Resurgence (7 page)

I have been so transfixed by the bravery of Opie’s father that I have almost forgotten our predicament. Opie is staring at the blankness of the screen. I want to say something supportive
but there is someone tugging at my sleeve – an older woman who is so short she barely comes above Hart’s waist. She has grey curly hair and drags a leg as she walks. ‘Come with
me,’ she hisses, pulling me harder.

I stumble over a reply, not wanting to be rude. There is blood seeping from a spot above her hip, drenching her dusted overalls. ‘I can find someone to help you,’ I say.

She continues to yank me, unconcerned about the apparent hole in her side. The sickest people who were on the torn-up scraps of canvas have been moved into the centre of the room along with the
children, surrounded by the men and women ready to fight. I want to guide the woman there but she is insistent, yanking on my sleeve so firmly that I think it may rip.

I follow, largely because I have little choice. Opie clenches my hand tightly as there is a gasp from the people closest to the window.

We both know what it means for his father.

The woman stops and points at Hart. ‘You! What’s your name?’

‘Hart.’

She continues to jab a finger in his face. ‘What you said reminded me about you leaving. It was a sunny day, wasn’t it?’

Hart is as confused as me. ‘Yes . . .’

‘It was really hot.’

‘Yes.’

‘When you were going to the train, everyone wanted to shake your hand. They all tried to touch you because you were so famous.’ There is a tinge of red in his face as he stumbles
over a reply but the woman doesn’t let him get a word in anyway. ‘I held my hand out with all the others. They tried to push me away but you took my hand and said goodbye.’

Hart shakes his head slowly, not remembering, but the woman doesn’t mind. For Hart, it was one of many people he said farewell to; for her, it was something that stuck. She is a Trog, used
to people blanking her.

She lets go of my sleeve and starts pointing towards me so wildly that I have to step backwards. ‘Do you say she must be protected?’

Hart hesitates, bemused by the sight of someone half his size flailing so erratically. He finally stammers a ‘yes’.

She grabs my arm again and pulls so roughly that I stumble. ‘Then let’s get you out.’

I have to break into a run because she walks so quickly that it almost defies any idea of physics I have ever understood. Opie, Hart, Jela and Pietra follow as I am dragged along a corridor and
down a flight of crumbling stairs before being jerked into a small cupboard where there is barely room for the two of us, let alone anyone else. On the floor are our bags. I remember taking mine
off during the night and Jela said something about moving them to the hall. With everything that has been happening I had forgotten about them, but this woman is apparently a step ahead of me.

‘Through there,’ she says, finally letting me go and pointing at the wall.

It is dark and I can hardly see anything, banging my elbow on a wooden shelf as I try to turn.

‘There’s a shelf there,’ she adds, with no hint of trying to be funny.

The brightest things in the room are her eyes, which are glowing in a light that isn’t there. I fumble ahead, trying to find out what she is on about, and my hands clasp around a thick
metal handle.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘The incinerator.’

I snatch my hand back, wondering why I have let her take us away but she yanks it open, sending a burnt smell into the room. A memory appears of the first time I tried to cook. We were left with
blackened, crispy charcoal and little else.

‘I don’t want to go in there,’ I say, blinking the thought away.

The woman pushes me in the back, sending me towards the low door that is now open. ‘It doesn’t work. We used to burn things in there but there hasn’t been any gas for
years.’

Above us there is the sound of glass smashing as the Kingsmen begin their assault.

‘Go!’ she shouts.

‘Who are you?’

‘I clean here, now get away with you.’

She pushes me again and this time I don’t resist. For all the times I have complained about other people questioning what I need them to do, for once I put my trust in someone and do what
they say. I crawl into a room with a low ceiling, my knees awkward against the thin pipes that run along the floor. Within seconds the five of us are crouching with our bags in the cramped room as
the woman yells ‘hang on’ before slamming the door with a metallic clang. I try to ask what she is going to do – and what we should hang on to – but the floor suddenly drops
away.

I want to do something to stop the massacre happening above us, ask Opie if he is okay after what happened with his father, thank Hart for his words, tell Pietra and Jela I appreciate them being
with me. I want to say I love them all. Instead I can barely think, speak, breathe, as we hurtle down a diagonal tunnel so quickly that I am left gasping. The sides are made of a thin metal and I
clatter my head at least half-a-dozen times until landing uncomfortably on my backside. Before I can breathe in, a combination of Jela and Hart lands on me and I yelp in pain.

The five of us slowly untangle ourselves from each other and start to nurse the bumps and bruises. We are in some sort of tunnel and it is completely dark. I can’t see it but there is a
shallow stream underneath that doesn’t quite cover my thighs even though I am sitting. My lower half is sodden and I put my hands down to the side to support myself, straight into what feels
like a pile of salt. The grains slide over the top of my hands and mix with the dampness, creating a sludgy paste. I flick my hands in annoyance, eventually using the water to wash it away. Slowly
my eyes begin to adjust to a very faint light that makes everything seem a gentle brown.

Above us is the wide opening of a metal chute through which we passed, and in front I can see the water trickling into the distance. The walls are charred and blackened and there are piles of
ash scattered around the spot where we landed. Hart must be struggling to adjust because he stretches out to take Jela’s hand before she pushes him in the direction of Pietra, who is rubbing
her back. Opie is flat on the floor, allowing the water to run along his back.

As I crouch by him, I realise his eyes are closed. I brush a strand of hair away from his face, stroking his cheek, whispering his name. Slowly he opens his eyes but he doesn’t move and
continues to stare up at the chute.

I am surprised at the gentleness of my own voice. ‘Everyone saw how brave he was.’

Opie blinks, letting me know he has heard. Behind us Hart says something about finding out where we are and I hear him, Jela and Pietra edging away. I suspect they realise we need a few moments
alone.

Somewhere beyond, there is a steady dripping. It could be a few minutes that pass, it could be seconds, but I listen to the gentle plops, waiting for Opie to break the silence.

When he does, it’s not what I expect: ‘Do you know the words to the national anthem?’

‘Of course. We were taught it at school.’

Opie pushes himself up so he is resting on his elbows. ‘I knew it before then. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know it. I assume my dad taught it to me when I was a kid.
Whenever the screens would come on and the anthem would start, he’d yell after me and my brothers, telling us to stand up. He took everything like that really seriously. One time he smacked
Imp in the back of the head because he wasn’t standing straight enough.’

I’m not surprised by either of these things.

‘I know what he did for me.’

Opie sits up fully, wriggling himself out of the water. ‘Where is it going to end?’

It is as much of a sigh as it is a sentence.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you have a plan?’

I pull his head towards me, cradling him across my chest. ‘Perhaps. We should go south to see Vez and Knave again.’

‘What about Xyalis?’

I ask what he means. Although Opie wasn’t with us when we sheltered under the church with the rebel group, I have told him everything that happened. Perhaps because of that, he sees things
differently.

His reply is something I hadn’t thought of: ‘Xyalis was the person helping to keep the rebel groups running. He was their leader. Now he’s dead.’

He’s right. I have no idea if Knave and Vez know and, if they do, how they will react. Xyalis’ death is one more that’s down to me. One for which I don’t feel sorry.

‘We’ll have to deal with that at the time,’ I reply, unsure what else to do.

Opie pulls himself away from me and starts to clean his hands in the water. ‘Me and my dad fought about you a lot.’

‘You’ve never told me that before.’

‘My mum has always loved you. I think because she’s got all boys, she thinks of you like a daughter. But my dad said you were too good for me. Everyone knew you were the clever one.
He’d say that people like me shouldn’t be mixing with someone who could be an Elite.’

‘I was never going to be an Elite.’

He shrugs and shuffles back so he is sitting next to me. ‘You could’ve been, but the point was that you’re cleverer than I am.’

I start to say that people are skilled in different ways but he talks over me, having heard it before. ‘You don’t understand. He didn’t like us mixing with anyone who he
didn’t think was at the same level as us. He thought I should be fit, athletic and good with my hands and that you were someone who should be sitting at home all day reading.’

I laugh. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, but you weren’t like that anyway. He didn’t accept that you were as good as me in the woods. Better. When we brought back animals to eat, he thought that was me
providing for both of us and that you were leeching. That’s what he called you at first: “The Leech”.’

‘I never heard him say that.’

‘Neither did Mum. He’d wait until I was on my own. He didn’t like the way you were with Imp either. He’d say, “He already has a mother, he doesn’t need
another”.’

It’s hard to describe the feeling in my stomach but I feel violated, as if there is a part of my own life I have been unaware of. Our families have done lots together over the years, even
when Opie and I weren’t as close as we are now.

‘How come you never said anything?’ I ask.

‘What good would it have done? It would have annoyed and hurt you and it wasn’t going to change his mind.’

‘What did?’

Opie puts an arm around me. His fingers feel wet through my top. ‘You did. As soon as he spent real time with you, he realised you weren’t the person he thought. When we were
upstairs in the hall, before he went outside, he nodded towards you and said, “Keep her safe. You’ve got a winner there, kid.” It was the first time he ever said anything
complimentary about you.’

I pause for a moment and then the words slip out anyway: ‘Are you going to keep me safe?’

‘That depends on whether you’re mine, doesn’t it?’

Somehow, I have walked into the conversation I’ve been trying to avoid.

Imrin and Opie
.

‘Opie . . .’

He squeezes me but his thick fingers are delicate on my frail shoulders. ‘I’ll need an answer one day.’

‘I know.’

Opie leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. ‘One way or the other, I’ll be trying to keep you safe regardless of who you choose. First, let’s go get Imrin.’

He stands up too quickly, bumping his head on the low ceiling. Even when he says the perfect thing, he still manages to get something wrong.

Opie and Imrin.

He rubs his head with one hand and pulls me up with the other. ‘What about everyone upstairs?’ I whisper.

‘They’re defending you because they want to.’

He’s right but it doesn’t feel like it. More blood, more death. All in my name.

Hart’s voice hisses through the gloom, calling to me.

‘We’re still here,’ I reply.

He emerges from the shadows, the two girls by his side. ‘We’re in the sewers underneath Martindale. Most of the grates are blocked because of the rubble but there are a few sparks of
light.’

‘Can you see anything?’

‘No, and it’s quiet up there. Is your . . . thing . . . working again?’

I take the teleport box out of my pocket, relieved to see that it didn’t smash during the fall. The back is still warm but it is too dark to start fiddling with.

‘No, we’re going to have to walk for now.’

Hart points towards the direction they have come from. ‘There isn’t much that way and it gets darker the further you go.’

I retrace our steps until I am under the chute, trying to figure out where we are facing. Opposite to the direction in which Hart went, there is a fork with two alternative routes. I point
towards the one on the right. ‘That should take us towards the gully. It has to open out eventually.’

The water soon dries up as we walk but the ceiling gets lower, making it an uncomfortable fit for Hart and Opie, before levelling out again. It gradually begins to lighten, which gives me an
idea we are heading in the right direction until eventually the sun blinds our eyes that were accustomed to the darkness.

We emerge at a spot around a third of the way around the gully. Ahead is the rusting, broken hull of a van shielding the waste pipe from the outside. Opie says he remembers seeing the truck
during our times exploring but neither of us ever bothered getting too close.

Hart climbs out first and helps to support the rest of us as we hang from the tip of the cylinder and drop onto a broken pile of metal. We start to clamber up the bank towards the woods when I
realise there are only four of us. Pietra has lagged behind and is waving her arms frantically, her face strained and panicked.

‘What’s wrong?’ I call across, as the others stop and turn.

Without opening her mouth, she angles her eyes downwards towards her foot, trying desperately not to move. It is pressed on top of the thick round bulb of an unexploded grenade.

Hart’s theory was that bigger shells were used to destroy the village and that the lighter explosions we heard were from smaller bombs or grenades as they tried to cause
as much damage as possible across the gully before the plane ran out of fuel. It is no consolation that he was right as we all freeze, staring at Pietra’s foot. She has stopped moving her
arms and is standing straight and still, eyes flicking between us, asking without words what she should do.