Otherborn (The Otherborn Series) Page 10

  London and her friends were poked with the butts of their captors’ guns and rudely shushed as well—though they’d made no attempt to speak—little clouds of ash kicking up at their ankles.

  London felt like a two-headed mannequin on display in a store window as she took in all the curious stares and whispers around her. Two black-skinned teen girls, with matching faces, braided hair, and oddly sewn dresses that zippered down the front, pointed at her sweater and sniggered. When the man with his gun trained on her looked away, she shot the girls the bird and stuck her tongue out at a little kid who was reaching to unlace her boots.

  An older burly man stood to address them, and everyone who remained standing either found a seat or plopped to the ground. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, wearing navy sweatpants slit up each side to his thighs and a raggedy, hole-infested t-shirt proclaiming Hard Rock Café.

  “Welcome, strangers,” he began loudly.

  “Some welcome,” London muttered, and Rye elbowed her in the ribs.

  The man smiled, and London could see that his eyes were kind behind the blooming wrinkles on either side and the mask of graying facial hair. He was missing two front teeth which made her think of the jack-o-lantern in a storybook she’d once seen at the school library, and Ernesto’s incisor gap where his bobby pin always got lost.

  “Please excuse our necessary precautions,” he addressed her, gesturing to the gun barrels surrounding them. “Not all who find their way to our camp are friendly.”

  Kim raised one hand, exposing his trigram tattoo, and said in slow, rigid syllables, “We-come-in-peace.”

  London couldn’t help herself. She smacked him upside the back of his head and roared, “They’re not savages, stupid!”

  At this, the old man chuckled and waved for the gunmen to lower their arms.

  “Listen,” London continued with an emphatic eye roll at Kim, “we don’t mean any harm. We’re out here looking for our friend who disappeared from Capital City, and we heard laughter. We thought she might be with you.”

  The man lowered his head and rubbed his chin. His graying hair was quite thin on top, reminding London of Pauly with a pang in her heart.

  “Disappeared, you say? I’m sorry to tell you that no one has joined our camp for some months actually.”

  London’s shoulders sagged. Not the news they were hoping for. She dared a glance at Zen, but his face was unreadable.

  “Did this happen recently?” the man asked.

  “Yes, only days ago,” London told him.

  The old man raised both arms high in the air and announced in his loudest voice, “Tonight, we feed our new guests!”

  A refrain of whispers and gasps raced through the seated crowd, and London figured by their suspicious glances and shocked expressions that this was a controversial decision. It seemed pretty obvious that however taboo Outroaders were in Capital City, city folk were just as taboo in the Outroads. At least they were going to feed them.

  “Come with me.” The old man smiled now, waving for them to follow. “We’ll talk more in my tent.”

  He led them through the crowd of onlookers, who parted like Kim’s silky straight hair for a rattail comb. London was reminded of the grove she’d visited the night before on the Midplane, with its assemblage of beings she’d never really taken the time to notice individually. She promised herself that if she visited the grove again, she would get a better look at everyone standing around the stone circle. Maybe among them, she’d see another face like Si’dah’s. Maybe she’d see Avery. She pushed that possibility from her mind. It was still too soon to contemplate another death.

  They ducked inside what could only be described as a nylon complex, where several faded tents had been staked together, some strapped over with tarps to cover the splicing, forming a sort of fabric palace. The front room was large and comfortable, with an overlapping jigsaw of old rugs, a few wooden chairs, and a number of haphazard pillows tossed about. The man motioned for them to find a seat. London picked a pair of pillows covered in a tiny floral print and crossed her legs. The guys each did the same without a word, and the old man plopped down in a cushy, if battered, pleather wingback.

  “You’ll have to excuse an old man’s knees,” he said, patting the arm of his padded chair. “They aren’t what they used to be.”

  London smiled up at him. “It’s fine. I like the floor.”

  “I am Harlan,” he introduced himself. “I’m the camp Elder here, not that it’s very impressive to a bunch of Wallers like yourselves.”

  They each told Harlan their own names. London asked him what a “Waller” was.

  “It’s what we call your kind,” he grinned.

  “And what exactly is our kind?” Rye asked, a little offended.

  “The kind who live behind the walls,” Harlan said with an air of distaste.

  London ignored the slight and asked if there were more camps like theirs outside Capital City.

  “Well, Outroaders stick together, and we generally don’t stray too far from the walled cities, but we move around a lot. The Houselands provide a lot of scrap we can use to trade for supplies or to furnish our camps. Every walled city has its own camps that spring up among the ruins. Sometimes they split up and more than one camp has to compete for the same resources. Occasionally, in a situation like that, a camp will pick up and follow the Outroads to another city altogether. But that’s not common. That kind of travel is hard. Mostly, we just skirt around the edges of the Houselands.”

  “So, you’re the only camp here then?” Kim asked.

  “Last I checked. I’ve worked hard to keep this camp together over the years. Won’t be any splits so long as I’m alive.”

  “Then why move around so much? Why not stay put?” Picking up and moving in circles around the same city didn’t make sense to London.

  Harlan grabbed a pipe up off a wooden side table and stuffed the bowl with a clump of tobacco. “A lot of reasons. Reasons Wallers wouldn’t understand.”

  London handed him a lighter before he could reach for his own. “Try me,” she dared.

  He puffed at the pipe, his cheeks moving in time with the little orange glow brightening in its bowl. Letting a curl of smoke rise from his lips he said, “Raids. Supplies. Game. Water. Tycoons. Take your pick.”

  London pulled out two of her own cigarettes and lit up as well, passing one to Kim. “Tycoon raids?”

  “You shouldn’t smoke those,” Harlan told them, ignoring her question.

  “Look who’s talking,” London said.

  He grinned, his pink gums shining in the light of his pipe. “Ah, but this, this is pure. We dry this ourselves. Not like those—jam-packed with chemicals and sedatives. Reprocessed till you can’t recognize what’s in ‘em anymore.”

  “The President says their okay for us. Don’t even need rations. These are city-issue,” Kim argued.

  Harlan shrugged and leaned back. “I know all about city-issue. Sounds like Tycoon talk to me.”

  London glared at him over her cigarette and passed it to Rye for a drag. “What do you know about the Tycoons?”

  “More than you, I imagine. But that’s for another time. Right now, I’d like to know who you are exactly, what you’re doing here, and why you thought your friend was in our camp?”

  They filled Harlan in on as much as they could without letting on about the murders, the dreams, or their Otherborn. Which meant they told him very little. He listened intently, puffing his pipe and nodding, asking the occasional question. London noticed how tan he was along his arms and face, the creases at his eyes showing white when he relaxed. Evidence of someone who lived their life outdoors.

  Tans were frowned upon in Capital City. They could mean only three things: you were a Scrapper, a pit worker, or an Outroader. None of those were good. If you had the misfortune to be brown-skinned without sun exposure, you were considered a mixed-breed, like London. Only London was some kind of mixed freak with pale skin, a genetic anomaly. Ins
ide the walls, there were only two desirable skin tones, super white or super black. Black was the rarest, because only the purest purebreds had black skin. The twins she saw earlier would have had a dozen boyfriends each at her school.

  All the most popular girls who weren’t black carried socks of flour in their purses, which they dabbed over their faces and legs, trying to outdo one another in paleness. London’s freakishly pale complexion had gotten her enough attention from boys over the years, which was fine by her. She had no desire to waltz around in a poof of white dust. But she was too big a bitch to be popular. And she had a pit worker for a father.

  When they were done, Harlan leaned back and stared at the draping roof of his tent for a while before he said decidedly, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  London looked at the others, not sure what to say, but Harlan continued.

  “I realize you must be frightened. However, I can’t risk the lives or location of my camp to help you find someone when you aren’t being fully honest with me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rye asked.

  “It means that we won’t be helping you look for your friend.”

  Rye shrugged. “No problem. I’m sure we can find her on our own.”

  Harlan sighed. “You don’t understand. I’m afraid I can’t let you do that either. You see, you’ve been here. You know where our camp is now. Until I can be certain you are trustworthy, I can’t let you go wandering off with that kind of information.”

  “What?” London shouted, scrambling to her feet. “You can’t just keep us here!”

  “Actually,” Harlan corrected, “I can. And I will. Until you decide to come clean with me, at least.”

  London’s mouth hung open in mute rage. What was this old man thinking? Did he think they were going to run back to Capital City and tattle on the nasty Outroaders? Like who would care about their crummy camp anyway?

  Harlan frowned. “I know this seems harsh, but I don’t want you to think of our camp as a prison.”

  “How should we think of it?” London scowled. “Like a resort spa with guns?”

  “Like your home for a little while. Just until we can be square with each other. I’ll keep you under surveillance while you’re here, but you’re free to roam the camp as you please.”

  “Armed surveillance?” Zen asked.

  Harlan frowned again. “It’s only a precaution. I’m sure as time progresses you’ll come to trust us and you’ll feel comfortable opening up about what’s really going on. There’s a lot you don’t know about the Houselands and the Outroads. A lot you don’t know about Capital City, for that matter. If you’re smart, you’ll use this time to learn from us.”

  London really couldn’t believe her ears. They would never be able to find or help Avery if they were stuck here, but even if she tried to tell Harlan about being Otherborn, it would sound like gibberish. He’d just think they were making the whole thing up. Like Pauly said, night pictures were a myth, nothing more. She didn’t have any evidence to support their claims—her netbook was back home with the email from Kingsnake. Avery’s notebooks were gone, not that they’d really prove anything. They would just sound like a bunch of nut kids with overactive imaginations.

  “Look,” London said to Harlan. “We’ve told you all we can. It doesn’t matter how long you hold us here. There’s nothing else we can tell you.” It was the truth after all. They couldn’t tell him about the Midplane or any of the rest of it.

  “I’m afraid I’ll just have to find that out for myself,” Harlan sighed.

  “But our friend!” Zen cried. “You’re keeping us from helping her!”

  “Not I,” said Harlan sagely. “You are keeping yourselves from helping her.”

  “This is ridiculous,” London stomped her foot. “No one even cares about your dumb old camp!”

  “Now you see? That right there is what I’m talking about. You Wallers have a lot to learn yet about our camp. I think you’ll find that you’re wrong on that point. Dead wrong. As it so happens, a fair amount of people care about our camp…very important people.”

  TWELVE

  Hostages

  “I don’t think we should tell him a damn thing,” London protested, her arms crossed defiantly.

  They were huddled on a thick log five rows back from the fire pit, which was now crackling merrily with a growing blaze in the descending dusk. Zen was desperate to get away, to keep searching for Avery. He’d been pleading with London for the last hour to reconsider her position of silence so Harlan would let them go. It was to no avail. She was firm in her stance that telling an outsider about the Otherborn was a mistake, and Rye, surprisingly, continued to back her up. But Kim was waffling.

  “London,” Zen urged with his shadowy eyes full of tears, “don’t you see? You’re condemning her to death! She won’t make it out here on her own.”

  London’s bristling posture softened. She could only imagine how this was eating Zen up. “Zen, what you’re asking me is impossible. He’ll never believe it anyway. What if they lock us up for being crazy because they think it makes us a bigger threat to their precious camp?”

  Zen buried his face in his hands. London patted his back to comfort him. “I miss her, too,” she said.

  Rye scanned the crowd of Outroaders, and London followed his gaze. No one dared approach the “Wallers,” though they were still getting a lot of funny looks as people continued to whisper. Obviously, the two guards sitting one log behind with rifles pointed at their backs were weren’t helping them get on with the campers.

  London noticed the same girl she’d seen in the Capital City tunnels, her angled blonde hair swinging as she continually glanced over her shoulder at Rye. She wouldn’t let it show, but London was seething with jealousy inside. She didn’t like anybody looking at Rye that way except her.

  Rye, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to his admirer. He leaned in and whispered, “Just because we can’t talk doesn’t mean we have to give up on Avery.”

  Zen raised his head. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean London’s right. If we talk, we only dig ourselves deeper into the pile of crap we’re in. But if we lay low, act normal, convince them over the next day or two that we’re okay, then we can lull them into trusting us.”

  “So?” Zen said.

  “So, meanwhile we keep our eyes peeled, and when the opportunity arises, we give them the slip. It’s our only hope.” Rye seemed utterly secure in the brilliance of his plan.

  “She may not have another day or two!” Zen moaned.

  London nudged him with pursed lips to remind him to keep his voice down. “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum back there don’t need to be privy to our convo, okay?” she hissed thinking, What I wouldn’t give for a netbook right now. Then quieter she added, “Rye is right. Our best bet is escape. It can’t be that hard. This place isn’t fenced in. One wrong move and we skip off into the trees, leaving nary a trace behind. Got it?”

  They all had their heads together, but Kim suddenly cleared his throat and straightened. London looked up into the face of Rye’s blonde admirer.

  “I’m Tora,” she said, smiling, putting her bronzed hand out to London first. Her fitted vest was now replaced by a dingy camisole and a bobbed, hand-stitched denim jacket with a giant, red plastic button clasping it at one shoulder.

  London glowered at the red button and re-crossed her arms, refusing to shake Tora’s hand. The girl quickly put her hand behind her back, her sunny smile faltering.

  “I’m Rye,” he said, elbowing London. “That’s London. Don’t mind her, she needs an attitude adjustment.”

  Tora chuckled and London had to keep herself from gagging. She glared at Rye who simply grinned back.

  “That’s Zen and Kim,” Rye said pointing. Kim put his hand out to shake Tora’s.

  “Didn’t I see you guys in the city tunnels the other day?” Tora asked.

  “Yeah,” Rye said. London sat silent.

>   Tora nodded. “You Scrappers?”

  “Not really,” London answered curtly.

  Tora eyed the men behind them for a moment with a distinctly green gaze. Then she said unusually loud, “Come with me and I’ll show you how we cook our meals at the camp.”

  The men dropped their own conversation and looked up at her.

  “Don’t worry,” she smiled at them. “We’ll just be over there at the solar smokers. You can see us from here. I’ll keep an eye on ‘em.”

  She started off toward the four-legged barrel and disk contraption London noticed earlier and gestured for them to follow.

  “Go ahead,” Zen said. “I’m gonna stay here.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Kim added, a worried expression on his broad face.

  Rye stood up and London followed suit. She didn’t want to leave Zen behind or follow Tora’s Labrador blonde hair and red button anywhere, but she wasn’t about to leave Rye alone with her.

  They picked their way around chairs and benches, cutting through groups of Outroaders milling about. One group was huddled around a pair playing chess on an old stump, their molded plastic pieces moving carefully across the scored and burned homemade checkerboard. A few kids chased each other around the large fire pit and back through the crowd, winding on bare feet through upturned buckets and lawn chairs. A boy and girl who looked about thirteen were huddled together on a metal bench, necking.

  When they’d reached the far west end of the clearing, Tora stopped just in front of the leaning pantry London had noticed earlier. She motioned for them to move in closer.

  “I know about your missing friend,” she said in hushed tones, looking around to be sure no one overheard.

  London stiffened. “Yeah, so? Everyone does. I announced it when we arrived.”

  Tora zeroed in on London’s deep brown eyes with her own sharp green ones. Her stare held the intensity of a bird of prey. “I know why Harlan’s keeping you here. He’s afraid.”