Among the Brave

Chapter Twenty-Three

They worked out a deal, Mark and Trey and the Population Police guard. Their negotiations seemed to take hours, because all of them were afraid of saying too much.

“How is it that you have a truck?” the guard asked. “And where is it?”

“We can’t tell you,” Mark said.

“Who are you worried about?” Trey asked.

“I will name no names,” the guard said. “It is better for you not to know.”

“What’s your name?” Mark asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” the guard said. Trey tried to sneak covert glances at him, to get a good look at his face, but he stayed carefully in the shadows, the flashlight trained away from his features. And he didn’t have a badge number or other identification on his uniform.

Could Mark and Trey trust him?

They didn’t have much choice.

Trey had to give up one huge, valuable tidbit of information: He told the guard that it. was possible to go between rooms at the Grants’ house by crawling through the heat ducts. The guard nodded soberly at this news.

“So I can get access to the secret records,” he mumbled. “And I can find the documents I want to fake….”

“I’ll do it,” Trey said. “Tell me where to go and I’ll get whatever you want. And then you’ll set Mark free.”

“No,” the guard said. “Somebody else will do that job.”

“Who?” Trey asked.

“Never mind,” the guard said.

Trey was secretly relieved not to have to crawl through the ducts again. But his relief died when he realized what he’d have to do instead: drive the truck.

“My partner and I will have to confer,” Trey announced when the three of them had finished all the planning.

“Fine,” the guard said.

He walked to the other side of the room, but kept his flashlight trained on Mark and Trey.

“Mark, I can’t!” Trey protested as quietly as possible. “Can’t we ask him to put me in the cage and just have you drive?”

Mark looked across the room to where the guard sat, grim-faced.

“He doesn’t trust us as it is,” Mark said. “He’ll think we’re trying to trick him. Or that we’re just bluffing. Besides, it’s easy to drive. Just remember to push the clutch in when you’re changing gears. And, oh yeah, you’ll be driving forward most of the time, so you look out the front window, not the back. .”.

“I need a decision,” the guard said from across the room.

“We’ll do it,” Mark said.

And so it was that ten minutes later, Trey was climbing the stairs out of the basement. He’d changed into a fresh Population Police uniform the guard had given him, transferred his papers between pockets, and then stuffed his original clothes into one of the Grants’ boxes. But this uniform wasn’t the dull gray of a new recruit’s. It was the more ominous-looking black of a prison guard’s.

“I’ll show you to the door,” the guard said, escorting Trey down a dark hall. Other guards stood outside many of the rooms they passed, but they only glanced at Trey and his mysterious guide.

The entryway was empty now, the earlier crowd of recruits gone who-knew-where.

“It’s four in the morning,” the guard whispered as they stood on the doorstep. “If you’re not back by six….

He didn’t have to finish his sentence. If Trey wasn’t back by six, Mark would die.

“I won’t take long,” Try promised.

The guard handed him a clutch of official-looking papers.

“Authorizations,” he said. “Show these at the servants’ entrance when you return. Over there.” He pointed vaguely, but Trey didn’t ask for specifics. Finding the servants’ entrance was the least of his worries.

He stepped out into the chilly night air, and the guard shut the door behind him.

Down the stairs, out the walkway, across the driveway… They moved numbly, his fear of the outdoors trumped by greater fears. At the front gate, a sentry merely grunted at him. Outside the gate, men and boys were still lined up, but they were no longer standing. Most of them appeared to be sleeping, either slumped over or lying down on the hard ground. In the dark, all those motionless bodies made They think of pictures he’d seen of battlegrounds, after the battle was over.

“Hey! No cutting in line!” someone growled at him. A few large bodies shifted menacingly, blocking Trey’s path. Not everyone was asleep after all.

“I–I’m not cutting in line,” Trey stammered. “I’m — I’m already in the Population Police. See?”

He held out the insignia on his uniform, even though it was too dark to make out the circles and the teardrop.

Somebody grabbed Trey’s sleeve, verifying by touch what couldn’t be verified by sight

“He’s telling the truth,” a voice announced, and miraculously, the path cleared ahead of Trey.

“Hey, man, did they feed you good?” another voice called out plaintively

“Yes,” Trey said, though it was a lie, of course. He’d eaten nothing since he and Mark had left the truck, all those hours ago. His stomach felt squeezed together, turned inside out “They’ll feed you when you get inside too,” he added.

‘When’s that going to be?” someone grumbled. But Trey just kept walking, and nobody challenged him. Soon he’d left the long line of desperate men behind.

He and Mark had discussed the best route back to the truck.

“It’ll take too long walking along the river,” Mark had said. “There are streets you can take through the city I remember from the map. I–I was just too scared to go that way before.”

Oh, yeah, Trey thought now. It’s going to be much less scary at four in the morning. With me alone instead of following Mark.

At first, though, his worries seemed unnecessary The street leading away from the Grants’ house was absolutely deserted. The streetlights weren’t on, but Trey could see well enough in the dim glow from the moon. He didn’t mind the darkness anyhow. It made it easier for him to believe that he was unseen, gliding through the shadows.

After a mile or two, he turned onto another street that made him remember the first bit of news he’d heard from Mrs. Talbot, about the riots. This street was full of stores that might once have been expensive boutiques. But every plate glass window had been smashed in. Some were now boarded up; others were just gaping open, their shelves picked clean.

Looters, Trey thought with a shiver, and began walking even faster.

After five blocks, They heard footsteps approaching. He froze, looking for a place to hide, already worrying that he’d be too late to save Mark if he had to hide for very long. But the glow of a flashlight caught him before he had the chance to move.

“Identify yourself!” a voice called out.

Two men were approaching him. Trey’s heart sank when he saw they were in Population Police uniforms. He didn’t have his I.D. with him. It was still back at the Grants’ house, in the stack with the other new recruits.

“Don’t be silly, Henrik,” the second man said. “Can’t you see he’s Poppo? And he outranks us.”

“Oh, sorry” the first man said, sounding humbled. “Where are you going, sir?”

Just from the voices, Trey guessed that both men were at least a decade older than him. But he decided to take a chance.

“My destination is classified information,” he growled — figuring that growling would do more to lower his voice than anything else. His uniform had come with a cap, and he made sure it was pulled down, covering most of his face, so they couldn’t see that he wasn’t even old enough to shave. “And what’s with this ‘Poppo’ business? That’s disrespectful. You’re proud members of the Population Police, and don’t you forget it.”

“Yes, sir,” the two said in unison.

“What’s your assignment?” Trey asked.

“We’re patrolling,” the first man said. “Enforcing curfew.”

“Then get busy,” Trey commanded. "I thought I heard noises back there!” He pointed in the opposite direction.

“Yes, sirl” the men said, and rushed off.

Trey had to hold back a giggle as he watched them scurry away. He’d outsmarted and outbiuffed the Population Police. Just because he was wearing a uniform. Just because they thought he outranked them.

Now I know what the soldiers in the Trojan horse felt like, he thought. If I were living hundreds of years ago, people would write epic poems in my honor too. Something about “The third child in his enemy’s clothes….

He walked on, practically strutting, working out rhyme schemes in his head. Epic poems were always best in French. Let’s see. “Le troisi~me enfant dans les v&ements de ses ennemis…”

He was so absorbed, he didn’t hear the whispering until he was already surrounded.