Among the Brave

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Trey had barely begun climbing up toward the bridge before the sentry began yelling at him. He had practically forgotten about the sentry. He’d been more worried about the lights.

“No one’s allowed to cross this bridge!” the sentry screamed. “Turn back or be shot!”

“Relax,” Trey said, remembering how well bluffing had worked before. “I’m a Population Police guard come to, uh, requisition a contraband vehicle parked over there.” He pointed at the opposite shore and then, for good measure, lifted his arm to show the insignia on his sleeve. But now that he was in the light, he saw that the insignia was hanging by two threads from a ripped place in his sleeve. His pants were ripped too, he noticed, and mud stains covered the uniform from his waist down.

The sentry regarded him suspiciously.

“A mob attacked me,” Trey said. “They thought I had food.”

“No mob would dare lay a finger on a Population Police official,” the sentry sniffed.

“This one did,” Trey muttered.

“Where’s your travel pass?” the sentry asked.

“Look, I’ve got authorizations,” Trey said, reaching into his shirt pocket. But the authorizations only concerned transporting prisoners. The guard back at the Grants’ house hadn’t known that Trey would need authorization to cross this particular bridge.

The guard was reaching for Trey’s papers. Any minute now he’d discover that Trey was a fraud.

“See? Now out of my way. I’m in a hurry,” Trey said, shoving the papers back into his pocket

“Wait! I couldn’t—”

Trey took off in a dead run past the sentry.

“Stop! I have to sign the authorization!” the sentry was shouting behind him.

Trey reached the edge of the bridge and took a flying leap over the railing as soon as he saw firm ground on the other side. Except that it wasn’t so firm — he began slipping and sliding down the mound of dirt, crashing through branches and leaves.

He stopped only when he slammed into the truck’s tire.

Trey resisted the urge to hug the tire in relief and just lie there for a while. Instead, he scrambled up immediately, jerked open the door of the truck, and jumped inside, jamming the keys into the ignition. He’d planned to spend a few minutes studying all the dials on the dashboard, maybe reading the owner’s manual from the glove compartment. But there wasn’t time for that now. He turned the key.

Nothing happened.

Oops. What was that pedal I was supposed to push— the clutch?

He tried the key again, this time stabbing his feet at the pedals on the floor. The engine roared to life, but died while Trey was reaching for the gearshift.

Behind him, the sentry was leaning over the edge of the bridge, screaming at him.

“Sir! I insist—”

Trey ignored him, and concentrated on coordinating his feet and the gearshift. The truck lurched forward, toward the river.

No! No! Reverse! his mind screamed, and he shifted, grinding the gears horribly The engine started to die again, and he panicked, hitting the gas pedal as hard as he could. The truck raced backward up the hill, toward the road. Branches scraped at the side of the truck and saplings broke off beneath the tires, but Trey didn’t care as long as none of the obstacles stopped him.

The truck died again at the top of the hill, as Trey was trying to shift gears into forward.

“Sir! You are forcing me to conclude that you are not on a legitimate Population Police mission!” the sentry yelled at him. “Get out of that truck or—”

Trey started up the truck’s engine yet again, and zoomed past the sentry, going as fast as he could in first gear. The engine made a terrible noise, but Trey couldn’t take the chance of trying to shift into second.

“I warned you!” the sentry screamed.

Trey heard gunfire, but nothing struck him, and nothing struck the truck as far as he could tell. He rounded a corner onto a new street, so that a row of buildings now stood between him and the sentry.

What if he radios for help? They wondered. What if every Population Police official in the country starts looking for me?

Trey pulled into a dark alleyway and shut off the engine. It was torture not to know. He silently crept back toward the bridge, staying hidden in the shadows the entire way.

The sentry was still standing on the bridge, but he wasn’t screaming into a radio. For some strange reason, he was taking his shirt off Puzzled, They watched as the sentry lay the shirt on the ground, walked a few paces away, and fired his gun at it. Then he put the gun away and held the shirt up in the air. Light shone through the gunshot holes in the front and back. Then, laughing, the sentry tossed the shirt over the edge of the bridge and waved at something or someone in the shadows on the other side. Several dark shapes emerged from the shadows — men in dark shirts and pants, all carrying huge bags on their shoulders. The bags appeared to be burlap, or some similar material meant for holding food.

Food? Were these smugglers?

The shirtless sentry tucked his gun into his waistband and grabbed a bag of his own. Then all of the men disappeared into the dark, walking in the opposite direction from Trey.

Did the sentry just desert from the Population Police? Trey wondered. Or was he only pretending to begin with?

Either way, he didn’t seem worried about chasing down Trey, now that Trey was out of sight. Feeling vastly relieved, Trey crept back to the truck, started it, and began driving cautiously back to the Population Police headquarters.

After everything Trey had witnessed out in the streets, who could say what awaited him there?