Finally its time for the weapons. There are crates of them: old rifles heaped together like a tangle of thick thorns, gathering dust; well-palmed and well-oiled handguns; heavy clubs and boxes of ammunition. I pass Julian a handgun after checking to see that its loaded. I dump a box of bullets in my backpack.
Ive never shot one before, Julian says, handling it gingerly, as though hes worried it will explode on its own. Have you?
A few times, I say. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth. You take it, he says. I slip the handgun into my backpack, even though I dont like the idea of being weighed down.
Knives, on the other hand, are useful, and not just for hurting people. I find a switchblade and stick it under the strap of the sports bra. Julian takes another switchblade, which he also pockets.
Ready to go? he asks me, after Ive shouldered my backpack.