Among the Brave

Chapter Fourteen

By silent agreement, Trey and Mark crept deeper into the woods to figure out what to do next. Trey was all for waiting until the team of workers left — maybe even rethinking the entire mission.

“What if there’s a better way to help Lee than climbing through two fences?” he said. “Let’s both think for a while, talk it out… Maybe we’ve been overlooking an obvious solution. Maybe we don’t even need to step foot on the Grants’ property at all.”

The more he thought about it, the more the second fence spooked him. It just didn’t fit.

“You want to sit around thinking and talking?” Mark asked incredulously. “Doing nothing? it could be hours before those men leave. And during those hours, my brother could be—”

Trey didn’t want to hear how Mark finished that sentence.

“So what do you want to do?” he challenged.

“Let’s go around that way and see if there’s another way in,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction from the men assembling the barbed-wire fence. “Maybe the front gate’s open.”

Trey couldn’t believe Mark thought Trey might be able to just stroll right in, in broad daylight. But Mark wasn’t waiting for Trey to continue the debate. He was already moving gingerly through the underbrush, away from Trey.

Silently fuming, Trey followed.

By the time Trey reached the edge of the woods, every muscle in Trey’s body ached. He just wasn’t used to lifting his feet so carefully, then placing them down again so precisely that no twigs cracked, no leaves rustled. Really, he wasn’t very accustomed to moving his feet at all. And it wasn’t just his feet and legs — his arms ached from shoving away branch after branch. His back ached from crouching. He’d scraped one hand on the rough stone of the wall, and the other on a thorny plant he hadn’t noticed until it scratched him. He was in such a fog of pain and exhaustion that he didn’t even mind seeing the patch of clear sky up ahead. What more could the horrible outdoors do to him?

It was Mark who stopped him from stepping out into the clearing.

“Wait,” he whispered, grabbing Trey’s arm. “Look.”

Once again, Trey peered through leaves. He blinked twice, sure his eyes were fooling him. There, on the driveway leading to the gate of the Grant estate, stood hundreds of men and boys, lined up and waiting patiently for. . what? And why hadn’t he and Mark heard them? How could so many people be so quiet?

Then Trey noticed that none of them were talking. Or, no — a few were, but whispering, their heads bent close together, their voices low. It was like they were as scared of being overheard as he and Mark were.

“What do you reckon they’re doing here?” Mark asked.

Trey just shook his head. Mark looked disappointed, as if he’d thought this huge crowd was some city phenomenon that Trey would understand and explain instantly.

“I’m going to go ask one of them,” Mark said.

“No!” Trey exploded. “they might—”

“What?” Mark asked. “What’s the worst thing anyone could do to me, just for asking a question?”

“Kill you,” Trey argued quietly Mark rolled his eyes.

“Help me,” he said. “Let’s pick the right person.”

As far as Trey was concerned, one person standing in a line was pretty much the same as any other. But he obediently peered through the leaves again. Everyone in the line was dressed in ragged clothes; everyone was thin, with a gaunt face. But, looking closely, Trey could see some differences. Some of the boys were young — his age, maybe even younger — and they had the most hopeful expressions. Some of them even looked like they thought they might be embarking on an adventure. The oldest men in the crowd, though, had dead-looking eyes and vacant gazes. Some of them looked like they really might kill someone for asking a question. Or maybe they thought they were about to be killed themselves.

“That one,” Mark said suddenly.

He pointed at a boy about his age. Trey knew instantly why Mark had chosen him. He was wearing the same kind of flannel shirt as Mark and Trey.

“You shouldn’t — you can’t—,” Trey sputtered.

But Mark was already stepping out of the brush, walking toward the line.

They peered fearfully after him. He clutched the trunk of the tree beside him so tightly that bark came off in his hands.

Mark’s walk was almost a saunter. At first, no one from the line even glanced at him. Then, as he reached the edge of the blacktop, a few boys raised their eyes in his direction. One was the boy in the flannel shirt.

“Hey,” Mark said. “What’s this line for?”

Flannel-shirt boy looked around desperately, side to side, as if he was hoping that Mark was speaking to someone else — was drawing attention to someone else. But then he answered. Trey could see his mouth moving, even though Trey couldn’t hear a single word he said.

Mark moved in closer to flannel-shirt boy. Mark had his back to Trey now, but Trey could tell by the way he turned his head that he was talking now too, just so softly that Trey couldn’t hear. Mark and flannel-shirt boy were having a regular conversation, back and forth and back and forth. They were both intense. Once, flannel-shirt boy frowned at something Mark said, then cupped his hand over Mark’s ear, whispering so no one else could hear.

After a few minutes, Mark walked back into the woods.

“What?” Trey asked as soon as Mark was close enough. “What are Trey doing?”

“They’re waiting in line to join Population Police forces,” Mark said.

“What?” Trey said. He looked again at the long, long line, and held back a shiver. “At the Grants’ house? What do the Grants have to do with the Population Police?”

Mark was peering out at the line too. But his eyes didn’t seem to be focusing.

“It’s not the Grants’ house anymore,” he said. “It belongs to the Population Police now. In fact — it’s their new headquarters.”