The Darkest Minds
Page 65

I climbed over a bin of bargain DVDs to get to them. Zu sat on the floor, her pink palm facing up toward Chubs’s squinting eyes. Without the glasses perched on his nose, he looked like a different person. “She’s all right,” he said. “No burns.”
Liam was suddenly standing beside me, using my shoulder for balance as he climbed over one of the overturned shelves.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said. “Pissed. You?”
“Fine. Pissed.”
I thought for sure I was going to have to hold him back as we came closer to the cluster of boys, but his fury seemed to fall away from him with each step. The other kids had regrouped beside an overturned display of neon-colored pool noodles. The tallest one, his cloud of frizzy brown hair hovering around a pencil-thin neck, stepped in front of the others—the ginger kid who had spoken before, and two big-shouldered blonds that looked like brothers.
“Look, man, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Do you always do crap like this?” Liam said. “Attacking folks without even checking to see if they’re armed—if they’re like you?”
The leader bristled. “You could have been skip tracers.”
“And it was your Yellow that did all of—this.” The ginger kid gestured toward the shelves. “The girl needs a leash.”
“Watch your mouth,” Liam snapped. The blond brothers took a step forward, their eyes lighting at the challenge. “She wouldn’t have panicked if you hadn’t pulled guns on us.”
“We wouldn’t have had to use them if you’d paid attention to our warning back there and just left.”
“Because you gave us so much time to get away—” Liam snapped.
“Look, we could go back and forth forever and it won’t solve a damn thing,” I interrupted. “We were hoping to spend the night here, but if you’ve claimed it or whatever, then we’ll go. That’s the only reason we came—for shelter.”
“For shelter,” the leader repeated.
“I’m sorry, did I stutter?”
“No, but my ears are still bleeding from your Yellow’s meltdown,” he snarled. “Maybe you should say it again, baby, for good measure.”
Liam shot out an arm, cutting off my warpath before it could start.
“We just want to stay here a night. We’re not looking for any trouble,” he said flatly.
The leader gave me the once-over, his eyes drifting to a stop where my hands were fisted at my side, bunching up my dress.
“Looks like you already found it.”
The leader’s name was Greg, and he hailed from Mechanicsville, Virginia. The nervous ginger-haired kid refused to introduce himself but was called Collins by the others. I caught that he was from some town in Pennsylvania, but that was as much as he was willing to share with anyone. The blonds—who were, as I guessed, brothers—were Kyle and Kevin. The only thing the ramshackle group had in common, outside of their pool of food and an alarming pile of firearms and knives, was their camp in New York, which they lovingly referred to only as “Satan’s Ass Crack.”
They told the incredibly dramatic—and highly improbable—tale of their escape from PSF custody over our shared meal of fruit snacks, stale Pringles, and Twinkies.
“Let me get this straight,” said Chubs, his face etched with disbelief. “You were being moved from one camp to another?”
Greg leaned back against one of the glass freezer doors. “They weren’t taking us to another camp. They packed up as many guys as they could and said we were being brought to a testing facility in Maryland.”
“Only guys?” Chubs asked.
“We didn’t have girls there.” Greg’s voice was heavy with disappointment. That explained a lot—particularly why he still seemed to be inching toward me, no matter how far I scooted away. “Otherwise I’m sure they would have been loaded up, too.”
“I’m surprised they even told you that much,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “Do you think that’s actually where they were bringing you?”
“No,” Collins cut in. “It was pretty clear that they had orders to get rid of us.”
“And a storm flooded the road, flipping the bus and allowing you to escape?”
That was the part of the story I had problems with, too. It was that easy for them? A simple intervention of Mother Nature, and they were saved, washed out to freedom and a new life Biblical-style? Where was the detail of PSFs traveling with them?
“We’ve been holed up ever since. It took something like six months to get word to my dad that I was out and safe, and another three to get some kind of response from him.”
Chubs leaned forward. “How, exactly, did you get in touch with them? The Internet?”
“Nah, man,” Greg said. “After that terrorist business, you can’t even search for recipes online without the PSFs snooping and breaking down your door. All they need is one whiff of trouble.”
“What terrorists?” I interrupted.
“The League,” Chubs said. “Don’t you remember—ah.” He seemed to realize his mistake a second late, and, with more patience than I thought he possessed, explained, “Three years ago, the League hacked into the government’s Psi databases and tried posting information about the camps online for everyone to see. Other groups took that as their cue to hack into banks, the stock exchange, the State Department…”