UnWholly (Unwind Dystology 2)

The Holy of Whollies arrive mostly on time for the meeting. Once inside, they swivel side to side in the plush leather chairs, for no other reason than that they can. They enjoy the jet far more than Connor does.

Six out of seven are present. Risa, who’s the Graveyard’s chief medic, refuses to enter Connor’s jet until she can roll in on her own—and a wheelchair ramp just to access Connor’s jet seems like an extravagance.

Trace, always the first to arrive, is head of security, as well as Connor’s strategic adviser.

Hayden is master of the ComBom, running computer and radio communications, monitoring the outside world, police frequencies, and all communication with the resistance. He also has a radio station for the Whollies, with a signal that barely reaches half a mile. He calls it “Radio Free Hayden.”

There’s a big bruiser of a girl everyone calls Bam, who is in charge of food services. Her real name is Bambi, but anyone who calls her that ends up being treated by Risa in the infirmary.

There’s Drake, a rural kid who is the Sustainability Boss, which is just a fancy term for the guy who runs the farm, or the Green Aisle, which was entirely Connor’s idea. The food it produces has more than once taken the edge off hunger pangs when ADR food shipments have been too small or nonexistent.

Next is John, a gum-chewing kid with a restless leg who’s in charge of maintenance and waste management, and finally Ashley, who claims to be very “person centered” and deals with “issues”—and since just about every kid being tagged for unwinding has issues, she’s probably the busiest of the bunch.

“So what’s this about?” Bam asks. “Because I got stuff to do.”

“First off,” Connor tells them, “I met with the ADR dude today. We can expect more of the same.”

“More o’ nothin’ is still nothin’,” Drake says.

“You got it. We’ve pretty much known we’ve been on our own for a while—now it’s official. Deal with it.”

“What about supplies and stuff we can’t scavenge from other planes?” asks John, his leg bouncing more fiercely than usual.

“If we can’t get cash from the front office to buy it, we’ll have to creatively find it.” Creatively finding is Connor’s euphemism for stealing. He’s had to send kids as far as Phoenix to creatively find things the ADR won’t supply. Things like hard-to-find medications and welding torches.

“I just got word that a new jet is being retired here next Tuesday,” Hayden tells them. “I’m sure when we gut it, we’ll find a lot of things we need. Coolant compressors, hydraulic thingamajiggies, and all that other hardcore mechanical blue-collar stuff.”

“Is the baggage compartment gonna be stuffed full of Whollies?” someone asks.

“No plane arrives without mystery meat,” Hayden says. “No telling how many kids there’ll be, though.”

“I hope there aren’t any coffins this time,” Ashley says. “Do you have any idea how many kids had nightmares from that?”

“Oh please, coffins are so last month,” says Hayden. “This time it’s beer kegs!”

“The bigger issue,” says Connor, “is having an escape plan. We can’t rely on the ADR to save us if the Juvies decide it’s time for fresh parts.”

“Why don’t we just bail now,” asks Ashley, “and find a new place to be?”

“It’s not that easy to move seven hundred kids—and doing it would be like sending up a flare to every Juvey-cop in Arizona. Hayden’s team has been doing a pretty good job tracking the threat level, so we’ll have at least some warning before a raid—but if we don’t have an exit strategy, we’re screwed no matter what.”

Bam throws a glare at Trace, who never says much at these meetings. “What does he think?”

“I think you should do whatever Connor tells you to do,” Trace says.

Bam snorts. “Spoken like a true army boeuf.”

“Air force,” says Trace. “You’d be wise to remember that.”

“The point is,” says Connor, coming between them before Ashley can launch into her anger management speech, “that we all need to be thinking about how to kick out of here on a moment’s notice if we have to.”

The rest of the meeting deals with the minutiae of management. Connor wonders how the Admiral could stomach conversations about sanitary napkin supply, when the threat of harvest camp was a clear and present danger every minute of every day. “It’s all about delegation,” Trace has said—which is the real reason why Connor had called this meeting.

“You can all go,” Connor finally tells everyone, “except for Bam and John—we still have things to talk about.”

Everyone files out, and Connor has John wait outside, while he talks privately to Bam. Connor knows what he must do, he just doesn’t want to do it. Some people take joy in dishing out bad news, but Connor was never like that. He knows what it’s like to be pulled up short, to be told that you’re useless, that you’re better off unwound.

Bam stands with arms folded, sweating attitude. “So, what’s up?”