Chapter Seven: First Impressions
"We gotta go," he said, looking around nervously.
Now that I could see his face, I saw that he was young, about my age. But there was a seriousness about him that made him seem older, as if life had already written "sadness" on his slate. He had strong features with a faint beard shadowing his jawline.
"Get your stuff," he directed harshly.
As he spoke, he walked purposefully to the dead man. He kneeled beside him and removed a needle and vial from his jacket pocket. Taking the man's arm in his hand, he inserted the needle and withdrew a sample of blood. He moved efficiently, as if he'd done this many times before. He probably had. The thought unnerved me.
Then he searched the dead man's clothing. He removed his cellular telephone, quickly snapping out and pocketing its tiny memory card. He discarded the telephone's shell in the corner. Last, he produced something from the man's pocket. It was the flash drive my mother had given me. I instantly felt foolish for leaving it behind, unprotected.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked.
"No." It was the truth. My mother had not told me. I could only wonder.
I walked toward the door, retrieving my still-wet jacket and backpack. My mother had always been good at keeping secrets. I recalled a conversation we had years earlier. In school, we were studying the human brain. I asked my mother why so many people wanted to alter their emotions. What I really wanted to ask was, "Why are you helping them do it?" But I knew she would be hurt.
"Not everyone is like us, Lex," she told me. "Their emotions get the best of them. Feelings are a bit like a wild animal—unpredictable—and they can be dangerous if you can't control them."
I never told my mother that, for months after my father left, I cried every night as I fell asleep, letting my tears dead-end into my pillowcase. I guess I had my secrets too.
"My mother gave it to me. I should keep it." My voice sounded more forceful than I had intended.
"Yes, you should keep it." He raised his eyebrows at me, scolding me. Even worse, I deserved it.
He stood by the door, Artos looking up at him anxiously. "Are you ready?" he asked me, begrudgingly handing me the flash drive.
"Can you at least tell me your name?" I tried to sneak a glance at his left forearm, but it was covered by his jacket sleeve.
He rolled his eyes. "Quin McAllister," he said, exasperated. Though his expression was cold, there was a glimpse of warmth underneath.
"And this is Artos." At the sound of his name, Artos' tail pendulummed back and forth.
"Alexandra," I offered without being asked, "but everyone calls me Lex."
It wasn't the whole truth. Most people called me Lexi, a nickname I hated. Hearing it, I couldn't help but picture myself as a small, fluffy dog. My whole fifth grade year, an awful boy named Jeffrey had called me Sexy Lexi—a name made even more humiliating by its obvious contrast to my then-awkward appearance. The truth was that only my parents called me Lex.
"Lex," he repeated. I felt warmth, an instant rush of precious memories. I saw my mother's face.
"So you're Lex." He smirked. "Daughter of the great Dr. Knightley. I was expecting someone a bit more . . ." His voice trailed off as he studied me.
My face felt hot. I wasn't used to being examined so intently by the opposite sex. The last time I had been this close to a boy my own age, he had kissed me. My first kiss. My only kiss. It seemed a lifetime ago.
My mother referred to me as a "late bloomer," an expression I despised. I imagined myself as a cold, hard seed in the ground, waiting impatiently while life sprung up around me.
"Don't worry," she had said. "It will happen." It being my blooming, of course. Though she always reassured me, when I told her about the kiss, I sensed that she was relieved.
I met Quin's stare. The warmth I had felt disappeared. I felt exposed.
"A bit more what?" Inwardly, I groaned. I sounded like a child seeking approval.
"Let's go," Quin said, ignoring my question. He opened the door and waited. Artos trotted out obediently.
"Where are we going?" My voice sounded small.
Quin said nothing, but his silence felt like a reprimand. I didn't like him, but I trusted him without knowing why.
Chapter Eight: What Lies Beneath
We rode in silence, Artos between us. I shivered. My clothing was still wet, and the night air was cold. I petted Artos' head gently, and he licked my hand. At least Artos liked me. The truck—apparently abandoned by someone fleeing the city—smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Adhered to the dashboard was a small paper calendar: March 2040, over one year ago, when a mandatory evacuation order forced most people from the city.
When my mother and I first received word of the evacuation, we weren't surprised. SFTV had been documenting the increasing unrest in San Francisco for years. Though small Resistance factions had developed across the country, the political climate in California made San Francisco a fitting home for its headquarters. For several years, the Resistance held regular protest rallies in front of several of the major pharmaceutical companies.
When the rallies became volatile, the federal government established the Guardian Force to maintain order in the city. Still, the Resistance marched and bedlam followed—looting and graffiti became commonplace, as did violent clashes between protestors and the Guardian Force. Citizens were urged, and eventually mandated, to leave the city for their own protection.
"How did you know where to find me?" I asked. The question had been gnawing at the back of my brain all night.
"How do you think? We were watching you." He glanced sideways at me, waiting for my reaction.
I paused, carefully considering his use of the word we.
"I saw you," I said. "But . . ." I stopped myself. It was still too soon to tell him that I had seen his tattoo.
Quin appeared unfazed. He gestured with his head. "We're here."
Here was nowhere really—the middle of The Embarcadero, a main thoroughfare that ran right next to the ocean. Quin left the truck parked in an alleyway between two buildings. We walked a circuitous route toward the Financial District with Quin silently alerting me to several overhead surveillance cameras. Artos stayed close to Quin's side, his ears perked and alert. At the corner of Market and Embarcadero, Quin turned to me and pointed ahead, smirking again.
"Welcome to the Resistance headquarters."
His words were intended to shock me, and they did. The Resistance had been right underneath me all along. Literally.
Chapter Nine: Watched
Quin was pointing to the boarded entrance of the underground BART railway station. He easily removed one of the boards, which had been left loosened. The eerie quiet of the city made sense now. As is often the case, life was happening underground. For a moment, I felt the ache of melancholy. I wished my mother could be here with me. Things felt less real to me without her.
"After you," he said, gesturing toward the staircase.
Artos and I began walking down the stairs. Behind us, Quin carefully placed the board back in its position and followed. Just at the foot of the staircase was a large steel door with a keypad. Quin placed his thumb into the device and typed in a code. The door opened.
The sprawling BART station had been given a second life. In the middle of the wall up ahead, the mark of the Resistance was painted in bold red. At the center, there was a control station of sorts with at least twenty monitors capturing various portions of the city from above. Several armed men were stationed nearby. They acknowledged Quin with a nod.
Quin pointed to the monitors. "The government has its eyes all over the city. Our computer engineer, Hiro, was able to tap into their surveillance system. We see what they see, when they see it."
I wondered how long the Resistance had been watching me. Had they witnessed my first night in the library? Had they seen me hiding from Quin? Or my wild run through the rain? Had they known I was in danger?
I followed Quin. He effortlessly scaled the turnstiles that blocked our entrance, then offered his hand.
"I can do it myself," I said, glad that my mother had insisted on our daily workouts—pushups, sit-ups, and a five-mile run in a park near our home.
"Suit yourself," he replied, not glancing back.
He continued walking through a long, sterile corridor and down an unmoving escalator onto the pedestrian platform. I remembered standing here when the trains were still running, hearing the roar and feeling the cold rush of air sliding past me as they approached. Now, there was only stillness and silence.
The trains were shut down more than one year prior to the evacuation. It was one of the government's first attempts to quell the Resistance. SFTV reported that members of the Resistance were targeting stations near the pharmaceutical companies, vandalizing trains and accosting passengers. My mother and I had watched from the West Oakland station as the last train returned from San Francisco.
Quin's voice interrupted my memory. "You'll meet everyone tomorrow," he said. "I'll show you where you can sleep tonight."
Artos was already running excitedly down the tracks. In his wake, birds scattered frantically. Quin hopped down from the platform and started walking into the black tunnel ahead.
"Down there? You've got to be kidding me." I laughed, but inside I was wondering if I had made a fatal error in coming here, putting my faith in Quin, with his Guardian tattoo.
Reading my thoughts, Quin replied, "Trust me."
If I didn't go with him, I would be spending the night on the platform alone. Or worse, back in the bleakness of the city. I hesitated, then began walking. Quin produced a small flashlight from his jacket before we headed straight into the darkness.
Chapter Ten: Perks
About one hundred yards ahead, Quin opened another door with his fingerprint. Inside was a tunnel that widened into a series of rooms. Each door was branded with the mark of the Resistance.
"How is this possible?" I wondered aloud.
Not surprisingly, Quin didn't answer. It seemed that he carefully chose when to speak and when to be silent. I was almost starting to like that about him.
He led me into a small, sparse room with a twin-sized bed and its own bathroom.
"Our visitors stay here," he explained. Though I didn't dare say it, I doubted the Resistance typically entertained visitors.
"I'll give you a moment to settle in," he said. "But first, I'll need your weapon. Visitors aren't authorized to carry guns."
Though I knew it was probably foolhardy, handing the gun to Quin felt like releasing the heaviest of burdens. After he left, I sat down on the bed, letting the day sink into my mind. It seemed impossible so much had happened in one day. But even at eighteen, I already knew life was like that. Sometimes a day can contain a lifetime.
My brain was buzzing with questions, annoying little flies that I tried to swat unsuccessfully. I managed to silence my thoughts long enough to enjoy a hot shower. I changed into the dry clothing in my backpack, slipping my mother's flash drive into my pocket. I would not let it out of my sight again.
On the desk near the bed, I placed the one possession that I treasured most: an anthology of poetry that belonged to my mother. I had read it so many times, it seemed as if the words were my own. My mother's favorite poem—Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese"—was dog-eared. When I thought of my mother folding the corner of that page for me, I felt a pit deep in my stomach. I sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm, unyielding, but far more comfortable than the library floor.
A short time later, Quin returned with a sandwich and a glass of water. He sat down on the bed next to me with Artos at his feet. Quin seemed more relaxed. I could feel the warmth from his body. He smelled like summer. He had taken off his jacket, and my eyes instantly went to his inner forearm—the black-inked badge clearly visible now. Quin rubbed his finger across the tattoo. I averted my eyes, but I knew that I had been caught.
"You can ask me about it, if you want," he said.
"Well, that's new," I joked.
Quin laughed, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked his age again, his seriousness momentarily dissolved. "I guess I can be a bit difficult at times."
"Difficult? Is that how you would describe it?" I met his eyes for a moment, and we both smiled.
I quickly looked away. I didn't want him to think that I was flirting. Was I flirting?
"You have some better words, I presume?" Quin teased, gesturing at my book on the table. "Haven't seen someone with one of those in a while."
I nodded. Traditional books were almost obsolete since most information was digital, stored on small computer tablets. "My mother gave it to me."
"So . . ." I was tentative, trying to select the least offensive words. "You're a Guardian?" I finally asked, practically whispering the word Guardian as if invoking it held some mysterious power.
Quin took a breath. His brow furrowed. "I was a Guardian . . . but not anymore."
"Why?" I asked. That same small question that really was so big. "Why did you become a Guardian?"
"Let's just say that being a Guardian comes with certain perks."
"Like Emovere?" As soon as I spoke the words, I immediately regretted them. Though his face remained expressionless, Quin's eyes were not as skilled at deception. "Sorry," I muttered.
"More like food and shelter," Quin replied. "I was only sixteen and homeless when they recruited me."
I looked at him quizzically. I hadn't expected that. "What about your family?"
"Gone," he said. He disguised it well, but I heard a tangible ache in his voice. I knew better than to press for more.
Quin slipped back into his stony silence, then stood and walked to the doorway. "Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be busy."
I nodded, but I couldn't imagine a day any busier than this one.
"Artos, stay," he commanded. As Quin closed the door, Artos whined and then settled near the foot of my bed.
Taking the book of poetry from the desk, my fingers easily found my mother's dog-eared page. Once I skimmed past the first few lines, I thought of Quin as I read.