Ashes (Ashes Trilogy 1)

Behind came the clatter of dishes, and Alex turned to see two women pushing a metal food cart, like the kind they used in hospitals to bring patients their meals. No need for spidey-sense either: bacon was bacon.

Someone in line groaned at the aroma. All the refugees watched, hollow-eyed, as the women trundled up to a thick wooden door with a push bar and reinforced glass. One woman knocked, and a few seconds later, the door was pushed open from the inside. Alex saw the back of yet another guard, and as the women disappeared, she caught the thinnest finger of a scent coming from beyond the door. Not the dead-meat stink. She thought she would’ve caught that as soon as she entered, anyway. This was different. It was familiar, a scent she’d picked up before: tobacco and rotted teeth and old whiskey.

I know this. Who—

A loud, piercing scream came from the end of the corridor, and Alex gasped, her thoughts instantly derailed. The refugees fell silent, but the dogs in the hall began to whimper, and a few barked. The scream came again, and then two guards rounded the corner, dragging a sobbing, struggling old man between them.

“No, no, you can’t!” the man wailed. He was very old, almost withered, with arms like twigs and a knot of twine around his waist to keep his pants from falling down. With a sudden burst of strength, the old man spurted free of the guards and scurried for an office door. At that, the dogs strained at their leashes, yapping and pawing at the air. The old man grabbed the knob and yanked, but the door was locked. A look of utter despair broke over his weathered face, and as the two guards approached, the old man began to weep. He crumpled to his knees, his gnarled fingers still wrapped around unyielding metal.

“You can’t send me back out there! I got no one; I got nowhere to go!” he pleaded as the guards tried to pull him free. The old man hung on with the grim tenacity of a leech; terror had lent him a furious strength, and the wasted muscles of his arms went as taut as rubber bands. “I can still work; I’m still good for something—please, don’t!”

Amid a chorus of excited barks from the dogs, another guard hurried to help. Between the three, they pried the old man’s hands free and then carried him, still thrashing and screaming, down that long corridor and finally, mercifully, out of sight.

“Jesus,” said the man who wouldn’t have minded showing the others how things were done with her. He flashed Alex a hostile glare. To Kincaid, he snarled, “You ought to be ashamed. He’s one of us, and you’re saving them. What the hell makes her so special?”

“Well, for one,” Kincaid said mildly, “she knows how to keep her mouth shut.”

At the end of the T corridor, they hung a right. The windows here faced south, and the hall was much brighter. There were more guards—she was starting to get used to seeing old men in camouflage with rifles—and then Kincaid led her to a set of closed double doors on the right. A plaque to the left of the doors said courtroom.

“We’ll wait out here a few minutes,” said Kincaid. He dropped into a straight-back chair with a little sigh.

She remained standing. Her mouth was dry, but her palms were wet. “Why is it so important that I see this Council and the Reverend? I mean, they can’t decide where everyone goes. There are too many people.”

“Five hundred, give or take, yeah. And no, they don’t eyeball everyone. Wardens—men who’ve been given the keys—do that.”

“Keys? You mean, like, to unlock doors?”

“Not physical ones, no. It’s, ah, a biblical reference. Matthew: And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven. Same concept as the Mormon priesthood, although we’re not Mormons. What it boils down to is that the Council awards certain men the authority to make decisions in certain areas: the farms, the armory, supplies, sanitation, for example. Peter, he’s an Ernst, and they’re one of the Five Families, so he’s warden of the militia. He decides which missions get carried out, how many men’ll be needed, things like that. He’ll see newcomers, too; decide if they’re suitable for guard duty or good in a fight.”

“So the people in the hall are waiting to see the wardens?”

“Or their representatives and lieutenants—people like Chris—yeah.”

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. “But Chris is the Reverend’s grandson, right? So why doesn’t he have a key? How come he’s not a warden?”

Kincaid’s lips screwed to a rosebud. “Well,” he said carefully, “there’s the fact that Chris isn’t pure Rule, born and bred. He’s got some of the bloodline, but his parents weren’t, uh, of the village. They left, and their history is a little … murky. Peter is Rule-bred, older, has more experience with these matters. There are other reasons, but those are good as any.”

Rule-bred? Bloodlines? Rule sounded a lot more closed and regimented than she’d originally thought. “So who does the Council see?”

“The Spared—kids like you—and the borderline cases: people who might do well here, but the wardens aren’t quite sure. So they send them on to the Council for final judgment. The Council also sees people who might not be, well, adjusting very well.”

She recalled Jess’s threat. “Is that what Jess meant when she said she’d ask the Reverend to reconsider?”

Kincaid bobbed his head. “The Reverend always has the final say when it comes to the Ban.”

“Ban?” The fingers of a chill walked her spine. “Like, banishment?”

“Something like that.” Kincaid put a hand on her shoulder. “Look, that’s not your worry right now, okay? Best thing you can do is concentrate on putting your best foot forward, and don’t lie. The Rev will know if you do.”

Okay, that was interesting. “If you lie, do they, uh, ban you?”

“Not as a first choice, no. But some kids can’t adapt. They don’t settle down.”

“Like Lena?”

“She’s a handful, that’s for sure.”

“So why not let her leave?”

“We’re, ah … we try to hang on to the Spared. Safer, all the way around.”

“But isn’t that her choice?” Isn’t it mine? “What about free will?”

“Free will’s okay,” said Kincaid. “Only look where it got Adam.”