Chapter 24: Tobias – Flight
The stress is getting worse. In Dauntless, I could work it out by shooting or using a punching bag or even just going for a walk, but I don't have those options in the back of this truck. Instead, there's just hour after hour of bouncing along a miserable road with nothing but danger ahead – and Lauren inside.
My fellow trainer has regained consciousness, but she's weak and is in significant pain. I keep expecting her to spike a fever too. Cara and Caleb clearly did their best, but there's no way that "surgery" was anywhere near sanitary enough. It's just a matter of time before infection sets in. I can't help but feel responsible, since I asked Lauren to lead that group. What's worse is the reason I did it…because I didn't want to put Marcus in charge. She shouldn't die just because I hate my father.
No one asks the obvious question, because no one wants to answer it, but what are we going to do with her? She can't fight or run like this, and she needs care that we can't provide. But there don't seem to be any options. The rebels in Pittsburgh won't be safe for long, not once they're exposed to the higher serum levels, and it's not like we can leave her in a hospital. If she gets feverish and starts talking, she could reveal far too much about Chicago, along with plenty of detail about our faces and at least some information about what we're trying to do. We can't risk that.
I rest my head in my hands, trying to come up with some alternative, some way for Lauren to live through the next week without endangering everyone else. We just need to buy enough time to finish this mission – realistically, if we're not done with it in a week, it doesn't really matter who talks. It would be too late to make a difference.
Maybe we should try Tris' idea and let Priscilla and Doug take Lauren back to the bomb shelter. They'd probably all die on the way, but at least they'd have a fighting chance, compared with if they stay with us. It seems like a kinder way to abandon my friend.
I groan in frustration, and Tris rubs a hand in calming circles on my back. It helps a little, but even her presence isn't enough right now.
At least Tris seems to have come to terms with Caleb. They've been looking at each other a lot since the battle earlier, and there's understanding in their eyes. Tris isn't talking about it yet, probably because Robert's death is too fresh in her mind, but my guess is Caleb helped her in a pretty major way. The thought makes me glad I let him come with us.
On the flip side, there's Marcus…. He's not doing anything directly, but every glimpse of him adds to the massive knot of tension growing inside me. He sits there with that smug expression, like he did us all such a favor by suggesting Tris play prisoner. And I can't even say anything about it, because it actually was a good idea. He was right about the restraints too, though I certainly wasn't about to let him participate in making them. I can't stand the thought of him being near Tris under any circumstances, let alone now. Still, I used his idea to rig a pair of handcuffs so Tris can open and close them on her own. It feels a little better having her be in control of the act.
Given my mood, it's a good thing Uriah stopped flirting with Tris. Objectively, I know he was mostly joking, and after two years of listening to him and Zeke banter back and forth that way, part of me did find it funny. But it doesn't sit well, and the more time passes, the more I dwell on one of the fears from his simulations – the one where Tris and Marlene both rejected him and Lynn clawed at his eyes for asking them out.
Zeke swayed him away from Tris after that, for my sake, and I do know Uriah is too loyal a friend to go after her now. But as I stare at Lauren's blood, my mind seeks comfort in the only place it can, and the image from Uriah's simulation gets in the way of that.
There's very little conversation during this stretch of the trip, except for Margot and Pari telling us what they know about the NUSA military, to help us act the part if we're questioned. They don't know enough to make us feel comfortable with our false identities, but their information is better than nothing.
It definitely helps us the two times we're stopped. Both times, the truck grinds to a halt, and we take our places instantly: Tris closing her cuffs and me pointing a gun at her. The soldiers follow the same pattern each time, talking with Amar and the others up front and then opening the back door and shining a flashlight around us. They don't keep us long, just enough time to exchange a few salutes and see Lauren's ashen face and bloody uniform. Then, they wave us on, clearly anxious to get their "fellow soldier" to a medical facility. Maybe there's some way to make that really happen.
As the hours wear on, I try to sleep. But the harder I try, the more it eludes me. There's too much worry and anger and guilt right now. Tris leans against me, and I stroke her soft hair and breathe her scent, but even that doesn't relax me enough to drift off. That's not good, because I'm more dangerous than I'd like right now, and rest would make a difference. But of course thinking about that just makes it worse.
The road climbs higher the longer we drive, curving around and over hills until it manages to trigger both my claustrophobia and fear of heights at the same time. I find myself clutching Tris tightly as I breathe through gritted teeth. My grip awakens her, and I can feel her looking around, presumably trying to see the danger through the dark night air.
"Sorry," I whisper. "It's just the height and being stuck inside this box for so long. I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's okay," she murmurs sleepily. "Where are we?"
"I don't know, but we must be getting closer. According to the map, Pittsburgh has a ton of hills, and we've certainly been driving through those."
"Mmm," she says, placing her face near the window to look. "I think you're right. There are definitely more lights ahead." She stretches, trying to wake up the rest of the way, and then asks, "Do you have any idea what our next steps are at this point?" The whisper is too quiet for the others to hear, if they were awake.
"Just some guesses," I say, keeping my voice low too and my lips against her ear. "I assume we're going to the local rebels first, to see if they can help Priscilla and Doug – and maybe Lauren. But I doubt we'll all meet them; it will probably just be Priscilla. Then, I assume we need to sell the jewelry we brought with us, so we have money to get the rest of the way. I don't know how far we can drive in this thing – it was camouflage on the road here, but it will probably stand out once we're deeper into NUSA. So, presumably we need to find another vehicle."
Tris nods, but she doesn't say anything, and we sit in silence for a few minutes, each thinking our own thoughts. For whatever reasons, my mind wanders to Anna's ring, and I realize that the idea of selling it bothers me. It takes me a moment to figure out why, but then the image slips into place so naturally it startles me.
If – if – I ever ask Tris to marry me, that should be her wedding ring. I try to shrug the thought away; we have to survive this mission before it could even come up, and besides, I don't know if Anna would give it to us. But the thought nags at me anyway, because I suspect she would if I asked. And I know I would ask someday. And someday doesn't seem as far off as it used to.
My thoughts are interrupted by an odd pattern of light coming through the windows, and I chance a look outside. I immediately wish I hadn't. We're driving through a tunnel, the walls pressing in around us, and as I look ahead, I don't see any end to it. I close my eyes, trying to pretend I'm somewhere else, but there's a unique sound as our movement echoes in the enclosed space, and it's impossible to ignore that reminder that I'm here, inside this tube, with who knows what massed above me and nowhere to escape from it.
And it lasts forever. I've never even heard of a tunnel this long.
My hands grip the seat, and I force myself to breathe, but it keeps going and going. Eventually, Tris peels the fingers of my left hand from the seat and grasps them firmly in her own, but I don't open my eyes to look. There's nothing but closeness and weight and death out there. Even through my eyelids, I can see the lights flickering as we pass beneath them, traveling what must be miles and miles. My heart pounds harder the longer we go. And then finally, when I think I can't stand it any longer, the sound changes, and Tris says, "We're out."
I open my eyes as we leave the tunnel – and drive onto a bridge high above a river.
"Oh, God," I groan, staring at the drop that's now compounding the effects of the tunnel. What kind of a city is this?
It's as if I'm frozen in place. I can't look away from the sight outside the window, no matter how much I want to. Every muscle is rigid, locked too much to even turn my head or close my eyelids.
"Tobias," Tris says firmly, but I can't move enough to face her. "Tobias!" Her voice is more insistent, and I try to listen even if I can't respond.
"You're hurting me." Those words drill through my panic, shredding the two fears I'm facing to reach one that's even worse, and my fingers spring open instantly. And suddenly I'm staring at Tris, the drop outside forgotten.
"Are you all right?" I ask.
She's rubbing her hand and shaking it out the way we always teach the initiates to do after an injury, but she smiles a little. "I'll be fine," she answers. I watch her warily, wanting to be sure she means that, but fortunately it quickly becomes clear she does. The thought provides some relief, even though we're still on the bridge, and I can still see the tunnel behind us.
I take her face in my hands and press my forehead to hers, shutting out everything except her, breathing her air and her scent. By the time we separate again, we're off the bridge. Mercifully, we're now in a flatter area, with city buildings around us, and the sharp edge of panic subsides back to the duller level of the ever-present stress as we begin meandering through side streets.
Tris and I both look out the windows now, catching our first glimpse of life inside NUSA. In some ways, it feels like we're driving through the ruined parts of Chicago, surrounded by filthy buildings and trash-strewn roads, except that people clearly live here. And not just a few people. Judging by the number of lights, and the sounds of crying and human suffering that reach us even through the walls of the vehicle, and the quantity of battered old cars lining the streets, this place is packed with more people than I can easily imagine.
A strong odor of waste and decay begins to invade the truck, and Tris scrunches her nose up in distaste. But neither of us comments on it. I suppose that's the Abnegation in us, ignoring our own discomfort in the face of others' unhappiness.
"What is that smell?" Peter asks in disgust, and I swing around quickly. Several faces are looking back at me, and I wonder how long they've been awake and if any of them saw me freeze in fear. If they did, neither Peter nor Caleb says so. The third face, though, tells a different story.
Marcus is glaring at me, his eyes narrowed and his mouth in a line – the expression he always wore just before beating me or my mother. I can practically hear his anger: furious that I showed fear to a woman, that I was weak enough to need her help.
And his attitude sends a wave of answering fury through me, because I know how he thinks. He'll believe that Tris needs to be "put in her place" after seeing my weakness, and he'll feel that if I'm not willing to do that, he will. And there is no way I will ever let him do that to her.
I'm vaguely aware that the others are discussing something, but the words are just background noise. My full attention is on my father, and suddenly all the stress that has been building inside me is aimed squarely at him. No one else exists as I cross the truck in a single long step and grab his shoulders, pinning him against the wall behind him with the strength of two years' worth of Dauntless training.
"Let me be clear," I hiss into his face. "If you so much as touch her, I will kill you. Do you understand?"
For a second, his eyes are still lit with the hatred and viciousness I lived with for sixteen years, and then he masks it. He displays his public face as he asks innocently, "What are you talking about, Tobias? I haven't harmed anyone. You, on the other hand, are responsible for injuring two women very recently." And he gestures from Tris to Lauren. It's a low blow, even for him, and without thinking, I slam a hand into his throat, cutting off his ability to say anything else hurtful.
But at that moment, Uriah grabs my arm. "Four," he says tensely, "stop it!" And I can hear Zeke in his voice, can hear the friend who helped me move on from my life with Marcus to the person I am now, and it's enough. I accept the words when they come from him.
I pull back, stumbling blindly to a seat that's apart from everyone else. I need distance and movement to calm down, but neither is available, so I sit rigidly, glaring at the floor, breathing through gritted teeth.
"Don't!" I hear Peter saying, and I realize that Tris has started toward me. The idea of Peter warning her is so ludicrous it almost snaps me out of my fury, but I suppose he does understand what's going through me at this particular moment, and he knows I'm far too dangerous to be approached. I wish he weren't right about that.
"I'm not afraid of Tobias," Tris snarls, but as she steps forward again, I turn my hard gaze on her, letting her see that right now is not the time for anyone to get too close to me, not even her. She stares at me uncertainly, and Caleb steps between us, taking her by both arms.
"Beatrice," he says softly, "he sat by himself for a reason. Give him a little time." And just as I was willing to hear Uriah when he spoke with Zeke's voice, Tris listens to her brother. As she sits down again, I resume staring at the floor, using every calming technique I've ever learned to avoid exploding through this entire truck. But I'm still a live wire when it finally comes to a stop.